“Seen Crake?” he asked, as Narren’s fellows raked in their winnings.
“Probably napping in the wine cart.” Narren often accused others of vices he wanted to commit himself.
In fact Crake was awake, though comfortably ensconced with his feet propped up on the driver’s box of his wagon. The young flutist was enlarging the holes in his instrument with a slim, sharp blade. He hailed Tol’s arrival.
“A new flute?” Tol said.
“Naw, an old one. They get soft, you know, from spit and breath blowing through them,” Crake explained. “The wood swells, changing the pitch, so I have to open up the holes to keep things in tune.”
Tol climbed in beside his friend. He pulled off his helmet, running his ringers through his sweat-sleeked hair and glorying in the fresh air. For a moment he envied Crake’s pleasant life, and told him so.
“It isn’t bad,” the youth replied. He dipped a hand below the driver’s box and brought out a half-full wineskin, offering it to Tol. It was politely declined, and Crake set it aside. “But there’s a lot of ugly work in tavern life, too.”
Tol prompted him to go on.
“Dealing with drunks is the worst. How would you like to wrestle nightly with besotted soldiers who think they’re the emperor’s champion swordsman? If you tap one with a persuader, then you have to drag his arse outside, and nothing weighs more than a lifeless body. But leave the fellow on his feet, and he’ll either take a swing at you, or heave his supper on your shoes.” Crake blew a random note on the flute. “Some life, eh?”
Tol gazed into the woods. The low, westerly sun washed the Great Green with bloody light, yet the brilliance seemed to penetrate only a few steps into the forest.
“I wonder what it’s like?” he said. “Battle, I mean.”
“Loud, I imagine. Sweaty. And scary.”
“Do you suppose they’re fighting now?”
Crake laid the flute on his chest, and gave his friend a thoughtful look. “You really do wish you were with them, don’t you?”
“Better than waiting here, doing nothing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” Crake said, and smiled, a quick flash of teeth in the gathering dusk. “We’re not doing nothing. I’m tuning my flute, and you’re daydreaming.”
He pulled the stopper of the wineskin and let it dangle on its cord. The potent aroma of red wine filled the air between them. Crake took a drink, then passed the skin to Tol.
“And now you’re drinking,” he said wryly. “That’s not nothing, either.”
Tol thought he was too excited to sleep that night, hut nodded off on his bedroll before the campfire had burned down to embers. Night passed peacefully until a firm hand prodded him awake.;
“Eh, what is it? Who are you pokin’, Janar, you dolt-”
“Wake up, boy. There’s trouble.” The voice belonged not to Janar, but Felryn. The healer looked worried.
Tol bolted upright. “What trouble?”
Felryn hushed him and said softly, “Not here. In the woods.”
He beckoned the puzzled youth to follow. They went to Felryn’s wagon, a large, canvas-roofed vehicle drawn by six oxen. Inside, the air was hot and heavy, laced with musky incense. At the far end of the wagon was a small altar to Mishas inscribed with arcane symbols of the wizard’s craft. A thick candle burned on one side, and several pewter talismans lay beside the steadily burning light. Tol and Felryn squeezed in, and the healer closed the flap.
“First, I must anoint you,” the healer muttered. “So as not to offend the gods.”
He took tiny brass vial and shook out a few drops of clear oil on his fingertips. He dabbed the oil first on Tol’s forehead, then his chin, and finally both cheeks. As the liquid warmed, Tol detected a faint, spicy aroma.
“I was consecrating talismans for the protection of Lord Odovar and his warlords,” Felryn said. “Nothing was going well. I broke my stylus, and the sacred candle went out twice…” He frowned. In the candlelit gloom, his form seemed to merge with the shadows. His strong face resembled a mask carved out of smooth, dark wood.
“Bad omens, but I put them down to nerves. I was nearly finished with the dedication of these two medals to Corij when there was a flash of fire, and this happened.” He held up the two medallions: they were fused together, edge to edge.
“What does it mean?” Tol asked, head swimming a little from the overpowering aroma of incense.
Felryn closed his long fingers around the ruined medals.
“The air here is heavy with magic. There are powerful spells being cast, not far away-spells against our people-and, I fear, much danger for Lord Odovar.”
“Who’s casting these spells? Foresters?”
“No, not the local shamans; their power is drawn from the realm of Zivilyn. There are stronger forces stirring.” When Tol looked alarmed, Felryn stared at him silently for a few seconds, rubbing the fused talismans between his hands. “I will see what I can see,” he said at last.
He pulled the silver Mishas medallion from beneath the neck of his robe. Clenching it in one hand and the fused Corij talismans in the other, he closed his eyes, lowering his chin to his chest. Tol held his breath, waiting to see what would transpire.
The silence deepened. One by one the night sounds from outside-the chirrup of crickets, the muted call of an owl, even the whisper of wind in the long grass-all ceased. Soon, Tol realized he could no longer hear even his own breathing. The lack of sound was absolute, pressing against his ears like a thick blanket. He could feel himself gasping for air, his mouth wide, but still heard nothing.
Felryn began to tremble. When at last he spoke, although his voice sounded flat and toneless, Tol felt a huge surge of relief. Any sound was welcome after the dreadful, smothering silence.
“Great forces are at work. They do not originate in the forest-though that’s where they’re working,” Felryn intoned. “Lord Odovar faces death-a trap, an ambush!” His eyes sprang open, wide and worried. “And so does Egrin!”
Tol’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to shout questions, demand more information, but he feared distracting the healer from his vision. So he waited.
After a pause, Felryn closed his eyes again, and continued: “Six leagues from here is a stream, bent like a horseshoe, in a deep ravine. A large tree lies across it, like a bridge. The marshal cannot advance on horseback across the ravine. He dismounts and starts over the log on foot. The log breaks when he’s halfway across; it has been sawn through, save for the last bit on top. Odovar falls into the stream. It’s only chest-deep, but with his bad leg he can’t get out.”
Eyes still shut, Felryn turned his head, as though looking at something in the scene he described.
“Arrows fly-the foresters are all around.” Felryn’s voice lost its toneless quality, and he exclaimed, “Men struggle to reach Lord Odovar, but all who try are slain! The enemy is in the trees… they have good bows. The marshal is hit! He brandishes his sword and calls for a charge. But the mounted warriors have no room to maneuver among the closely growing trees. They are felled from all sides by arrows and thrown spears. Egrin-”
The healer grimaced, moving his head left and right, searching, then reported, “I cannot see. Something impedes my sight.”
Tears oozed from under Felryn’s rightly clenched eyelids-red droplets-blood, not water. He opened his eyes and inhaled deeply. Immediately the oppressive silence ended, and the familiar nighttime sounds flooded back into Tol’s grateful ears.
“I will rouse Durazen and seek his counsel!” he said, gripping Felryn’s arm. “He’s the senior warrior in camp.”