Tangled webs - Elaine Cunningham [97]
The drow snatched up a handful of throwing knives and squared off against the thing. She'd once seen a normal hawk drop to the ground, seize and carry off a rabbit nearly as large as itself. She did not doubt that this gigantic raptor had similar intentions, and her throbbing shoulders suggested she was its intended prey.
Her arm pumped as she tossed four knives at the attacking hawk. All the weapons flew straight and true, sinking to the hilts in the bird's dappled breast feathers. But the depth of muscle beneath kept the blades from touching a vital spot. The hawk merely shrieked again and darted in, listing to one side a bit but still moving faster than Liriel would have dreamed possible. The smell of carrion assaulted her as the hawk's open beak closed in.
The drow threw herself into a backward roll, came up on her feet, and dove to one side. Meanwhile, Fyodor advanced, battering at the creature with his cudgel. This bought Liriel a moment's time. Shielding her eyes with one hand, she summoned a fireball and hurled it at the stilladvancing hawk.
The missile exploded with a burst of light and a wild spray of feathers. Fyodor reeled back, blinded by the sudden brightness and gagging from the horrid stench of singed hawk.
A shrill cry ripped through the forest, a chilling sound that for sheer power competed with the fireball's blast and the banshee's rage. Enormous wings buffeted the air as the wounded hawk rose into the sky, trailing wisps of foul smoke as it flew unsteadily westward into the deep shadows cast by Ruathym's mountains.
Liriel rose to her feet, weaving drunkenly as she regarded her friend. He was unhurt, but the exploding fireball had showered him with soot; his face was nearly as black as her own, and singed feathers clung to his hair and shirt. He coughed, spat out a pinfeather, and then spoke.
"in my land we have many odd sayings, and as you know, i use them all too often. But mark me, one of these i will never again speak lightly, now that i know the full truth of it!"
The drow frowned, puzzled by the odd track her friend's thoughts had taken. " 'There are those who think, and those who dream'?" she guessed, although she saw no connection between Fyodor's favorite adage and the current situation.
"Not so," he said with a droll smile. " 'Close' only counts in horseshoe games and fireball spells."
Chapter 13
Shapeshifters
At Liriel's insistence, Fyodor left the village that afternoon with a group of hunters. She could sense his eagerness to explore the forests and hills, and she had no desire to keep him at her side to fuss over her small injuries. Hrolf did more than enough of that. The captain clucked and scolded like a whole barnyard full of broody hens as he pillaged his warehouse for salve and bandages.
After ordering Liriel to take a seat on a large barrel of ale, the captain rummaged among his store for a keg of his special herbal brew. It seemed that the same stuff he'd used to drug the Moonshae mead was also deemed good for cleaning wounds and deadening pain-not to mention waterproofing the underside of ships-and he kept it in quantity. After carefully cutting away the drow's torn leather jerkin, Hrolf poured some of the stuff onto a cloth and began to dab at the shallow gashes that scored both her shoulders.
Liriel sat through these ministrations with uncharacteristic patience. In truth, she rather enjoyed the unfamiliar and undemanding affection her "adopted father" had lavished upon her since the day they'd first met. But the treasures of the Green Room beckoned her, and Liriel soon found herself glumly wishing she'd sent the oversolicitous pirate off with Fyodor.
"Still haven't got shed of the female, i see," observed a dour voice from the warehouse doorway.
Hrolf glanced up at his red-bearded first mate. "ibn! Haven't seen you since we made port, lad. Had trouble sleeping, have you, and come to help yourself to