Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [112]
Shandril cast a quick look across the field.
Campfires winked and snapped among the dark wagons, outlining the dark, placid shapes of the hobbled horses, who stood like an army in the empty, unlit center of camp. "I'm growing very tired of always awaiting the next attack," she said quietly.
"Hunh. Id've thought you'd be used to it, by now," the Harper said gruffly, holding a hand out over the smoking coals to judge their remaining heat. He shook his head at what he found and captured Shandril's stick to spread them out.
The maid from Highmoon shook her head silently, then laid it down on her thighs. She sat with her hands clasped under her knees, looking into the night, as silence stretched. Arauntar was just about to rise and depart when she murmured, "Has this been a particularly bad run, Arauntar?"
The guard grinned. "Particularly bad? No.
Particularly bad is when no one makes it, and they find yer gnawed bones on the road later. Call it somewhat bad. More brigands than usual, more trouble in the wagons…"
"Thanks to me," Shandril said softly.
"Thanks to a lot o' greedy men hungry to steal something not their own, an' too fool-headed to know what danger they put all Faerun in, by trying,"
Arauntar told her firmly. "You didn't ask to have spellfire, now, did you?"
"No," Shandril replied, in a voice they could barely hear. "No. All I wanted was a little adventure."
"Ah. An' that we gave you, in a generous ladling!"
Narm snorted. "Like stew?"
"Like stew, lad; served up fast an' hot, an' burns if yer not careful!" The Harper spat thoughtfully into the coals and added, " Tis the best time of year for making this run, actually. In winter, the howling storms and grinding ice shut down sailing, so someone always tries to make the high-coin runs through the worst of the snows, after the mud has hardened, see?"
"And wind up frozen, or eaten by wolves?"
"Or buried alive by a blizzard, yes. Even if every wolf falls over dead an' the sun shines an' there's no bad ice an' the snows are shallow – an' they never are – deepwinter runs are hard. You have to take along so many archers, an' so much food and firewood to keep 'em alive that it's hard to turn much coin."
Arauntar shifted, spat into the fire again, and added,
"The ore raiding bands and packs o' hungry wolves are always bad, so skimping on archers dooms you … and even.then, if the winds pick up and blizzards come, wolves an' ores come charging at you out of driving, blinding snow or sleeting ice when you can't see in time to take 'em down with a bow."
Narm chuckled. "Any more cheer?"
"Aye," Arauntar replied dryly. "In such cold, even a minor wound can mean yer death."
"Charming. So this run's a frolic?"
"Pretty well. If we could just afford a dozen loyal mages, an' ferret all the worms out o' our wagons, an' use yer spellfire as our 'big lance' when raiders come in strength, 'twould be a stroll up to Waterdeep."
" 'If is such a backbiting word," Shandril observed sourly, watching the man yawn. "You should get some sleep, friend Harper."
Arauntar gave her a sharp look. "None of that naming – not even at a whisper!" He yawned again, rose and stretched, glanced at the stars, and growled,
"Yer right, though. Bed for me. Inside, now.
Wagonboards slow down crossbow bolts an' hurled daggers alike."
He took two long strides away into the night, then turned and added, "Go nowhere alone." Shandril lifted a hand to signal she'd heard, and the guard waved back and went off across the field.
Narm and Shandril watched him go until the night swallowed him and glanced at each other – and promptly yawned in unison.
"Inside, pretty boy," Shandril ordered with a grin.
"First watch for me."
"I'd argue," Narm mumbled, swinging himself up into the wagon, "but I'd be asleep before I reached the end of a sentence.