No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the hearts of those who are thoroughly persuaded of the other’s worth.
- Lassiter Quinn,
“A Song of Longing” (972 AM)
- 1 -
The attack happened so fast, Danner barely had time to cry a warning before he was felled from his saddle. A slight buzzing sound filled his ears, and he was flung from his horse by a crossbow bolt in his shoulder.
“Uncle!” he cried, rolling on the ground. He looked up and saw that both Maran and Birch had their hands full. A half-dozen soldiers, all wearing Coalition colors, were charging on horseback toward the two men. Birch drew his bowkur and spurred his horse forward, while Maran had stayed back and dismounted; he already had one arrow in the air and was nocking another.
One soldier doubled over, an arrow in his gut, and three men broke away from the charge on Birch to attack Maran. For the moment, Danner was forgotten.
Danner struggled to his knees, his vision swimming before him in a haze of pain. He gripped the wooden shaft of the bolt in one hand and jerked it free, barely suppressing a scream as it tore loose a chunk of flesh. Danner pitched forward on the ground and grunted as his forehead skinned along the dusty road.
He growled a string of curses just for the sake of venting pain.
A flicker of motion caught his attention, and Danner saw another Coalition soldier creeping slowly on foot toward Maran and Birch. Gritting his teeth, Danner pushed himself to his feet and put all his energy into moving silently behind the unnoticed soldier.
- 2 -
Birch cursed silently as he deflected another blow from the soldier’s sword. The enemy blade slid down the length of his bowkur, shaving a long stretch of wood from the blade. Birch knew it would only weaken the wooden weapon, which was already fragile enough when compared to a steel blade. The metal rod inside the wooden blade wouldn’t stand up to the forged steel, and his opponent was too skilled to be put down with Birch’s simple weapon.
Birch altered his defense to take more blows on his shield, hoping to save his sword. One soldier already lay on the ground, his skull cracked, possibly dead. Birch battered the remaining Coalition soldier back, then heeled his own horse backward a few paces. With a moment to breathe, Birch leaned down to the gray stallion’s ear.
“I’m getting off, so give me a second and then change,” he said quickly. “The larger the better, I think.”
That said, Birch slipped free of his saddle and slid to the ground. The Coalition soldier smiled at this, thinking Birch had just put himself at a disadvantage. Birch shook his head and charged the mounted soldier, his shield high.
The first blow jarred his arm, and Birch grimaced as his elbow jammed against the inner edge of the shield.
“I miss my own equipment, borrowed shield be damned,” he muttered, dodging another attack. He circled back around the rider, forcing him to turn away from Birch’s horse. Birch regretted the need for the soldier’s death, but it seemed he had little choice in this battle. Assuming Birch could overmatch his opponent using only his bowkur – a feat in itself, given the Coalition soldier’s obvious skill – a stunning blow would only leave the soldier to follow in their footsteps, and at the very least he would dog their trail and plan another ambush with even more soldiers. Birch had no doubt that the next time the odds would be impossibly stacked against them.
In his mind, Birch was silently praying the altiara, asking forgiveness for those who would soon die and for his own role in their deaths.
Birch slowly backed away from the mounted soldier, letting him approach slowly as though sure of the kill. Birch even glanced about him as though seeking escape, bowkur held warily to keep the Coalition man from rushing forward to finish it. Since the soldier had his attention focused on Birch, he didn’t see the swift change that happened behind him.
Horse flesh stretched and hardened, hooves split into clawed talons, and hair melded into hard spikes. A lengthy tail sprouted seemingly from nowhere, and in seconds an adolescent dakkan hovered menacingly in dragon form over the oblivious Coalition soldier. The man’s horse sensed something and reared in fright.
Selti shifted back on his hind legs, reached forward with one scaled claw, and plucked the blade from the man’s hand, then grinned through dagger-like teeth at the terrified expression on the soldier’s face as he turned and saw the horse-turned-dakkan. Before the man could cry out, Selti snapped his jaws around the human’s neck and engulfed his head. A full-grown dakkan would have easily sliced through the man’s flesh and bone (or even swallowed the man whole had he not been wearing armor), but Selti was still an adolescent, and the attack was less cleanly done.
The body twitched obscenely for a second as Selti lifted him off the horse. The animal screamed in terror and bolted, nearly tearing the man in two as his feet tangled in the stirrups. Selti ground his jaw, decapitating the soldier and leaving his body to drag in the dirt behind the fleeing horse.
“Selti,” Birch warned, frowning at the pleased expression on his mount’s face. The dakkan gazed innocently at him, then nodded grumpily. He stretched his neck high, and Birch rolled his eyes as he saw the lump of the soldier’s head slide down the dakkan’s throat.
“Will you ever grow up?” Birch sighed, then turned to check on Danner and Maran. Behind him, Selti licked the blood from his jaws and shifted himself back into his horse form.
- 3 -
Maran slapped the last soldier’s blade out of the way with his bow, then drove his sword through the human’s neck. The Coalition man fell to the ground, his breath gurgling. Maran kicked the human free of his sword and knelt to cleanse the blade on a fallen man’s tunic.
He whirled at a shuffled footstep behind him, and stared at the shocked expression on another human’s face. A short sword slipped free of the soldier’s upraised hand, and his mouth opened as though to speak, but only a trickle of blood escaped his lips. The soldier slumped to the ground, leaving a badly shaking Danner standing over the corpse. In his hand he clutched a bloody crossbow bolt, and he stared at Maran, unable to speak.
He blinked absently for a moment, and then crumpled toward the ground with a moan.
Maran darted forward and caught the young human. He lowered Danner slowly to the ground, cushioning his head on the leg of the man he had just killed. Maran turned his head at a call from behind him.
“Any survivors?” Birch asked, hurrying closer.
“None by my hand, but it seems Danner is hurt,” Maran said grimly. “He took a crossbow in the shoulder and pulled it out himself, the young fool. I need the medical pouch from my saddlebag. Quickly.”
Birch hurried to where Maran had left his horse, and returned a moment later with the requested pouch.
“It’s not serious, is it?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.
“No, but he should have known better,” Maran grunted irritably. “He’s just lucky it didn’t go in further and wasn’t barbed, or else he could have done serious damage. As is, it’s going to scar badly no matter what I do. He’s not in danger of anything worse than a sore shoulder, though, in the long run.”
“May I?” Birch asked, indicating he wanted to replace Maran at Danner’s side.
Maran nodded and rocked back on his heels, then stood and moved to the other side of his to’vala. Birch knelt at Danner’s side and placed his hands over the wound.
Birch’s eyes were closed, and Maran saw his lips moving slightly as though he were speaking. When he leaned in closer, he could make out no distinct words. He glanced back at where Birch gripped Danner’s wound, and Maran’s eyes widened as he saw a spark of white light glow from Danner’s shoulder.
The light grew steadily stronger, then abruptly faded away as Birch opened his eyes and leaned back from his nephew. When Maran looked, the wound had closed to a mere scratch and showed no signs of ever having been more serious.
“How?” Maran asked, then fell silent. “You prayed for his healing.” It was more
statement than it was question. He’d heard of the paladins’ ability for healing, but he’d never seen a miracle worked right before his eyes.
“Yes,” Birch said, his face troubled, “but it should have completely healed the wound. I’m not a Green so I don’t have their strength, but something like this should be well within my abilities. There shouldn’t even be a scar.” He looked away. “He’ll be tired and probably hungry when he wakes up.”
Maran stared at him wordlessly, trying to decipher the human’s words. Whatever was wrong, it obviously had something to do with the man’s religion and his order of paladins, which Maran knew little about. There were few elves who chose the path of the Prismatic Order, and Maran had never bothered to seriously investigate the brotherhood of religious warriors. Obviously there was more to the Prismatic Order than Maran had believed, and he resolved to learn more – soon. For the moment, however, he simply shrugged and motioned Birch away. With a shake of his head, Maran went back to treating Danner’s injury. There would be time later to learn of Birch’s miraculous power, and the needs of the now took precedence over the thoughts of someday.
“I wouldn’t worry about the wound itself, at least,” Maran said after considering the remaining injury for a moment. He indicated the scrape on prostrate human’s head. “Danner has always been an extremely quick healer. I’ve see him go to sleep at night with cuts worse than this that were all but gone the next morning. He’ll be fine. Still, if you’re able…”
Birch nodded, then laid his hand over the cut in Danner’s forehead. The wound closed and was left without a scar to mark it ever having been there. Rather than reassure him, Birch’s successful healing only left his face more troubled as he walked away.
- 4 -
The trio reached Demar the next day. Birch led them through the city with the ease of a man familiar with his surroundings. The city passed as a blur to Danner, and soon they found themselves standing outside the Dragoenix Inn. A stylized picture of the fiery creature hung outside from the eaves, and Danner found himself absently staring at the sign. The artist possessed considerable skill and imagination. Dragoenixes were fictional creatures, so an artist couldn’t simply have one pose for a painting.[28]
“Nice sign,” Maran commented, echoing Danner’s thoughts.
“Let’s go inside,” Birch said, indicating they should precede him. “Unless you want to stand out here until it rains, that is.”
Danner blinked and looked at the sky. Gray clouds were rolling in, and he thought he heart distant thunder. He grunted, then followed Maran inside.
A wave of heat washed over him, and until then Danner hadn’t realized he was getting cold from the storm rolling in. It was a homey sort of warmth, and Danner was immediately put at ease as though he’d lived there all his life. He forgot the stiffness and lingering pain in his shoulder and sighed contentedly.
“Careful, lad, you might never want to leave,” Birch teased him silently, nudging Danner in the ribs with his elbow. Danner didn’t bother to reply.
- 5 -
Alicia watched the newcomers with a critical eye, looking for signs of trouble. One carried a wooden blade with an air of professional familiarity, while another wore a short sword at his side and a bow over his shoulder with similar ease. She blinked when she saw it was an elf. Elves and humans didn’t often travel together, at least not quite so openly.
She shifted her attention to the young man with them and immediately dismissed him. He had a roguish look in his eye, coupled with a strange sense of innocence. Intriguing, but hardly dangerous.
The man with the wooden sword said, “This way,” and pointed his companions toward the fireplace. Alicia looked that way and saw there was only one empty table, and she shook her head. They would see the sign and move on, and if they didn’t she’d have to go get Moreen.
Moreen didn’t allow anyone to sit at that table, and she preferred to handle violators herself. Most people were smart enough to obey after her initial warning – there was no second warning, they were simply ejected from the building.
Alicia tracked the group until they reached the table, then sighed as they sat down. They either hadn’t seen the sign, couldn’t read it, or else they were ignoring it. Whichever way, Moreen would set them straight. The older human leaned a spike-bottomed shield against the fireplace as though he owned the place, and Alicia thinned her lips in disapproval. He said something to his companions and stepped away.
Alicia shook her head, then spun back toward the kitchen in search of Moreen.
She found the inn’s owner sitting in front of a simple dinner, and she hesitated before approaching her employer. It wasn’t that Moreen would be angry at the interruption, but Alicia knew how rarely Moreen took the chance to eat during business hours, and she didn’t want to stop her. Sometimes they had to force food on the thin woman to keep her going through the evening.
“You’ve got something to tell me, Alicia,” Moreen said, noting the young barmaid’s presence. “What is it?” she asked, motioning Alicia closer.
“There’s a group of men that just came in, Mo,” she said, hesitating.
“Trouble? Why didn’t you go tell Brit yourself?” Moreen asked, frowning.
“No, no, they don’t look like much trouble,” Alicia said, shaking her head. “But they’re sitting at… his table.” She gulped. Alicia didn’t bother to say the name; Moreen would know immediately to what table she was referring.
In fact, while Alicia watched, Moreen’s expression flattened and her verdant eyes grew stormy. She needlessly brushed her dark hair back with one hand, then stood. Moreen wore a long dress that bordered on matronly with a broad apron covering her front. Her work clothes were meant to convey a homey atmosphere without sacrificing a shred of authority. Her appearance and demeanor also carried a subtle message of unavailability. Moreen was not so old that she didn’t turn heads when she walked about the inn, but not a man in the city didn’t know better than to make a pass at her.
“That’s the third time this month,” she said through clenched teeth. “You’d think the sign would give them some indication, but it seems these days everyone’s either illiterate, inconsiderate, or just an idiot. Alright, Alicia, let’s have at them. Just in case, go find Brit while I wash my hands.”
Alicia bobbed her head, then hurried off in search of the dwarf. Brit Grindstone served not only as a sometime bartender, but also as their full-time peace enforcer. Anytime a brawl erupted in the inn, Brit was there in a flash to break it up and expel the rabble-rousers. His thickly knotted muscles were ideal for cracking heads and hauling comatose bodies out the door.
Alicia found the dwarf at his customary spot behind the bar, stomping around on the raised platform they’d installed to put him on the level with their customers.
“Brit,” she said softly, approaching the gruff halfling. His black beard swiveled toward her like a battering ram, but his harsh gaze softened when he recognized Alicia.
“Aye, what needs ye, lassie?” he grumbled, his voice as soft as he could manage. Alicia withheld a giggle as she mentally compared it to a rolling barrel of gravel.
“There’s folks at the table, and Mo wants you ready in case there’s trouble,” she said, nodding her head toward the group in question.
“Aye, I saw ‘em headin’ that way, but I thought they’d maybe the wits to steer clear,” Brit said, shaking his thick head as he stood on his toes to see into the corner near the fireplace. “Dinna get a good look, but I did see at least they’d a stick-bodied elf with ‘em, and whiles I canna say I likes those tree-huggers, they’re usually literate. Guess we found the world’s first stupid elf.”
Brit laughed at his own joke, and Alicia smiled nervously.
“Donna worry, lassie,” Brit said after a moment. “You go and help Mo, and if it looks like trouble I’ll be there before ye can shake yer beard twice.”
“I don’t have a beard, Brit,” Alicia said, teasing him.
“It’s
an expression lass, and… bah,” he gave her a gentle shove toward the end of the bar. “Get ye gone and help Mo.”
Alicia covered her mouth to muffle a giggle, then hurried to catch Moreen as she strode across the room toward the fireplace. The elf and the young man were seated at the table, and Alicia noticed irritably that the sign had been pushed well away from its usual position. Which meant the men were deliberately ignoring the warning.
The table at which they sat was in considerably better shape than any other in the room, though it was by no means new. No one had sat at the table in all the years Alicia had worked for Moreen, except for the owner herself when she’d had a few drinks and had dropped into a state of depression. Alicia had never seen the mysterious man for whom the table was perpetually saved.
Moreen and Alicia stopped just short of the table, and stood staring silently at the elf and the young man – the older human was nowhere in sight. Moreen’s arms were crossed, and Alicia stood with her hands on her hips; both women wore severely disapproving expressions on their faces.
“Are you here to take our order?” the young man asked, looking hungry. Alicia glared at his impudence.
“No, but I’m here to give you an order,” Moreen said, her voice hard. She thrust her finger accusingly toward the sign on the table. “Did you read the sign?” she asked, willing to give them a way out.
“Yes, ma’am,” the elf said softly. “Our companion assured us we could sit here.” He looked past Moreen’s shoulder and raised his eyebrow, then shrugged. Alicia glanced behind her and saw the third man walking slowly toward Moreen, a guarded expression on his face.
“And just who in the name of Hell is your companion and what gives him the right to countermand my sign?” Moreen asked, her irritation mounting. “I own this place, and it says plain as day on that sign that this table is for one man and one man only. And unless one of you is named Birch…”
“Hello, Mo,” a gentle voice said from behind them, cutting Moreen short. Her eyes widened and her jaw froze half-open as the irritation suffusing her face switched abruptly to a strange form of shock. Alicia had never seen Moreen struck speechless before, and she was forced to suppress yet another giggle at the expression.
Hunting The Three (The Barrier War) Page 13
