The King's Thief

Chapter 11

Kaliss watched as the Sylva prepared their camp. He saw several of the warriors take large brown objects from their packs and stride off into the trees, more than twenty feet away. The party had stopped in a natural clearing, and the night was dark. Kaliss shucked his pack onto the ground and looked around the circle; the Sylvan men and women seemed to split naturally into talking groups, he had noticed, but there did not seem to be any romantic motives behind the groupings. Certainly there had been no night-time visits to other peoples’ blankets.
Ryn was in charge of cooking tonight, and he had already made the fire. It crackled merrily as the thief approached. Nearby, the carcass of a deer lay ready for roasting. The animal had been seen ten minutes before, limping through the trees as they sought a place to rest. One of the women had spotted it and, without waiting for instruction, had leant against a nearby tree, closing her eyes. A dim glow had seemed to emanate from her, lighting up the closing darkness, and when it diminished the deer was lying dead on the ground.
“Kaliss. You have a question.”
“Is it that obvious?” Kaliss’s mouth twisted in disappointment.
“To me. Ask.” The Sylva went on with the meal preparation.
Kaliss knelt to inspect the deer. There was not a scratch on it, but the neck was broken cleanly. “Just now, something strange happened with the deer. What was it?”
Ryn wiped his hands and, without saying a word, walked over to a pair of women deep in conversation, interspersing himself between them. Kaliss stood, not knowing whether he had made a mistake by asking, then watched as Ryn walked back with one of the women in tow. She was short, and by the flickering firelight Kaliss could see her delicate face framed by neatly cut dark brown hair. His eyes were lead down her body, the pert breasts swinging gently as she walked, a taut stomach with clearly defined muscles, leading down to the same kilt that everyone seemed to wear. As she neared, he could see that there was a delicate green threadwork through the kilt, something he had not seen in anyone else’s. She was barefoot, her calfs and ankles seeming pale compared to her clothing.
They walked straight past Kaliss and, intrigued, he followed. Moving to the treeline, she leaned against the nearest tree and, without there seeming to be any transition, she was glowing; the faintly green light limned her form, focusing on the hand in contact with the rough bark.
Ryn was at his elbow. “Look at her feet, Kaliss.”
The grass at the woman’s feet was rippling gently, as if she was a stone dropped into a lake. No wind was blowing, the eerie silence broken only by the soft sounds as the blades of grass rubbed against each other. The sight, the very atmosphere, seemed to lift a deep gloom that the Thief had not even known he was carrying. Suddenly, he felt more at ease, in time with the rest of the world, and he felt the pain of his losses grow less.
“Her name is Winraer; she is a talented herg wielder, our erg of plants. Her dark hair marks her out as a magic user, able to communicate with the plants around her. I asked her to demonstrate for you.”
As Kaliss watched, the glow faded, the grass ceased to move and Winraer slumped to the ground. The effort had obviously tired her, although she quickly recovered, standing with only a slight sway. She walked to Kaliss and, standing very close to him, said “Look up, human.” Her voice was confident and low, sounding slightly out-of-place in that small frame. He looked up.
Above him, hanging from a branch, his coin-purse dangled. While he had been entranced by the rippling grass, she had managed to direct the branch to pick his pockets. He had not felt a thing.
He delivered a short bow. “I know when I am outdone, good lady; your skills as a pickpocket surpass my own. My thanks for the demonstration.” He looked at her with slightly mocking eyes.
She returned his stare coldly. “I showed you my skills as a favour to my friend, Ryndaele Tipperanae. Your human compatriots are without mercy, killing my family and friends, and I would not willingly do anything for you.” She stalked past them both, heading for her pack within the circle of firelight.
There was a silence, in which only the quiet noises from the camp infiltrated. Then Ryn touched his shoulder.
“I would not have had that happen, Kaliss. My apologies. There are two main viewpoints of humanity; some would have them become a part of the global whole, others would have them removed or contained in some way. As with all things, there are extremes. I will speak with our Kinroc concerning Winraer’s attitude.” Ryn turned to go, leaving Kaliss alone in the whispering dark.
The thief sat down, a dark mood over him. The war with the Sylva had always been a distant thing to him. Before reaching Theria, he had travelled the country, never staying in one place for long. The monks of Tala, though they had been harsh, had taught him many skills, but the main thing he had learned was theft; the meagre meals he had suffered through were not enough for his growing form, and he soon became adept at sneaking into the kitchens. Since leaving them aged fourteen, he had drifted until finding a temporary home at Theria. The only whispers of the distant war had been the occasional veteran. He had never even seen a Sylvan warrior before this week. Winraer’s reaction to him betrayed his lack of understanding in the world he lived in. However, he still felt that he had benefitted from the demonstration; the weight on his spirit remained lighter, and for the first time in several days he felt more like his old self.
His thoughts were interrupted by a growing sensation of heat at his wrist. The thoughts in his head coalesced suddenly on one point; Malketh had said his C-Mag was explosive. Looking down at it in sudden panic, he saw that the small blood-coloured stone on the thin stone was pulsing with a sickly light. Frantically he slapped at it, realising that if the old magician had sent the signal, he was finished. Pressing the small stone button caused the heat to increase, but the light stopped flashing, and a voice seemed to echo around him.
“Where are you?”
Kaliss looked around wildly; the Sylva had settled down to their evening discussion and rest, and none of them seemed to have reacted to the voice. It wasn’t loud, but had a grating quality, and crackled.
“Report in, thief; where are you?”
Realising that the voice was unheard by the others, he whispered “I’m in the woods…”
“Speak up, man; I don’t have long, the King wants me.”
“Malketh!”
“Of course it’s me, fool; now, where are you?”
Kaliss looked back at the others again. Then he leant close to the C-Mag and whispered “Your agents picked me up and took me to a warehouse in Theria. We left there three days ago and left the path after the last farms, heading East. I think we started heading South once we entered the forests.”
“My agent? Do you think my agent would destroy the King’s property? Fool, you are in the belly of the enemy! Be on your guard.”
Kaliss lowered the C-Mag for a second, considering. It seemed prudent to choose his words carefully. “I don’t think they will harm me. They seem to want to take me to Sylvanasher.”
Sounding more relieved than threatening, the tinny voice replied “Complete your mission, then, and quickly! Remember, thief, if you cross me, I will detonate the device.” Malketh’s voice became crazed with crackling static. “The communication signal is not strong, but do not believe for a second that the termination signal will not get through! Malketh, out.”
The channel crackled into silence, and Kaliss was alone with his thoughts. The magician’s harsh words still rung in his ears as he sat cross-legged on the ground.
“Kaliss; your meal is ready,” Ryn’s voice floated over to him.
He got up and walked the short distance back to the firelight and accepted a chunk of deer. With much to think about, he went to his pack and sat down, watching the people around him with new eyes. Each movement now seemed suspect, and the idle conversation they shared seemed laced with scorn and foreign violence.

*    *    *

Kaliss was woken from an uneasy sleep. Ryn had not been available to talk to as he had been preparing the food and then clearing up. No-one else had, as yet, approached him and he had finally moved away from the fire to sleep, wrapped up in a grey blanket.
There was movement around him, Sylva wearing some sort of strange armour moving with speed towards the ashes of the fire. They seemed to be wearing the brown objects he had seen them removing earlier and, getting up to move closer, he could see it appeared to be brown, like a nut husk, and it was laced up the front. Each was individual, but followed a general pattern of flaring up over the shoulders, having a low neckline, and leaving the stomach bare.
Kaliss went up to Ryn, who was stood next to the Kinroc. Without waiting to be asked, the Kinroc turned to him.
“We believe we are under attack. The outlying guards have detected some sort of force moving at speed towards us. We believe it is an attack aimed at us; the magician we saw at the gate must have recognised us.”
“But…” Kaliss quickly shut his mouth; if these Sylva were no relation to Malketh, they would not take kindly to knowing that there was no way the magician would send anything against them. This lead to the worrying concept that there was a third player in this.
Both Ryn and Faergaldan were staring at him. He quickly finished the sentence. “But, how would they know where we are?”
“The hergnul Winraer used will have shown our location to anyone prescient enough to see,” Ryn said. “We ate well tonight, but at what cost?” He turned back to the Kinroc, who began directing the warriors into a defensive circle.
Within a minute, the Sylva had rekindled the fire and all donned the strange nut-husk breastplates. They wielded short swords, not much longer than the dagger Kaliss himself held out against the dark. Their backs were to the fire, a sensible choice as the dawn was still more than an hour away, and the reduced night vision would cause problems for their attacker. Five of the men had gone into the centre of the group, forming a smaller circle around Winraer, who was sat cross-legged with her eyes closed. Her quiet voice kept them informed as the malevolent force, whatever it was, approached.
“One mile away.”
Kaliss, no stranger to a knife fight in an alleyway, felt somewhat out of his territory. He crept over to where Ryn was crouched, surveying the woodland. Before he could say anything, the Sylva spoke without looking. “Kaliss, remain in the circle. We need to return you to our homeland.”
Frustration tingeing his words, Kaliss said “I’ve fought before; let me help. Whatever it is, it threatens my life as well.”
“If we fail, nothing will save you, thief. Our skills surpass yours.”
Firmly put in his place, Kaliss took up position nearer the fire, between the seated Winraer and the main circle. He spared the woman a look; she was cross legged, the grass rippling around her slightly, her entire body rimed with the ghostly light.
“Half a mile. It moves with a speed unlike anything.”
Faergaldan spoke up. “Can you identify it yet?”
“As it gets closer, details become clear,” Winraer said. “One form, small, using the ground and the trees for movement; it climbs more rapidly than we.”
A shiver seemed to run through the warriors surrounding her, but they remained at their station. At the edges of his hearing, Kaliss could hear a sound like a ringing bell. It seemed to grow in volume and strength with every passing second.
“One hundred yards and closing…”
The words seemed to be death knells, the bell sound increasing until it nearly deafened. One or two warriors were driven back, such was the force of the ringing.
“It’s here.”
A figure leapt into the light. It appeared to be lit with hellfire, orange and red dappled skin, the campfire lending it supernatural visage. Mud-spattered legs gave way to scratched hips, the figure being almost completely naked. There was a bundle clutched at its pendulous breasts, which swung crazily as it stalked towards them. The head seemed to be covered with a type of helmet, completely smooth, covering the face but leaving the matted, blonde hair free. Loosely it could be described as a feminine figure with wide hips and full breasts, but it moved with leonine grace, the ragged nails of the free hand clawing at the air and that ferocious ringing apparently emanating from the helmet.
“Hold!” shouted the Kinroc. There was no asking the approaching figure whether their intent was peaceful; with a leap that seemed to defy gravity, it jumped, soaring over the circle of swords, and landed next to Kaliss. He could suddenly see his own face, distended in the round brass helmet. The shadows on his face made it seem skull-like and he watched, mesmerised, as the Banshee drew its hand up to tear out his throat. The hand descended and Kaliss closed his eyes.