The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE





BY NOON THEY were halfway up the escarpment. Harkeld paused, panting. Sweat dripped from his chin and stuck his shirt to his back. He wiped his face with a damp sleeve. A glance downward made his stomach lurch. The fields of Lundegaard, spread far below, seemed to beckon him. It was all too easy to imagine plummeting down. He pressed closer to the rockface. Ahead, the path zigzagged upward, following the folds of the cliff, narrow, steep, littered with loose rock. Bands of pink streaked the sandstone.

Harkeld unstoppered his waterskin and gulped a mouthful of lukewarm water. Behind and ahead, horses and men labored up the path.

Movement above caught his eye: a hawk gliding on the air currents. Its breast feathers were pale, silvery. Petrus.

Harkeld found himself envying the witch.

Envy a witch? Next, I’ll be wanting to be one.

He set the stopper firmly back in the mouth of the waterskin, angry with himself, and began to climb again.





THEY STRAGGLED TO the top as the wisps of a golden sunset were spreading across the sky.

“Thank the All-Mother,” Justen said.

Harkeld nodded. His throat was dry; he’d drained his waterskin a good hour ago. He stared around him. He’d expected a flat plain of sand; instead a choppy sea of sandstone—cream, pink, red, and every shade in between—stretched as far as he could see. The Masse desert. “There’s a river?” he asked Tomas. Now that they’d stopped climbing, his legs were trembling.

“About half a mile that way,” Tomas said, with a nod north. “We’ll camp there.”

“Good.” His clothes clung to him, drenched with sweat, but his throat was so dry it hurt. A headache hammered behind his eyes.





THEY REACHED THE River Ner as dusk fell. The riverbed was wide, clogged with massive boulders, and apparently dry. “There’s water here?”

“Follow Petrus,” someone said behind him.

Harkeld looked over his shoulder. Dareus rode there, his face weary.

A snowy-white owl glided out of the deepening dusk. They followed, the horses picking their way carefully between the boulders.

The water, when they found it, was a thin rivulet. Harkeld dismounted, biting back a grunt of pain; the muscles in his legs had stiffened during the short ride.

The horses drank first, and then the men. He gulped thirstily, then cupped his hands and splashed water over his face. The headache still sat behind his eyes, but the urgent thirst was gone. Harkeld sat back on his heels and wiped his face. Around him were the dark shapes of men and horses, and a jumble of boulders.

So this is Masse.





HARKELD SLEPT LIKE one dead, rousing to sunlight on his face and the sound of voices. He pushed up on an elbow, seeing soldiers, horses, rock. They’d been too weary to pitch the tents last night.

The rock stretched in all directions: rounded boulders, craggy hillocks, ridges striped with bands of pink and red.

Beside him, Justen pushed back his blanket and sat up. He yawned widely. “Morning, sire.”

Several people clustered around a small fire—soldiers, two of the witches. The smell of frying ham suddenly assaulted Harkeld’s nose. His stomach growled loudly, telling him it was hungry. He thrust aside the blanket and stood. The muscles in his calves and thighs protested.

Justen groaned as he stood. “Ach, my legs.” He hobbled a few steps. “I feel like an old man.”

Harkeld grunted a laugh.

The smell of food was mouthwatering, but Harkeld washed his face first, clambering stiffly over the boulders and crouching to dip his hands in the thin trickle of water. Back at the fire, chewing salty fried ham, he examined the map of Masse with Tomas and the witches.

“We’ll follow the river,” Tomas said. On the map it traced a snaking course north and east. Two thirds of the way along its route a ruined tower marked the ancient city of Ner, abandoned centuries ago when the Massen Empire had fallen.

Ner, where the first anchor stone awaited him.

“Where’s Captain Anselm?” Tomas asked.

“There.” Gerit pointed to a stretch of waterless plateau on the map. “Following Ditmer’s tracks. He’s headed for the river, which he should reach here.” He planted his forefinger on the parchment. “Some time tomorrow afternoon.”

“And Ditmer? Where’s he?”

Gerit’s finger shifted north-east several inches.

“We need to eliminate Anselm before he catches up with Captain Ditmer,” Dareus said.

Tomas tapped the map. “Anselm will reach the river here?” He glanced at Gerit.

Gerit nodded, chewing.

“Then let’s meet him there.”





THEY RODE HARD, that day and the next. It was like riding over a frozen sea of stone. Some ancient force—wind, rain—had scoured the rock into waves and troughs. Late in the afternoon of the second day, Petrus spiraled down from the sky. “They’re less than a league away,” he said, once he’d shifted.

Innis was aware of the weight of the sword strapped to her back. Her mind supplied her with a flash of memory: the sickening crunch of bones beneath her blade, the spray of blood. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I can do this.

“Any scouts?” Tomas asked.

Petrus shook his head. “They’re hurrying. At a guess, they’re close to running out of water.”

Tomas nodded. “Let’s do it, then.”

Dareus spoke: “Prince Harkeld won’t fight.”

The prince’s head jerked around. He opened his mouth to protest.

“Your men outnumber them,” Dareus told Tomas. “He’s not needed.”

Tomas met his gaze for a moment, and then nodded.

Innis felt a surge of relief. Prince Harkeld clearly didn’t share the feeling. His mouth closed in a grim line. His horse shifted restlessly, as if his hands had tightened on the reins.

“You may have Cora,” Dareus said. “She’s a fire mage. And the shapeshifters.”

Dareus beckoned her aside while Tomas spoke with his soldiers. “I want Ebril to be Justen,” he said in a low voice. “You be a hawk. Watch. Don’t become involved unless it’s necessary.”

“But can’t Ebril—”

“It’ll be a useful experience for you.”

Watching men kill each other? Innis bit her lip. She nodded.

“Observe their tactics,” Dareus said. He beckoned to Ebril. “Go. shift.”

Innis glanced at Prince Harkeld. He was listening to Tomas, his expression dour. The differences between the two princes had never been more obvious—one in soldier’s uniform, giving orders to his men; the other in plain trews and jerkin, forced to watch.

Innis hurried behind one of the waves of rock. Ebril joined her. She stripped quickly, thrusting the clothes at him.

She shifted into the shape of a hawk, magic stinging along her bones, and flew back to the others, landing on a bundle of firewood lashed to one of the packhorses. Ebril returned and took his place alongside Prince Harkeld. The soldiers were checking their weapons, readying themselves for battle. “Let’s go,” Tomas said. He turned to Petrus. “You’ll lead us?”

Petrus nodded. He became a hawk again, flapping up into the sky. He circled once, then set off westward, flying low. The soldiers and Cora followed him. The clatter of hooves and jingle of harnesses was loud in the empty landscape of rock. Innis glanced at Prince Harkeld. His mouth was tight as he watched the men leave, his jaw grim.

She spread her wings and launched herself into the air.