Bearers of the Black Staff - Terry Brooks [161]
But he would be looking in the wrong place, and with any luck at all he wouldn’t figure that out before Inch and the girl were safely tucked away in Inch’s fortress lair. Once there, they could take time to rest up and heal and could return the girl home later.
It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only one that made any sense.
The problem was, it relied on misdirection and luck, neither of which Deladion Inch had ever had much faith in. In this case, he would make an exception. After all, he didn’t have much choice. His ribs and his arm had reduced his ability to defend himself, let alone the girl, and they would only get one chance at escaping. The Trolls were not overly bright, but they were strong and durable, and after the disruption he had caused they would be beyond angry.
They had walked only a short distance when the girl saw him wince. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
“Broken ribs. My arm, too, I think.” He didn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to keep moving. “I’ll be fine.”
“No you won’t,” she said, taking his good arm and pulling him about. “Let me look at you. I know something about healing.”
She left the ribs alone, presumably because she did not want to take the time and trouble to strip off his armor and because she knew his body was already as well protected as it could be. But she took a few minutes with the arm, pressing it, watching him for a reaction, asking where it hurt. When she had finished, she told him the forearm bones were cracked if not broken, and she would splint it. She found a pair of straight sticks, tore strips of cloth from the hem of her cloak, and bound up his arm so that the bones were braced. Then she pulled some leaves from within her tunic and told him to chew them. Surprisingly enough, he felt the pain begin to lessen almost immediately.
They walked on. She offered to carry something for him, but he told her he could manage better alone. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, searching the darkness for pursuit, but saw nothing. He took them down streambeds and across wet patches wherever he found them, doing what he could to mask all traces of their passage. He set a steady pace, even though he thought she might have trouble keeping up. She didn’t.
Finally, he asked her about it.
“I’m a Tracker, just like Panterra. We were trained to read sign, follow trails, and live out on our own for weeks at a time. We can survive anywhere. I’m very good at it; Panterra is better. The best, in fact, that I’ve ever seen.”
She seemed about to tell him something more, but then thought better of it. “I can keep up with you,” she finished.
He marveled to find that she could. A slip of a thing, no bigger than a minute, intense and determined, she was much tougher than she looked. Her red hair was soaked to a burnt umber, and her green eyes gleamed bright even in the darkness and damp. She glanced at him often, perhaps trying to read him. He smiled inwardly. Others had done so before her; none had succeeded.
By daybreak, they were miles away from the Drouj camp, off the flats and into hill country thick with deadwood and scrub and riven with gullies and deep washes. The rains had ceased, but the dampness lingered in the form of mist that snaked down off the distant heights and through the defiles. The temperature had dropped, and both Inch and Prue were chilled in their sodden clothing. It would have been nice to build a fire, but foolish beyond measure.
Even so, Deladion Inch called a halt and had them sit down on a fallen log so they could have something to eat. He could see bits and pieces of the land in the distance, but most of it remained obscured. All night, he had listened for the Trolls and their hounds, but he had heard nothing. He heard nothing now.
“Who are you?” she asked as they chewed on bits of cheese and fruit and some bread that wasn’t quite dry.
He told her his name. “I met Sider Ament weeks ago when he came through the mountains tracking an agenahl. Saved his life, matter of fact.