Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [145]
They rode by the light of the rising moon, keeping a cautious look out for paladins and orcs. Before long Cara started nodding off, and Bronwyn was riding with one arm wrapped around the girl to hold her in place. By the time they got to Gladestone, Cara was not the only one sleeping. Most of the houses and shops were dark.
The village was small, a cluster of homes and shops arranged along two narrow streets and some connecting alleys. It was a homey enough scene, and a place that Bronwyn had enjoyed the time or two she had passed through. Most of the houses were low and small, cozily thatched with straw. A stork dozed in a nest built on an unused chimney. The large, outdoor clay oven that baked all the village bread still gave off a pleasant heat and a warm, yeasty aroma. The toy shop was closed, the doors and shutters barred, and the whole guarded by a large and rather hungry-looking dog.
“Might be this should wait until morning,” Ebenezer suggested as he eyed the softly growling guardian.
Fifteen
Bronwyn awoke in the grip of a nightmare, thrashing at her covers and struggling to get away from the demons that howled and roared through her dream.
“Hush, now!” admonished a stern dwarf voice. Strong hands seized her arms and shook her awake. “You’re to stay here and watch over the girl.”
As she emerged from sleep, Bronwyn realized that the nightmare had roots in reality as well as memory. Beyond the window was a hellish cacophony of shrieks, thundering hooves, and the clash of steel on steel. Above it all roared and hissed the hungry voice of fire. Bright tongues of it leaped up to lick at the night sky.
Bronwyn kicked off her covers and tugged on her boots. Her mind shoved old fears into the background and nimbly assessed the situation. Their rented room was large, a single open chamber that took up the entire second floor of the cottage. There was but one door, and the windows had shutters. She could keep invaders out for quite some time, and if need be, Cara could always use her gems to escape.
She shot a glance over at the little girl. Cara’s face was set, but calm. She walked over to the window and stared at the orc who had pinned two half-elven villagers against the clay oven. Suddenly a fire leaped up from the ground, licking up high between the creature’s splayed legs. The ore yodeled in pain and surprise and stumbled back.
“I can help,” Cara said adamantly, turning to face Bronwyn. Her brown-eyed gaze dared Bronwyn to try to send her away.
“You’ll go if necessary;” Bronwyn felt compelled to say.
“And not until.”
She nodded in agreement, and they settled down to wait.
* * * * *
In the streets below, Ebenezer had to chuckle when the bit of wizard fire roasted the ore. He wondered, briefly, if Cara could do that again.
Not that they needed any more fire. Four cottages at the east side of the village were ablaze, utterly beyond saving. The ores didn’t seem interested in putting the torch to anything else, though. They were here to loot, and fairly desperate about it.
It seemed to Ebenezer, though, that there was a bit of vendetta thrown in. There was a craziness to the attack, a wild, bloodlusting lack of know-how and think-it-through that made the critters harder to fight. Like bee-stung mules, they were. No way to tell which way they’d be going or why.
One of the ores caught sight of him and came at a run, a farmer’s pitchfork held like a lance under one arm. For just a moment, Ebenezer puzzled over how to best meet this attack. Then he remembered where he stood-directly in front of one of the thick plaster walls of the rooming house.
The dwarf took out his hammer to make the fool ore think he planned to stand and fight, and let him come on. At the last moment, he dropped and rolled to the side. The ore kept coming, and the pitchfork’s tongs dug deep into the wall.
Ebenezer was up before the ore’s startled grunt died away. He swung his hammer hard, crunching into the base of the ore’s spine. Down went the ore, sped on his way