Magisterium by Jeff Hirsch Page A

company of men dressed in leather overlaid with steel armor that was dented and streaked with dark scorches. They were all broad-shouldered, with faces that were a mix of crooked noses, scars, and thick beards. Some carried swords or spears while others toted longbows and had quivers full of arrows strapped to their backs. They moved farther into the courtyard, directed by a thing that stood at the center of the main path leading from the village gate.
    He was, if anything, larger than Aamon. A towering creature, but more dog than cat, with a short brindle coat and pointed ears. His face was black and brown and heavily scarred. A sword hung from a scabbard around his waist. His eyes were small and shrewd, cast in a sulfurous yellow.
    The men were moving closer to the house. If Glenn and Kevin didn’t find somewhere to hide, they’d be spotted in seconds. She grabbed Kevin’s arm and fled backward.
    “Who was that?” Kevin whispered as they stumbled into a tight gap between the house and the one behind it.
    “Garen Tom, I’m guessing,” Glenn said, pulling him down into the dirt and scraps of shadows. “I think he’s in charge here. He has some kind of history with Aamon.”
    “Best friends?”
    Glenn glared at him. How is it possible that even in times like these …?
    Booted footsteps approached from the street. They were trapped.
    Glenn turned, hunting for an escape. Just then a door opened into the alley and Aamon’s clawed hand reached out to them. As one of the soldiers was about to pass across the gap between the two houses, Glenn and Kevin ducked inside. Aamon slipped the door shut and stood at it, listening. Glenn held her breath. It was dark in the house, every shade drawn.
    Aamon paused to let the soldier pass, then hurried toward the front room.
    “Why don’t they just break in?” Glenn asked.
    “They’re not here for us.”
    “What?”
    “Even if Calloway sent word last night, there’s no way he could have gotten back so soon.”
    Glenn followed Aamon to the front room, with Kevin behind her.
    “Then why are they —”
    A bell started to ring above the town, loud and urgent. Aamon motioned for them to get down. Seconds later, shadow after shadow began passing in front of the curtained windows. Glenn peeked out and saw the villagers gathering in the courtyard.
    “What are they doing?”
    Aamon dropped to his knees in the corner and started stuffing supplies into a large leather pack. “We’ll have to leave the horses.
    There’s a tunnel exit in back. You can count on Garen to always leave a good escape route. We’ll be gone before he knows we were ever here.”
    The sounds of the crowd and the tolling bell grew louder. Glenn and Kevin moved to the nearest window just in time to see a soldier on a horse come tearing through the main gate behind Garen Tom, trailing a cloud of dust. When the dust cleared, Glenn saw that he was dragging another man behind him. The prisoner was facedown in the dirt, his hands bound and connected by a long leather line to the soldier’s saddle.
    The soldier leapt off the horse and forced him to stand.
    The prisoner was a boy, black haired and narrow shouldered, not much older than Glenn and Kevin. His shirt was in tatters and stained deeply with blood. His face was covered in red and black bruises and his eyes were nearly swollen shut. The soldier pushed him across the courtyard and in front of Garen Tom, where he collapsed in a heap.
    Garen looked across the boy at the villagers who had gathered around. The soldiers had formed a perimeter behind the crowd, their spears and swords out, penning them in.
    “Aamon?” Glenn said. “Look.”
    Aamon dropped the pack and knelt by Glenn. The boy on the
    ground cringed away when Garen leaned over him, but all it got him was a kick in the back from a nearby soldier. Garen thrust out one clawed hand and tore away what remained of the boy’s shirt, revealing something underneath attached to a chain around his neck.