Mirror Sight
Page 127

Cloudy leaped down and led her on. After some time, Karigan felt, more than saw, the space closing in on them, that they were coming to a wall of rock. Sound changed as they neared, the thud of Raven’s hooves rebounding. The mineral scent of wet stone grew heavy in the air. Water trickled nearby from some height above to the forest floor. Cloudy stepped off the path and jumped onto a fallen log and sat, waiting expectantly. Karigan strained her eyes, peered into the dark, and yes, there was the tall, pale finger of stone, the second obelisk, that marked the entrance to the tombs.
Had she missed the appointed time? Would someone come out to see her, or would she have to knock on the portal? Not that anyone would hear her if she did. She thought she remembered how the door was opened that long ago night—there was a glyph of Westrion on its center. One only had to press it . . .
She took a step forward thinking to do just that. She did not feel like standing there forever in the dark, waiting for something to happen. She was about to take a second step when a low voice issued out of the dark: “Do not move.”
She froze, throttling down a scream at the sharp edge of steel suddenly touching her throat. She swallowed slowly, carefully. A trap after all! She had not even seen or heard anyone draw the sword, and now she dared not see who wielded it for fear he would cut her throat.
“Name yourself,” said a second male voice behind her.
Karigan had not been around guns very much, but she easily identified the particular click of the hammer being drawn back. She could feel the man boring his sight into her.
Beside her, Raven moved his head about, snuffling the scents of the two men. Were there more? He flattened his ears back and whinnied. She gripped the reins tightly.
“Your name,” the man with the gun demanded.
Karigan knew she could be giving away everything, but if these were in fact the people she was supposed to meet and not a pair of villains who’d drawn her here for nefarious purposes, withholding her real name could mean her death.
“I will not ask again,” the gunman said.
Karigan opened her mouth to answer, but Raven lunged, knocked the sword away from her throat, and lashed out with his rear hooves. Someone cursed. Karigan whirled, the bonewood extended to fighting length. She stood in a defensive posture, the entrance to the tombs somewhere behind her.
People moved about the woods farther down the trail. It sounded like a brawl had erupted, fists thudding on flesh, branches cracking, grunts of pain and muted shouts. What in the hells? Raven snorted beside her and dug at the ground.
Even as the fight continued, Karigan sensed someone angling toward her from the side. She turned to face him but saw little.
“Put the staff down. It is of no use against a gun.” When she paused, he added, “I will surely blow a hole through your head if you do not comply.”
She believed it. His voice was imbued with layers of threat. Slowly she laid the bonewood on the ground and raised her hands palms outward to show they were empty. Obviously he could see her better than she him.
“Now your name. Your name and that of your accomplice.”
Accomplice? “But—”
“Name.”
Karigan swallowed hard. Well, if she was going to give her name, she might as well do it right. “I am Rider Sir Karigan G’ladheon of His Majesty’s Messenger Service.” She’d have bowed, but she feared any sudden movement on her part would cause the man to pull the trigger.
He paused, most likely digesting her name and title. “Who did you bring with you? Name your accomplice.”
“I have no accomplice, unless you mean my horse.”
“You were followed,” he accused.
“I was? But I—”
“We’ve subdued him,” someone called out, this time a female voice.
The sound of the fight was replaced by that of several approaching footsteps.
“Light,” someone said.
Lanterns flared to life, and Karigan averted her face, shielding her eyes. After all that time in the dark it was like falling into the sun.
“Is it her?” someone asked.
“Hard to tell.”
Karigan blinked, willing her eyes to adjust.
“Watch the horse,” another said. “He kicked me.”
Karigan squinted at Raven who tensed up at her side again, then she turned her gaze on those who stood arrayed before her. The light was aimed into her face so it was not easy to see past the glare. She guessed there were a half a dozen of them, and they were dressed darkly, probably in black. The cut of their clothes—their uniforms—was very familiar. So was the way they held themselves: Weapons.
She wanted to cry out in joy at finding something so familiar in this unfamiliar world, but her reaction was tempered by wariness. Were these Weapons like those of her own time, or had they and their loyalties changed?
Raven bunched up beside her, preparing for another lunge. “No!” she cried, and grabbed the reins. He half-reared, but she coaxed him down.
“We do not attack Weapons,” she admonished him.
At this statement, the tension of all concerned diminished a notch. Raven nudged her, seeking reassurance. Absently she patted his neck.
“At least I presume you are Weapons,” she told them. “I received a message to be here at midnight.”
One of the black-clad warriors stepped forward, lowering the lantern so it would no longer glare in her eyes. Raven tensed again.
“Enough,” she told the horse.
The man halted before her. “I am called Joff. Yes, we are of the Order of the Black Shields. If you are not who you say you are, you will not leave this place.”