“Are we out of luck?” Kevin asked.
Lydia shrugged. “Can’t follow a trace over solid rock! Still, it’s not all rock ....”
She dismounted, searching with her face so close to the ground that the bardling was reminded of a hunting hound searching for an elusive scent.
“Yes ...” the woman said at last. “This way. I think.”
They rode on, following the road, the only sounds the creak of saddle leather and the dick of their horses’ hoofs against stone. Kevin glanced at Lydia, not at all happy about the uncertainty he saw on her face.
The walls of the gorge towered over them as they rode, weighing down his spirit. Staring up at the narrow slash of sky, Kevin couldn’t shake the sense of being a very small, insignificant creature in the middle of a very small, insignificant party—Now that he wasn’t so overwhelmed by the mere thought of adventure, he had to admit that five ... ah ... beings hardly seemed a big enough group to have any hope of success. Yet if the count had sent out any larger expeditions, the bardling hadn’t seen any sign of them.
I don’t understand that. 1 don’t understand any of that! We don’t even know for sure that whoever we’re following actually has Charina!
Kevin sighed. None of his doubts were going to matter if he couldn’t hold his team together long enough to accomplish something.
Team, ha! The last thing they were was a team. Oh, everyone was nicely polite to each other—if you ignored the subtle snipings of White and Dark Elf at each other, or the jibes of Lydia at these silly males, or the nasty little jokes of the fairy.
The bardling gritted his teeth. Tich’ki seemed to have decided he was the best butt for her humor she’d ever seen. She never said anything out-and-out hostile. Oh no, that would have been too simple! Instead, the fairy would wait till he’d finished practicing a particularly difficult melody on his lute, then ask innocently, “Are you going to actually play something now?” Or worse:
“When are you going to work some Bardic Magic?” knowing he was too scared of failure to risk trying another spell—Or perhaps she would simply wonder aloud what it was like co be a leader when he hadn’t really had a chance to be one. Anything, Kevin thought, to undermine what little self-confidence he had left!
The only two who did seem to be getting along were Naitachal and Tich’ki. After that first night, Kevin was still keeping a wary eye on those two, but so far they hadn’t done anything even remotely suspicious.
Except ... last night, there had been that bizarre whatever-it-had-been. Kevin frowned, remembering how he had caught the Dark Elf and the fairy huddling together mysteriously, so involved in what they were doing they hadn’t even noticed him. The bardling had gotten close enough to hear Tich’ki urge, “Try it again.” And Naitachal had actually responded with, “Pick a card, any card.”
At that moment, they’d spotted him. The Dark Elf had suddenly straightened, looking important and mysterious, but Kevin could have sworn Naitachal was embarrassed. And hadn’t he caught a glimpse of Tich’ki hastily hiding a fairy-size deck of cards?
Card tricks? A necromancer learning card tricks?
It made about as much sense as anything else so far.
“We’re not still on Count Volmar’s lands, are we?” Kevin asked warily—
“Hardly.” Lydia glanced up at the sky, judging direction. “I’m pretty sure we’re on the outskirts of crown lands. If we keep riding east like this, we’ll probably wind up in the city of Westerin.”
“If we get that far.” Eliathanis glanced up at the steep, brooding walls on either side, his usually unreadable eyes glittering with uneasiness.” I don’t like this place. Anyone could be lurking up there.”
“Claustrophobic el0” Tich’ki taunted. “Scared of the shadows in his mind!”
The White Elf glared at her. “I’m not imagining things! Westerin is an important trading city, is it not? Thanks to the rocks, this must surely be one of the only roads available for anyone who wishes to reach the city from the west. What better place for an ambush?”
“Don’t say something like that!” Lydia snapped. “It’s bad—”
A savage shout from overhead cut into her words.
“—luck,” she finished ironically, whipping out her sword.
Kevin didn’t have a chance to act, to think, before a heavy body hurtled into him, hurting him from his horse.
My lute!
The bardling twisted frantically sideways to save it as he fell, by luck slamming into earth rather than rock, mail shirt bruising his ribs. Aching and breathless, Kevin struggled to draw his sword, handicapped by the lute case’s strap. The bandit’s face leered into his own, foul-smelling and ugly as an ogre—and as deadly. Kevin saw the man raise the dub that was going to bash out his brains, but he couldn’t get the stupid sword free—
So the bardling did the only thing he could, smashing his fist up into the ugly face.
Ow!0h—damn!
He hadn’t been able to get much force into the blow, not tying sprawled on the ground, but it was enough to send pain flaming up his arm, because he’d connected with the man’s battered helmet, not his face. The bandit grunted in surprise, falling back just enough for the bardling to wriggle free. He squirmed out of the lute case, leaving the instrument safe—please, let it be safe! —behind a rock.
As Kevin frantically tugged at the hilt of his sword, the weapon came free of its scabbard so suddenly he nearly dropped it Hearing the bandit rushing him, the bardling whirled—and the man impaled himself on the blade.
For what seemed like an eternity Kevin stared helplessly into his foe’s disbelieving eyes, too horrified to move. Then those eyes glazed and the bandit slowly sagged, nearly dragging the sword from Kevin’s hand. The bardling swallowed hard and pulled the blade free, trying not to look at the blood darkening it, trying not to think about how dreadfully easily metal had slid into flesh. His hand still throbbed with pain, and part of his mind was yammering, It’s broken, it has to be broken! But it wasn’t, not if he could grip the Sword hilt so tightly, and there wasn’t any time to worry about what other damage he might have done.
Panting, Kevin glanced wildly about. For one confused moment he was reminded of a dog pack dragging down its prey. But these dogs were armed with clubs, knives, and homemade spears—and this prey was fighting back. Lydia, swearing fiercely, sword Hashing, still sat her horse, caking advantage of its greater height, or trying to: the confused, frightened animal, unused to battle, was more of a hindrance than a help. At least its frantic whirling and kicking kept anyone from closing with the woman—Tich’ki, her wings a blur, darted in and out of the battle with waspish speed, her spear jabbing savagely at bandit eyes. The two elves had given up their mounts and stood fighting back to back. White and Dark forgetting their differences for the moment—Eliathanis’ blade shone dear silver, mere human blood unable to stain it, while Naitachal—
Kevin stared. Naitachal was wielding a night-black sword that seemed to swallow up the light and that laughed softly every time it struck a foe. After the first few blows, the bandits, understandably, cringed away, putting themselves within Lydia’s reach.
He didn’t have that sword before, I know he didn‘t!