Shandril sighed, thrust aside such gloomy thoughts, and peered all around, through the dust, like a guard with any wits at all should.
Orthil was shouting at someone and waving one of those massive, corded arms, indicating that despite the heavy brush, his outriders should spread out to each side of the road and move ahead. Reluctantly two of the younger guards spurred their horses forward, and Voldovan promptly plucked a horn up from his belt-it remained fastened there, on long leather straps of its own, Shan noticed-and blew it, in a high, clear call.
Both of the outriders replied with horn-calls of their own-and when they were done, two more sounded from the rear.
Voldovan nodded and hooked his horn back into place. Shandril concluded that she'd be hearing those horns a lot during the days ahead. The caravan master's head was never still, she noticed. He seemed to spend most of his time peering at hilltops and gullies ahead and behind, but also from time to time he rode his huge horse through the caravan, glancing sharply here and there-almost as if he feared treachery as much among his clients as attacks from as-yet-unseen, lurking perils of the wilderland around them.
Excitement-nay, apprehension-was so strong in Shan as Scornubel disappeared in the rolling hills behind them that she could taste it and was almost sickened by it… but as the day wore on and the hot sun climbed the sky overhead, it faded into a wearying, lulling monotony of being, bruisingly jolted and nigh-deafened among the snorting, head-tossing beasts and ever-swirling dust. She could see, now, why everything-even the crossbows she and Narm held-were tethered to ring-bolts on the wagons, for 'twas all too easy to nod off and let something fall… and all too dangerous to leap down from a wagon and try to snatch something in the dust, with the wagons moving steadily and ponderously along like a purposeful herd of so many rothe.
Highsun-or rather, the next stream of goodly size they came to after the sun was at its beating height-meant a rest for the beasts and the folk riding in the wagons but not for the guards. This stopping place had been used by countless caravans before, and both outlaws and prowling beasts knew it. Even before the horn-calls were ringing out to slow and turn in, and Voldovan was turning himself into a whirlwind of shoutings and cursing pointings to avoid collisions between slowing and turning wagons, the guards were down from their saddles with their mounts swiftly and expertly hobbled and were fanning out into the surrounding brush to look for lurking dangers and to mark privy-hollows.
Arauntar came creaking along through the brush with a wickedly curved sword in one hand and a handbow-gun in the other, all grim business now, moving up and down the widening ring of guards. He gave Narm and Shandril a nod of approval because they'd heeded his earlier order to stay close together ("So pr'haps two dolts can serve as one fumbling guardsword") and passed on into the treegloom-to be followed, a few moments later, by Beldimarr.
Narm nearly choked in fear at the sudden, silent appearance of the second Harper, but Beldimarr gave him a calm nod, stepped around Shandril without saying anything, and stooped to duck under the fronds of a huge fern.
Then he froze as a low, blatting horn-call rose out of the woods ahead. "Trouble," he snapped, whirling back to Narm and Shandril. "Fall back straight that way, until you can see the wagons, an' then hold there until Orthil or one of us tells you different-or something you need to fight comes right at you!"
Without another word Beldimarr whirled back under the fern again and was gone. Narm and Shandril exchanged glances, then did as they'd been told, casting fearful glances around at the forest as they went. It seemed alive with snapping sounds and rustlings, now, but that could just be all the guards on the move, and not a foe.
Or it could be a lot of foes moving in as one.
After what seemed like a very long time, Orthil Voldovan came striding through' the trees to Narm and Shandril. "Either of ye driven horses harnessed to a wagon before?" he barked.
He didn't wait for them to shake their heads but whirled around again, waving at them curtly to accompany him.
They had to run to keep up with the caravan master as he strode along through underbrush and through branches, obviously not caring if he was heard a hundred miles off or broke every bough that dared to hang in his path. They climbed a little tree-cloaked ridge and plunged down into a wooded hollow beyond it, where a grim ring of guards was standing looking down at something in their midst.
Someone was dead.
The guards parted as Voldovan stamped up to them, and he whirled to glare at Shandril and take'her by the arm, to point down and ask, "Ye didn't have anything to do with this, now, did ye?"
Storstil would never grimace at Narbuth's babblings again. The drover lay huddled over a long, gnarled tree root where he'd obviously sat down to relieve himself, a smokeweed pouch and a broken clay pipe beside him, his distinctive red-trimmed, dun-hued tunic strewn with spilled smokeweed. His head was missing-burnt right away to a scattering of ash.
Narm swallowed and turned swiftly away, to walk a few blind steps through the trees. Shandril went white, swayed in Orthil's grip, then managed to say faintly, "No. No, Orthil, I did not."
The caravan master sighed. "So Arauntar said-good it was for ye that he went from the two of ye on to Pelgryn and then Thorst before finding… this. Better for ye that Pel and Thorst were always between here and where ye were sent- and saw ye not."
He turned away, and said over his shoulder, "Leave him for the wolves-after ye search him, Beldimarr, to make sure our Storstil wasn't carrying any secrets that might have made someone slay him. Bring boots, belt, all pouches and weapons, as usual. Thorst, ye're a drover now."
Thorst looked up at Shandril sharply, as if measuring her as a foe in a rocking, pitching wagon, then spat into the dead leaves and nodded without saying anything,
"With me," Voldovan ordered Narm and Shandril, as he turned to stamp back toward the wagons.
Other guards fell in around them, and they'd gone perhaps twenty paces together when the caravan master said suddenly, "I don't like it. I don't like it at all. We always lose a few on this run-clients who stray from their wagons at night to rut or empty their innards or have little covert trade-meetings that go wrong, and sometimes even a few in bright daylight, fighting off raids… but one of our own, like this, on our first stop…"
He shook his head and turned, hard-eyed, to glare at Shandril, then at Narm. He said bluntly, "Don't be a curse on me, now. This run's hard enough without deaths at every stop. Though I know what ye can do if 'tis needful, I also know what the lads'll do to ye if there're more slayings with no slayers before us… or if the killings go on."
They were almost at the wagons when a drover came running out of the camp to meet them, eyes a little wild. "Spells in one of the wagons, Orthil! Two dead, at least, and 'tis still burning-folk in the wagons around all shouting that they saw this man run off into the woods or that one, or five come in, or a dozen devils dancing about with tails a-waving!"
Voldovan quickened his pace into a run. Narm and Shandril, with all the other guards, stayed with him.
As they came out into the sunlight and a sea of frightened faces, the caravan master looked back at Narm and Shandril again. "Don't curse me," he said in a voice of dark promise. "I'm warning ye."