Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [29]
"Klarsh," she called. "I need to relieve myself. I'm just going a little ahead, to find a spot in the forest that's-" "Quiet, girl," he hissed.
His attention had shifted to something at the edge of the road. Without another word, he strode toward the base of an ancient, enormous oak. He spent several moments inspecting peculiar scratches on its trunk, then bent down and pulled a small knife from a sheath at his hip. He thrust the blade into the soil, scooping up dirt as if he were using a spoon. When he stood he began chanting a spell, holding the knife out in front of him, blade level with the ground.
Larajin, fearful that the magical mist was about to boil across the road a second time, began backing hurriedly away. Before she had taken two steps, Klarsh flicked his knife, sending a scattering of dirt flying from the blade. He continued chanting, and a moment later his spell took effect. The ground beneath the tree began to buckle and heave, like waves on the sea. As the motion of the ground grew ever more frantic the oak leaned, groaned, leaned some more… and its roots tore free of the soil. It fell, splintering smaller trees like twigs and slamming into the ground with a crash that knocked Larajin to her hands and knees. Several lesser crashes followed, as smaller trees dominoed in its wake, then all was silent.
As Larajin clambered, shaking, to her feet, wiping the
stinging sludge from her hands, all she could do was thank the goddess that the oak hadn't fallen in her direction. The trunk of the tree-as wide across as a stable door-would have crushed her hke an ant.
"Wh-what are you doing?" she sputtered at Klarsh, shock causing her to momentarily overlook the fact that she was shouting at a powerful wizard. "I might have been killed!"
He ignored her, and strode over to the hole the oak's ruptured roots had torn in the ground. The wizard bent down, and pulled from the hole something that looked like a tarnished bowl, holding it by the golden knob that protruded from the bottom of it. He turned it in his hands, so the knob was at the top, and shook it gently. A round white object fell out and landed at Klarsh's feet. It was a skull.
Shocked, Larajin realized that this was not a bowl that Klarsh held but a helm, its silver tarnished and black from long years of lying under the ground. Only the crest at the top of the helm-a knob of gold as thick as her thumb-had survived intact. More gold glinted in the ruptured ground at Klarsh's feet.
Larajin heard the sound of running footsteps behind her. A moment later the sellswords appeared, Enik in the lead and spluttering curses.
"What in the Nine Hells…"
A feral smile spread across Enik's face as he saw what Klarsh held. He strode forward and plucked the helm from the wizard and juggled it gleefully in one hand.
"Well done, Klarsh-well done, indeed." He turned to show it to the other sellswords. "Didn't I tell you the Vale of Lost Voices would give up its dead? All we had to do was find one of the tombs. We're rich, boys. Rich!"
Whoops and cheers greeted this pronouncement. A moment later they turned to cautious, surly looks as Dray jogged up the road.
Despite the fact that he was a Foxmantle, Dray wasn't quite as stupid as Larajin had supposed. As soon as he
saw the overturned tree and Enik holding the dirt-encrusted helm, his eyes widened in alarm.
"Put that back," he ordered. "That's an elven burial you're disturbing It isn't right."
Paltar appeared a moment later, sword in hand. "What's going on here?" he demanded.
Enik squared off with Paltar, tossing the helm to one of his men and letting his hand hover near the hilt of his sword. Instead of drawing it, however, he spoke in a soft voice.
"Now, now, Paltar, there's no need to draw steel. We're all friends here, and friends