Fistandantilus Reborn - Douglas Niles [61]
And though such gratifications remained but a dim memory for now, he began to sense an impending confluence. His hope, his talisman, was coming closer. The sensation grew in strength and substance until he could hear the pulse of that constant heart, the bloodstone of Fistandantilus.
It was out there somewhere, and it was not far distant.
CHAPTER 22
An Historian At large First Palast, Reapember 374 AC Instead of following the road in either direction, Danyal took up his fishing pole and creel, and he led Nightmare and Foryth up the streamside trail until they were half a mile or more from the gray stone bridge. The shadows were thick and the trail was rough, but the lad took heart, reasoning that the difficult going would also impede anyone who tried to follow them.
“We should be safe around here,” Danyal finally suggested when the two humans and the horse stumbled upon a rock-walled niche near the bank.
“By all means,” Foryth agreed, still displaying his air of bemused cheerfulness. “Gilean knows I’ll be ready for a night of sleep after I take a few notes.”
“Um, I think one of us should stay awake, just in case those men come back. We could take turns.” The lad looked nervously into the woods, starting at each shifting shadow, each rustle of leaf or snap of a twig. He thought with a shudder of the young, handsome bandit with the curiously dead eyes, and he knew the man would as soon kill them as talk to them if he found them again.
Danyal had to admit, though, that this new camp was ideally situated for concealment. It was sheltered in another grotto, almost completely screened overhead by a canopy of trees, and as long as they remained quiet they should be safe from anyone who didn’t stumble right into the midst of their hiding place.
Apparently lacking any of Danyal’s practical concerns, Foryth had already knelt down to flick a spark into a pile of tinder he had gathered.
With some difficulty, he brought the glowing specks into embers, waving his hand over the dry pine needles in an unsuccessful attempt to fan the flames.
“Don’t you think we’d be better off without a fire?” asked the youth. “I mean, in case they come back? It could lead them right to us.”
“Oh, I think those ruffians are long gone by now,” the traveler said dismissively. “Now, where was I?”
“Here, let me help,” Danyal said with a sigh. Admitting to himself that he was unusually chilly tonight, he knelt and puffed gently on the embers.
In the sheltered grotto, it was hard to tell which way the wind was blowing, and Dan devoutly hoped the smoke would be carried away from the road.
Within moments, a finger of yellow flame danced upward, growing boisterously as he fed chips of bark and thin, brittle branches to the hungry fire.
Foryth used the flickering light to illuminate the page of the book he had retrieved from his pack by the rock wall. Once again he had his quill and inkwell out, the latter perched on a flat rock beside him.
“You’re really going to write? Now?” Danyal couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Why, of course. The best history is recorded while it’s still fresh in the historian’s memory. Say, you didn’t catch the name of that fellow, did you?
The young, handsome one who seemed to be in charge?”
“I don’t care what his name was!” Danyal squawked, then bit his tongue as the sound of his voice echoed through the forest. He lowered his tone to a rasping whisper. “He’s a bandit, and he could be coming back!”
But Foryth was already engrossed, his only response the scratching of the sharp quill across the page. “Let’s see… the day is First Palast, month of Reapember, during this year of our chronicler 374 AC.”
Foryth cleared his throat in ritual preparation. ” “Bandits encountered on the Loreloch Road, fifth day out from Haven. My camp was interrupted following nightfall’… let’s see… how many of them did you count?”
The sudden question took Danyal by surprise. “I-I guess there were six or eight of them, that I saw at least.