The noon sun, thick and as sickening as the stench of something lately dead and rotting, rebounded in golden darts of light from Chert’s blood-hued helm and mail, and stained the rocky hills with light. The southern road to Long Ridge was only a thin, brown ribbon seen from these low fells; the dark forest a smoky border, its shadows reaching out to pool around the high fall of rock and debris that looked like a giant’s cairn. The smaller one, the real cairn, could not be seen from this distance. Behind, them to the east, the broad blue heights of the Kharolis Mountains reached for the sky. Beneath those mountains lay the Deep Warrens and home.
Brek spat and wondered if he would be dead of the light or the Herald’s dagger before he ever saw the warrens again. He looked sidelong at Agus the clan-reft. He’d been reading his death warrant, glittering in the deeps of the Gray Herald’s one eye, since Hornfel’s pet mage had vanished yesterday.
“How do you know the mage is dead?”
“There’s a newly built cairn in the woods,” Chert offered. There won’t even be that for me, Brek thought. My bones will rot and crumble in the sun if I don’t recover that sword!
He glanced at the Herald again. Realgar did not tolerate incompetence and it would not matter at all to him that Brek had given good and faithful service for the twenty years past.
“I don’t care about cairns,” he snapped.
“Aye, but someone must have built it. Who would take the time but a friend? I saw the signs of three, maybe four people.” Chert grinned and scratched his tangled beard with a battle scarred hand. ‘Warrior’s silver,’ the Theiwar named the scars earned in battle. Chert was wealthy in it.
“One was clearly a dwarf.”
Wulfen, standing apart from his companions, laughed low in his throat. The sound reminded Brek of vulpine snarling.
“Aye, who but a friend? Hammerfell’s apprentice. Could you tell where they were heading?”
“East into the foothills.”
East into the foothills … Hammerfell’s apprentice, tracking home to Thorbardin, was afoot and without the mage’s spells to protect him. Brek relaxed and smiled.
Chert’s hand slipped to the crossbow slung across his shoulder. “Do we follow?”
“No,” Brek said. “We cut him off. Wulfen! Let’s go.”
Not right in his head, Brek thought again as the slim dwarf loped up the hill. Eyes like iced-over mud, Wulfen raised his head and laughed, an eerie howling. He scented prey.
As though Wulfen’s howl were a signal, Mica crested the hill. Brek hailed him and motioned for him to fall in with his fellows. The Herald, one-eyed Agus, said nothing as he followed the three north across the hills.
Tyorl welcomed their return to the forest. Out on the hill, even in its lee, he’d felt exposed and vulnerable. He breathed easier in the shade and shelter of the woods. The berms they had seen the day before, softened by a thin covering of earth and fallen leaves, were now naked gray stone outcroppings, thrusting up from the ground and often half the height of the tall pines. The trail was only an uneven winding path through stone and thick, gnarled tree roots.
The forest, though it looked like part of Qualinesti’s border, was in fact the beginning of what Finn termed his ‘run.’ The rangerlord, and his company of thirty elves and humans, hunted the narrow strip of land between Qualinesti and the Kharolis Mountains. Their best prey were draconian patrols.
Finn’s Nightmare Company had been restless, deadly predators since the first draconians had fouled the forests with their presence.
‘Border-keepers’ some in the remote villages and towns called them. The people gave the rangers aid when they could. Sometimes it was only a loaf of bread and a drink at the well. Sometimes aid came in the form of information or, more precious, silence when a squad of draconians passed through in search of those that had savaged a hapless patrol of Verminaard’s soldiers.
Much as he did in Elvenwood, Tyorl felt at home in these stony woods. In a day or two, if not before, he would find Finn.
Or, he thought, Finn will find me.
Tyorl walked ahead, an arrow nocked and ready on his bowstring. He looked over his shoulder, caught the wink of sunlight on the dwarf’s silver earring, and saw that Stanach had dropped back to last position. Though Stanach’s old sword still rested in his back scabbard, Tyorl knew that it was within easy reach. He’d made no comment at all about Tyorl’s plans to seek the rangers, but Tyorl supposed the fact that Stanach was still with them was acceptance enough. Stanach would go where Stormblade went, and, though she had castigated him for what she called a cruel remark, Kelida had to agree that Tyorl’s idea was a good one.
Tyorl scowled. Piper’s flute hung by a thong from Stanach’s belt. Though Tyorl had tried to convince him to entomb the instrument with the mage, Stanach would have none of it.
“I’ve buried him,” Stanach had said stubbornly, “I’ll not bury his music. Piper was Hornfel’s man. The flute I’ll give to him.”
As far as any of them knew, Lavim’s piping had done no mischief. But the potential for mischief, for danger, was real. According to Stanach, the mage had not only invested the flute with several spells, the instrument possessed a magic of its own.
“Piper used to say that it has its own mind,” Stanach had said.
“Sometimes, it chose its own song, and then it wouldn’t matter at all what Piper wanted to play. Or so he liked to say.”
The dwarf had said nothing more, only slipped the thong through his belt and run the palm of his hand along the polished wood. Tyorl looked at the kender, jogging along beside Kelida, spinning some disconnected tale of improbabilities. As often as Lavim looked up at Kelida, that often did his attention wander back to Stanach and the cherry wood flute. Tyorl would have been as happy to lose the kender as the flute. He knew, watching Kelida’s smile, that she would have none of that. He did not stop then to wonder why it mattered to him what Kelida wanted.
Shadows lengthened and the sun’s light was losing its warmth when Tyorl waved Stanach forward. Kelida, her expression telling clearly of aching muscles, sank to a seat on a lichen-painted boulder and only offered a thin smile when Stanach, passing her, dropped a hand onto her shoulder in a gesture of encouragement.
Lavim, uninvited and not caring in the least that he was, followed Stanach. “Why’re we stopping, Tyorl?”
Tyorl ran his thumb along his bowstring. “We’re stopping to hunt, Lavim. You’re stopping to make camp.”
“But I don’t—”
“No arguments, Lavim. There’s a hollow beyond those rocks.” Tyorl gestured with his bow toward a cobble of trees and stone rising to their left. “You’ll find a beck for water and likely the wood you’ll need to make a fire.” He tossed his water flask to the kender and motioned for Stanach to do the same. “Fill the flasks, then get kindling and fuel.”
Lavim scowled, his face a mass of wrinkles and puzzlement. “You know, all I’ve been doing lately is making camp! How come Stanach gets to go hunting and I have to skin catches and drag around wood and kindling?” He slipped his hoopak from his back and looked from one to the other. Kender-quick, his expression changed to a guileful smile of assurance. “I’m an awfully good hunter.”
“No one’s doubting that, kenderkin.” Tyorl drawled. “What I’m doubting is whether we can trust you to come back with dinner when some bird or bush or cloud catches your eyes.”
Lavim bristled, about to argue, when Stanach held up a hand.
“He didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Lavim. He meant—” Stanach faltered. Tyorl had said exactly what he’d meant. He tried another approach. “Well, someone has to stay here with Kelida.”
“Yes, but—”
“That someone is you. You wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, would you?”
“No, but I don’t see how me not staying would—”
Tyorl moved restlessly, impatiently, but Stanach waved him to silence.