Standing by her cottage door, Medair caught her breath as a man stepped out of the trees. He was wearing a fur jerkin too warm for the weather, and she recognised the trapper she’d glimpsed on the lower slopes in winter. Those who followed were not quite so cat-quiet, but they were good, and Medair breathed more shallowly, willing herself into utter immobility. Not settlers, not prospectors: warriors.
As she watched armed men stalking her empty cottage, Medair had to grit her teeth to stop herself from bolting. It had been a mistake to wait, though there’d been no way she could have anticipated this. She’d never had anyone come after her with swords. Never. The idea made her cringe.
There were five men in the open now, the sixth rider perhaps remaining with the horses, back where any noise they might make would not disturb this hunt. The trapper dropped to one side, allowing the others to do the stalking, and these four crept toward her in a way which was both unnerving and ridiculous to watch.
They were too uniformly equipped to be mercenaries. Mercenaries usually supplied their own armour – hotchpotches of plate, leather and chain scavenged, inherited or purchased. These men all wore leather, well-fitted, over dark grey clothing. A uniform, despite the lack of any insignia of rank or mark of allegiance, and they displayed practiced team-work as two stalked the door direct, the other pair circling to prevent escape from any windows or rear exits. One of the men was ginger-haired and freckled, with a tilt to his eyes which suggested Mersian blood. The rest were tanned and had the dark brown hair and hawk-nosed profiles of Decians.
The tiny hand movements they used for communication told her they were no ordinary soldiers. Scouts? Some sort of elite squad? She closed her beringed hand into a fist. None of them looked like a user of magic, but it was not as if they were Ibisians with their earrings to declare status. If they were anything like the Black Hawks, the Special Assignments Division of the Emperor’s armies, there would be magi among them.
It was very difficult not to move then, as the Decians crept towards her. A magic like the ring’s would not trumpet itself, but if a mage came close enough to touch her, he would feel an echo of its power. Even Medair’s negligible abilities would alert her to an invisible person standing a foot away. Farak, they could probably smell her if they paid attention: she’d sweated more than enough coming down the mountain, and hadn’t bathed daily for centuries.
The contents of her satchel were her advantage: they would surely not have anticipated an invisible target, any more than she had expected soldiers. She couldn’t guess how anyone knew to look for her.
What they were expecting was the important question. They could not possibly know. Her hand brushed the leather of her satchel, and at the thought of all it contained she shuddered. How could these men be looking for her, Medair an Rynstar, and the prizes of her wildly successful, fruitless quest?
Decia, largest of the southern duchies, had always been stalwartly loyal to the Palladian Emperor, and the kingdom it had become was still at odds with the Ibisian conquerors. But Medair knew she couldn’t become part of that struggle, even though she hated what the Ibisians had done. If these people really were looking for her, knew who she was, what she carried – she had to get away.
Medair noticed another man standing at the forest’s edge just as the lead two rushed the cottage, swords drawn. Another Decian, he was dressed like the rest, a light sword at his side. His eyes were on the door as the man whose commanding gestures marked him as leader emerged, frowning, and shook his head once. The five gathered together, only the trapper standing apart, watching with wary interest. Two feet away from the nearest man, Medair practically stopped breathing.
"Looks like she’s run," the leader said, with just an edge of anger. "Place has been emptied. How long before you can locate her?"
"Half a decem or less, with a hair or some personal item – presuming she’s still within range. If she’s more than a few miles away, a different, less precise trace will be needed." The latecomer raised an equivocal shoulder.
"Likely she’s hopped just before us. Go to it, then."
The latecomer detached himself from the group, then hesitated at the threshold. "She’s a mage," he said over his shoulder, closing his eyes and holding his head to one side, listening to something only mages could hear. "There’s traces of power lingering. Possibly something to confuse her trail. It’s very, very recent."
"Seb, Norruce – a quick circle, if you will. Try and isolate her most recent movements, the direction she went."
Touching hands to foreheads, two men with a distinct, brotherly resemblance began an intent study of the ground, moving in outward spirals. Medair tried not to think what their tracking would reveal.
"Glyn, send our guide on his way," the leader ordered.
The Mersian nodded, but lingered. "Could she have been warned?"
The leader shrugged. "It seems unlikely. We were exposed more than once on the trip up – if she’s as valuable as it sounds the sight of any stranger might well send her skittering. She won’t get far."
"She better not. We’ve only the vaguest idea what she looks like, Sir! We don’t have the resources to track her if she reaches a more populated area and even if the Kyledrans were of a mind to cooperate, how would we know if they found the right person when no-one’s come close enough to know her face? We don’t even have a name!"
"You underestimate us, Glyn," the leader replied. "Go."
"Yessir," muttered the Mersian, rebuked. The leader entered the cottage and Medair took the opportunity to move after the Mersian. She’d almost caught up with him as he politely thanked the trapper and hinted at the possibility of a bonus.
"Now, that’s good of you, sir," the trapper began, then sighed, eyes widening. For one astonished instant Medair thought that the man had seen her despite the ring. Then he fell. The Mersian bent to wipe a blade on the fur-lined vest, replaced it within a sheath hidden at his wrist, and strolled on into the trees, humming softly.
Shuddering, Medair followed as close on his heels as she dared. They didn’t know who she was, didn’t know what she looked like. Were about to use magic to locate her. She didn’t have any protection against a trace.
The Mersian whirled, knife in hand. Freezing, Medair swallowed her breath and watched him searching the trees. He was thorough, standing as still as she, eyes roving even up into the branches. Of course he saw nothing, but he was not convinced and began walking at a much slower rate, placing his feet with care. Invisibility was no protection against a knife, so Medair circled, guessing the most logical place for horses to have been left and coming up even with him some ten feet to his right. She tried to match the careful placement of his feet, putting hers to earth at the same time he did so that he would not be wholly certain any slight noise she made was not his own.
When he reached the cluster of mounts tethered in a small clearing, he appeared to shrug off his concern and bent to examine one bay’s hoof. Not accepting this clear invitation, Medair picked up a fallen branch, concealing the eerily floating object behind the nearest tree while she waited for the ring to include it in her invisibility. The wood was mouldering, unpleasant to touch, but testing revealed that it hadn’t rotted to the point of being unsound. It would do, presuming she could bring herself to hit someone.
Medair watched as the Mersian became more businesslike. He was still alert, still watching, not ignoring the signals his instincts were sending him merely because no attacker had rushed to take him so before moving she squatted to her heels again and palmed a clutch of walnut-sized stones.