In the late afternoon of the eighth day, during a nasty hailstorm, Kaerion found himself in the midst of a heated discussion. Gerwyth, who had continued to scout ahead of the wagons, had just returned, his winded black gelding blowing plumes of steamy breath in the winter air. The elf had spotted the remains of a burned wagon about a league farther ahead, probably the work of bandits, and was recommending that the expedition circle up its wagons for the evening and make camp, using the remaining light to fortify their position.
“Absolutely not,” Bredeth said. “We still have a fair amount of light left, and I say we push on. We have a long distance to travel, and we shouldn’t waste time. Besides, we have little to fear from a pack of bandits. The scum would be no match for us.”
The incessantly poor disposition of the weather had brought about an equally irritating change in the young noble. The excitement of the journeys beginning had transformed Bredeth into a bearable, if not entirely pleasant traveling companion. He seemed to have left much of his arrogance inside the capital and would often undertake the necessary duties of traveling without too much protest. Unfortunately, the rigors of this trip had brought about the return of the all-too-familiar Bredeth, and Kaerion found himself clenching his fist with the effort of holding back the punch he wanted to deliver right on the highborn snob’s face. Was it possible that many of the nobles he once called friend acted the same way around those they felt as their inferiors?
“Are you so ready to shed blood needlessly?” Gerwyth replied. The elf stroked one hand lightly along his mount’s muzzle. Despite the whistling wind and the sometimes-painful fall of hailstones, the ranger appeared undisturbed by the fierceness of the weather. “If we are cautious and take the time to make camp here for the night, we reduce the chances that we will be attacked. Besides—” he pointed to the caravan drovers—“our team is tired. The men need a chance to rest, as do the animals. We have driven them hard under difficult conditions.”
The young noble bristled as the elf spoke, but he offered no counter argument. Vaxor nodded at Gerwyth’s words. He squinted beneath the wind’s assault, motioning for the grizzled drover who was in charge of the collected wagons. “Tell the rest of your team that we make camp here, and tell Landra to mount a double watch tonight.” He dismissed the drover with a curt nod.
Bredeth sighed and stalked off, no doubt ready to take his temper out on an unsuspecting guard. Kaerion was about to follow when he caught sight of Majandra, sharing a joke with one of the caravan’s teamsters. He had spoken very little to the bard since their brief conversation the other day, and he found that puzzling. Since he had arrived in Rel Mord, the half-elf had always seemed a ready companion, willing to share a tale or, more likely, ask questions that he’d rather not answer. Lately, however, he had seen very little of her—and was surprised by how much that bothered him. He had grown used to the bard’s presence and found himself wondering what she was doing. He’d have to apologize for his rudeness when he had the chance, and hope that she would have the grace to forgive him.
He was about to do just that, when a hand slapped his shoulder companionably. “Well, Kaer,” Gerwyth said, “how about you and I oversee some of the preparations for this evening and then enjoy the comforts of a warm fire?”
Kaerion turned and flashed the ranger a smile. “That sounds good, Ger,” he said. “I’m tired of this damned snow and ice.”
Kaerion cast a quick glance behind him at the red-haired bard before joining his friend, but not before the elf managed to spot the target of his gaze.
“Oh-ho,” Gerwyth said with an arch of an angled eyebrow, “it seems that our friend has found himself a worthy cause after all.”
Kaerion shot his friend a barbed glance. “Leave it alone, Ger. I haven’t found anything.”
The elf nodded, a half smile playing about his lips.
“So,” Kaerion continued, hoping to change the conversation, “how bad was the wagon you found?”
The hail had finally stopped, and the ranger threw back his hood to run slender fingers through his hair, combing out the knots.
“Heavily damaged,” he said after a moment. “Whoever attacked the wagon left nothing behind. The good thing is I don’t think they used magic. The damage to the wagon was extreme, but not enough to indicate the use of spells. There were numerous hoof prints. I tracked them for a while before they became obscured in the falling snow. There were about twelve of them, with another six or so on foot. Dangerous, but like our young whelp said, they’re nothing we can’t handle.”
Kaerion knew he could count on Gerwyth’s judgment. The elf had once tracked a small band of goblins that had overrun a hamlet over ten leagues before surprising them in their lair. He’d truly come to appreciate the ranger’s skill and fierceness.
“This will be the first of many dangers we encounter,” the elf said. “We’ll have to be doubly on guard once we head into Rieuwood.”
Kaerion caught a burst of red out of the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see Majandra talking with another teamster. She flashed him a bright smile, eyes sparkling. The bard’s smile unsettled him. Gerwyth was right. This was just the beginning. They would face many dangers on this journey. Kaerion only wished he knew which dangers would prove the greatest.
10
Blood ran into the silver bowl.
Durgoth sighed with impatience as the sorceress continued with her preparations. Scrying was never an easy task—especially when the target was a mage of the highest caliber. He understood the need for special precautions, but the woman had spent most of the morning locked away. The doddering mage and his foolish companions had left nearly eight days ago, fleeing the city earlier than expected. A thrill ran through Durgoth at the thought of his enemies and their rushed exit from Rel Mord, but now he needed to confirm their path.
A soft knock on the door to the small room presaged Jhagren’s entrance. The monk bowed perfunctorily in his usual not-quite-insolent way and waited for Durgoth to acknowledge him. Durgoth allowed himself a small smile as he continued to watch Sydra and her arcane ministrations. He would let his esteemed companion wait—a reminder of who truly held the power. The ruddy-faced man had said very little since the battle at the Platinum Shield, and Durgoth did not trust the man’s silence. Jhagren was a dangerous tool—perhaps too dangerous. Soon it would be time to cast away such an instrument before it had the opportunity to turn on its wielder.
Sydra’s clear voice interrupted his ramblings. The sorceress had begun a soft chant as she poured more of the sacrificial blood into the ornate bowl that hung suspended from the ceiling by a thin chain. When Sydra was finished, she added a few more bundles of spiced wood to the brazier that burned dully about two feet beneath the bowl. The heat from the brazier would prevent the blood from thickening, thereby extending her ability to scry on their enemies. Frankly, Durgoth didn’t care much for the details. He simply wanted the witch to give him the information he needed—and soon.
When it was clear that he would yet have to wait to fulfill his desire, the cleric turned to Jhagren and acknowledged the silent man with a wave of his hand. “Is everything in readiness?” he asked.
The monk nodded his head slightly. “Yes, blessed one. We have secured wagons and enough horses to carry everyone. The merchant we dealt with was more than happy to provide for our needs, once we explained the alternatives.”
“Excellent,” Durgoth replied, wishing for a moment that he could have been there to see the terror in the merchant’s eyes. “What of Eltanel?”