Stalking Darkness

again before too many people are stirring. What do you say, Alec. Fancy a walk before breakfast?”
    They kept a sharp eye out for sentries as they made their way down to the north side of the cove.
    “So that’s what those holes were for,” Seregil muttered, looking across to the temple site through the underbrush.
    Sturdy wooden posts had been set upright in the mysterious holes surrounding the dry basin at the head of the ledges. A few men were still at work clearing debris from the area.
    “There are plenty of good vantage points up on those rocks, but I bet they’ll have men up there,” Alec whispered.
    “We’ll manage something. Beshar will most likely be up there, behind those posts. Look for a place that will give you the best shot at her.”
    “Don’t worry, I’ll hit the bitch.”
    Seregil glanced at Alec in surprise and saw a hardness in his expression that had never been there before.
    Soon more men began to wander up from the camp. Hurrying back to the pine, they found Micum there ahead of them. He held a finger to his lips as they entered, then pointed to Nysander kneeling in the center of a dancing circle of white sparks. Inside the circle he’d scraped back the pine needles and scratched a complex pattern of symbols into the packed earth beneath.
    Eyes half-lidded, Nysander was calmly weaving shining figures in the air. He had stripped to his breeches and covered his arms, chest, and face with designs drawn in blue ink. A horizontal band of black paint across his eyes gave him an uncharacteristically barbaric appearance. In front of him, Alec’s bow and quiver lay amid a clutter of bowls, wands, and parchments.
    Alec and Seregil hesitated at the edge of the light circle, but Nysander motioned for them all to enter. Once inside, they smelled the scent of magic mingling with the aroma of the pine like the faint, rich odor left behind in a cupboard where spices had once been stored.
    “The eclipse will begin soon,” said Nysander, taking up a brushand a bowl of black paint. “This band across your eyes will ward off the blinding effects of it, even at the full. Unless the Plenimarans take similar precautions, it may work to our advantage.”
    Nysander painted a heavy band across each of their faces, then set the bowl aside. “Now, if you would hand me your weapons.”
    Using several colors of pigment, Nysander painted a few small sigils on each blade. He took the longest over Seregil’s sword, covering it from hilt to tip with a line of tiny figures that flickered and disappeared as soon as they were completed.
    “What’s all this?” Micum asked.
    “Just some necessary magicking. The dyrmagnos is not the only one with protective magic. Kneel with me here, close together, and hold out your hands.”
    Gathering them in a small circle, Nysander painted their palms with concentric circles of black, red, brown, and blue, then instructed them to press their raised palms to those of the person on either side of them. Seregil was on the wizard’s right, Alec to his left, with Micum closing the chain.
    The moment the circle of hands was complete they were enveloped in a sudden sensation of tingling warmth that raised the hairs on their arms and made their eyes water. A collective shudder ran through them as the feeling swelled and faded away.
    Nysander was the first to lower his hands. “It is done.”
    The paint was gone. In its place each of them bore a complex pattern of red and gold on each palm.
    “The great sigla of Aura,” Seregil murmured, touching his left palm.
    “What is it, some kind of protection?” asked Alec.
    “It will not keep you from being wounded. It is to protect your soul,” Nysander explained. “If any of us are killed today, the Eater of Death will not have us. The design will fade from sight in time, but the protection is permanent.”
    Seregil regarded his hands with a humorless, lopsided grin. “Well, that’s one less thing for us to worry about.”
    At that moment, less than two miles to the north, Beka Cavish shivered suddenly when a sharp tingle passed through her as she tethered her horse with the others.
    “You all right, Lieutenant?” asked Rhylin, who’d been out scouting the Plenimaran camp with her.
    “Guess a snake must’ve crawled across my shadow.” The strange sensation passed as quickly as it had come, except for a slight tingling in her gloved hands. Flexing them, she walked over to where Braknil and the others sat waiting in the