Darkwell - Douglas Niles [121]
The army had marched through the Strait of the Leviathan in rapid time, never stopping for rest or sustenance. Now, as they entered the shallower regions of Corwell Firth, they turned their faces to the east. They would proceed along the bottom of the firth into gradually shallower water until they emerged from the sea on the very shore of Corwell Town.
There the cleric would be waiting to perform his magic, as he had at the Iron Keep. The human, Ysalla coldly acknowledged to herself, had proven most useful there. No doubt he would do so again.
And thus they would work the will of Bhaal.
* * * * *
The fire crackled as the dead wood slowly burned to coals, spreading welcome warmth among the companions gathered around it. The little blaze flickered like their own hopes, surrounded by an all-encompassing blackness but refusing to die.
The group had trampled the snow flat over a small space in the woods, and now they sat in uneasy exhaustion. The night closed about them, as black and forbidding as ever, and seemed to warn away sleep.
The sisters had spread their heavy furs on the snow a short distance from the fire. Brigit and Colleen, however, now sat before the low flames, Tavish rested quietly opposite them, staring as if mesmerized at the dancing blaze. Yak squatted beside her, using her shortsword to carve a tree limb into a heavy, knob-ended club. Meanwhile, Pawldo worked arduously with his dagger and some long sticks, carving them into flat boards.
Robyn curled up on the far side of the blaze, with Newt sleeping on the druid's lap. Tristan sat beside her, using an old stump as a backrest. They all enjoyed each other's comradeship for a time without speaking.
The king remembered other fires, other camps during adventures that never, in retrospect, seemed so bleak and so painful as this one. He recalled the bristling fur of his great moorhound as Canthus slumbered beside a blaze, ignorant of the steaming hiss of his soaked fur. Or Daryth, leaning casually back in his bedroll, telling stories of Calimshan.
He thought of Yazilliclick, picturing the sprite arguing with Newt about some point of camping protocol. Always on those quests, those adventures, it seemed that hope had been high. Always the mission had been clear, the challenge clearly surmountable.
At least such was the way with his memory. But never before had they endured a cost such as this, and never had their hopes been so vague.
Gradually the moaning of the wind became more audible as it forced its way among the trees and across the snowy ground. The snowflakes that had been fluttering to earth all day began to fly in a diagonal direction, angling toward the south, until soon they raced past with the howling wind in an almost horizontal path.
Robyn shivered as she leaned back against Tristan's legs. He was grateful for the fur cape that Brigit had loaned them.
"What are you doing?" Robyn's question, to Pawldo, had an amused, lazy quality that reminded the king of a warm summer afternoon.
"I've been tromping around in this snow for too long, and I'm going to do something about it! I heard about these things once on a trip to Gnarhelm. They called 'em 'skis.' Well, I'm going to make me a pair, and I'll be the envy of all of us!"
Robyn laughed and Tristan looked on with interest. "What are they?" he asked.
"You put them on your feet, and they let you slide across the surface of the snow. They're like snowshoes, only better, because they slide."
"Yes, the Llewyrr have used skis." Brigit was watching the proceedings with interest. "But we prefer snowshoes for walking through a forest, though you will doubtless enjoy those if we have to go downhill!"
"I fear we'll have plenty of snow in either case," said Tristan. "I wonder