Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [72]
"You," Narm said with mock disapproval, "listened to too many minstrels at the Moon."
"I suppose so," Shandril agreed wearily. "Adventure was all I craved then – and they brought me adventure, in vivid handfuls I could thrill to beside a familiar fire."
"Regretting it all?" Narm asked softly, taking the rein she handed him, and walking with her toward the shouting windmill that was Arauntar.
"Not all," Shandril said with a smile, patting his shoulder and leaning close to brush against him as they walked. "Not all."
"'Don't fall over on me, fire-witch!" the grizzled guard roared at her, as if she hadn't snatched him back from choking, agonized death earlier or ever exchanged even a smile with him. "Get along here! I haven't got all night, ye know!"
"Earlier today you didn't, so much was sure," she murmured to herself, with a wry grin. "Do you mean me, Arauntar?" she called cheerfully. "Or have you a secret collection of fire-witches I don't know about?
To warm your tent of nights, perhaps?"
The guard gave her a dark look, and growled, "That's not something to joke about, lass. I've been to Aglarond, ye know – and Rashemen."
"Have you now?" she replied softly, as she led their horses along his pointing arm. "I doubt I'll live to see either of those lands. Stop by our fire and tell me about them some night, if you've time and inclination. Please."
Arauntar gave her another hard look but made no reply.
Narm looked at Shandril anxiously as they helped to hobble the horses and unharness them, but she gave him a wordless smile and a kiss as if nothing was bothering her at all. Which meant, Narm knew as he frowned his way to the creek to fetch water in the wagon's two old, battered buckets, that something was. Very much.
*******
Thoadrin reined in and nodded to Laranthan to scout ahead, where their trail joined the Trade Way.
Wordlessly his best warrior nodded, slipped from his saddle and handed his reins to Thoadrin.
In a few very quiet moments Laranthan was leading four men forward in the moonlight like eager shadows, down to where the rocks gave way to the countless wagon ruts.
Thoadrin drew his night-blade – daubed with dull brown stain to keep it from flashing any betraying reflection – laid it across his high saddlehorn, and smiled approvingly at Laranthan's stealthy search. It had been a hard, sore ride from the Two Pools, but it had been worth it. They were well armed again and ahead of the spellfire wench, with time in hand to rest.
The Trade Way looked deserted, with nary a campfire in sight. Barring lurking beasts – and there were always lurking beasts; the trick was to know the deadly and ignore the rest – he'd have plenty of time to ready an attack.
Orthil Voldovan's caravan should reach this spot as the sun was sinking low on the morrow. They'd be tired and in haste to reach Haelhollow, a good way north on up the road, to make camp.
Thoadrin smiled. There'd be no need for blades yet, only bows from amid the rocks. With so many bolts to loose, they could fire freely. Voldovan just might find himself in the Hollow with nary a guard left to fend off night-wolves.
And darkness was the favorite fighting-time of Laranthan and most of the other bold warriors of the Cult.
*******
Ah, but the wolves were bad this year.
Mirt the Moneylender sat back in his chair, hooked his thumbs into the pocket-slits of what could only be honestly described as his bulging waistcoat, and let out a gusty sigh.
"Paraster, Paraster," he rumbled, "what am I going to do with ye?"
The man sitting across the littered desk from him smiled coldly, lifted his shoulders in the slightest of shrugs, and said, "Nothing. There's nothing you can do."
"Aye, aye, I see the spark and sizzle of thy jaunty little shielding," Mirt said with a wave of one dismissive little finger. "Feeble things to trust in, I feel 'tis only fair to remind ye." He waved a pudgy and graying-haired hand around at