«Wish you and I had never met,” he murmured. Then he turned and walked away.
In the darkness, Jair let himself go limp against the oak. Tomorrow. One day more, and then the Mord Wraiths would have him. He shuddered. He had to escape before then. Somehow, he had to find a way.
He breathed the cool night air deeply. At least he knew one thing now that he hadn’t known before — one very important thing. Slanter hadn’t suspected. He had permitted Jair those few moments of freedom from the ropes — time to rub life back into his limbs and body, time to relieve them just a bit of the ache and discomfort.
Time to discover that he still retained possession of the Elfstones.
Too swift, it seemed, the morning came, dawn breaking gray and hard within the gloom of the Black Oaks. For the third day, the Gnomes marched Jair east. The warming touch of the sun was screened away by banks of storm clouds that rolled down from out of the north. A wind blew harsh and quick through the trees, chill with the promise of winter’s coming. Wrapped in their short cloaks, the Gnomes bent their heads against the swirl of silt and leaves and trudged ahead.
How can I escape?
How?
The question repeated itself over and over in the Valeman’s mind as he worked to keep pace with his captors. Each step marked the passing of the seconds that remained, the minutes, the hours. Each step took him closer to the Mord Wraith. This one day was all the time he had left. Somehow during the day he must find an opportunity to get free of his restraints long enough to utilize the wishsong. A single moment was all it would take.
Yet that moment might never come. He had not doubted that it would — until now. But the time slipped so fast from him! It was nearing midmorning, and already they had been on the march for several hours. Silently he berated himself for not seizing the opportunity Slanter had presented him with the night before when he had agreed to free him from his bonds. There had been time enough then to escape his captors. A few seconds to freeze them where they stood, covered with something so loathsome they could think of nothing else as he worked loose the bindings about his ankles, then a few seconds more to shift the pitch of his voice to hide him from their sight, and he would have been gone. Dangerous, yes, but he could have done it — except, of course, that he had given his word. What difference, if that word had been broken when it was given to a Gnome?
He sighed. It did make a difference somehow. Even with a Gnome, his word was still his word, and it meant something when he gave it. One’s word was a matter of honor. It was not a thing that could be bandied about when convenient or slipped on and off like clothing to match changes in the weather. If he went back on it even once, that opened the door to a flood of excuses for going back on it every time thereafter.
Besides, he wasn’t sure he could have done that to Slanter, Gnome or not. It was strange, but he had developed a certain attachment for the fellow. He wouldn’t have described it as affection exactly. Respect was more like it. Or maybe he just saw something of himself in the Gnome because they were both rather different sorts. In any case, he didn’t think he could have made himself trick Slanter like that, even to escape whatever it was that lay ahead.
He kicked at the leaves that blew across his path as he walked onward through the dark autumn day. He supposed that Rone Leah, were he there, would have had a plan for escape by now. Probably a good one. But Jair didn’t have a clue as to what it might have been.
Morning slipped away. The wind died with the coming of midday, but its chill lingered in the forest air. Ahead, the terrain grew rougher, the earth broken and rocky as the ridgeline slanted south and a series of ravines curved down across their pathway. Still the wall of oaks stretched on, immutable giants blind to the ages that had passed them by. Heedless of a small life like mine, Jair thought as he glanced upward at the great towering black monsters. Shutting me away, so that I have nowhere that I might run.
The path wound down a steep embankment, and the patrol followed its dark rut. Then the oaks gave way to a solitary stand of pine and fir, crowded close within the massive black trunks, hemmed like captives, stiff and frightened. The Gnomes trudged into their midst, grunting irritably as sharp–tipped boughs nipped and cut at them. Jair ducked his head and followed, the long needles raking his face and hands with stinging swipes.
A moment later he broke clear of the tangle and found himself in a broad clearing. A pool of water gathered at the base of the ravine, fed by a tiny stream that trickled down from out of the rocks.
A man stood next to the pool.
The Gnomes came to an abrupt, startled halt. The man was drinking water from a tin cup, his head lowered. He was dressed all in black — loose tunic and pants, forest cloak, and boots. A black leather pack lay beside him on the ground. Next to it rested a long wooden staff. Even the staff was black, of polished walnut. The man glanced up at them briefly. He looked to be an ordinary Southlander, a traveler, his face brown and creased by sun and wind, and his light hair turned almost silver. Flint gray eyes blinked once; then he looked away. He might have been any one of a hundred journeyers who passed through this part of the land daily. But from the moment he saw the man, Jair knew instinctively that he was not.
Spilk also sensed something unusual about the man. The Sedt glanced quickly at the Gnomes on either side as if to reassure himself that they were nine to the man’s one, then turned his gaze on Jair. Clearly he was upset that the stranger had seen their captive. He hesitated a moment longer, then started forward. Jair and the others followed.
Wordlessly, the patrol moved to the far end of the pool, their eyes never leaving the stranger. The stranger paid no attention. Stepping forward from his companions, Spilk filled his water pouch from the trickle that ran down off the rocks, then drank deeply. One by one, the other Gnomes did the same — all but Slanter, who stood next to Jair, unmoving. The Valeman glanced at the Gnome and found him staring fixedly at the stranger. There was something odd reflected in his rough face, something…
Recognition?
The stranger’s eyes lifted suddenly and met Jair’s. The eyes were flat and empty. For just an instant, they were locked upon his own, and then the stranger was facing Spilk.
«Traveling far?» he asked.
Spilk spit the water from his mouth. «Keep your nose to yourself.»
The stranger shrugged. He finished his water in his cup, then bent down to tuck the cup back into his pack. When he straightened again, the black staff was in his hand.
«Is the Valeman really so dangerous?»
The Gnomes stared at him sullenly. Spilk tossed aside his water pouch, took a firm grip on his cudgel and came around the edge of the pool until he stood at the forefront of his men.
«Who are you?» he snapped.
Again the stranger shrugged. «No one you want to know.»
Spilk smiled coldly. «Then walk away from here while you still can. This doesn’t concern you.»
The stranger didn’t move. He seemed to be thinking the matter through.
Spilk took a step toward him. «I said this doesn’t concern you.»
«Nine Gnome Hunters traveling through the Southland with a Valeman they’ve bound and gagged like a trussed pig?» A faint smile crossed the stranger’s weathered face. «Maybe you’re right. Maybe it doesn’t concern me.»
He bent down to retrieve his pack, slipped it across one shoulder and started away from the pool, passing in front of the Gnomes. Jair felt his hopes, momentarily lifted, fade again. For just a moment, he had thought the stranger meant to aid him. He started to turn toward the pool again, thirsty for a drink of the water, but Slanter blocked his way. The Gnome’s eyes were still on the stranger, and now his hand came up slowly to grip Jair’s shoulder, guiding him back several paces from the others in the patrol.