When she knows that he’s dead, his mind’s voice whispered. She’ll know it when she finally knows that he’s dead.
Stanach looked at the Kingsword in his hands. He would happily have taken the sword that first night in Qualinesti. He would gladly have left her, Tyorl, and Lavim behind in the forest and made his own way to Thorbardin. Because he couldn’t do that, he did the next best thing: he’d given Kelida a reason to carry Stormblade to Thorbardin. He’d given her a dead man to love.
I’m sorry, she’d said as he sat mourning for Piper. She’d stayed with him for a long time, her hand on his, warm and silently telling him that, for this moment at least, he was not alone. The comfort she offered had been as simple as a kinswoman’s, a sister’s silent understanding. Knowing that he ought to leave now, make off into the forest with the Kingsword and hope that he could buy time by leaving these three to the Theiwar, Stanach knelt and slipped Stormblade into the scabbard again.
Aye, Stanach thought, you understand, don’t you? You’ve lost kin and friends. You understand, lyt chwaer, little sister.
He tied the peace strings, two leather thongs on each side of the sheath, and silently rose to wake Tyorl.
15
Finn watched dawnlight glint on his dagger as he cut the draconian’s throat. He jerked his hand back quickly, pulling the blade free of the creature’s scaly flesh before the steel could be caught in the corpse’s transformation from flesh to stone. His stomach pulled tight with disgust, as it always did. He hated these misbegotten beasts living; he loathed them dead. Their kind killed his wife and murdered his son. He couldn’t kill enough of them.
The stenches of battle, blood, and fire filled the small clearing. Rising high on the cold morning breeze, the smoke from burned supply wagons swirled around the tops of the tall pines and slid down toward the nearby river. It caught the currents of air over the water and drifted back to the glade where the draconian patrol and the supply train of three wagons had been caught just before dawn by Finn and his rangers.
Before dawn, Finn thought, and just in time to fill their sleep with the last nightmares they would have.
Thirty strong, the ranger company had not lost a man, though a few were injured. Finn smiled cold satisfaction and looked around for Lehr. Dark shaggy hair lifting lazily in the small breeze, Lehr sighted the rangerlord and trotted across the clearing, jogging around the charred wagons bristling with arrows, and leaping nimbly over bodies turning to stone and dust.
“Any sign of more?”
Lehr shook his head. “Only these, Lord. I’ve been up on the ridge. You can see for miles up there. Nothing moving but the crows, and they’re only wondering when we’ll be gone so they can have breakfast.” Lehr’s eyes lighted with dark humor. “Poor birds. Nothing to pick here but what’s left of the draconians’ dinner last night. Unless they want stone and dust.”
Finn grunted. “Make camp by the river, Lehr. When your brother is finished with his work, both of you join me here.”
“Aye, Lord?” It was an invitation to explain further. When Finn did not accept it, Lehr shrugged and went to find his brother. Finn did not often explain his motives. Lehr didn’t often expect that he would, though he didn’t mind trying for an explanation now and then.
He found Kembal already tending the worst of the wounded and gave him Finn’s word. “Something’s up, Kem. What do you think?”
Kembal, healer and ranger both, looked up at his brother mildly. “Don’t know, but I’ll bet it has something to do with the signs you picked up yesterday.” Kembal eased the arrow from a man’s leg with gentle hands. The man flinched. His face paled, then settled into grim lines of resignation as the blood began to pour from his wound. He knew, as well as Kembal did, that draconian arrows were often poisoned. The blood flow now would be a cleansing, and, though he didn’t like to see it, he accepted it. Kem worked swiftly to clean the wound and didn’t watch as his brother left.
Both knew that Finn had not appreciated the surprise of stumbling upon a draconian patrol and supply train. He knew, too, that though the rangerlord had sent Tyorl and Hauk to Long Ridge to discover just such news of Verminaard’s movements in the foothills, the two had not returned from the town.
It was Lehr’s thinking that the signs he’d seen earlier were Tyorl’s. Kembal expected that Finn agreed. He wrapped the wound and rose to move on to the next man awaiting his attention. He supposed that Finn was going to take this time to let his men breathe, and to track back along the trail and satisfy himself that the tracks Lehr had seen were or were not Tyorl’s.
But what would the elf be doing with such an oddly assorted party as the signs had indicated? A dwarf, a kender, and a light-stepping human or elf?
And where, Kem wondered, was Hauk?
The late afternoon sun, freakishly hot as it sometimes was in autumn, appeared as white splashes on rocky outcroppings. Old brown leaves rattled across the rocks in the light, cool breeze. Stanach wiped sweat from his face with the heel of his hand and dropped to one knee in the shadow-crossed path. Someone had passed along the trail not long ago. The dwarf glanced up at Tyorl standing at his shoulder.
“Your rangers?”
Tyorl shook his head. He pointed to a white-scarred rock in the path. The stone had been scraped by steel. “No ranger in Finn’s company wears steel-capped boots. Look at that foot mark over there.”
Off to the side of the path, the moss, still cool and moist in the shade of a tall larch, held one well-formed impression. No woodsman, Stanach shook his head, frowning.
“A dwarf,” Tyorl said patiently. “Look, the size almost matches your own.”
Stanach closed his eyes thinking of Piper’s cairn crowning the hilltop a day and a half’s journey back through the forest. The Theiwar must have seen it and picked up their trail. It wouldn’t be hard to guess where the four companions were heading now. “Realgar’s men.”
“It’s likely.” Tyorl passed silently up the path, eyes to the ground, and returned after only a moment. “They’re headed for the river. It looks like they passed here at dawn.”
The path, such as it was, led to the only fording place within a day’s walk. The next closest ford lay ten miles south. Stanach rose and tugged absently at his beard. “Damn!” he muttered. “They mean to cut us off!”
“Where’s the kender?”
“Back with Kelida. Why?”
“I want to get across the river today. More than that, I want to know these mage-killers aren’t waiting at the ford. You’ve a steady hand with your sword, Stanach.” The elf slipped his longbow from his shoulder. He strung it quickly and drew an arrow from his quiver. “At best, we’ll be three against four, with Kelida to protect. That won’t be easy. The sword marks her as their target. Can you convince Lavim to stay with her again while we scout?”
“I wouldn’t even try. Don’t worry about it. He’s talking to Kelida, he’ll be occupied for a few minutes. Let’s check the ford while we can.”
Hesitating, Tyorl glanced back down the trail. The bend in the path hid the place where Kelida and Lavim had stopped. The girl, unused to walking and climbing all day, spoke no word of complaint, but wisely took each chance she could to rest. Lavim, never one to lose an audience, kept pace with her.
Sunlight glinted like gold in Tyorl’s hair as he ploughed his fingers through it. Stanach watched as the elf considered.
Kelida’s soft laughter drifted to them on the cool breeze. Lavim’s deep tones ran as counterpoint to her light voice.
Tyorl and Stanach moved down the path, their footfalls on the rising path sounding loud in the still forest. Ten yards beyond the place where they’d found the tracks, the path angled east, narrowing so they could no longer walk abreast.