Frostfell_ The Wizards - Mark Sehestedt [41]
Gyaidun shook his head, then placed one heavy foot on the man's chest and pressed down. The man's eyes went wide and his mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out.
"The horses," said Gyaidun.
The Tuigan pounded his head on the ground, struggling to breathe.
Gyaidun stepped off. "I won't ask again."
The man raised one trembling hand and pointed northward. "That… way. A mile. No more."
"How many guards?"
"One," the Tuigan said. "Ujren's… son. Don't harm… him. Just a boy."
Gyaidun scowled. "I'll leave him most of your horses. The rest is up to him. Your thievery made him fatherless today."
The Tuigan said nothing, just lay there struggling to breathe.
So fast that Amira jumped, Gyaidun brought his iron club down on the man's skull. Amira looked away, but she heard the wet crunch. Durja cawed twice, and in the following silence, she could no longer hear the man's harsh breathing.
She looked on Gyaidun in shock. "Why did you do that?"
Gyaidun's brow fell as he looked down on her. "I could have used the knife, but he would have suffered. The club was quicker."
"He might not have died. There was no need!"
"You're in the Wastes now, girl. That-"
"Do not call me 'girl!'"
Gyaidun continued undeterred. "That man tried to kill you. If we'd left him to recover and nurse his wounded pride, he might well have come after us. The Commani-even outcasts-do not forgive an affront. We have enough to worry about without setting enemies on our trail."
She held his gaze and considered pressing the point. But it hit her: He was right. She was a long way from home, and her notions of honor and chivalry weren't going to get Jalan back to her. And Gyaidun knew this country, knew it like she knew the Hiloar meadows.
Finally, she dropped her gaze, careful to avoid the corpse at her feet, and said, "You won't… you won't harm the boy?"
"Not if he's smart. Let's get our things and be gone before anyone curious decides to have a closer look at your smoke."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Endless Wastes
Sitting in the grass, his wrists and elbows bound behind his back with rough strips of elkhide cord, Lendri watched the first edge of the sun peek over the horizon. He sat in the middle of the Vil Adanrath, wolves and their elf brothers seeming to mix in equal measure, on a long rise of land that was not quite steep enough to be called a hill. Nearly a quarter mile of land rose at his back, and twice that fell at his feet so that he seemed to look down upon the sunrise. Mingan lay near his feet, sound asleep.
Tension ran through the camp like mice in the grass-more felt and heard than seen. Every elf or wolf walking about or lounging in the grass shot furtive, suspicious glances at them. Some stared in open malice. Still, once Mingan had realized there would be no immediate violence, he had settled down. It was the first time he'd been among his own kind in many seasons.
The elves, both men and women, had the same pale complexion and hair as Lendri, but they wore even less clothing-barely enough for modesty, and none wore any covering on their feet. They too had skin decorated in many swirls and thorns-the younger members of the pack sporting only a few while the elders seemed more black lines than white skin. This had been a hunt, not a permanent camp, and they were still a ways from the nearest cache, so few of the elves had weapons. A dagger or rough spear here and there, but nothing more. Many of the elves walked the dreamroad next to their sleeping wolf brothers, but a half dozen or so of each patrolled the area, scanning the horizon and sniffing the breeze while the others kept close watch on Lendri and Mingan.
Lendri did not know whether to cling to hope or despair. They had not killed him on sight, which was good, he supposed, but every attempt to speak to them had been met with either cold silence or a command to close his mouth. After his fourth attempt, his brother Leren had threatened to gag him, so Lendri sat and waited. Little brother had grown in the years they'd