By now there was a wide circle around Aurhinius, Nemyotes, and the three kender, two living and one dead. The secretary bent slightly at the knees, all he needed to do to bring his eyes level with the kenders’, who were both tall for their race.
Then he spoke, for nearly a minute, without Aurhinius recognizing any word except his own name and “Istar.” The kender did not seem much happier when Nemyotes was finished, but at least they no longer had their hands on their daggers.
A bearer party pushed through the circle of soldiers with a litter, and held the litter while the two kender laid their dead comrade on it. Aurhinius nodded, and the solemn procession turned about and marched off toward the commanders’ tents.
“What did you tell them in-I assume that was kender speech?”
“Yes.”
“I never knew you had learned it.”
“I wish no one knew that even now. With folk like Zephros about, it’s a valuable secret. But I wanted to make sure they didn’t do anything foolish. At least until they are sure that they will not have justice.”
Aurhinius lowered his voice, so that only Nemyotes could hear. “Young man, do I sense a threat in those words?”
“Oh, not at all, my lord. I would not think of such a thing.”
You would not, thought Aurhinius, but what about the kender?
Standing around on the bloody sand, however, would bring no swift answer to that or any other question. Aurhinius raised his hand and signaled the escort to form up again, for the return to his tent.
It was even possible that once he had given the remaining necessary orders for investigating the kender’s death, and if the incident had subdued would-be rioters for the night, he might actually get a few hours’ sleep before dawn.
It was easy for one as skilled in desert-craft as Hawkbrother to crawl over the canyon rim. It was not as easy to find a way along the near-vertical slope below, and it proved impossible to traverse the way in silence.
Hawkbrother himself made no noise save for his breathing and the drops of sweat that fell from him in spite of the chill of the night. But rock chips and even pebbles insisted on coming loose and plummeting down into the darkness. Hawkbrother’s keen hearing let him follow their faint clicks and clatters all the way down. He could only pray to the Father of Good (whom other humans called Paladine) and the Son of War (known elsewhere as Kiri-Jolith) that none of the ears above him were as sharp as his.
Hawkbrother was a more skilled climber than most of the desert folk; climbing had, at times, been the only way of escaping his brothers. The traverse of the canyon wall in the dark stillness taxed his skills to the utmost, and demanded his full attention.
It was his nose that finally told him he was close to the animals, even before his ears heard the faint stamping of hooves on sand, the creak of tethers, and the faint whuffles and snorts. He smelled and listened to determine if the animals had caught his scent or sound, or were uneasy for any other reason.
He would have no more than a few seconds, once he was over the rim, before the beasts warned the camp. But that would be all he needed.
Luck was with him. The animals held their peace, and he found a firm rest for one foot, so that he could use both arms and one leg for the final leap to level ground. Muscles bowstring-taut, he gathered himself and made that leap.
For a moment he was in midair. For another moment, he was sure he was falling. No warrior’s oaths could keep from his mind the thought of the drop below, onto rocks that could pierce, crush, and shatter a man all at the same time.
Then he was tumbling on gravel-and a booted foot stamped down where his throat had been seconds before.
Hawkbrother’s instincts guided him. He rolled, in the direction of the foot, and rammed hard against a pair of legs. He clutched them as he rolled again, jerking the person off balance. The legs’ owner fell atop Hawkbrother, and he butted him under the jaw with his head, punched him in the stomach, and generally tried to silence him without permanent damage.
Somewhere in the middle of this silent grapple (in which the other was refusing to lie down and become courteously senseless), Hawkbrother realized he was fighting a woman. No city-bred maiden, either, but a woman as stout-thewed and determined as a warrior maid of the Gryphons.
Hawkbrother was relieved to be fighting a worthy opponent. There was no honor in fighting women as helpless as children. But the most helpless woman could still scream, and this one would if she could not win free of Hawkbrother by her own strength and skill.
Hawkbrother held his opponent with one hand while he worked his dagger sheath free and reversed it, holding the sheathed blade with the intent of striking with the weighted hilt. The woman would awaken with a thundering headache, but she would awaken, and there would be no blood feud between him and-
Hawkbrother soared into the air as if the woman had been playing kickball with him. It was a moment before he realized he was being pulled rather than pushed into the air. Something had him by the braids and his dagger arm and lifted him into the air as easily as he could lift a month-old puppy.
He dangled, the grip on his braids just beginning to hurt. Footsteps came behind him. Then a savage blow to his lower back made pain sing (or rather shriek) all up and down his spine, and all through his middle, from back to front.
He heard something that might have been an obscenity, in a woman’s voice, then another voice, a man’s this time, from closer at hand.
“Enough, Serafina. He is helpless. This must be settled in an honorable way.”
Hawkbrother twisted about, and found himself staring into a pair of wide blue eyes, on a level with his-when his feet were several hands off the ground. He thought briefly of striking the giant with the sheathed dagger he still held, but feared success more than failure.
The giant, after all, seemed to know enough of honor to at least speak the word plainly. The woman Serafina might know it also, but her bout with Hawkbrother seemed to have left her in no state of mind to show it.
“My name is Hawkbrother, son to Redthorn, chief of the Gryphon clan of the Free Riders,” the desert warrior said. “I swear by the True Gods and all the chiefs whose blood is in me, to accept your offer of an honorable settlement of our quarrel.”
Then he opened his hand, and his dagger thumped on the gravel.
Chapter 3
Pirvan and Haimya were close together under their blankets, and considering getting closer, when the shout of alarm roused the whole camp.
Pirvan’s rising lacked the dignity appropriate to a Knight of the Sword. He lurched rather than leapt upright, then caught a foot in the blankets and nearly sprawled on his face. He saved himself from a fall by clutching the tent pole, which promptly tore out of the ground, bringing the tent down atop both of them.
Haimya did not, on the whole, help matters by starting to giggle. She controlled herself before the giggles became open laughter, however.
Given that Pirvan had not yet removed his loincloth, he dressed and armed himself in the open. Haimya, being even less clad, remained under the tent as she passed garments and weapons out to him. Soon, she emerged in trousers and tunic, a shield slung across her back and sword and dagger in her belt.
Neither wasted time with footgear, but made their way swiftly toward the animals. They were not swift enough to reach the scene ahead of most of the rest of the camp, including Grimsoar One-Eye, who was holding Serafina in an embrace at once fierce and tender. It was as if he feared to have her snatched away the moment he loosened his grip, but also that her bones were of spun glass, easily crushed.
Tarothin held a lantern over his head, so that all its magical light was cast downward. He looked worse than could be explained by his suddenly being routed from bed.