Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [65]
Most of the outrageous speculation outdid the truth in every way. No quiss swam the River Hannit. No bands of wild grawligs raided travelers. Just him. One Grawl, perfectly capable of creating chaos without the help of any of the low races. He didn’t need assistance from Kulson and his boorish soldiers either.
And he didn’t covet any position of power among the high races. Totally self-sufficient he was. His indifference to both high and low races gave him the kind of power no one but The Grawl could acquire. He paused a moment to contemplate how perfectly in control he was at this moment. The feeling gave him much pleasure.
Two tumanhofers and two kimens traveled with the girl. He’d watched during the night as the bumbling swordsman and the nimble kimen foiled the efforts of three mariones and two bisonbecks. Where five men failed, one Grawl would succeed.
The sword interested The Grawl. He would wait until the emerlindian’s company arrived. Then he would take the measure of these strange companions and perhaps take the sword.
Tipper held Rayn close to her heart and prayed for him to wake up. She glanced up at The Grawl. He didn’t seem to be watching her at the moment.
His presence unnerved her. He just sat, but even that was unnatural. He’d only moved once in the hours since she’d opened her eyes. She’d had to get up, stretch, pace a bit, then sit down again. Her foot hurt, but not as much as her aching heart. Rayn might die.
She’d rearranged the blankets, washed her hands and face, combed her hair, and a hundred other things to make the time pass. Or at least it seemed so. Perhaps she’d done only a half a dozen things and only minutes had passed. No, the sun was almost straight overhead. Most of the morning had been spent under the eye of The Grawl.
She tucked Rayn into her pocket, then took him out again. She smoothed a piece of cloth in the sunshine and put him there to rest when she thought he felt cold. She wiped him with a damp rag when she thought he felt hot. His little chest rose and fell. Occasionally his tail twitched. She wondered if Wulder cared as much as she did about the life of a minor dragon. Would He do something to help?
Her anxiety over Rayn compounded her lack of patience. She wanted Wizard Fenworth and Librettowit here because they had helped so much when her father was ill and when Beccaroon was injured. She wanted Paladin because she always wanted Paladin. She even wanted the two men from the Insect Emporium because they knew so much about healing.
All she had was a beastly man called The Grawl.
Bealomondore trudged in front of the others. He’d taken the lead to set the pace. The others weren’t exactly eager to keep up, but he felt an urgency to find Tipper. Surely they would catch up with the raft soon. This lower part of the River Hannit narrowed progressively. Soon the banks would be too close together for a craft to squeeze through. The shores had never been leveled for traffic, and rich vegetation made it hard to proceed.
With his eyes always searching through the leaves ahead, he finally caught glimpses of color that did not match the foliage. He quickened his step and called, “Tipper!”
The streak of grayish blue material shifted, and he heard her voice. “Bealomondore! Here! I’m here.”
Tipper stood, hopped to the ground, and tramped through the underbrush. She held Rayn to her shoulder, his ghastly gray color like old porridge.
Tipper waved with her other hand. “Are the others with you?”
“Behind me. Taeda Bel is supposed to be here with you.”
“I am!” The kimen dropped out of branches overhanging the bank.
Bealomondore stopped and stared at her. “What were you doing up in a tree?”
She pointed ahead, close to where the raft had run aground. “Because I didn’t want him to know I was here until more of us arrived to deal with him.”
Bealomondore squinted, trying to see the person who’d scared Taeda Bel.