The Dragon's Doom - Ed Greenwood [16]
"Hrnmph," his daughter told him. "Line up behind Craer-'twill save me on sword-thrusts. I can pincushion the both of you with one shrewd stroke."
There were chuckles and stirrings among all four riders in the hollow, and Hawkril growled, "So is it Stornbridge? Or Jhalaunt?"
"That sounds painful," Craer said to Blackgult, as they turned their horses. "I've never so much as felt a swordtip in my jhalaunt."
" 'Tis worse in the Stornbridge, believe you me," Blackgult and Hawkril said in unison, and then broke off in startled and delighted laughter at both of their minds seizing on the same cleverness at once.
Tshamarra and Embra exchanged glances and shook their heads wordlessly. Craer held up his hand-quelling the mirth in an instant-and cocked his head to listen. "Wagons, more than one," he said briefly, pointing ahead along the trail. "Enough touching heart-baring for now; 'tis time to play grandly titled heroes again. Overdukes must impress."
Hawkril loosened his sword in its sheath, and grunted, "Ready to play."
"Likewise," Tshamarra said, sliding her reins up her arm and drawing back the sleeves of her jerkin to give her slender fingers full freedom. "Though 'tis sad we should expect a few carts to bring on swift war, I must say."
Hawkril shrugged. "Aglirta," was his simple reply.
As they rode forward, drawing apart out of wary habit to give each other fighting room should battle burst forth, Embra guided her mount close to Blackgult's and laid a hand on his thigh for a moment. "Father," she said, "we'll talk more later." Their eyes met, and she added swiftly, "Please?"
The Golden Griffon looked startled, just for an instant, ere he nodded vigorously and echoed firmly, "Yes. Please."
The distant thunder of rumbling carts and many plodding hooves grew louder as the five riders rode downriver, up out of the hollow and over another little rise and on. The creakings of protesting wood-the shiftings of old, heavy-laden wood in worn lashings-became audible.
Probably just a few open carts… local Aglirtans running goods they'd bought at market home, or their own unsold wares on to the next town to try turning coins there. The boy king's enthusiastic road patrols had at least brought this longtime habit back to the Vale, though men still went in larger groups than in olden days, and always well armed.
Another rise came and went beneath overduchal hooves, and into view came the expected: a trio of oxcarts, one open-topped and the others sporting low-slung weathercloak awnings, surrounded by a rough muleback escort of tradesmen and carters. A few nodded and flicked their drive whips in the usual bobbing salute to fellow travelers, but more than one looked tired and ill, reeling pale-faced in their saddles and wiping away sweat.
"Hard at the flask yestereve, looks like," Hawkril rumbled, as they drew steadily closer to the carters.
"Homebrew, probably," Craer murmured, "to make them that sick. Mind: they won't be in good temper. To the side, single-file, and grant them full room."
Blackgult gave him an amused look, but it was Tshamarra who purred sarcastically, "Really? I was so looking forward to riding head-on into yon ox yoke, and the wagon behind, and watching it cleave like butter before my royal authority…"
"This," Craer explained to Hawkril and Embra, with a wave of his hand at the Lady Talasorn, "is the savage tonguework I must endure every night behind closed doors, and-"
"No one could deserve it more richly, I'm sure," the Lady Silvertree told him sweetly, as the din of the wagons rose loudly around them. "Why, I-"
The foremost carter nodded curtly to Hawkril, who'd ended up at the head of the column of overduchal mounts-and Embra's hand closed over her Dwaer out of habit as the first wagon started to creak past.
The second carter on the near side of the group shuddered in his saddle, looking decidedly green, and his eyes were more than a little wild. Tshamarra's eyes narrowed as she gazed upon him, and she raised a hand as if to ward off something,