Free Circle of Thieves: Legends of Dimmingwood by C. Greenwood Page B

great affection and respect for the man,
but as leader of the circle, I couldn’t afford to let his sympathy for our
captive get in my way.
    Dradac’s mouth clicked shut, and I waited for him to
withdraw. Instead he said, “Thanks, but I’ll stay.” He sounded reluctant but
determined.
    “Fine.” I shrugged and nodded for Nib to remove the rags
from the prisoner’s mouth. Then I squatted down level with the Skeltai. His
eyes hadn’t left me all this while, but it wasn’t until I was close to him that
I realized it wasn’t me alone. He was equally interested in my bow. As the
savage and I stared at one another, I thought he should have seemed frightened.
He was in a strange place and surrounded by so many enemies. But his expression
was stony. If he felt fear, he gave no sign.
    This was my first chance to get a good look at a Skeltai
warrior, and I took my time getting to know the face of my enemy. His silvery
blue hair was waist length and strung into a multitude of tiny braids with long
feathers and bits of bone that rattled whenever he moved his head. His most
startling feature was the blood-red paint covering his face and body. Only
glimmers of skin as pale as milk showed through. It was skin that looked
unnervingly familiar because it was so like mine. But I wouldn’t think about
that right now, wouldn’t consider the possibility that this savage and I shared
common ancestors.
    Because he was clad only in a loincloth, I could see the
collection of wicked looking scars tracing his arms and torso. These were no
battle scars, as I might have expected, but trailing designs, intricate shapes
and swirls that were almost graceful. I wondered if the carvings were
self-inflicted or if he had allowed someone to etch designs into his skin.
Considering how much of the Skeltai culture was magic related, I wondered if
these scars could have a more sinister purpose than mere decoration. Maybe they
had something to do with spells.
    I shook aside my uneasiness. The prisoner was flesh and
blood, no different from the rest of us.
    Our captive had been studying me even as I examined him, and
it was clear he had something on his mind. His eyes kept flickering to the bow.
By this time I was used to people’s unusual reactions when they noticed the
weapon for the first time but his was more marked than most.
    I reached over my shoulder to stroke the smooth wood of the
bow’s arm. “You know something about this?” I asked the prisoner, never
removing my fingers from the wood. I felt the bow stir slightly to life beneath
my touch.
    The prisoner scowled. “I know the barra-banac.”
    I started at the heavily accented words, the first
understandable syllables he had uttered. So he could speak the common tongue if
he chose.
    “What is this barra-banac ? Is that what you call my
bow?” I asked.
    He only looked at me scornfully.
    In the face of his silence, I tried a different tact. “Tell
me how the Skeltai warriors travel so quickly from the Black Forest to
Dimmingwood,” I commanded. “It is an immense distance, yet you cover it quickly
and invisibly. Is this done by magic?”
    I thought of the circle we’d found etched in the ground near
Hammond’s Bend and remembered the lingering sense of fresh magic still on the
air. How it had felt almost as if a door had been shut and locked in the face
of any who would follow through the portal.
    I took a guess.  “Is it only your shamans who can
operate the portals, or do all of you have that ability? How far can they
transport you and for how long does the magic hold them open?”
    A sudden change come over the prisoner’s face. His lips
remained set in a flat line but his eyes took on a vacant look as if he stared
straight through me to some invisible place beyond. I had never seen a
breathing being look less alive.
    Unnerved, I forgot all my questions. I waved a hand before
his face and received no response, not even the batting of an eye.
    “What’s he doing?” Nib