The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [149]
“What I want to know is what happened to the Boars,” Cal said. “I assume that spirit meant Voran when she spoke of a prince.”
“Yes, I’m sure she did. I’ll scry for him on the morrow, when it’s light, to see if there’s been a battle.”
Dallandra got up and went to the door of the tent, then paused. “By the by, not a word about the book to Arzosah.”
“Don’t worry,” Cal said with a snort. “She doesn’t deign to speak to me.”
“Doesn’t she? Then consider yourself blessed.”
The dragon book and its attendant astral spirits, now safely stowed in Laz’s saddlebags, were traveling west-northwest in the company of Laz and Brel Avro’s dwarven axemen, heading to the dwarven city of Lin Serr across the desolate terrain of the Northlands plateau. Even though Faharn and Laz were mounted, and the axemen on foot, the two Gel da’Thae were hard-pressed to keep up with the relentless stamina of the dwarves.
Once they left the plains behind, their route wound through the foothills rising toward Lin Serr. The situation worsened as their horses wearied fast. By midafternoon on the third day Laz and Faharn dismounted to spare them their weight and jogged along, leading the horses, until Laz realized that he was panting for breath. Faharn had fallen some hundred yards behind.
“Hold!” Laz called out. “Avro Brel! Have mercy!”
At the warleader’s orders, the axemen stopped and formed a defensive circle around their carts and servants, who seemed as glad of the rest as Laz was. A sweating, blowing Faharn caught up with them just as Brel strolled back to chat with Laz.
“Huh!” Brel said, grinning. “I didn’t realize we had a pair of weaklings on our hands.”
“Kindly spare me the manly jests,” Laz said. “Consider our poor horses, who are here through no desire of their own.”
Laz’s horse tossed its head with a scatter of foam, as if to underscore the point.
“Oh, very well,” Brel said. “We’ll make an early camp and let the poor beasts rest.”
The army camped that night in a valley, little more than a shallow ravine, between two hills, where groundwater had collected into a slow-moving but potable stream. For the evening meal, Brel and Garin invited Laz and Faharn to share their campfire. As they chewed leathery cracker bread and scraped mold from chunks of cheese, Brel discussed the journey ahead.
“Won’t be long before we reach Lin Serr,” the warleader said. “But you need to get to Haen Marn, and that can be a cursed nuisance. The island never seems to stay put, like.”
“Nuisance, indeed. I hope we can find it.”
“You’ll need a bit of luck for that,” Garin put in.
“Oh, no doubt.” Laz agreed in order to be polite. Besides, how could he tell Garin that the island was easy enough to find for someone who could fly? “Once we reach your city, we’ll head off north. There’s a river we can follow for part of the way.”
Faharn had been listening, his head cocked a little to one side as he tried to puzzle out the Deverrian words. Laz turned to him and gave him the gist of their conversation in the Gel da’Thae language.
“Thank you.” Faharn answered in the same. “I must say that I’m looking forward to seeing Haen Marn. You’ve told me so much about it.”
Laz started to say some pleasantry, but the words refused to come. He felt as if he were choking on lumps of ice, stuck deep in his throat. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck bristled as he shivered and gasped for air. Faharn rose to his knees and turned toward him. Brel scrambled to his feet and hurried over.
“What’s this?” Garin got to his feet as well. “A seizure?”
Laz shook his head no, gulped hard, and felt the omen pass off. A trickle of sweat ran down his back, just as if he’d not been freezing a moment before.
“Danger,” Laz said. “Ye gods, please believe me! There’s danger ahead of us.”
“What?” Garin laughed, or tried to. What came out sounded more like a dog’s bark. “Nonsense! We’re nearly to Lin Serr, as the avro was saying—”
“Oh, hold your tongue!” Brel snarled. “The avro is now saying he’s going