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He awoke to the touch of sunlight on his face, filtered through the canopy of trees. The fire continued to smolder, smoke meandering about till he sat up, when it changed direction and blew across his face.
Mogget was still sleeping, now curled up into a tight white ball, almost buried in the leaves.
Sam yawned and tried to stand up. He’d forgotten about his leg, which had stiffened so much that he promptly fell over, letting out a shriek of pain. That startled Sprout, who jumped as far as her hobbles allowed her and rolled her eyes. Sam muttered soothing words at her while he used a hefty sapling to haul himself upright.
Mogget didn’t wake then or later, sleeping on while Sam finished re-dressing his wound and cast a small Charter-spell to dull the pain and keep infection at bay. The cat stayed asleep even when Sam got out some bread and beef for a not very satisfactory breakfast.
After he’d eaten, Sam brushed Sprout and then saddled up. With nothing left to do but cover the remnants of the fire, he decided it was time to endure more of Mogget’s insults.
“Mogget! Wake up!”
The cat didn’t stir. Sam leaned down closer and shouted, “Wake up!” again, but Mogget didn’t even twitch an ear.
Finally, he reached out and shook the little cat gently behind the collar. Aside from his feeling the buzz and interplay of Free and Charter Magic, nothing happened. Mogget slept on.
“What am I supposed to do with you?” asked Sam, looking down at him. This whole adventure/rescue business was getting out of hand. It was only his third day out of Belisaere, and he was already off the high road, wounded, and in the company of a strange and potentially extremely dangerous Free Magic construct. His question dredged up another one he’d been trying to avoid: What was he going to do now himself?
He didn’t expect an answer to either question, but after a moment, a muffled reply came from the apparently still sleeping cat.
“Put me in a saddlebag. Wake me up when you find some decent food. Preferably fish.”
“All right,” replied Sam with a shrug. Picking up the cat without moving his wounded leg proved difficult, but eventually he managed it. Cradling Mogget in one forearm, he delicately transferred him to the left saddlebag, after checking that it wasn’t the one with the bells and The Book of the Dead. He didn’t like the idea of all three being put together, though he knew no reason why they shouldn’t be.
Eventually Mogget was safely installed, with just his head poking out of the bag.
“I’m going to ride west through this small forest, then across the open country to the Sindlewood,” explained Sam as he turned the stirrup and put his boot through, ready to mount. “We’ll go through the Sindlewood to the Ratterlin, then follow it south till we can get a boat to take us to Qyrre. From there it shouldn’t take long to get to Edge, and hopefully we’ll find Nick straightaway. Does that sound like a good plan?”
Mogget didn’t answer.
“So a day or so in this forest,” continued Sam as he mustered his strength to swing up and over. He liked talking about his plans out loud—it made them seem more real and sensible. Particularly when Mogget was asleep and couldn’t criticize them. “When we come out, we’re bound to find a village, or a charcoal burner’s camp or something. They’ll sell us whatever we need before we cross the Sindlewood. There’re probably woodcutters or people like that there, too.”
He stopped talking as he mounted up, suppressing a cry of pain. His injured leg was feeling better than the day before, but not by much. And he felt a bit dizzy now, almost lightheaded. He’d have to be careful.
“By the way,” he said, clicking Sprout into a walk, “last night you seemed to know something about this Lightning Trap Nick has gone to look for. You didn’t like the sound of it, but you fell asleep before saying anything else. I was wondering if it had anything to do with the necromancer—”
“Necromancer?” came the immediate, yowled reply. Mogget erupted out of the saddlebag and crouched in front of Sam, looking in every direction, his fur standing on end.
“Um, not here. I was just saying that you started to talk about the Lightning Trap, and I wondered if it had to do with Chlorr of the Mask, or the other necromancer, the one . . . the one I fought.”
“Humph,” snorted Mogget darkly, subsiding back into the saddlebag.
“Well, tell me something!” demanded Sam. “You can’t just sleep all day!”
“Can’t I?” asked Mogget. “I could sleep all year. Particularly since I have no fish, which I note you have failed to procure.”
“So what is the Lightning Trap?” prompted Sam, pulling lightly on the reins to direct Sprout towards a more westerly and well-traveled path.
“I don’t know,” Mogget said softly. “But I mislike the sound of it. A Lightning Trap. A gatherer of lightning? Surely it cannot be—”
“What?” asked Sam.
“It is probably only a coincidence,” replied Mogget heavily, his eyes closing once more. “Perhaps your friend does only go to see a place where lightning strikes more commonly than it should. But there are powers working here, powers that hate everything of the Charter, Blood, and Stone. I smell plots and long-laid plans, Sameth. I do not like it at all.”
“So what should we do?” Sam asked anxiously.
“We must find your friend Nick,” whispered Mogget as he drifted back into sleep. “Before he finds . . . whatever it is that he seeks.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“When the Dead Do Walk, Seek Water’s Run”
Goaded on by Mogget’s alarming presentiment, Sam pressed himself and Sprout hard—so they left the small, unnamed forest earlier than expected, on the evening of the first day, and began to cross the rolling green hills of the farmland beyond. This was part of the Middle Lands of the Old Kingdom, a wide belt of small villages, farm steadings, and sheep, stretching west across the country almost as far as Estwael and Olmond. Apart from Sindle to the north, there were no towns until Yanyl, twenty leagues past the western shore of the Ratterlin. Largely depopulated during the Interregnum, the area had recovered quickly during Touchstone’s reign, but there were still far fewer people than in the heyday of the Kingdom.
Since his former disguise was now a liability, Sam removed the Charter-spell that disguised him as a Traveler and resumed his normal appearance. Sprout was already disguised by the mud on her legs and her very ordinary looks. In his sweaty, dirt-stai
ned clothes, it was hard to tell what Sam looked like, anyway. He had a story ready, should he be asked. He would say he was the younger son of a Belisaere merchant’s guard captain, traveling from the north to a cousin near Chasel, who would employ him as a retainer.
He also re-bound his wound and managed to slip on his spare trousers, so as not to show an obviously wounded, blood-stained leg. His limp he could not disguise, unlike his hat, which suffered the indignity of having its brim cut in half, rendering it both less shady and less distinctive.
Soon after leaving the forest, they entered a village, or a hamlet, really, since it boasted only seven houses. There was a Charter Stone nearby, though. Sam could feel it, somewhere behind the houses. He was tempted to find it and use it to help him cast another, stronger healing spell, but the villagers would surely notice him then.
The place lacked an inn. Though a comfortable bed was beyond hope, he did manage to buy some almost-fresh bread, a freshly cooked rabbit, and several small, sweet apples from a woman who was taking a cartload of fair-day purchases home to her farm.
Mogget slept through this transaction, hidden under the loosely tied flap of the saddlebag, which was just as well. Sam didn’t know how he would even begin to explain why a white cat rode with him. It was better not to tempt interest.
Sam kept on riding till it was too dark to see and Sprout wandered into the mud on either side of what was supposed to be a road. He conjured a small Charter light, and they found an open-sided hayrick in which to take shelter. Mogget slept on, oblivious to the removal of the saddlebags and the scraping of at least some of the mud from man and horse.
Sam tried to wake him, to learn more about the Lightning Trap. But the bell that bound Mogget worked too well, its sleepy chime sounding whenever the cat moved as if to wake up. The miniature Ranna made even Sam weary when he leaned too close, so he fell asleep next to the cat in a most uncomfortable position.
