The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [81]
Behind him, the maligned procurer stirred. Craer's eyelids fluttered for a moment and then he came suddenly to full wakefulness. He lay still, listening to the snap and rising crackle of the fire and the scrapes of shifting boots and deep, slow breathing that had to belong to Hawkril. There were trees all around, and no rushing water or creak and groan of an old boat carried along by it. Where was he?
Would he live long enough for it to matter? The procurer explored the tender area at the back of his head gingerly, carefully felt the rest of his body with hands that still ached and smarted, and then unfolded his wet cloak from where Hawkril must have wrapped it around him, and rolled to his feet.
Hawkril's head snapped around at the sound; Craer gave him a rueful smile of gratitude, shook himself to make sure of his balance and that his aching limbs would obey him, and stepped forward to clap his friend's shoulder in silent thanks. Then he took off his dripping cloak and hung it on tree boughs to shield the light of the quickening fire from the view of anyone who might be looking across the river, or sailing along it under orders from the Baron Silvertree.
Grimacing at that thought, Craer stood for a moment listening to the forest sounds and then stalked off into the woods to relieve himself and gather more wood, moving as quietly as possible. He drew his knife as he went; his stomach would probably welcome a fire-roasted, juicy morn-meal.
Sarasper started groaning and murmuring things long before he awakened. Hawkril listened grimly, but the healer said nothing intelligible before suddenly sitting bolt upright, awake and staring.
There was dread on his face, and the sweat of remembered fear beaded his forehead and ran down his cheeks-but when Hawkril leaned close to look at him, Sarasper drew in a deep breath, waved the armaragor away, and insisted he was all right.
The weary warrior shot a suspicious glance or two in Sarasper's direction as the morning warmed. The dread never left the healer's eyes.
Once Hawkril was sure he heard the whispered word, "Overwhelmed!" but at least the healer was conscious, and walking about-even rooting among the rotting forest leaves for morn-meal roots and mushrooms.
When the armaragor lifted the last bundle to lay it close beside the fire, his mouth tightened. The Lady Embra Silvertree slept, no matter how much noise he made or how often he gently slapped or pinched her.
The time came when the smell of roasting rabbit and squirrel drifted strong around them, and three worried men washed the hair of a sleeping woman and cut the black dried blood out of it-while still she slept on, oblivious to gentle attempts to rouse her. They turned her, to dry all sides of the clothes she wore, and argued anew about what they should do now.
"We have an agreement," Sarasper reminded the procurer and the armaragor firmly. "If that still means anything to men who dwelt in Blackgult."
Hawkril's face grew dark. "I take rather more care with my mouth than you do, healer. Hard feelings are a poor reward for a man who pulled you from the river not all that long ago."
"Hey, now-easy there, the both of you," Craer said quickly. "Yes, we agreed-and yes, Sarasper, we'll hold to that agreement. But surely you must see that to succeed in… in what Forefather Oak wants you to do, you must stay alive."
Sarasper glared at him. "So much is obvious, Craer; what clever trickery is this?"
The procurer looked exasperated. "No trickery, Old and Suspicious, but a simple point: we none of us dare to devote our lives entirely and only to chasing the Dwaerindim. If we do, Baron Silvertree's mages, and other old foes we have who may turn up, and anyone else who's seeking the Stones-and that'd be half the mages and some of the bards and all of the barons here in Aglirta, now wouldn't it?-can expect our arrival in specific