The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [129]
From the base of the mound, water oozed in rivulets that trickled off toward the river. Rori could only guess at the cause, but he assumed that the Horsekin had dug too deep and hit either groundwater or some hidden spring. Near the mound stood a welter of tents and rough shelters, improvised from blankets and the like, for the Horsekin soldiers and their slaves. As he flew in lazy circles above the mess, Rori could just discern a few individuals on the edge of the camp. They were standing with hands on hips and looking up at the ruins. He could imagine how forlorn and dispirited they must feel—he laughed again in a long rumble. If the Horsekin decided to rebuild at all, they’d have to build on the flat, where their enemies would have a far easier time of destroying a fortress.
Rori considered turning back immediately and bringing the news to Prince Daralanteriel and Calonderiel, but in the end, he decided to wait—just long enough to visit Haen Marn for a look at Angmar and his other daughter. He wouldn’t need to land, even, merely fly overhead and spare Angmar the sight of him. He was assuming that from the air he’d be able to find Haen Marn easily, unlike the time when he’d sought it on foot. Afterward, he’d swing by the fortress on his way back to the royal alar. Perhaps by then the Horsekin would either have started to rebuild or packed up to march away, giving him more information to tell the prince.
Rori banked a wing and headed north. As he skimmed over the forest verge, he saw ahead of him a tattered bridge crossing the river. The clumsy surface of uncured timber marked it as Horsekin work, but he could tell little about it from his height. For a better look he landed, but on the solid riverbank, not the fragile structure itself.
When he saw marks like writing on the ancient stone pillars, he waddled closer to examine them. As a man and a Maelwaedd heir, Rori had known how to read, a talent extremely rare in Deverry at that time, and practically unknown among noblemen. He still remembered the mysteries of that craft well enough to recognize the marks as Deverrian letters, worn down with time, half-covered with moss. He turned his massive head this way and that as he tried to see them more clearly. If I only had hands! he thought. I could brush that moss away. Finding writing so far from Deverry proper intrigued him.
“Rori!” The voice sounded behind him. “Ye gods! Rori! Is it really you?”
Rori swung around to see a bedraggled man of the Mountain Folk running toward him from the forest. His clothes were filthy, the bundle upon his back lumpy and ill-packed, his beard long and straggly, and his face smeared with mud. It took Rori a moment to recognize the once-dapper Kov, the dwarven envoy from Lin Serr.
“It is indeed,” Rori said. “Well met!”
“You cannot know how truly you speak! “ Kov’s voice trembled on the edge of tears. “I”ve escaped from the wretched Dwrgwn, but now I’m at the mercy of the Horsekin, should they find me.”
“You’re safe enough now. I doubt me if they’ll argue with a dragon.”
Kov did weep, then. He plastered his hands over his face to hide the tears, but his shoulders trembled as he sobbed.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled. “This last month, it’s been horrible. The Third Hell, indeed!”
“No doubt! Here, Dallandra scried you out, so your cousin Mic and little Berwynna know you’re safe.”
“Ah.” Kov lowered his hands. The tears had left streaks in the mud on his skin. “Where are they? Cerr Cawnen?”
“Truly, I forget myself! You wouldn’t know. After you were taken from the caravan, it was attacked by Horsekin raiders.”
“Ye gods! Maybe the Dwrgwn weren’t so bad after all.”
“You might have had a bit of luck, truly. Berwynna’s betrothed is dead, alas, and half the muleteers with him, but Wynni and her uncle are sheltering at the Red Wolf dun with Tieryn Cadryc.”
“Ah, I see.” Kov paused to wipe his nose on his sleeve, a gesture