Read Online Sun Wolf 3 - The Dark Hand Of Magic by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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“Just because I didn’t see anything in there doesn’t mean it wasn’t written. Sometimes a wizard can only see an Eye if he uses salt, or powdered hellebore, or mercury . . . there’s probably other things as well, for other kinds of hexes. And the Eye could be anywhere in the camp.”
“Mother pus-bucket . . . ” Ari muttered, tucking his hands behind the buckle of his sword belt as he walked, an unconscious imitation of Sun Wolf that Starhawk affected as well. “We’ve had the place guarded . . . ”
“Doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Oh, come on!” Ari protested. “I haven’t let the troop go to hell that much since you’ve been gone.”
In front of a nearby tent, a camp follower—a slave, by her hopeless face and the steel choke-chain that circled her throat—was kindling a supper fire for whatever soldier was her master. Though the wood was dry, Sun Wolf, without breaking stride, reached out with his mind and called smoke from it as if it were damp and, with a skiff of wind from the motionless air, twitched the stinging gust into Ari’s eyes. The young captain coughed and flinched, fanning at the smoke . . .
. . . and when he opened his eyes a split second later Sun Wolf was gone.
“Skill has nothing to do with it.”
Ari was going for his sword, even as he turned, but stepping swiftly, soundlessly behind him in that moment of blindness, the Wolf had taken it. In a training class he would have struck him with the flat of it, and both men would have laughed and cursed at the joke. Now, after a long moment of silence, he only turned it hilt-first to hand it back.
But for nearly a minute Ari did not touch it. In his eyes, in his silence, Sun Wolf read uncertainty and fear, and more painful than either, shock—the sense of loss, of seeing his friend turn before him into a man he wasn’t sure he knew.
Fathers, Sun Wolf knew, sometimes see sons like this, though his own never had. To Ari he had been a father for years, and to be a father, he knew, was to be unchanging . . .
It was a long time before Ari spoke.
“It’s true, isn’t it.” There was no question in his voice.
“I told you that last spring.”
“You told me . . . ” Ari hesitated, then reached out and took the sword from his hand. Breeze made silvery flecks in the black bearskin of his cape, snagged a lock of his heavy black hair among the old scalps hanging at his shoulder, then seemed to think better of it and fell still again.
“You told me you needed to go seek a teacher, if one could be found. But you’d been elbow-deep in witchery all winter, Chief. It was still on you, then. And I thought . . . ” He sighed, and looked away. “I thought you might have seen it as a way out. A way to retire, to give me the troop, to ride away before you ended up buying some little six-foot daisy farm someplace.” The steady, gray-brown gaze returned to Sun Wolf’s face. “And I was glad, you know? Glad if you wanted out you could leave instead of die. Because, face it, Chief, you could put all the fifty-year-old mercs in the world into one bathtub and still have room for the soap. I didn’t give two cow-pies together whether you found what you were looking for, really. I just—didn’t want to have to bury you. But you did find it, didn’t you?”
Sun Wolf remembered Kaletha of Wenshar, the end result of his first year of seeking—her vanity, her pettiness, her ghastly death. Then he turned to the crowded spires of Vorsal barely visible above the tangle of canvas, dirty banners, and woodsmoke. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I found it.”
“That’s good.”
He looked back at Ari, tufted brow rising over his single eye, and the young captain met the look squarely, not understanding, perhaps, but willing to accept. Just as well, thought Sun Wolf, that the Vorsal mage had made it obvious by burning the inn just where the lines were drawn.
But his mouth and eyebrows still quirked with irony
“Mother pus-bucket . . . ” Ari muttered, tucking his hands behind the buckle of his sword belt as he walked, an unconscious imitation of Sun Wolf that Starhawk affected as well. “We’ve had the place guarded . . . ”
“Doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Oh, come on!” Ari protested. “I haven’t let the troop go to hell that much since you’ve been gone.”
In front of a nearby tent, a camp follower—a slave, by her hopeless face and the steel choke-chain that circled her throat—was kindling a supper fire for whatever soldier was her master. Though the wood was dry, Sun Wolf, without breaking stride, reached out with his mind and called smoke from it as if it were damp and, with a skiff of wind from the motionless air, twitched the stinging gust into Ari’s eyes. The young captain coughed and flinched, fanning at the smoke . . .
. . . and when he opened his eyes a split second later Sun Wolf was gone.
“Skill has nothing to do with it.”
Ari was going for his sword, even as he turned, but stepping swiftly, soundlessly behind him in that moment of blindness, the Wolf had taken it. In a training class he would have struck him with the flat of it, and both men would have laughed and cursed at the joke. Now, after a long moment of silence, he only turned it hilt-first to hand it back.
But for nearly a minute Ari did not touch it. In his eyes, in his silence, Sun Wolf read uncertainty and fear, and more painful than either, shock—the sense of loss, of seeing his friend turn before him into a man he wasn’t sure he knew.
Fathers, Sun Wolf knew, sometimes see sons like this, though his own never had. To Ari he had been a father for years, and to be a father, he knew, was to be unchanging . . .
It was a long time before Ari spoke.
“It’s true, isn’t it.” There was no question in his voice.
“I told you that last spring.”
“You told me . . . ” Ari hesitated, then reached out and took the sword from his hand. Breeze made silvery flecks in the black bearskin of his cape, snagged a lock of his heavy black hair among the old scalps hanging at his shoulder, then seemed to think better of it and fell still again.
“You told me you needed to go seek a teacher, if one could be found. But you’d been elbow-deep in witchery all winter, Chief. It was still on you, then. And I thought . . . ” He sighed, and looked away. “I thought you might have seen it as a way out. A way to retire, to give me the troop, to ride away before you ended up buying some little six-foot daisy farm someplace.” The steady, gray-brown gaze returned to Sun Wolf’s face. “And I was glad, you know? Glad if you wanted out you could leave instead of die. Because, face it, Chief, you could put all the fifty-year-old mercs in the world into one bathtub and still have room for the soap. I didn’t give two cow-pies together whether you found what you were looking for, really. I just—didn’t want to have to bury you. But you did find it, didn’t you?”
Sun Wolf remembered Kaletha of Wenshar, the end result of his first year of seeking—her vanity, her pettiness, her ghastly death. Then he turned to the crowded spires of Vorsal barely visible above the tangle of canvas, dirty banners, and woodsmoke. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I found it.”
“That’s good.”
He looked back at Ari, tufted brow rising over his single eye, and the young captain met the look squarely, not understanding, perhaps, but willing to accept. Just as well, thought Sun Wolf, that the Vorsal mage had made it obvious by burning the inn just where the lines were drawn.
But his mouth and eyebrows still quirked with irony
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