A Meddle of Wizards. Alexandra Rushe
precious ward, Gertie thought with dark amusement. He’ll be reduced to ashes.
A dozen handmaidens slept at the god’s chiseled feet. Gertie bent over the limp form of one of the attendants, her nose twitching at an acrid scent.
“Black gurshee.” She hawked to rid her mouth of the bitter taste. “Glonoff’s drugged Hara and her servants. Finn’s Horn wouldn’t wake them now.”
Noticing the young warrior’s uncharacteristic silence, she glanced back and found him staring at the altar with a dumbfounded expression.
“Gods. Look at her.” His throat worked. “She’s gorgeous.”
“Huh.” Gertie spat again. “Pretty is as pretty does.”
A servant girl moaned and turned her head. Gertie swore softly. There were empty holes where the girl’s nose had been.
Mauric drew his knife. “What is it?”
“The servant. She’s been mutilated.”
“Glonoff?”
Gertie shook her head. “Nay, it was Hara, I suspect. There have been rumors of her savagery, but I gave them little credit.” She grimaced. “Until now.”
“Hara did this? But why? She’s beautiful.”
“Insecurity. Malice.” Gertie shrugged. “Or maybe she enjoys cutting people.”
Mauric expression tightened with disgust. He gripped his knife. “Let’s do this and get out of here.”
They were halfway up the dais steps when Hara stirred.
Mauric shot Gertie a look of reproach. “I thought you said Finn’s Horn wouldn’t wake her.”
“I was mistaken. It happens upon occasion.”
Hara sat up and stretched, her movements lithe and sensual, her dark hair rippling in a silky cascade down her slender back.
Her eyes widened when she spotted them on the stairs. Opening her mouth, she let out a banshee screech that echoed around the temple. The statue of Magog stirred in response, and the temple walls shook and a pillar groaned and toppled to the floor.
Mauric struggled to keep his balance on the crumbling steps. “What’s happening?”
“Magog’s awake,” Gertie shouted. “Forget the girl. Run.”
Ducking falling stones, they raced outside and down the stairway carved into the face of the tor. The earth groaned beneath their feet like a restive animal, and Mauric stumbled and went down on the quaking hill.
Gertie loped up to him on all fours. “Four paws are better than two. Climb on, boy,” she ordered. “Now.”
Mauric scrambled onto her back and held on. When they reached the cover of the forest, he slid off her and stood up. The pitched roof of the temple burst open and Magog thrust his head and shoulders out of the ruin. His blue eye blazed and a penetrating beam of light swept the temple hill and the woods beyond.
“Down,” Gertie said, knocking Mauric’s legs from under him with a swipe of her paw. He hit the ground with a startled grunt as the questing light paused at the edge of the trees where they were hidden, and moved on.
“Tro,” Mauric said, breathing a sigh of relief. “That was close.”
“He’s groggy. Drunk on blood offerings, or we’d be done for.” Gertie pointed to a towering plume of smoke on the horizon. “See that thunderhead? That’s Glonoff. He’s headed this way, and he’s not happy. Trust me. We do not want to be here when he arrives.”
“One of these days, you’re going to tell me the reason there’s bad blood between you and Glonoff.” He grinned. “And it will annoy Raven to no end that you told me first.”
Gertie gave him a sideways glance. “My business with the Dark Wizard is my own, and you shouldn’t plague your cousin.”
“Why? He makes it easy.”
“Enough of your cheek, boy. Fetch your horse.”
Mauric disappeared into the trees. He returned a few moments later with his black stallion.
“Better hold him,” Gertie warned. “Horses and trolls don’t mix.”
“Goblin won’t startle. He knows he’s safe with me.”
Gertie grunted and led the way. They skirted the edge of the forest until the temple was well behind them. Once it was safe, Mauric mounted and they left the shelter of the trees, setting a brutal pace across the low hills and grasslands of Shad Amar. Pausing at the top of a hillock, Gertie rose on her hind legs and sniffed the night air. The green scent of fir and the sweet, dusty smell of dry grass tickled her senses, but there was no sign of pursuit.
She had failed to wrest Hara from Glonoff, but on the bright side, she and Mauric had escaped with their lives. All things considered, no small cause for celebration. The Rowan would not be happy if she’d gotten his favorite nephew killed. She’d tried to dissuade Mauric, but the young hothead had insisted on coming, trailing after her like a blasted hound. She scowled. Kron take it, she was fond of the boy, too. The Rowan should damn well know she’d protect Mauric with her life.
Satisfied that Glonoff was not on their heels, Gertie loped through the grass and caught up with Mauric.
Near dawn, they stopped to rest in a glade at the foot of the Black Mountains. A wall of ancient firs enclosed the peaceful clearing, sheltering them from the wind. In the center of the space was an altar. The pitted gray stone, though worn by time and the elements, was clean and unstained by blood. No bones littered the clearing. A stream danced down the mountainside at one end of the gorge, ending in a double waterfall that sent puffs of mist into the air.
Mauric tended to his horse before striding to the rocky pool to bathe. Licking one paw, Gertie watched him strip off his shirt and wash the dark paint from his face, bulging arms, and muscular torso.
When he was clean, he rose to his feet and shook, spraying her with the icy droplets.
“You’re worse than a dog,” she complained.
Still worrying at her sore paw, she closed her eyes and tested the morning breeze. The spray from the waterfalls gave the air a greenish, underwater quality that made her nose quiver.
“Stop licking that paw or it will fester.”
Gertie opened her eyes to find Mauric standing over her. “Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s bad luck to sneak up on a troll?”
“Hah, as if anyone could sneak up on you. Let me have a look at that cut.”
Reluctantly, Gertie held out her paw. “It’s not bad. I stepped on a stone a few leagues back.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, mor.”
Gertie blinked, touched by his use of the Trolk word for mother.
Mauric cleaned the ragged tear and began to rub unguent on it from one of his saddle bags.
At the first sting, Gertie yelped and jerked her paw away. “Ouch, that hurts.”
“Don’t be such a baby.” Taking her paw again, Mauric finished dressing the wound with salve. “It’s your recipe. Horse manure and lard mixed with honey for healing.” Satisfied with his work, he got to his feet and stretched. “What is this place, one of Magog’s altars?”
“Certainly not.” Gertie removed a shapeless robe from one of the packs and tugged it over her head. “This was once a shrine to Xantheus.”
Mauric whistled. “The slain god?”
“None other.” Gertie shoved her hind paws into a pair of worn boots, wincing at a stab of pain from her injured foot. “Some say guilt over his twin’s death drove Magog mad. At any rate, Magog avoids such places like the plague. We should be