Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [37]
“It’s not your fault,” said Robyn, sighing. She looked at the motionless body behind Tristan, and her mouth tightened. “We all wanted to go – except Arlen. We are all responsible for the consequences.”
She looked up, making a visible effort to shake off her despondency. “Where are we going to camp? I hope it’s someplace close.”
“Wait here with the others,” Tristan said. “And I’ll find a place where we can rest in some security.”
Relieved to think about something other than Arlen, the prince cantered away from the path to investigate several of the dense patches of pine. He soon found one that was secure from outside view, and contained a large dry area where a soft bed of needles was sheltered from the rain by thick overhanging branches. The rest of the party joined him, and Robyn immediately built a small, smokeless fire. Tristan, meanwhile, rode back over their prints with a sweep made from a thick pine bough. In a few minutes he had erased all sign of their passage, creating the impression that they had continued on up the main trail.
The shelter proved as warm and dry as they could have hoped. They took turns on guard, but there had been no sign of pursuing Firbolgs by the time the gray dawn arrived. Daryth shook with fever and moaned in delirium. They tied him to the saddle and rode on in the cold. The only bright spot was that there continued to be no sign of their enemy behind them.
“They’re probably not bold enough to venture into the lowlands,” commented Keren. “Even if they are roving – and I fear our halfling friend may be right about that – they will not approach too closely to human settlements in such a small band.”
“I hope you’re right,” replied Tristan. As it was, Daryth’s chances of living through the journey to Caer Corwell were slender. If they should have to fight, those chances would be zero.
Toward the end of this day of travel, the party reached a small woodsman’s cottage. The homestead lay within a sheltered vale, beside a pleasantly bubbling stream. An assortment of skins covered a rack outside the home, and a small, empty corral stood forlornly beside a dilapidated shed.
“Who are you?” The voice was sour and suspicious. The speaker stood at the corner of the cottage. He was a middle-aged, work-worn man, dressed in simple clothes. A long-hafted woodsman’s axe rested on his shoulder – it looked as if he could swing it into a ready position with a simple flick of his wrist.
The door to the cottage creaked open, and the prince saw a dim shape inside. More clearly, however, he saw a stout crossbow extend through the portal, with a bolt aimed straight at his heart.
“Who are you?” asked the woodsman again.
“I am Tristan Kendrick, Prince of Corwell,” said Tristan, swinging boldly to the ground. He flinched as he saw the crossbow quiver slightly, but the bolt did not fly. “We have a wounded companion – he needs shelter and warmth.”
The woodsman’s attitude was already relaxing. “Yes, of course. I have seen you before, my prince. Please forgive my suspicions – these are dangerous times in Llyrath.”
Giving a slight bob, he added, “Won’t you come in?”
The cottage door swung open, and the crossbow emerged, followed by a wide-eyed lad of twelve or so. A stout woman bustled out after the boy and hurried to Daryth’s horse, where Robyn was already helping the Calishite from the saddle.
“Quickly!” the woman urged, her plump face wrinkling in concern. “Poor lad! Let’s get him inside.”
Gratefully, the others followed the family into the warm cottage. For the first time in two days, the companions were able to drive the dampness from their clothing and bodies.
“I am Keegan of Dynnwall,” announced their host as they entered the little home. “This is Enid, and my son – Evan. Lad, run out and tend to their horses! Be quick, now!”
Evan, still gaping at the visitors, turned and ran toward the horses. The rest of them carried Daryth carefully to the single, large bed. The Calishite had become completely delirious, and