Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [7]
Winter in Rashemen, he thought as he idly poked at the burning logs with a soot-covered piece of wood, is as hospitable as the first layer of the Abyss. Six days from Mulptan and the raging weather had begun its assault. Snow and ice storms became constant companions. Shortly before dusk on the ninth day, a great wind had begun to blow, forcing them all to slow their pace and bend beneath its force. Even Borovazk, their Rashemi guide, had grown concerned. Throughout their journey, the normally brash ranger had gently chided their softness, poking fun at the group's complaints about harsh weather. When the wind had raised its deep-throated voice and howled through the snow-covered crags and across the rolling hills, however, Borovazk had grown quiet. "Is nyvarskiz," he had finally shouted so that they could all hear him. "Ill wind. Very dangerous." With that, he had put a halt to their travel, so they had made hasty camp amidst the uneven stones and ancient trees, miserably waiting out the storm.
Still, Marissa had asked them to come, driven by her connection to nature and, she had said, the secret promptings of her god. They had followed her across the eastern realms of Faerun, then north through the harsh, unforgiving lands of the Rashemi. All of them had followed, as she had no doubt suspected they would.
"Where is she?" a gravelly baritone voice asked from the shadows behind him.
Taen dropped another log on the fire and turned to see Roberc gazing up at him. The broad-chested, thickset halfling danced from foot to booted foot, shivering in the cold despite being buried beneath several layers of fur skins. The gleam of the fighter's mail caught Taen's eyes in the dancing firelight. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering if the halfling ever removed his armor.
"I don't know. She went off into the trees after we set camp. You know how she is," Taen answered after a few moments.
Wild, he thought to himself. Restless the way a wolf is restless-or the wind. As usual, such thoughts threw him into turmoil. Marissa was restless, almost half wild, more comfortable with wood and stone than flesh and blood, yet a part of him yearned to lose himself in that wildness, to cast off the weight of memory and the certain knowledge of his own failure. Easier for a man to cast off his shadow, Taen knew.
Roberc swore, interrupting his bitter thoughts. "I'm glad that she feels free to go for a stroll while the rest of us freeze to death."
For a moment, Taen was shocked by the halfling's blasphemy, but only for a moment. There was little softness in the fighter, and none of the lighted-heartedness or playfulness found in others of his race. Thick stubble covered much of his chin and cheeks save for a single swath of blistered skin near the left corner of his mouth. The puckered flesh looked red and angry even now in the shadow-filled camp. When the halfling smiled, which was rarely, it never reached his deep-set eyes; they were gray and hard as river stone.
The fell wind gusted again, whipping the length of Roberc's salt-and-pepper hair in all directions. The fighter cursed once more against the bite of winter and brought two scarred fingers to his mouth. He whistled sharply once, then again. Almost immediately, there came a deep, echoing bark from somewhere close in the darkness beyond the fire. A few moments later, a large brindle hound came into view, running straight for the halfling.
The deep-chested dog came to a stop immediately in front of the fighter. Thick, panting breaths blew steam into the frigid air, and its long pink tongue lolled out of a short, powerful muzzle. The hound stood completely still, its thick-boned torso standing nearly above Roberc's head at its shoulder. A thick layer of studded leather barding covered most of the dog's rough outer coat, but Taen could still make out the curled length of its tail.
"Come, Cavan," the halfling said in a commanding voice. "Since we can't sleep, we might as well patrol. There's no telling what lurks about in this blasted land."