Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [132]
The incoherent oaths of a man jolted awake in startled pain accompanied them both to the ground, as they fell out of the tree together.
Sharantyr landed hard on a particularly unyielding surface of the scenic Blackrocks, and lay there twisting and gasping in helpless agony, her breath driven out of her and what felt like roiling fire in its place.
The man was more fortunate. Tornar the Eye had been sleeping in a tree somewhere in the Blackrocks for safety against marauding beasts – not an altogether successful tactic, it seemed. He did, however, land with one knee atop whatever had pounced on him, and bounced back and away from it, to land on his feet in an angry crouch, blade hissing out.
The moonlight clearly showed him the ranger Sharantyr writhing on the rocks, her face contorted in pain. He stared down at her and slapped at his pouch with an oath. Thin wisps of smoke were rising from it, and when he slapped at it frantically, backed swiftly away from the pain-wracked woman on the rocks, and tore it open, out fell a flaming, sizzling tangle of – hair?
Her hair. Some sort of magic, obviously. He shook it all out, dug fingers in where it had been, and rubbed to make sure no smoldering was left. Frowning, he shook his head and turned back to Sharantyr.
She'd made no move to draw a weapon or do anything more than curl up like a child, clutching her gut and trembling in what seemed to be utter agony.
Yet she bled not, nor seemed cut. He frowned down at her, then sheathed his blade, knelt, and put out a cautious hand to where her own agonized hands were clutching.
Sharantyr shuddered, sobbed, and tried to twist away from him, kicking at the rocks beneath her. Tornar winced. He'd seen a man do that, once, while dying with his guts torn out by the horns of an enraged bull. She must be hurt badly…
"Lie still," he hissed, putting a hand on one trembling shoulder. "Easy, there!"
Sharantyr moaned beneath him, a despairing bleat of hopeless pain, and he dug hastily in another of his belt-pouches, seeking one of his most precious items of booty: a steel vial that never left him.
Her teeth were clenched, but with brutal strength he forced fingers into the corners of her jaws and got them apart enough to pour the contents of the vial between. Then he clapped a hand over her mouth and held her jaws together during the brief frenzy of convulsions that followed.
When she lay unmoving under him and her breath seemed to be coming in deep, regular gasps, Tornar let go and hastily drew back.
Only Sharantyr's eyes moved to follow him. They regarded each other for a moment in the moonlight before her lips moved.
"Thank you for healing me, Tornar," she told him.
"I-I know not how I came here. Was it by your hand? Are you taking me back to the Master of Shadows?"
"I was ordered to slay you," he replied slowly, "but I'll not do it – or go back to Scornubel. I've no idea how you came to fall out of the sky onto me… but Lady, I do know one thing: I've never seen your like before or ever thought to." He hesitated, and then asked, "Could you learn to trust me?"
"I could," Sharantyr replied, her eyes on his. "Why do you ask this?"
"I – I'd like to part with you as a friend," he told her, eyes steady on hers.
She reached out one weak arm and squeezed his hand. "I think we can manage that."
Her reaching was the last insult to her much-slashed leathers, and they fell away from her shoulder and bodice.
Wordlessly Tornar plucked up her ruined garments and held the scraps back up in position. "The night's cold," he said simply.
She looked at him, smiled, and then glanced up at the tree. "Is there room on your branch for two?"
The man from Scornubel made a horrible wheezing sound, then, and doubled over. It was three anxious breaths later, when the crawling lady ranger of Shadowdale reached his side to see what was wrong, that she realized Tornar the Eye was laughing.
20: Harping Through Spellfire
How many dying men