Guardians of the Lost (25 page)

“What's wrong with him?” Bashae wondered, staring at Jessan's back. He went over to shake out Jessan's blanket, that he had forgotten. “Maybe he slept on an ant hill.”

The Grandmother said nothing. She stood staring at the sight stick, turning it this way and that, holding the stick in the air longer than usual. When she did finally lower the stick, she glanced, frowning, after Jessan.

“What is it, Grandmother?” Bashae asked, neatly rolling Jessan's blanket. “What do you see?”

She shook her head. The Grandmother helped Bashae break camp, but she was preoccupied, thoughtful and refused to heed Bashae's repeated questions. She told him sharply to cease pestering her.

Admiring the beauty of the sunlight glistening on the water, Jessan took himself to task for punishing his companions for his own sleepless night. When they came to meet him, he made an extra effort at good humor, his way of apologizing.

“A half-day's walk should bring us to a place where we can safely put the boat in the lake,” he said cheerfully. “We should make good time. There is a trail. If you will sing the boat, Grandmother—”

“Evil walked close to our camp last night,” the Grandmother stated abruptly.

Jessan's good mood vanished, shredded like the morning mists. He stared at her in shock, in sudden dry-mouthed silence, not knowing what to say.

“It passed by us,” she continued, waving her hand to illustrate its passing. “But it was there.”

Jessan opened his mouth, closed it again, moistened his lips. “I
thought I heard something. I got up in the night but I couldn't see anything.”

The Grandmother stared at him, as if she would sift his soul. Her gaze made him uncomfortable.

“At least, it's gone now,” he said with a shrug and an attempt at nonchalance. He shifted his head, shaded his eyes with his hand to look up the trail.

“Yes,” said the Grandmother. “It is gone. For now.”

“What was it, do you think, Grandmother?” Bashae asked with interest. “A bear going to kill us? Wolves?”

“The bear and the wolf are not evil,” the Grandmother returned in rebuking tones. “When they kill, they do so out of fear or out of hunger. Only man kills out of the darkness of his heart.”

“No one tried to kill us last night,” Jessan said impatiently, thinking this had gone far enough.

Snatching his bedroll from Bashae without so much as a thank you, Jessan slung the rope that held it together over one shoulder. “I looked for tracks this morning. There aren't any, as you can see for yourself.”

“I did not say the evil walked with feet,” the Grandmother retorted with dignity.

She began to sing in her high-pitched, reedy voice. After another long look at her, Jessan turned and lifted up his end of the boat.

“Well?” he demanded of Bashae. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Bashae looked from one grim face to the other. Tying on his own bedroll, he slung the knapsack over his shoulder and hoisted up his end of the boat. They set out along a trail that had been here for centuries. The Grandmother followed along behind, the stones that decorated her skirts clicking, the silver bells ringing, the stewpot that rode in a notch on the top of the sight stick clinking.

“His bed must have been crawling with ants last night,” Bashae said, but he took care to say it to himself.

 

Sunshine and fresh air and exercise drove away the dream's horrors. Jessan relaxed and, after a few miles, began to sing a walking
song. Bashae joined in the singing good-naturedly; pecwae dislike confrontation and are always quick to forgive and forget. The Grandmother kept silent, but she appeared to approve of the song, for she altered the rhythm of her walk to make the silver bells jingle in time to the steady beat.

Reaching the spillway, they halted to watch in silent awe the rush of water flowing over rocks that had long ago been worn smooth. This was not a fall, not a cascade. The water did not have far to drop and flowed in almost silence, with only a bubbling churning at the bottom. The water was clear. They could see the rocks through it, even see fish plunge over the spillway, presumably taking no harm, for there were fish in the water below, calmly swimming away.

Jessan said that his uncle had told him that during one part of the year, the fish actually swam upstream, leaping out of the water and flying up and over the spillway. Bashae smiled politely. Pleased that Jessan's good mood had returned, the pecwae said nothing to refute such an outrageous lie. He and Jessan lifted up the boat and they continued on, their pace quickening for now they were nearing the end of the first stage of their journey.

The sight of the Sea of Redesh was one that none of them would ever forget. They walked up a rise, looked out to the east and there it was. Blue water stretching to the sky, as far as the eye could see.

The Grandmother stood so still that nothing clinked or rang or rattled. She made no sound at all.

Bashae exhaled a long, tremulous sigh.

Jessan nodded and said softly, to himself, “Yes, so my uncle told me it would be.”

They could have stood staring all day, but the launch site was still a ways distant, for Ravenstrike had warned them not to launch at the point where the water of the river and lake joined, for there the currents and eddies were wild and dangerous. They would put the boat in the calmer water farther down the shore.

They reached the place near midafternoon. The launch site was evidently popular, for a permanent camp had been built here. A stone ring could accommodate a fire and there were charred
logs and a woodpile to testify to its use. The sandy beach was churned by the imprint of innumerable feet. White birds perched on a refuse pile, quarreling and squabbling over bones. Jessan said they were sea birds, who had flown all the way from the distant ocean.

Bashae had never seen birds of this sort and, after he had dropped his share of the boat by the water's edge, he ran over to talk to them. The birds were arrogant, however, disdainful of those who were land-bound, and told him rudely to go about his business. Disturbed in their meal, they flew away, showing off their graceful skill in flight by wheeling and diving above the water. To Bashae's awe, the birds landed on the water, settling down with folded wings to float upon the rippling waves.

He longed to join them, longed to put the boat into the lake and sail away that very moment, but Jessan decreed that they had best get a good night's rest and start fresh on the morrow. Sailing on the lake would not be as easy as sailing on the river, for the currents would not help them. Bashae gave in, reluctantly, but cheered up when Jessan suggested that they go for a swim.

Bashae caught several fish, standing quite still in the water as they came up to investigate him and nibble at his toes. Quick as lightning, his hands darted down and snagged them. He tied them to a string and left them in the water, to stay fresh. Tired and starting to chill, he and Jessan came out of the lake to lie on the warm sand and dry off in the sun. The Grandmother had set up camp, then gone off into the woods to replenish her herbs.

Bashae built a fire, keeping track of the wood he used, for Jessan said that by custom, all who camped here must replace whatever they took for the next traveler. Ordinarily Bashae cleaned the fish, but this evening Jessan took on that task, using the bone knife to gut fish and scrape off the scales. He washed the blood from the knife in the lake and had it safely back in its sheath before the Grandmother returned.

All were tired and went to their rest shortly after dinner. Jessan noted that the Grandmother took extra care in placing the turquoise stones and that brought back unwelcome memories of
the dream, memories that had been banished by sunlight. Bashae went to sleep immediately, for that would hasten the coming of the morrow. The Grandmother was soon snoring contently. Jessan was bone tired. Sleep came, but it came slowly, and it was troubled.

That night, the eyes of fire found him. They fixed their terrible gaze on him, stared straight at him. Try as he might, he could not escape them.

And it was then he began to hear the hoofbeats. Far away, but moving steadily nearer.

W
hile the Sovereign Stone went north, the silver case that had held it traveled south and east. Wolfram and Ranessa had been on the road for nearly a month and were crossing the plains east of the Abul Da-nek mountains. They made good time, for now they both rode horses. After several days of riding pillion, Wolfram could take it no longer. Passing through Vilda Harn, he'd purchased his own mount—a short, stocky, shaggy-maned horse whose ancestors had undoubtedly once roamed the prairies of the dwarven homeland.

Dwarven-bred horses are expensive, for all in Loerem recognize their worth, and the beast cost Wolfram dear. But he was a landed nobleman now. He felt he could afford it. Having his own horse would speed their journey and he could not reach the monks fast enough, for there he would not only deliver the knight's message and gain his reward, but he would get rid of this crazy Trevenici.

The first week of their trip, she said never a word to him. She talked, but only to herself. Whenever he tried to join in the conversation—for Wolfram was a genial, social soul—she glared at
him through the tangled mass of black hair and told him to hold his tongue or she would cut it out.

Firmly believing that she was capable of carrying out her threat, Wolfram used his tongue instead to curse the monks who had urged him to make this fiendish female his companion. He could have refused the burning pressure of the bracelet and he wondered repeatedly as the days passed why he had not. Curse his own greed and curiosity. Both were constantly getting him into trouble.

Another week passed, and Ranessa finally deigned to talk to him. This did not indicate a warming in their relationship, however, for she never opened her mouth but that she started an argument. She argued with him over everything. Whenever they came to a crossroads, she argued about the direction he chose. When he found a good campsite, she discovered something wrong with it. The previous night, she had even argued with him over whether it was better to stew gopher meat or roast it. She started in on him this morning. She was certain they were going the wrong way.

Turning around in his saddle, Wolfram halted his horse and fixed her with a baleful stare.

“Do you know where we are?” he demanded.

Taken aback, Ranessa darted a glance left and right and then said sullenly, “No, not really.”

“Do you know where we are going?”

“Yes,” she flashed. “To the Dragon Mountain.”

“And do you know where that is?”

Ranessa hesitated, then jabbed a finger east. “That way.”

“There's a lot of land lies
that way
,” Wolfram said dryly. “The lands of the Karnuans lie that way. Past them you'll find the Tromek elves lie that way. Farther off, the lands of the Vinneng-aeleans and farther still the lands of my people are that way. Most of the world lies that way, in fact, for we are on the western edge. A huge, vast world.

“I've no doubt,” he added complacently, shifting on his saddle to a more comfortable position, “that you'll find what you seek. Oh, it might take you a good ten years, but you'll make it eventually and I'm sure they'll be pleased to see you. A good journey to you, Girl.
The gods go with you. No one else will,” he muttered under his breath.

Ranessa's eyes narrowed. She regarded him intently. He couldn't tell—due to the mass of hair in her face—whether there was hatred and fury in those eyes or sudden fear that he was truly abandoning her. He didn't know and he didn't much care. Yes, the bracelet was starting to grow warm, starting to remind him that it was his job to bring her to wherever it was she needed to be. Let her ride off, he thought. Let the bracelet that the monks affixed to my arm burn through to the bone. Let the heat consume my arm and leave me with naught but a charred stump. That would be better than having to put up with this obstreperous female for another single moment.

Ranessa shook back the hair. She put her hand on the hilt of her sword and for a heart-stopping moment Wolfram thought she meant to kill him.

“I cannot let you ride off alone,” she said. “You are being followed, Dwarf. Something or someone searches for you. If I were to ride off and leave you to face the danger by yourself, I would be dishonored, my family disgraced. I will continue to accompany you.”

“Followed?” was all Wolfram could manage to blurt between sputters. “What do you mean, we're being followed? I've seen nothing, heard nothing—”

“Neither have I,” Ranessa said. She looked at him and for the first time since the start of their journey, her eyes lost the wild expression, became focused and clear. “Yet, Dwarf, I know that something is out there and that it seeks to find you.”

Her voice was soft, her tone serious. The bright sunny day suddenly clouded over, the warmth of the midsummer morning air was tinged with a chill.

Nonsense! Wolfram told himself shakily. She's talking nonsense. She's mad, poggled. And she's trying to do the same to me.

“We should keep riding,” she continued. “We're out in the open here, exposed.” Pausing, she added coolly, without a blink of the eye, “You know the way, I take it.”

Wolfram had so much to say that the words clogged his throat
and he couldn't speak a single one. After a moment, he gave it all up and turned his horse's head and rode off in high dudgeon. He didn't believe it, not one whit. But he couldn't help but turn around every once in a while and look behind him long and hard.

 

The prairie land between the mountains of Abul Da-nek and Karnu was claimed by both Dunkarga and by Karnu and therefore in dispute. Both sides sent armed patrols into it. Wolfram had been fortunate thus far not to have run into any from either side. Not that he would have been in much danger. Traveling with a Trevenici had some advantages—both sides used them as mercenaries and neither side would want to do anything to make one angry. Yet, a dwarf never knew how soldiers might react and Wolfram was just as glad not to see any.

The ground was soft and flat, covered with long grass. The plains were not difficult to travel in broad daylight when both horse and rider could see any obstacles. With the light failing in late afternoon, Wolfram feared the horses might stumble into a gopher hole, for they'd come across many of the creatures during the last two days' ride. The horses were weary and in need of food and rest.

Sighting a grove of trees, usually an indication of a stream or a water hole, Wolfram slowed his horse and turned its head that direction.

“It's growing dark,” he said. “We'll camp here for the night, get an early start in the morning.”

“Dark!” Ranessa cried shrilly. “It is not dark! It is not anywhere near dark. We will keep riding.”

“You're daft, Girl,” Wolfram said, a statement that he made so often it had lost a lot of its luster. Sliding off his horse, he started walking toward the grove of trees. He expected that this action would effectively end the argument.

Damned if the crazy woman didn't kick her heels in her horse's flank and, gripping the beast's mane, order it to keep going.

Wolfram shook his head. Only hours ago she had stated that she had to keep near him. Now she was riding away. Good riddance.

Fortunately, between Ranessa and her horse, one of them at
least showed some sense. The horse trotted forward, but only to follow Wolfram and his own horse to the stream.

Wolfram heard cursing in Tirniv. The girl used language that might have made her brother proud. She cursed the horse, kicking it in the flanks. Then she struck the horse. The blow was not hard. She used the flat of her hand against the horse's neck. But it was still a blow.

Wolfram rounded, faced her, stared her square in the eye.

“Strike me, if you want to hit something, Girl, but don't take out your anger on the poor beast, for he doesn't understand and he cannot hit back.”

Ranessa's face flushed. She lowered her gaze in shame and stroked the horse with a gentle hand, muttering an apology in Tirniv. But she remained sitting on the horse.

“It is not dark, I tell you,” she said through clenched teeth. Her fingers twined in the horse's mane, gripped it tightly. She glowered at him. “We could ride farther.”

Wolfram said nothing. He merely pointed to the west, where the Abul Da-nek mountains were silhouetted against a backdrop of gold and red and the sky above them was purple, darkening to inky black.

She cast the red sky a furious glance, as if night was falling out of spite. With the abrupt movement with which she did everything, Ranessa swung her leg over and fell off the horse's back to land heavily on the ground.

Wolfram grit his teeth, looked away. He'd tried and tried to show her how to make a proper dismount, but she paid no attention. She either fell, leapt or slid. Mounting was even more a challenge, with Ranessa flinging herself bodily on the horse and scrabbling with her legs until somehow she finally managed to end up in the right position as the horse stood his ground, occasionally glancing back in bemusement.

It's a toss-up, Wolfram thought, which one of us is suffering the most—me or the poor beast.

“I suppose we
must
stop now,” Ranessa said, casting the dwarf a withering glance as she walked past him toward the stream. “You've dawdled so long that there's no daylight left.”

Wolfram led the horses to water, then, snatching a handful of the sweet smelling prairie grass, he rubbed his horse down first, then rubbed down Ranessa's. He spoke to the horses in dwarven, a language that held in it the dwarf's love and reverence for the horse, a language that horses everywhere in Loerem understand and find soothing and appealing.

After praising Ranessa's horse and commiserating with him, Wolfram turned the beasts loose to graze, knowing that the horses would not venture far from him, though he had no doubt that they'd leave Ranessa in a flash. He then went about setting up camp for the night, which meant clearing a place for their fire, finding wood, fetching water, cooking their food, catching their food, if that was necessary.

Ranessa never turned her hand. She spent the time pacing back and forth, back and forth, unable to sit still, always looking to the east. To teach her a lesson, the fourth night they'd been on the road together, Wolfram had caught a squirrel, skinned it, but not cooked it, planning to tell her if she wanted roast meat she could damn well roast it herself. To his amazement, he'd caught her about to eat the meat raw. When he demanded to know what she thought she was doing, she stared at the raw meat in her hands with a blank look as if wondering how it came to be there.

He couldn't figure her out. She wasn't lazy, nor did she consider herself above chores. If Wolfram asked her to do something, she would do it, although she wouldn't do it well and most of the time he'd have to do it over himself. It just never seemed to occur to her that there was any work to do. She walked and walked, staring into the eastern sky until she must have been on a first name basis with every single star. Wherever it was she went when she looked to the east, she left him behind.

This night was no different. She paced and Wolfram worked. He told her three times that food was ready if she wanted it. The third time, she halted her walk, glanced at him, and moved toward him.

“No fire, Dwarf?” she said, her brows drawing together in a scowl.

“We had cooked meat left over from last night,” Wolfram said, waving a hunk her direction. “There's not that much wood to be found and it's mostly green.”

He drank stream water, wished it was ale. Or something stronger.

Ranessa took the meat, ate it hungrily. She had the manners of an ork. After the meal, she did not return to her walking. She stared long and thoughtfully at him until he grew uneasy. Saying that he needed to attend to some private business, he rose to his feet.

“Wolfram,” she said, and he was startled and wary. She'd never called him by name before. “How long will it take us to reach the Dragon Mountain? Will we be there in a few days?” She sighed deeply. “I grow weary of this traveling.”

Wolfram's jaw dropped. “A few days! We have over eleven hundred miles to travel, Girl. With the gods' favor, I figure it will take us four months.”

He might as well have shot an arrow into her heart. The blood drained from her face.

“Months,” she said dazedly. “You mean that four times the moon must grow full before we…before we…”

“With luck,” Wolfram emphasized. He had a sudden revelation. “Girl, if you thought you were coming with old Wolfram on a pleasure trip, you were sorely mistaken. The journey will be a long one and dangerous.”

She stared at him bleakly.

“Those who make their living on the road know that it is a dangerous place,” Wolfram continued, “and the danger does not always come from those who walk on two legs or even four. Bridges are guarded by trolls. Mistors travel on the wind. Hyrachor fly the air. Glyblin haunt old battlefields.”

Wolfram's voice softened. “Return to your people, Girl. We are not that far but that you can find your way. You could reach Vilda Harn, at the very least.”

She looked thoughtful and for an elated moment Wolfram thought that she might truly decide to turn back. He felt the bracelet warming and knew the monks wanted him to bring her. Why, he couldn't fathom, but that was the case. He had done nothing except tell her the truth, though. The monks could not fault him for that.

Ranessa slowly turned, looked to the eastern sky that was now studded with stars.

“No,” she said. “I will go with you. The dreams have told me. But we must travel far each day. Rise early and ride late.”

Wolfram stomped off in an ill temper to spend time with those he truly considered his traveling companions.

The horses were pleased with Wolfram's coming. They crowded forward to gain his attention, wanting their foreheads scratched, their ears tickled. They snuffled at him, nuzzled him, their breath warm on his face.