Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [83]
The hut made its way into the center of the birdseed circle and turned around a couple of times, perhaps to survey the surrounding forest or perhaps in ritual such as that performed by drowsy hounds. Whatever the case, it seemed satisfied. The massive legs folded and the magical dwelling settled down like a brooding hen.
Merdrith began to sing the song that had proven so effective months before.
"While the mistress is asleep, Chicken-legs a watch will keep. When the mistress wanders off, Chicken-legs will stand aloft. When the mistress comes again, Chicken-legs will let her in. Stara Baba casts this spell. Listen, hut, and hearken well."
There was a stirring at the door, where a small rug fashioned from many-colored rags softened the front stoop. The front edge of this rug rose into the air, fluttering rapidly as if vibrating in a sharp, strong wind. A resounding phhhht! filled the clearing. The hut's response was eerily reminiscent of a child taunting a lesser playmate. Merdrith scowled and reached for his wand.
A pewter plate came spinning out of the open window. It struck his hand, shattering bone and sending the wand flying end over end. While Merdrith danced and cursed, one massive clawed foot reached out and snared the wand, drawing it under the hut. The hut settled back down and waited, as if inviting him to do his worst.
The wizard had seen enough. He had tried to broach the hut's defenses before using every spell at his command. It had finally been a combination of the witch's ebony wish-staff and the children's song that had gained him entrance. Without Rashemaar magic to aid him, he would never get past the door.
This knowledge only increased his determination to get his hands on the Windwalker. Even if his proud Thayvian brothers refused to admit it, the only way to overcome Rashemen and her witches was with their own magic.
Brindlor was the last to arrive at the Dragon's Hoard's hidden camp, a cave that still held the musky stench of the bugbear the drow band had forcibly evicted. He found his current master arguing heatedly with Merdrith, their human wizard. A half-dozen drow lounged against the far wall, sharpening weapons or tossing dice as they awaited the outcome. Brindlor, as was his habit, lingered out of sight to listen and observe.
Merdrith was not an exceptionally tall man, though he topped Gorlist by at least a hand's span. His bald skull was tattooed in bright red patterns, and his thin, braided beard had been dyed an equally garish shade of crimson. At the moment its straggly appearance was emphasized by what appeared to be soot, the removal of which had been attempted in desultory fashion. Instead of wizardly robes, Merdrith wore a doeskin tunic haphazardly bedecked with pockets and loose leather britches that hung like jagged stalagmites around knee-high boots. A rag bandage was wrapped around one hand, which was braced with a crude splint. At first glance, the human appeared to be nothing more than an eccentric hermit. Gorlist believed otherwise. Brindlor hoped that the warrior was right.
"We should go directly to Rashemen," the wizard insisted. "The drow and her Rashemi companion are headed in that direction. Your fighters can lie in wait for them without concern that the Promenade Temple priestesses will again interfere."
Gorlist's scowl deepened. He did not like to be reminded of past failures. "I know the area, and the tunnels between here and there. It is a very long walk."
"That, I had assumed, is why you employed a wizard," Merdrith pointed out.
"You are a means to an end, no more," the dark elf said coldly. "Do not presume to instruct a drow warrior in battle strategy. Once a course of action has been decided, you will use