The worst part was that she was fairly certain that he hadn’t even noticed her. She had been hanging back farther than usual, with Omax being as conspicuous as he was. The inquisitive ditched them effortlessly, without even knowing they were there. She hadn’t seen any sign of Gerith since he had taken off, and could only hope that the little scout was having more luck. It was all in Tristam’s hands now.
The artificer stood in the center of a crossroads, brow furrowed as he closed his eyes in concentration. Omax sat on the road in meditation, obviously not expecting Tristam to sort out the answer any time soon.
Seren was not quite so patient. “Well?” she prompted. She scanned the streets for movement, nervous for any sign of life after the strange creature that attacked them. There was nothing. In fact, the mad shrieking of the Pit was now almost silent.
“This way,” Tristam said, pointing to his left. “He’s stopped moving. That’s good news?”
“Or very bad news, depending on why he’s stopped,” Seren said.
Tristam laughed.
Omax rose and fell into his usual dauntless stride. They soon found themselves on a path leading out of the village and into the thick forests to the south. The light of a torch shone in the forest ahead. Seren gestured for them to stop. Omax nodded in understanding.
“I will wait here,” he said softly, settling into his meditative posture again. “Silence is not my specialty.”
Tristam laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. He fell in behind Seren, following closely as she picked her way through the forest. She stopped abruptly, looking back at him patiently. After several seconds, he realized he was literally hanging over her shoulder, one hand clenched tightly on her upper arm. He let her go and stepped back with an embarrassed smile.
“Sorry, Seren,” he whispered. “I get nervous sometimes. Omax is the soldier. I’m just a scholar.”
“Really?” Seren said, glancing at him in surprise. “So the dashing Lhazaarite swordsman act is just bravado?”
“You’re teasing me,” he said wryly. “I’m not entirely clueless in a fight, but that’s not how I like to handle things. I figure if I can scare the other guy into not fighting at all, then I don’t have to worry about getting thrashed.”
“Makes sense,” she said, moving forward again.
Tristam coughed. “Did you really think I was dashing, Seren?”
She looked back at him, pressing one finger over her lips for him to be silent.
Seren crouched in the underbrush and crawled forward for a closer look at their quarry. Tristam crawled beside her, moving with less grace and drawing a scowl from her. A small clearing lay ahead. Zed Arthen waited there, facing the way they had come. He stood with his back against a tree, one hand tucked in his pocket and the other holding a torch. He was definitely wearing a sword; its elaborate two-handed hilt protruded above his right shoulder. Tristam had mentioned twice before that Zed had been a knight. She wondered if the sword was a souvenir from that previous career.
For a long time, they watched Zed Arthen stand in the forest and do nothing. He occasionally removed his pipe from his mouth, blowing delicate smoke rings into the night breeze.
Tristam shifted restlessly. Seren guessed he had sat down awkwardly and was cramping up. She’d done the same thing the first time she’d spied on someone. She poked him sharply in the side with one finger. He looked at her in surprise. She smiled and laid one finger over her lips again. He frowned miserably and kept still.
After a few seconds, Tristam clasped a hand over hers. She shot him a suspicious look. He pointed to the northern edge of the clearing. Another light was rapidly approaching, and the figure carrying it soon resolved from the darkness. It was a tall, fair-skinned woman with long black hair. She was obviously a warrior, the traditional image of a knight. She wore full armor, carried a short spear in one hand, and wore a shortsword at her hip. Her tabard bore an impressive crest, a monstrous creature with the heads of a lion, ram, and dragon underneath an iron gauntlet, holding a double-bladed sword. Seren did not recognize her but noticed the way Tristam’s hand tightened when he saw her.
“Deneith,” he whispered. His lips pressed into a grim, lipless line. “Another dragonmarked house.”
Zed did not seem at all distressed to see this newcomer, so this was obviously whom he was waiting for. She offered him a formal salute with her spear. He returned the gesture in such a nonchalant, offhand manner that it caused her to frown in disapproval. Seren couldn’t hear what they were saying, but saw Zed brush her irritation away with a laughing comment, which only seemed to annoy her more. The two spoke in hushed voices. Eventually the inquisitive reached into his pocket and produced the purple hand lens. Seren felt Tristam tense. She looked down and saw he had drawn his wand. She squeezed Tristam’s hand and he looked at her. She shook her head, cautioning him not to do anything foolish. He only fixed his gaze back on Arthen and the woman.
The Deneith warrior reached for the lens, but Zed drew it back with a quiet demurral. Seren wished she could hear what they were saying. She considered moving closer when she saw Zed Arthen suddenly tense and look directly toward their hiding place. Had he seen them? No, Seren quickly realized, he was looking slightly to their left. Arthen dropped his torch and drew his sword with the brilliant hiss of steel.
Then eight of Marth’s Cyran soldiers charged into the clearing with weapons drawn.
“Should we help them?” Seren asked, looking at Tristam.
Her reply was the heavy sound of adamantine footsteps charging through the forest behind them. Omax rushed past them and into the clearing with a mechanical howl. A shriek sounded from the tree above and Gerith soared down on his glidewing. Tristam just sighed and lunged to his feet, wobbling as the blood flowed back into his knees. He drew his sword and followed the others. Seren found her dagger and charged as well.
Zed Arthen had already taken down the first of his attackers with a heavy cleave of his sword. He whirled with a glare as Seren and the others burst into the clearing, but his fury changed quickly to astonishment when he recognized them.
“These are friends, Eraina!” Zed shouted. The woman only nodded and parried a mercenary’s sword with her spear.
“Take the inquisitive alive!” the Cyran leader cried as the attackers shifted formation to address the new threat.
Omax charged that one first, seizing him by his cloak and hurling him into a tree trunk. Tristam pointed his wand into the group, releasing a burst of white lightning that sent two more men flying. A third charged through the blast, putting Tristam down with a brutal slash of his sword. Seren shouted out in anger, lunging while still off-balance from the swing. He looked down at her with a murderous gaze and fell to his knees, his throat bleeding profusely from Seren’s knife.
Seren staggered back in horror and watched the man fall face down and lie still. She had been in fights before but had never killed a man. It had happened without thinking. She was so stunned she didn’t see the sword cleaving toward her.
“Curse yourself later, girl,” Arthen said, knocking the blade aside with his own.
Zed cut the man down with another swing, but left himself open from behind. A soldier clubbed Zed across the back of the skull with the hilt of his blade, driving Arthen to one knee. Seren hurled her dagger at the soldier but it went wide, lodging in a tree. The soldier ignored her, lifting his sword for a final blow. The weapon tumbled out of his hands as Gerith’s crossbow bolt bloomed in his eye. Zed staggered back to his feet, paying no mind to the man dying behind him.
“Nice shot, Snowshale,” he called out.
Seren turned to find Tristam and was surprised to see him on his feet. The artificer wobbled unsteadily, looking down at his bloody shirt with a sleepy, bewildered expression. A faint trail of white sparkling light streamed from the rip in his shirt to the hand of the woman Zed had called Eraina. Seeing that Tristam was now stable, the dark-haired woman turned and ducked the sword blow of the nearest soldier. She drew her shortsword in a wicked underhand slash, leaving a red gouge across the man’s chest.