Ch. 425 - Trapped

Panic surged through Simon as he tried to yank himself free, but the mental grip of the magic was as strong as ever, even if any attempt to visualize its flows around him collapsed amidst his rising panic.

The Grandmaster walked around Simon, never quite touching him. He never looked at the mirror, either. Instead, he moved around Simon, set his oil lamp down on the desk with a downcast gaze, and pulled out his chair, so that he’d sit with his back to the trigger rune, but he didn’t take a seat.

Apparently, if he doesn’t see it, the magic won’t work on him? He thought, wondering if there was some way he could use that, before the man distracted him by speaking. 

“For weeks you’ve been sneaking in and out of here, and for weeks my little trap hasn’t gone off,” he sighed, looking up at Simon with a slight smile across his face. “I’d begun to think that you’d outsmarted me somehow, and that I’d need a better mousetrap, but now here you are.”

He studied Simon for a moment, then pulled out a diadem and placed it on Simon’s head. He shuddered at the touch, but couldn’t so much as flinch away. A thousand terrible ideas went through his head. First, he thought about the crown he’d seen in the burial mounds ages ago, which his evil twin wore. This one looked different, but the idea that this man might be trying to control his mind or corrupt his spirit terrified him.

“I’m not letting a man like you speak, or even move, so we’ll be forced to borrow the Crown of Jerrathon for the duration.”

The Crown of Jerrathon? What does that do? Simon asked himself. 

As soon as he did, though, the man in front of him smiled as he sat and said, “Just a token from an old foe, long ago. He wasn’t born with the power of speech, and yet, he became a great mage, using this to overcome his deficit.”

Those words instantly answered the question. It didn’t exactly read his mind, but it broadcast his thoughts, at least a short distance, because his captor had heard him. 

Could I use this to blast him with Meiren then? Simon wondered, dismayed to find the thoughts blasted out once more.

My every thought, he cursed internally, ignoring the fact that the Grandmaster could hear that too. My internal monologue betrays me.

“Internal monologue?” the Grandmaster asked. “How interesting. I haven’t heard that term before, but that’s it exactly. Thoughts don’t create magic, so you can do precisely nothing to me right now, except for telling me what I want to know. Who are you really, Sir Enis? Before you were the cripple or the chosen one, who were you, and why did you join my order?”

I’m Simon, and where I come from is none of your business, he thought definitely. It’s not like you’ve ever heard of Earth anyway. That reflexive voice betrayed him again, and instead of struggling to resist the magic of the spell that held him or the crown that shared his thoughts, he focused on stilling his mind. He couldn’t win against the magic afflicting him, but he could win against his own thoughts. 

“Earth? I’ve never heard of that country before,” the Grandmaster said with a smirk. “Where is that? East of Charon? West of Ionia, and across the seas? I’ve read of several sunset lands, but never an Earth.”

Farther than that… Simon thought. Struggling not to say any more than that as he focused on stillness instead of struggle.

“Farther than the Sunset Lands? I suppose that explains the strange aura that the other masters speak of. You’ve come quite a way to infiltrate the Unspoken, then. Why?”

I’m here to learn to fight witches and protect my soul, Simon answered, cutting his thoughts off hard before he could overshare the reason why. 

“Reasonable enough,” the man mused, “I almost believe you, but there’s more to you, isn’t there? I can smell it. My divinations told me you were special, but I was asking the wrong questions, wasn’t I? You’ve come here for knowledge, but I will know why.”

The man was leering and clearly reading more into the situation than was warranted. He thought that Simon had been avoiding his traps on purpose, when the truth was simpler; he’d just been too eager for his own good.

Still, he kept all of those reflections repressed and instead answered, My business is my own. I came to learn, and if you let me go, I will trouble you no further.  

“Well, that, at least, is impossible,” the Grandmaster answered with a shake of his head. “You know too much to be allowed to escape. You can either cooperate and join me, or I can question your corpse to get the answers I seek.”

Simon knew that was no hollow threat, but he ignored it for the moment. He would keep the man talking and look for a way out. The colors of your soul are wrong, Simon declared. You are too cruel for me to serve. 

“And yet you serve me now,” the Grandmaster laughed. “You’ve done so for some time. How is it you can use magic and see the auras of others, though? That’s what I really want to know. I’d read that was impossible.” 

You can only see the world as it is when you stop trying to change it, Simon countered, quoting the Oracle, but cutting off that thought before he accidentally used her name. 

“That’s a strange attitude for someone who’s been reading their way through my library,” the other man mused. “I should have you flayed for that. I’ve worked for lifetimes to build this collection, and you just pilfered it for months.”

Almost a year, Simon corrected, hoping that if he made the man mad, he would end this faster. Even the ones you couldn’t read. 

“Couldn’t read, huh?” the man chuckled. “Clearly, you don’t know the word of understanding, or its proper use. One simply needs a mirror to… Well, you’ve stolen enough of my secrets; you don’t need to know that too. Die in ignorance, or give me a reason to keep you alive so that you might assist me in my great work.”

I thought the Unspoken was your great work, Simon lied.

"This?" he asked, gesturing around widely enough that he almost fell victim to his own trap before he caught himself. "They are a means to an end. Without a castle and an army, one cannot win a war, and I will win this one. Now, will you help me in life, or in death?"

I’d rather die, Simon shot back, which was true. He should have played for time and tried to learn more, but his annoyance with the man was growing, and that made it very difficult for him to hold back his true feelings.

Being killed would grant him an easy enough escape. The reality knot would yank his soul away before this monster could raise him from the dead to speak, and he’d start a new run. That’s not what happened, though.

“Well, if you resist even my crown, then I suppose I’ll have to ask your soul directly,” he said before casting the spell Simon expected after he’d already bled out. The Grandmaster wasn’t waiting, though. “Dnarth Eszloum Oonbetit Karesh Jazaballa!”

Simon struggled to understand what the words meant in the moment the man pronounced every syllable of his spell. It was meant to command his soul and understand it, but Simon didn’t know the last word.

The mere idea that such a thing was possible felt like a violation, but fortunately, the magic never landed. Simon hadn’t yet worked out a tattoo or a brand that would kill him when his soul was touched, but the amulet he’d made was the next best thing. The bronze got hot enough to sear the skin of his chest for a moment, and then it exploded.

It was supposed to work by forcing the explosion through his chest and killing him instantly, but somewhere along the way, it must have gotten flipped around, because instead of killing him immediately, it drove the amulet hard against his chest, spraying out a wave of fire at his tormentor, the desk, and the wall behind it. The Grandmaster screamed in surprise, and for a moment, the room was filled with fire as the word of greater flame detonated. Technically, it was only half a word. The metal failed before reaching its full potential, but it was enough to do serious damage.

Almost as good, he thought as he crumpled, hoping that the Grandmaster heard that line at least. They were both dead now, but he’d had the last laugh.

Unfortunately, the explosion wasn’t enough to kill Simon, but it did shatter the mirror, erasing it from his vision. He would have been able to move if he had the strength. Instead, he coughed up blood and gasped as the pain of half a dozen broken ribs assaulted him. 

I should have used a bigger word of power, Simon thought, through the pain, as he noted his captor was still crying out in surprise as much as agony. Simon couldn’t understand the actual words through the ringing in his ears, but he hoped the Grandmaster wasn’t long for this world either. 

That pain kept him awake, but only for a few more moments. Half a dozen breathless gasps later, darkness was taking him, and the last thing he saw was the burned face of the man looming over him. Then he was gone. 

He expected to wake up in the bed in his cabin, of course, but instead he opened his eyes to find himself in the charred study seconds or perhaps minutes later. He didn’t know how long this had taken, but the lingering pain told him that he had a healing spell to thank for it, and he found the idea that this man had healed him revolting. 

The Grandmaster, for his part, looked fine. His clothing was still burned and ruined, but the flesh beneath it was pink and pristine once more. “A clever surprise,” the man growled, “But not enough to—”

Bleary or not, Simon didn’t hesitate. As the man loomed over him, gloating, Simon shoved his wooden hand in the mouth of his opponent, and said, “This is actually the second time I’ve killed you,” as he activated the wand of ruin, cooking his brain with a bolt of lightning.

Even as the old man’s body twitched and spasmed, he followed it up a moment later with fire, making the man’s head splatter in all directions. His headless corpse stayed upright a few more seconds before falling down on top of Simon.

Only then did he allow himself to relax. He lay there, body still on top of him, and chest heaving as he wondered what in the hell he was going to do next. One thing was for sure, though, he decided as he studied his blasted wooden arm. His time with the Unspoken was likely at an end.

“I should have spent more time with Varten,” he sighed as he pushed the corpse off of him, finally realizing what his future self had meant. He’d thought he’d have more time, but he’d been wrong. He had all the time in the world, but it was never enough.

Ch. 426 - A Gathering Storm

For the rest of the day, Simon stayed in that hidden study with the corpse. That wasn’t because he was still injured, though he was. The Grandmaster’s healing spell had healed him enough to live, but all of his ribs ached, and he had a terrible bruise on his sternum to remind him of his near-death experience.

Nor it was because he wanted one last look at the Grandmaster’s books, which was secondary. He just couldn’t go out looking like this. His clothes were covered in gore, and his false hand was a scorched and ruined stump. The protective talismans hidden inside that stump were probably still fine, but the wands were ruined.  

He ignored that, though, and spent some time picking out a few he planned to take with him, and either read in this life, or hide away for a future life. But what he needed was a plan. Escaping from the Broken Tower wouldn’t be so hard, but what was he going to do after? Just stash a few books wrapped in oilcloth in the hollow of a tree, then hang himself and come back for them another day?

“At least then I’d have two arms,” he answered softly with a faint smile. He did miss having two working hands, but that wasn’t enough for him to pull the plug reflexively. There was always more to do, and ending any run too early still felt like a waste to him. 

Because of that instinct, his first impulse had been to use magic to change his own body to match the appearance of the man and take his place. That would have meant giving up his own sight, but it probably still would have been worth it. There were layers and layers to this onion. Still, one thing prevented that: his aura. 

He could change his face and his body. He could even change his height, but Simon would have to darken his aura significantly to pass for the man he’d just killed, and he had no plans to summon a dozen demons, murder a few children, or whatever it would take to do that. That meant his brothers would see right through him in an instant. Most might not see as well as he, but they would see well enough to notice that difference, and then any suspicions that might be generated by the false notes in his act would inevitably be amplified. He’d be discovered, and what would happen then would be ugly.

“Well, this was nice while it lasted,” Simon sighed as he looked around the dark room, deciding all the different ways the dominoes could fall. 

He could burn the contents of this room, eliminating all evidence about who the Grandmaster had really been, and leave the man’s unearned good name intact. That would preserve the Whitecloaks, but did he want to preserve them?

Not in their current state, he’d come to that conclusion several times in the last few hours, but it was only when he started to paint a diabolic circle, or at least a convincing replica of one on the dusty floor in the dead man’s blood, that he made the decision final.

It wouldn’t do anything, but it would be close enough to convince whoever found this place in the coming days that the man had been bad news. That should be enough to shake them to their foundations, which would either force the Unspoken to dissolve or at least change. 

There was danger in that course of action. Change was always dangerous. He knew that, but it was the only way he’d be able to help the whisperers, he decided. That was when he finally decided what he would do. He’d linger long enough to help them escape in the chaos so that they could live lives measured in decades instead of years.

His mind flashed to Casandra in the depths somewhere. He doubted he could free her, but he was equally sure that if he freed everyone else, she wouldn’t mind being left behind. 

For nearly the entire time Simon had known of the Unspoken, this detail had grated on him the most. These women were forced into service. The Whitecloaks thought it was for the greater good, but it was based entirely on a terrible misconception that had only bothered him more as time went on. They were chosen because they had bright auras and were seen as possible witches in the making. 

As the Unspoken saw it, enlisting them in the cause was justice of a sort, but that was only because their belief was wrong. A powerful, glowing soul didn’t give you the ability to use magic. Anyone, or perhaps nearly anyone, could do that if they were willing to pay the price.

There wasn’t a way he could explain that to his peers, of course. They believed that a powerful, bright soul could become a very dark one. It was the magnitude as much as the color that concerned them. So, they burned through the lives of dozens of women a year just so that they could suppress magic that might or might not be used.

It was not something he could overlook any longer. So, in the coming days, he would take steps to shake the foundations of the order, and then one day, perhaps he’d come back to take the reins and steer them in a better direction. 

When night fell, he made his way up with the satchel of books in the dark, and when he reached his room, he changed and then burned his ruined, bloodstained clothing. Then he set about dismounting his articulated hand and replacing the original fixed version, and varnishing over the worst of the damage before going to bed. 

It wouldn’t hide his involvement completely. Simon had bruises and burn marks he could not explain, but he doubted he’d be the center of attention any time soon. People had nearly stopped looking at him once he’d lost his arm, and he didn’t expect that to change now. 

Indeed, the following day, he was proven right on that. No one so much as asked him about the damage his wooden hand had sustained. They mostly averted their gaze as they always did. No one made mention of the missing Grand Master, though, which was more surprising.

Simon expected rumors to spread fairly quickly, but he took advantage of the lull to investigate the dorms where the Whisperers and their aged counterparts, the Sisters of Silence, were cloistered away from the larger compound. There was a single guard at the gate to that complex, which also contained the infirmary he’d spent so much time in recently.

No one thought it was strange that he visited the place; he’d lived there for weeks when he lingered on death’s door. Now it was natural camouflage, and he didn’t even need to tell the guard his prepared lie about lingering pain in his missing arm. 

He did tell that to the Sisters of Silence, but only at first. After that, when he was alone with a wizened old healer that he trusted, he changed his story. “I’ve been given a revelation,” he told her. “Of an unspoiled fruit, that looked perfect and beautiful despite a rotten core.”

She didn’t seem to care as much as he’d hoped. She seemed to believe he was talking about himself metaphorically, and was happy to cite scripture of what she thought that meant as she prescribed herbs for his phantom complaint. However, that was not her reaction when he returned the evening that the rumors about the Grandmaster began to spread a few days later.

That news should have arrived like a thunderclap, but instead it spread through the Broken Tower like a gathering storm. Simon could literally watch the news pass from person to person, as the dark secret sent swirls of doubt and suspicion through even the brightest of auras. Still, it was one thing for the Masters and the senior knights to know, and quite another for the rank and file to find out. 

For two days, a few more people seemed to learn the truth with every passing hour, and then, one night, someone must have spoken the truth in front of the wrong person, because by morning, everyone knew. Few would outright say it, of course. They spoke of tragedy and murder, but Simon could see the ripples of disgust so clearly that the words they didn’t say were all but shouted. Warlock. Dark Magic. Demons. 

The second time he visited the sisters’ cloister, his audience was more receptive. It had also multiplied. This time, he told them more of his ‘visions.’ Had their sight not been stolen, they might have seen right through him, but as it was, all they could do was look to him for certainty. 

Simon spoke of a tribulation. “The fruit is rotten,” he told them, “its seeds may yet blossom into a new tree so long as they can escape the choking shade of the old order.”

It sounded profound, but then, he meant for it to. They didn’t need details, and really, he didn’t understand them all himself. The less he explained, the better.

“We should not take root anywhere,” some of the Whisperers added. “We should use this opportunity to escape!”

The older women were long since resigned to their fate, but the younger ones still sought freedom, and that warmed his heart. Their elders tried to determine what the gods wanted from them, but those who were still burning their lives away with every mission wanted freedom more than purpose. 

“You’re both right,” Simon assured them. “You should be free, but you should also find a way to light the darkness of this world without burning away your own lives in the process.”

After that, as the witchhunt for what had befallen the order of the Unspoken brewed around them, he promised them a way out. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done.

Though outside the walls, the main stables were not particularly close to where the women he wanted to save were located. That was unfortunate because that would be their only chance. If he could get a few wagons ready to go and then disperse the rest of the horses before anyone thought to give chase, then that would give them enough of a head start. 

At least I hope it does, he told himself. The odds weren’t good. Saving one man or woman wasn’t hard, but trying to free fifty that might not even all want to escape?

As the search mounted, Simon was even questioned on more than one occasion. “Where were you on the night he died?” That was the question on everyone’s lips, and Simon had a perfectly boring answer. He pointed with his stump to the psalter he was currently illuminating.

He had no alibi or witness, but he made it look for all the world like he presented no threat to anyone. When one of the knights interrogating him asked about a fresh wound, he explained, “My infection has come back, and the sisters have been bleeding me to reduce my fevers.”

Those stories worked for now, but Simon knew they wouldn’t work forever. Even now, they were bringing suspects into the depths for Casandra to question. As the sense of urgency became more palpable, he worked on his plan, and more importantly, on a wand of force and a couple of minor talismans. He was going to need a way to cut through wooden walls and iron chains, and that would be the best way to make that happen. 

Throughout that process, he kept in contact with the women of the cloister, letting them know that their moment would come. Once that was done, all he had to do was wait for the right moment. 

Ch. 427 - Jailbreak

Eight days after Simon had killed the Grandmaster, and four days after the news became public knowledge, he made his move. The first thing he did was to bring the quartermaster a forged note from his master requesting supplies for an urgent mission related to the current unpleasantness, and the second was a similar missive given to the stable master.

He couldn’t very easily requisition every horse on the premises without ringing all the alarm bells, but a few wagons and horses were a common enough request, and no one was inclined to look too closely into a request that involved the death of the Grandmaster. It was all anyone talked about, but only in guarded and veiled ways. 

“We’ll find out who inflicted this treachery upon us,” and “We’ll have our revenge soon, brother,” were phrases that Simon heard more with each passing day. He even mouthed them himself when required, but few were willing to say the other facts that were known. That the man seemed to be summoning a demon, or that he was found in a library full of forbidden books. They were too much for any man who’d spent a lifetime fighting evil. 

Simon understood that. If he’d known from the beginning that the entire organization was equal parts killing competitor mages and stealing their secrets, he might have handled the whole thing a bit differently.

I could have left a few traps in the book I explored during my tour in the black library and given the bastard a nice surprise, he thought wistfully. He wasn’t typically fond of the idea of sending anyone to hell, but for Lord Langdon, he’d make an exception.

Simon worked as fast as he could, carving wood by night using candles, but still, the events threatened to overtake him. It was strange. He also wrote a short letter to Varten, but eventually burned it rather than tuck it away in the boy’s footlocker. It would bring too much trouble down on Varten’s head if he left him a missive. 

That decision was reinforced by the growing paranoia of the order. For an hour or two, everything would seem normal, then at lunch, dour-faced knights would come for one or two people, and they’d just vanish. They didn’t leave the Broken Tower, of course, but it would be days before anyone saw them again, and they’d often look shaken. 

Once, they scooped up someone sitting right next to Simon, and he felt certain his turn was coming up. It wasn’t his death, or even torture, that concerned him. His soul was safe with these tormentors; it was his fear that he wouldn’t get to save those who needed saving that motivated him. 

Still, when no more preparations could be made, he spent a morning scattering around his firestarters. These were simple wooden disks based upon the warmers he’d once made to keep himself alive through the Charian winter. They did nothing until it got cold enough, and then they drew that cold out of the air and started to smolder. They weren’t a weapon; they were a distraction. 

He hid them under casks and in piles of hay, but always outside, and in places where they were liable to spread. They’d do nothing indoors where the fireplaces kept the buildings warm. Sometime shortly after dinner, but well before midnight, they would start to ignite as night’s chill rose. There was no way to time them exactly, though.

Well, there is, he corrected himself mentally. He’d worked out a timing circuit with words of minor minor Weylara, the 'on condition of' meta word he’d learned from the Murani, but it was a complex design, and would take a month’s worth of carving. Such sophistication would be fine if he had the time to sandcast something important. His simpler system, despite its drawbacks, would have to do for now. 

When that was done, he journeyed to the sisters and told them he’d received another revelation. “The rot has spread too deeply,” he declared in a room full of nervous women. “Now, only judgment can follow. Fortunately, the gods will allow the righteous to escape before it is too late.”

He received many questions about that, but they were not words of disbelief. The women were fearful and believed him more than they should have, really. They just wanted to know how and why. Those answers Simon couldn’t give, so he leaned on the Gods again, insisting, “It is part of their grand design. They told me the fruit was rotten and that the seeds must survive. Now they are telling me that there is a way out, and a distraction while we pursue it, and I will handle that, too.”

He didn’t tell the sisters that the distraction would take the form of fire. That would have worried them. All he said was that he was promised a divine intervention. 

Before those fires started, though, Simon was hard at work. He told the sisters that he’d located an old secret door through the wall, and he didn’t want to be disturbed while he looked for it, but the truth was simpler: they were going to have to cut their way out.

The wand he’d crafted for the task might not be enough. He knew that, but he was prepared to use real words of power for the first time in decades and blind himself if it came to that. He could spend years recovering, and maybe even pay another visit to the Oracle. 

I could see Zoa again, he thought wistfully.

There was more nostalgia than emotion in that thought, and he briefly did the math and realized he probably hadn’t been gone too long from her perspective. He could probably figure out the exact day he left, and arrange to return there, some life but he dismissed that thought just as quickly as it appeared. It hadn’t been a good idea for Elthena, and it wouldn’t be a good idea with his toga clad lover, either. 

Right now, he needed to focus. His plan was now on a timeline, and when it got cold enough outside, the fires would ignite, and he would have to be ready to make his move. 

Simon used the wand on the wall, cutting a thin arch with care, ensuring he used the largest stone to hold the load above. That was the easy part. The hard part was pushing and pulling the blocks out of the hole that he carved. Each weighed tons, and he was forced to cut them into many smaller pieces to move them at all. Even with force magic, it was difficult.

While the cutting was done in minutes, the moving took hours. It was a good answer to how the Murani built their pyramids, though, even if he still didn't entirely understand why. It was easy to build megalthic structures if you had a little magic up your sleeve.

It would require a lot of lives, though, he reflected. Even though he was using a regular word, and not a major word, he could feel his life force draining out of him, a few minutes at a time. By the time he was done, he was sure he had some gray in his hair. While he didn’t care about that too much, it did give him the perfect chance to study his degrading sight as he went. 

The effect was most noticeable at the beginning. There was an immediate degradation in his ability to perceive his own aura. After that, though, it slowed down quite quickly. A few minutes of magic wasn’t much worse than a few seconds, as it turned out. Still, at the end of his massive project, he could only perceive a faint bright glow rather than the rich and complicated aura he’d had at the start; it wasn't his aura that had changed, though, only the eyes with which he saw it.

“That will probably take months to fix,” he noted, though for the moment it didn’t really matter. Still, it was interesting.

Speaking a word of power blinded him instantly, using an active magical item that was fueled by his life force affected him quickly, and using one that was powered by something else, or a circle, didn’t seem to affect him at all. He’d documented all of that to some degree, but these indirect measurements would help him to refine his theory further. 

Partway through his excavation, he reached the same tunnel system he’d used previously. That helped immensely, both because it cut down on his work and because it let him choose an exit right behind the stables. So, he was all the way through and clearing a path before the first distant sounds of alarm rang out.

From outside the walls, he couldn’t see or smell the fire yet. Still, he ran through the outbuildings, gathering everyone he could find and sending them in to help. No one questioned why he was there, or how he’d appeared so suddenly. Instead, they moved toward the main gate.

They knew better than to question a knight. While Simon usually found that to be annoying, in this case, it was convenient. He marshaled every servant he could find, from the head quartermaster who was mid-meal to the youngest stableboy. 

Then, when that was done, he produced his slender wand and used it to cut the chain on the portcullis, sending it crashing down and locking the Unspoken inside. A few small fires wouldn’t be enough to kill or probably even hurt anyone, but they'd provide all the chaos he needed for the Whisperers to escape. If they could get free and take every spare horse with them, then they might have a chance.

Rather than worry about the preparations, he ran back the way that he’d come from and told the Whisperers and the Silent Sisters that the way was clear. While they flooded the path he’d opened, he gathered up his satchel of books, and then, with one last burst of magic, he collapsed the inner entrance.

The Broken Tower had two small side entrances. The Unspoken could still escape and thwart his plan, but this bought a few more minutes, and he would need all the time he could find with a flock of helpless women to herd. Individually, they were smart and capable, but together, every little detail seemed to hang them up. 

Who was supposed to be in each wagon? Was it right to steal Sir so-and-so’s horse? For the next ten minutes, Simon became almost dictatorial. If anyone asked a question, he answered it with the first command that came to mind. The women under his care might want to believe that they were shielded by their God, but he knew better. Their shield was as thin as his deception, and any minute someone would figure out what was happening. 

When the horn of alarm blasted three times to indicate trouble beyond the wall, he knew that their time was all used up. It had been blowing single blasts for nearly half an hour because of the fires, but eventually, when those were under control, a watchman must have spotted the snaking column of wagons and riders leaving south across the plains. Even a thin crescent moon couldn’t hide that.

That was okay. By that point, almost everyone was already on the road and would soon be out of arrow range. Simon was only lingering to tether as many horses as possible to his own with rope. His plan was not only to deny their Unspoken pursuers mounts; he also wanted to obliterate the wagon tracks and eventually lead them astray. It was a tactic they’d sometimes used in the centaur wars to hide the tracks of human refugees, and he’d make good use of it here, because these women were now refugees in every sense of the word.