Black wizards - Douglas Niles [20]
"It's settled then," said one man. "We'll sail with the dawn."
"Aye," grunted another, an older man. "If the weather of the past days holds, we'll -" The rest of the phrase was drowned out by laughter from the bar as the barmaid slapped an adventurous patron to the uproarious amusement of the man's companions.
"No need for that," he heard the old man saying when the laughter had died down. "The Lucky Duckling's a small boat, and it won't take but a minute to store your gear. You can't miss her, she's berthed at the nearest quay."
"Fergus, can you see to our horses until we return?"
"It will be my pleasure."
"Very well," said the first speaker. "I'm going to catch what sleep I can. See you in the morning."
"Myself, as well," said a third man. Hobarth saw from the corner of his eye that this speaker was swarthy, perhaps a Calishite. He also noticed a great dog climb to its feet and follow the two men up the stairs. Hobarth shuddered, for next to the sea, he hated dogs above all else.
He had been considering following the men to their room and finishing the task of the assassins, but the presence of the dog changed that plan. His magic would probably kill the prince before the flea-bitten creature could react, but the thought of those long fangs lusting for his flesh sent shivers up and down Hobarth's spine.
But a new plan occurred to him even as he discarded the old one. Quickly, Hobarth drained his mug and walked from the inn, back toward the harbor. The Lucky Duckling was easy to find.
"I fear your luck has run out, Duckling" he murmured, chuckling at his private joke. After checking to see that no one was near, he sat upon the edge of the pier and began casting a spell of decay. Within a minute, he was finished, though the boat showed no outward signs of damage.
Still, Hobarth knew as he pushed himself to his feet, the Lucky Duckling would never make it to the neighboring island of Alaron. He would assure the little boat's doom with an additional spell in the morning.
For now, he lumbered back to the inn. He tried to remember what the barmaid had looked like.
* * * * *
"I shape," grunted the man, shuffling forward to reach for the thick hedge. Robyn looked up in surprise, as this was the first intelligible statement the fellow had made in the last four days.
Grateful, she stepped backward. "Help yourself," she offered, leaning against a tree to catch her breath.
"Keep an eye he doesn't take your job," warned Newt. The dragon, blue today instead of orange, was perched on the branches atop the hedge. He watched the humans dourly.
The day had been strenuous, as strenuous as all of the days since the stranger had arrived at the grove. They stood at one of the great curving walls of mistletoe that marked the far limits of Genna's grove, perhaps five hundred yards from the cottage and the Moonwell. The hedges served as bastions against unwarranted intrusion, for their tightly woven branches bristled with sharp thorns. Mistletoe itself was a plant potent in druidic magic, and thus served doubly to protect the domain of its mistress.
But the hedges required constant care during periods of rain, and this had been a wet summer. If not tended by someone, they would choke off all access and egress to the grove. Robyn's hands, beneath her leather gloves, were scratched and torn. Her arms were leaden with weariness, for she had been swinging a sickle all morning in an effort to drive the hedges back into their proper dimensions.
The stranger took the sickle from her, holding it as if he had used the tool all his life. Slowly but smoothly he began to slice at the overgrowth, striking it back with clean cuts.
Robyn was surprised by his apparent skill. For the first time she noticed that he was improving under her care. His bony frame had filled out slightly, and he could stand and walk without shaking. Now, he was even working.
For a minute she