Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [52]
9: Daily Disappearances
Thrusk in the morning wakes a man, banishes sour breath, and kindles hero-fire within. It also leaves the drinker unable to taste anything else, sleepless, and swift to rage – and draws beasts near. Yet if a slinking monster disturbs a dedicated thrusk-drinker, it's often difficult from the snarls to tell one from the other.
Imgaun Cordelvur, Master of Platters
We Can All Dine Like Kings
Year of the Lost Helm
The hand on her shoulder was so gentle that for a long, murmuring time Shandril thought it was Narm's. Then her nose caught a whiff of rank breath and old sweat, and she came awake with spellfire boiling up in her, borne on a leaping flame of fear and rage – to stare into Arauntar's anxious face, as far away from her as he could be and still touch her with just the tips of his fingers.
He drew back his hand hastily and growled, "Up, lass. Orthil's in a rare rage this morn an' will be less merry still when he finds the two of you together.
I've made you a fire an' put water on, for washing and thrusk-brew."
Shandril wrinkled her nose. "Thrusk? I hate thrusk!
It tastes like old boots!"
The grizzled guard grinned. "I suppose you've enjoyed a steady diet of footwear, old boots included?"
"I was maid at a small inn," Shandril told him irritably. "Lick and polish, all too oft – "
She watched Arauntar's gaze descend, realized Narm's cloak had fallen away to her waist and that she wasn't wearing a Sembian stitch of anything, and snapped, "Thank you! Now get out of here!"
"Of course, great lady," Arauntar replied, keeping his gaze now on the curving inner roof of the wagon as he quickly ducked out. "I was just leav – whoa, get clothes on, lass, an' hurry! Orthil's on his way over here with a face on him like a winter storm!" “Is he now!" Shandril snarled, turning to the warm and oblivious man still snoring ever so slightly beside her. "Narm, love, get up!" She kissed him, put her arms around him and tickled him mercilessly – and when he started to guffaw, whipped away the cloak and blankets so that the flower of the Tamaraiths roared at the cold. "Get dressed, and hurry!"
She hastened to use the chamberpot before he could, snatched up her clothes, and went running on chilled bare feet to the corner of the wagon where she'd torn her armor off last night – or rather, where Narm had hurled it, piece by clattering piece, in his haste to peel it from her.
She was still squatting over the heap, frantically untangling and heaving aside an unfolding chaos of rusty plate and leather, when the wagon-flap fairly flew aside and the master of the caravan strode into the remains of their bed. Kicking it aside, he glared around the wagon, past the hopping, sleepily blinking young man who was still knuckling his eyes and feeling about for his clothes – and stopped to place the full weight of his angry stare upon the unclad woman in the corner.
Orthil Voldovan put his head to one side and smiled in a way that somehow managed to combine leering and sneering and I-told-ye-so sarcasm, and said,
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the Lord and Lady of Love, right here in my own ready-wagon! Here I thought yer spells and yer fire-take-all might be of some use to us, in the trifle of trouble that's made us later in leaving than I've ever been in all my runs, later than any sane wagoneer would desire to be who wants to make Orcskull Rise by nightfall – and I find ye still cooing and moaning away in yer snug little love nest, not in yer armor and being guards at all!
Why, I've half a mind to just fling wide the flap and show all the prize fools along with us what yer up to, just to – lass, what're ye doing?"
Wearing only her tousled hair and a tight little smile, Shandril marched past him, flung wide the wagonflap with a loud snapping of tarred cloth, and waved cheerfully to the faces that turned her way.
Jaws dropped open and stares grew intense – as she turned her back on them, put her hands on her hips, and bellowed, "Finished,