Orphans - Kevin Killiany [40]
A glimmer of ice-flower blue at the corner of his eye told him the beast had moved to cover in the underbrush off the trail. Prudent, given its size and helplessness.
As he neared the edge of the birthing pool opposite the path to the cave, Naiar realized the gnome was not so much crouching as sitting on his heels, a position impossible for the People. He seemed at ease; wrists resting casually on his knees and what looked to be a cane lying across his thighs.
The gnome watched his approach with apparent disinterest until Striver rounded the birthing pool. Then he rose smoothly to his feet, the walking stick across his lap revealing itself to be a sword, long for his size, as he swung it out and down to let its tip rest lightly on the ground. Though he stood less than chest high, there was something imposing in the gnome’s stance.
Naiar felt Striver’s muscles between his thighs tremble with sudden excitement. His riderbeast, trained to combat, sensed the challenge as well as he did.
He reigned in.
The gnome’s sword looked to be a guardsman’s duty arm, too short for combat against a mounted opponent. But as the thought formed, Naiar realized the gnome had positioned himself between a patch of thornwood and an escarpment at the top of a sharp rise in the narrow path. He would not be facing an enemy on riderback. If Naiar sought to engage him, it would be on foot, and the escarpment would limit the swing of his longsword.
Of course, he could just go by, ignore the gnome and continue on to Atwaan. Naiar looked to the path ahead and back to the gnome. If this gnome was not one of those which had supped at his father’s House, it was of much the same type. He could not pass without solving the mystery of the stranger’s presence.
With unhurried deliberation, he dismounted, keeping Striver between himself and a sudden assault. Lifting his buckler from the pommel, he hissed Striver’s command to move away from the field of combat. With buckler lowered and sword sheathed, he stepped forward, ready to parlay, but prepared to fight if necessary.
The gnome watched him approach until he was perhaps a four of steps beyond reach. Then, with an unhurried deliberation that mirrored Naiar’s, he brought the sword up and settled into a shallow crouch. Naiar did not recognize the two-handed stance, but the gnome’s ease and confidence in assuming it assured him it had been tested in combat.
He reached for his own weapon.
“Take heed, armsman of the Tetrarchy!”
Naiar froze, his sword half-drawn.
A woman’s voice, shouting from the nursing cave?
Looking past the gnome he saw the dense screen of myyr vines shift slightly and the wicked shape of an Atwaan arrowhead catch the source light. He realized she must be holding the longbow sideways to be able to draw it in a cave; awkward, but not impossible. At this short range, missing the gnome and hitting him would require little effort.
“Who speaks?” he demanded.
“A warden of Rowath Hold,” the voice answered, “who came to the birthing pool with four memorial stones and despair.”
There was a catch to the voice. Naiar did not wonder at her tears. His own heart was saddened to hear the birth blight was known in the remote mountain holds.
But if she was in the nursing cave…
“Are you—” He hesitated, not wanting to ask what could not be true. “Well?” he finished lamely.
“Two daughters live because that gnome forced the life of his own breath into them.” The declaration was raw with emotion. “Harm him and all the wealth of your Tetrarch masters will not protect you.”
Naiar eased his sword back into its scabbard and secured it.
“I will harm neither you nor your children, good mother,” he promised.
“True.”
Facing an armed gnome and a longbow, Naiar could not fault the sardonic acknowledgment. The gnome moved not at all, which made sense; he heard their voices, not their words.
“I would speak to you,” Naiar tried again, trying for a light and friendly tone. “But your champion will not let me pass.”
“Then heed my champion,” came the quick response.