Free The Way of the Black Beast by Stuart Jaffe Page A

Fawbry's hand and said, "We see you again, food or no cross."
    "Of course, of course. Thank you," Fawbry said. He even added a slight bow and waved to the adult glaring at them. "Thank you," he yelled.
    As they walked toward the village proper, Malja asked, "What did you give them?"
    "Nolan's coin."
    Malja let a grin escape and swore she heard Tommy snigger.
    A young Muyaza woman stood by a small hut. She asked how many were crossing and if the horses would go, too. With an unreadable face, she led them into the inner-yard. The constant activity exhausted Malja just to watch.
    The tribe worked hard all day. Each member had a specific task, all designed to get people across the river. In front of the small huts, the women cooked non-stop, using large cauldrons and whatever food came there way. Some plucked feathers, some butchered a carcass, while some stirred and stirred. Mangy correts and squeaking pheng-mice scampered for bones and gristle amongst the waste piles. A long table stretched toward the shore. Sitting on the gravelly sand, the men surrounded the table and shoveled in food like starving orphans. Meats and vegetables piled high in bowls kept arriving. The older ones received deference while eating, but the extra food did not help. All the elderly men were skeletal, wasting away. They looked lost and confused.
    Malja missed the signal, but somehow three men were assigned to them — two young, one old. This was always the combination. The two men lifted a wooden litter from a tall stack. They placed it next to the old man and waited with patience as the young woman guided him to the center. With the grace and expertise of people who have done this for a lifetime, they lifted the litter and rested its arms on their fat-padded shoulders. The young woman gestured for Malja and her group to follow the men to the river.
    Malja started at the sight before her. She heard Tommy gasp. All across the river, dotting the waters from shore to shore, Malja saw these three-man teams, each surrounded in a shimmering bubble of air. The Muyaza magicians practiced only this one spell, and they did it well. The old ones sat on the litters, focused on their tattooed legs, and created the protective bubble so the others could walk across.
    "Come on," Fawbry said, for their team already had walked to the shore. As impatient as Fawbry sounded, Malja caught him running his forefinger across his forehead — a sign of prayer to Kryssta.
    Why not? They were stepping into a river, a rushing body of water, something which under other circumstances she avoided. To make it worse, the only thing protecting them was an old man's magic.
    Magic ability varied from magician to magician. Part of it was training. Part of it was innate. Some could glance at their tattoos and have a solid spell in a few seconds. Others worked harder. And others strained the whole time. Likewise some spells required more effort even from the best magicians.
    The Muyaza tried to use only the best among them — drownings were bad for business — but Malja didn't know this magic well enough to judge the quality of their assigned magician. Her mouth dried as she neared the water. She tried not to think about magicians, magic, or madness. Just keep walking.
    Water rose around them, as did Malja's tension, but the field did not puncture. The Muyaza had lined this section of the riverbed with wood planks so they could walk without stumbling over slippery rocks and uneven terrain. Spotted fish swam up, stared at the people and horses, mouthed a few O's, and swam away.
    Malja tentatively ran her fingers across where she expected the field to be. Her fingers vibrated and the sensation rushed up her arm, shaking her bones. She snatched back her hand and rubbed it on her leg. It didn't hurt, but it was not something she wanted to experience again.
    The farther they walked, the higher the water rose. Despite her assault suit's attempt to regulate her temperature, Malja shivered and