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  Chapter 3

  Olyva

  She had gone into the camp looking for more water. The entire tribe lay on mats just outside the camp or on the ground near their tents. The sickness had come on so quickly that Olyva and the Rogu hadn’t been able to get everyone out of the camp before her helpers fell ill. She had given her elixir to as many of the tribespeople as she could, but there simply wasn’t enough. She was confident that the draught she’d mixed with the bark-like scales she had scraped off her body would cure the illness, but the tiny doses she’d been forced to share wouldn’t work quickly. She’d given the most to Tiberius, dribbling an entire cup of the dark brown liquid into his mouth.

  When the sun rose the next morning, Tiberius woke up and was improving, but it was still a slow process. Lexi and Rafe hadn’t returned by midday, so Olyva was searching for more water among the small dome tents favored by the Hoskali tribe. She hadn’t seen the enemy warriors approaching. She heard footsteps just before they reached her. When she turned, the massive leader of the Kepsmee was sprinting toward her. She froze, paralyzed with fear. Bu’yorgi tackled her, knocking the breath from her lungs and pinning her to the ground with his heavy body.

  “You are mine, now,” he said with a leer.

  Olyva rolled to the side, surprising the large warrior with her strength. He raised his club to frighten her into obedience, but Olyva’s shock had passed. She rolled to her feet and stood up, still struggling to breathe. Her root-like toes burrowed into the ground, and she glowered at Bu’yorgi. The big man stood up slowly, taking notice of Olyva’s unusual body for the first time.

  She was tall and feminine, with a striking figure and a beautiful face, but her hair was disheveled, and the patches of bark and soft brown stems were visible on her skin. Bu’yorgi cursed. Olyva didn’t understand the words but she could see the hatred and fear in his eyes.

  Then another man grabbed Olyva from behind. She screamed, thrashing her arms and bending her body, but the man behind her held firm. He tried to lift her off the ground, but Olyva’s feet were planted in the soil, and she was almost immovable. Olyva had thought that the raiders would plunder the village and then leave, as they had tried to do only a few nights before. She hoped that if they couldn’t move her they might leave her there, where she could tend to the Hoskali still struggling from the poisoned water.

  More men came to help their leader, some grabbing her legs and others bending her long arms behind her back. Olyva spit toward Bu’yorgi, who jumped backward. Many of the men laughed, but not Bu’yorgi.

  “Be careful,” he warned. “She’s touched by the Hosscum.”

  There were gasps of surprise, but the men holding Olyva held fast.

  “Bring a blanket,” Bu’yorgi ordered.

  Olyva screamed again, trying to shake loose from the men holding her. With her feet planted in the ground and the sun shining down on her, Olyva felt strong, but she couldn’t overcome the group of men holding her. Then, before she knew what was happening, a blanket was draped over her head. The blanket was thick and smelled musty. Olyva shouted, but the blanket blocked the sunlight, and she immediately felt her strength diminishing. Ropes were tied around her, holding the blanket in place.

  Olyva struggled to breathe; the blanket was thick, and she guessed it was caked with dirt. It had been used to cover the ground in a sitting or sleeping area. Olyva didn’t see the spear that Bu’yorgi drove into the ground behind her, but she felt the metal blade scrape her heel. The big warrior drove the spear down deep into the ground, and Olyva’s hands were tied to the spear. Then, a rough rope was used to tie her bare ankles to the spear as well. Her toes were still rooted in the ground, but with the thick blanket blocking the sunlight, Olyva grew weak. Just standing upright became difficult for her. She wanted to lie down and sleep, but she couldn’t free herself from the makeshift stake that Bu’yorgi had bound her to.

  “Bring wood!” Bu’yorgi roared. “We’ll burn her tonight.”

  Olyva cried out again when she heard what they were planning to do. Her voice wasn’t as loud, and her defiance was little more than a pitiful whine. Fire was her greatest fear. The insatiable flames would devour her alive, and even though she struggled valiantly, she knew there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  Silently she cursed herself for being so careless. She had known that the enemy raiders were behind the sickness that had swept through the Hoskali tribe. But she was so focused on helping the sick that she had let her guard down. She should have felt the raiders approaching through the ground, but somehow she’d missed it.

  “Let me go,” she said whenever she heard anyone passing by. “Please, I’m not a threat. I won’t fight. Just let me go.”

  The enemy raiders ignored her pleas. As the day progressed, her strength wilted more and more. Only her feet, ankles, and hands were exposed to the amber sunlight. She struggled to breathe through the filthy blanket. As the men piled wood and tamaka dung around her, Olyva felt her fear morph into full-blown panic.

  “No!” she shouted. “Let me go!”

  The men began to laugh, and she heard them mocking her, but her mind seemed to shrink down in on itself. She refused to believe that they were really going to burn her alive.

  Finally the sun set. In the blighted lands, the light from the sun was filtered through the think bank of mist and evenly dispersed. There was no twilight, no beautiful streaks of red and orange across the sky, just a sudden shift from day to a night that was completely dark. Without stars or light from the moon, night in the blighted lands was like being in a deep cave. Olyva felt the sudden darkness. To her, the absence of light was almost debilitating. She felt a wave of fatigue crash over her and a deep craving to be close to the ground. She preferred sleeping without a blanket or mat of any kind, letting her exposed skin touch the earth as she rested.

  What little light filtered through the musty blanket was suddenly gone, and Olyva felt cold. Her mind seemed foggy, but she sensed the small fires the raiders had built to illuminate their plunder. All afternoon Olyva had heard the warriors pillaging the Hoskali camp. She heard tents being ripped to pieces. Anything made of wood was smashed, and then the pieces were piled around her. With nightfall came the sounds of celebration. Olyva could smell the spirits being consumed. Part of her wanted to close her eyes and sleep, but fear and discomfort made that impossible. Tears fell, and her shoulders shook as she despaired for her life.

  Then there was a commotion in the camp. Olyva couldn’t tell what it was, but she heard the warriors shouting and running. Hope blossomed in her heart. Perhaps Rafe had returned. Perhaps he was there at last to save her from the fire. She struggled again, but it was a useless gesture. She was even more weak in the darkness than she had been in the daylight. The ropes had been tied too tightly, and she could do nothing but wait breathlessly and hope that somehow she might be set free from the death she feared most.

  Chapter 4

  Tiberius

  Eventually Tiberius’ strength ran out, and the cloaking spell that hid him failed. The raiders could see him, lying propped against an overturned cart, but he was just another sick Hoskali to them.

  Tiberius had feared that they would see him and capture or kill him, but they ignored him. Slowly, as the day passed and Lexi failed to return, Tiberius realized he was going to have to do something. He could see Olyva tied to the stake in front of the large tent at the center of the camp. He watched as the raiders piled wood around her, and it was obvious what they intended to do. Tiberius was much too weak to fight the entire group of enemy warriors. Working magic took total focus and a great amount of mental energy. If he tried to use one of the Fourth Order spells, he risked unleashing so much power he couldn’t control it. So he waited, biding his time and racking his brain for a plan.

  He was feeling better but still very weak. If he could have drunk something, he thought he might feel stronger, but there was no clean water. He watched the raiders, hoping he might discover their secret stash
of clean water, but they only drank the tribe’s fermented ox milk the Hoskali called Kumis. Tiberius was tempted to try and steal some of the milk, but he needed something that would clear his mind, not befuddle it more. The Kumis was not a strong drink, but Tiberius was craving water. His muscles were cramping, and his kidneys ached.

  When night fell, Tiberius realized he was out of time. He had to do something. Fires were kindled around the camp. Most of the raiders were now in the large clearing at the center of the encampment near Tiberius’ large shelter. The warriors laughed and sang as one of the oxen was butchered and roasted. The smell of the meat was intoxicating, and Tiberius’ mouth watered.

  Tiberius had tried desperately to come up with a plan. He’d gone over the list of spells he knew, but there was nothing he could think of that would help free Olyva without risking her life and the lives of the other ailing tribes members, as well. Finally, he decided on a path of action that was less than favorable but was all he could come up with.

  Getting to his feet wasn’t easy. Tiberius had to hold onto the overturned ox cart to steady himself. It was dark, and there were no fires nearby, so Tiberius waited patiently for the waves of dizziness to pass. Finally, after several minutes, he felt strong enough to walk. He was desperate for something to drink. His mouth was so dry that his tongue felt swollen and gummy in his mouth. He couldn’t help but chew on the swollen tongue even when he felt the lancing pain and tasted the coppery blood that resulted.

  His plan depended on getting captured. He needed to be subdued but not knocked unconscious. His biggest fear was that he might be clubbed on the head and then come to only to find that Olyva had already been burned alive.

  He moved quietly toward the roasting oxen. Tiberius guessed that the raiders would feast first, then burn their prisoner afterward. In the meantime they were drinking and boasting of their great victory. Tiberius needed to strike a little fear into them, and he knew just what he needed to do it.

  He crept through the darkness. The big wagon that had held the Swanee’s possessions was now gone, used by Lexi and Rafe to retrieve water for the tribe. It had been emptied, and those few possessions had been scattered, but Tiberius noticed that one item had been carefully laid aside. The Hoskali had called it the Illepax, or death stick. It had been left on the ground, but as Tiberius had watched through the day, the raiders had been careful to avoid it. Tiberius had no idea if the small staff hung with feathers and skulls had any real magical power, but the Hoskali obviously believed that it did.

  Tiberius picked it up, then walked toward the large fire that was roasting the oxen.

  “Vocavi Ventus,” Tiberius chanted.

  The summon wind spell stirred the air. The blighted lands never seemed to have a breeze. The air was warm, humid, and still. Tiberius had stood on the walls and watchtower of Avondale where the wind never seemed to stop blowing, but for the Hoskali, wind was a strange occurrence. The raiders cooking the oxen didn’t notice the wind at first. They were drinking Kumis and watching the fat from the oxen drip into the flames below. But the wind grew stronger, and as they turned, Tiberius came walking out of the darkness toward them, carrying the Illepax and doing his best to seem frightening.

  Most of the raiders turned and ran, shouting for help. Two stood where they were, transfixed as the wind grew stronger, making the flames flutter wildly and the debris on the ground tumble toward the men. Then a tent was blown over, crashing into one of the men. He fell backwards, one arm landing in the fire. The tent was still stretched over the flexible wooden shafts. It bounced into the air and went spinning further into the camp.

  Tiberius was already feeling tired, so he let the wind die down. He needed to make a scene but he wasn’t strong enough to challenge the entire band of enemy Rogu. Bu’yorgi came rushing forward, followed by a dozen warriors, all inspired by their leader. They held clubs at the ready, but Tiberius could see the uncertainty on their faces.

  Tiberius pretended to stumble. It wasn’t difficult since he was so weak. The Illepax flew out of his hand, and the raiders moved in quickly.

  “Subdue him,” Bu’yorgi shouted. “Don’t let him touch the Illepax.”

  The warriors obeyed instantly. They were frightened of the death stick, which had clattered to the ground several feet away from Tiberius, but they had no qualms about roughly jerking him to his feet. Bu’yorgi smiled, fully expecting that Tiberius was now powerless without his magical staff.

  “You see,” Bu’yorgi said loudly. “Not even their Kuja can withstand the Sellado. He is weak and sick. Don’t worry, Swanee — we will put you out of your misery soon enough.”

  “You want us to slice his throat?” one of the raiders asked.

  “No, let him burn with his Hosscum,” Bu’yorgi said with a vicious smile.

  The raiders cheered, and Tiberius let his head droop as they dragged him toward the center of the camp. He didn’t resist, and he did his best not to smile. He had wanted to be close to Olyva, and the raiders were unwittingly giving him exactly what he wanted. The pile of wood around Olyva had to be partially removed. Tiberius was held nearby, and while he waited to be tied to the stake with Olyva, he studied her bonds. She was tied by the same grassy rope that the Hoskali used to bind up their tents and secure their possessions in the carts when they moved from place to place across the prairie.

  “Tie him!” Bu’yorgi ordered.

  Tiberius was shoved forward, and his hands were pulled behind him. The raiders tied his hands together so tightly that he could feel the tingle from lack of blood flow immediately. Once his hands and feet were bound, he was carried to the spear that served as a stake and tied securely to the weapon. Tiberius sagged, much the same way that Olyva did. The raiders meanwhile began piling the wood back around his feet.

  Tiberius doubted that there was enough fuel to burn a person up, but the fire, if kindled, would certainly be enough to kill him. He didn’t move for several minutes while the raiders shouted insults at him. Some even threw clods of dirt or remnants of food at him. Tiberius did his best to seem oblivious to it all, and the raiders soon tired of their sport. Luckily, the oxen was finished cooking, and great hunks of roasted meat were being served to the warriors.

  Tiberius cleared his mind. He knew his plan was shaky at best, but he had to try something. He could never live with himself if he let something happen to Rafe’s lover. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the words of his spell.

  “Quievi Adfectus,” he whispered, saying the spell over and over.

  The magic felt like mist to Tiberius. It was growing and spreading around him;he could move it with his mind. The raiders were gathering in a circle around the stake where Tiberius and Olyva were bound. They were eating and drinking, telling stories and laughing. The magic was unseen and unfelt by the raiders, but Tiberius laid the thick mist over the crowd. Almost immediately the mood in the camp changed. They had been excited by their victory over Tiberius’ tribe and almost worked to a frenzy by the expectation of a savage execution. The copious amounts of Kumis only stoked the excitement of the group higher and higher. But as Tiberius cast his spell, the men began to relax. They lounged as they ate. Their raucous laughter turned into quiet conversations. Then Tiberius changed his spell.

  The calm minds spell still lay over the raiders like a dense fog, and to it Tiberius added the sleep spell.

  “Somni Incantatio,” he whispered.

  The spells mingled together. The sleep spell was lighter than the calm minds magic. It seemed to dance and sway almost playfully. Tiberius directed it out with his mind and almost immediately he saw the raiders begin to yawn. They continued to eat and drink. Tiberius let the spell fall over them slowly, so that no one would suspect what he was doing. Several of the raiders stretched out on the ground and were soon snoring.

  Bu’yorgi stood up and stretched. Tiberius thought they had almost forgotten him. He kept chanting the spell quietly, his voice barely even a whisper.

  “Somni Incantatio, So
mni Incantatio,” he whispered.

  The big warrior looked around. Almost all the warriors were asleep. Bu’yorgi’s head snapped up, looking straight at his prisoners, and Tiberius could see that the leader of the Kepsmee knew what Tiberius was doing. He started forward, but Tiberius centered the spell on the big man. Bu’yorgi staggered, then went to one knee. He looked up at Tiberius.

  “Stop him!” he said, managing to raise a hand.

  Then he slumped to the ground. Tiberius smiled. His spell had worked. Then, without warning, a warrior Tiberius hadn’t seen on the far side of the group stepped forward and swung his club into Tiberius’ stomach. The blow knocked the wind from Ti’s lungs and caused him to retch.

  Bright sparks flared to life in Tiberius’ vision. He sputtered as he desperately tried to suck air back into his deflated lungs. Before he could, the warrior hit Tiberius again, this time in the side of his upper leg. The muscle cramped so hard Tiberius’ vision blurred with tears.

  “Recant this foul magic,” the warrior said.

  He was a small man, his face twisted with anger. Tiberius was coughing, desperate for air and some way to ease his agony. He tried standing up straighter to relieve the tension on his arms, but a wave of dizziness made him fall back onto the upright spear that held him fast.

  “Wake them up!” the warrior said, before bringing the club down on the top of Tiberius’ foot.

  “Somni Incan—”

  Before Tiberius could finish saying the spell, the man swung his club and smashed it into the side of Tiberius’ head. The wizard slumped, and his world went black.