The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER NINE





DUSK WAS FALLING by the time they reached the new campsite. Sometime during the afternoon they’d passed from the royal forest into the unbroken tract of woodland that stretched to Osgaard’s eastern border. Nothing marked that boundary. The trees looked the same—oak and ash, rowan and yew. Innis saw no roads, no dwellings, nothing but trees and the occasional animal trail.

Petrus soared overhead, his pale-feathered breast tinted orange by the setting sun. The sky was hazy above the treetops, streaked with fiery bands of cloud.

“Are you having any difficulty holding the change?” Dareus asked.

Innis shook her head. The campsite was visible through the trees: tents, a fire, horses tethered. She glanced up, searching for Petrus, following him with her eyes for a moment. It was his easy confidence, his relaxed masculinity, that she needed to mimic. She took a deep breath, feeling her chest expand. I’m him.

“You have your story straight?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Exhaustion was etched on Dareus’s face beneath the soot and sweat. It had been a long afternoon. They’d ridden hard, slowing only to avoid bands of soldiers and huntsmen. Twice they’d passed through walls of fire laid by Cora, Dareus holding the flames at bay as they forced the horses through. Once, hounds had caught their scent and Dareus had started a fire himself.

“Gerit and Ebril can practice shifting into Justen tonight,” Dareus said. “Once the prince is asleep. By tomorrow they’ll be able to swap with you.”

Innis nodded.

People were visible ahead through the tree trunks: Cora. Ebril. Prince Harkeld. She heard Ebril whistling.

Innis watched as the prince walked across to the campfire, as he glanced up at the two hawks—Petrus and Gerit—circling overhead, as he looked away.

“Remember, you’re not a mage. React as if it’s all new.”

She nodded again.

“Be Justen.”





HORSEMEN CAME THROUGH the trees. Two riders, three horses. Harkeld stayed where he was, watching the riders dismount. One was the leader of the witches, Dareus. The other was a stranger. Harkeld examined him suspiciously. He was a big man, young, with a fighter’s lean-muscled build.

His new armsman.

Harkeld narrowed his eyes. Was the man a witch?

The newcomer surveyed the campsite. His face, beneath the light brown hair, was smeared with soot from the forest fires.

A hawk circled down to land. The newcomer turned his attention to it. Harkeld didn’t. He watched the man’s face, saw interest, curiosity. He didn’t need to see the hawk to know when it changed; the newcomer’s expression told him. The man blinked, his eyebrows rising, and rocked slightly on his feet as if he wanted to step backwards.

Perhaps not a witch.

“I’m starving,” someone said. “Tell me that stew’s ready.”

Harkeld glanced sideways. The fair-haired witch stood where the hawk had been. He was naked.

The witch yawned. He walked across to the trio of horses and unstrapped a bundle from behind one of the saddles. Clothes.

Harkeld turned his attention back to the newcomer. The man was staring at him.

“Prince Harkeld,” Dareus said. “I’d like you to meet your new armsman.”

Harkeld crossed the clearing, eyeing the newcomer. Can I trust you?

He’d trusted his last armsman, Ralf—and Ralf had tried to kill him.

“What’s your name?”

“Justen,” the man said, and then, after a faint hesitation, “Highness.”

“Sire,” Harkeld said. Highness was for the rigid formality of the palace, for marble rooms with gilded ceilings, for clothes stitched with gold and silver thread.

The man nodded. “Sire.”

They were of an equal height. Harkeld looked Justen up and down. He was a plain man, with a direct gaze. His clothing was well-worn, trews and shirt made of rough cotton, faded and fraying at the seams, dark with soot and sweat. The shirt was open at his throat, the sleeves rolled up to show brawny forearms. Swordsman’s forearms. Above his sternum a pale disc was visible. “You’re Grooten.” And down on your luck.

“Yes, sire.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“What are you doing in Osgaard?”

“Trying to get home.”

The sun had set. The clearing was rapidly darkening. “Have you been an armsman before?”

“No, sire. But I know how to fight.”





THEY ATE AROUND the fire. Harkeld chewed slowly, ignoring the witches. His gaze kept returning to Justen. Can I trust you? “Where’s Innis?” he heard Dareus say.

“Sleeping. She’ll take the second watch tonight.”

When the meal was finished, Dareus stood. In the shadows cast by the fire his face was hawkish. “Justen will share your tent tonight.”

And cut my throat as I sleep? Harkeld gulped the last mouthful of cider and put his mug down. He stood and looked at Justen. Tension vibrated inside him.

Justen put down his bowl and scrambled to his feet. “Sire?”

Harkeld turned on his heel and walked across to his tent.

Justen followed.

“See if you can find a candle.”

“Yes, sire.”

Harkeld crouched and crawled into the tent. He’d done no more than take off his boots before Justen was back.

“Here.” Justen held the lit stub of a candle out to him.

Harkeld took it. In the candlelight the man’s face seemed to flicker between menacing and harmless.

“Nice tent,” Justen said, removing his boots. He had the same accent as the witches: throaty r, sibilant s. “Goat hair. Waterproof.”

Harkeld twisted the candle into the ground. “How do you come to be in Osgaard?”

“My ship sailed without me,” Justen said, placing his boots beside the entrance.

Harkeld glanced at him sharply. “You’re a sailor?” The man didn’t look like a sailor.

Justen shook his head. “Merchant’s assistant.” He frowned. “Was.” He unbuckled his sword belt.

Harkeld tensed, watching the blunt fingers, the sword. “Why did the ship sail without you? Were you drunk?”

“No.” Justen laid the sword belt aside. “The captain couldn’t pay the port fees, so he pulled anchor and sailed half a day early. Me and a couple of sailors were left behind.”

“When was this?”

“Last month.”

Harkeld eyed the sword belt. “What have you been doing since then?”

“Trying to earn my fare home. But I don’t belong to a guild, so no one will hire me.”

“There’s bondservice.”

Justen snorted, a contemptuous sound. “In Groot, we call that slavery.”

Harkeld sat back on his heels. He watched as Justen unrolled a blanket. It was threadbare. “You could claim the bounty. The weight of my head in gold.”

Justen looked at him. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.” Justen pulled his shirt over his head. The Grooten disc lay above his sternum, round and pale, like the moon,

“You’re not tempted?”

“No.” Justen wadded the shirt up and placed it on the ground as a pillow.

The simple matter-of-factness of the answer was more believable than a wordy protestation. Harkeld looked at Justen and believed him.

Even so, he slept with his sword in his hand. He woke at dawn to the sound of the man’s breathing, deep and steady. He turned his head. He dimly saw Justen’s face, slack in sleep. The Grooten sword lay between them, its blade naked.

Harkeld looked at it for a moment, and then released his grip on his own sword. He pushed aside his blanket and sat up, yawning.

Justen’s eyes opened. For a moment he stared at Harkeld, his brow creased in bewilderment, then an expression almost of panic crossed his face and he sat abruptly, shoving the blanket aside. He looked down at his bare chest and reached for the amulet, gripping it. He inhaled a shuddering breath. After a moment he turned his head to look at Harkeld. “Sire.”

“Are you all right?”

“I...I didn’t know where I was.”

Harkeld grunted and looked away. He knew where he was: in a nightmare. He reached for boots and sword belt and crawled out of the tent. Dawn was breaking over the trees, as hazy and fiery as sunset had been. The red-headed witch was tending the campfire, whistling between his teeth. Two other witches were moving through slow exercises, stretching, warming up their muscles.

Harkeld watched for a moment, aware of how stiff he was.

The tent flap was pushed aside. Justen emerged hurriedly. His shirt was in one hand, his sword in the other. “You shouldn’t be out here without me, sire.”

Above them, a hawk uttered a shrill cry. Harkeld heard the sound of wings making a swift descent. “Do you wrestle?”

“Yes, sire.” Justen shrugged into his shirt. Yesterday’s soot and sweat stained it.

Harkeld stretched his arms above his head. “Shall we?”

“Now?” Justen paused in the act of pulling on one of his boots.

Harkeld shrugged. “Why not?” A short bout before breakfast, to loosen their muscles—and give him the chance to get Justen’s measure.

Justen looked past him. He frowned suddenly. “Something’s wrong.”

Harkeld swung around.

“Innis says there are soldiers less than two miles away!” Dareus hurried towards them. Above him, a hawk soared into the sky. “Their dogs have our scent.”

Harkeld shoved on his boots. “Saddle our horses. I’ll strike the tent.”

Justen ran to obey.





THEY RODE HARD, following first one hawk and then another. Branches swiped at Harkeld as he galloped through the trees. He kept his eyes on Dareus, not bothering to look behind him. Justen rode at his back, and behind Justen, the witch Cora. At one point, he heard the high, excited barking of dogs from close behind—and then the crackle of flames as Cora set the forest on fire.

He caught occasional glimpses of the sun rising in a smoky sky. “We’re going in circles,” he said, when they rested the sweating horses in a walk.

“There are soldiers on three sides of us,” Dareus said.

“Herding us?”

“Trying to cut us off before we reach the river.”

They changed horses. There were four empty saddles, four witches flying in the form of birds. Harkeld rode a gray gelding, and when it tired, the bay again. One of the hawks landed when they were changing horses for a third time. Gerit.

“We’ll be at the river soon,” the witch said. “They’ve blocked all the fords. Can you swim?”

Harkeld wiped sweat from his face. “Yes.”

“And you?”

“Yes,” Justen said.

“Good.” Gerit gave a short nod. “Follow me.”





THE RIVER BANK, when they reached it, was a broad stretch of shingle, curving out of sight upstream. The river was half a furlong wide, flowing in slow, deep eddies. Oak trees clustered thickly on the far bank, their branches reaching out over water so dark it looked almost black. Smoke filled the sky above them and the sound of hounds baying drifted on the wind.

A second hawk swooped down, becoming Petrus as it touched the ground. He pointed upriver. “Archers are coming!” A heartbeat later, a silver-maned lion stood in his place on the shingle.

Justen drew his sword. “Go, sire!”

The lion began to lope upstream along the bank. Harkeld reached for his sword.

Justen thumped his shoulder with a closed fist. “Go!” He swiped his sword blade against the gray’s rump. “Cross the river!”

The gelding surged forward, its hooves sending up a spray of water. Harkeld hauled on the reins.

“Get across!” Cora was alongside him, her face fierce. “Before they come!”

Harkeld ignored her. Running away, leaving others to fight for him, was a coward’s course.

“If you die—”

If I die, whole kingdoms will be emptied.

Harkeld clenched his jaw. He dug his heels into the gray’s flanks. The horse surged forward again.

Cold water engulfed Harkeld’s legs. Upstream, he heard the roar of the lion and the excited barking of hounds.

Cora was alongside him, the packhorses horses trailing behind. Harkeld glanced back. Justen was in the water, and Dareus. The lion and the barking hounds, the archers, were out of sight upstream. He looked ahead again, concentrating grimly on the far bank. It crept closer as the gray splashed and surged in the dark water.

The lion roared again. The sound reverberated loudly. Harkeld glanced back. The river bank was no longer empty. The lion stood there, facing a pack of hounds—and running along the shingle towards them were archers.

A hawk swooped low and fast over the water, screeching an alarm call.

“Sire, get off the horse!” Justen yelled. “They’re aiming for you!”

The skin between his shoulder blades tightened, as if a target had been painted on his shirt. Harkeld kicked his feet out of the stirrups and shoved himself from the saddle. He plunged under the surface and came up gasping, surrounded by churning water and thrashing horses’ legs.

“Swim, sire!”

Harkeld swam grimly, aware of the bulk of a packhorse behind him, shielding him. The river bank came nearer; branches hanging low over the water, dark shadows. Arrows plunged into the river ahead of him. One struck the bank, burying itself in the soil. A horse screamed.

Around him horses surged out of the river. His own feet found the bottom. He ran, the water dragging at his legs, and scrambled up the bank surrounded by horses.

“Run, sire!” Justen cried behind him.

Harkeld ran. The forest seemed full of noise: shouted voices, the thunder of hooves. When he was deep among the trees, he stopped. Ahead of him, horses still galloped. He turned, gasping for breath, water streaming from his clothes.

Justen came crashing through the trees, still mounted. “Sire!”

“I’m fine.” Harkeld braced his hands on his knees, panting. “You?”

Justen’s hair was plastered to his head. “You need a horse.”

“The gray—”

“The gray’s dead. We’re lucky it wasn’t you.”