“It is them!”
Wilf and his helpers ceased tugging on the lower half of the Ancestor. “It’s who?” he asked.
Caeta could only point mutely.
Wilf knelt by the red stone. The inside face was carved with a number of small faces, each about the size of a man’s thumb, one below the other, from the rounded peak down to the break. The carvings had been turned inside when the wall was built, so no one living in Nowhere had ever seen the markings before.
Brow furrowed, Wilf ran dry, callussed fingers over the images. The bottom face was the smallest, but it had a pointed chin and long ears, like a kender. Above it was a human face, beardless … a woman’s perhaps. Was that a turban on her head?
Lichen encrusted the next two faces. Wilf scratched it away with his thumbnail as his companions crouched behind him, peering over his shoulder. Caeta’s startled cry had drawn others to the scene. They stood around, gazing at the broken totem, murmuring in low, amazed voices.
Under the gray lichen were a pair of similar faces, one facing up the other down, so it appeared they were staring into each other’s eyes. One was depicted with a hood on, almond shaped eyes, and peaked ears. His compatriot was bare-headed, with cropped hair and identical ears. Two elves …
“Carver,” Wilf said slowly, touching the lowest image. “Raika, Amergin, Robien-”
The next carved face had horns. Above it was a mature bearded man wearing a warrior’s helmet.
“What does it mean?” asked the young farmer at Wilf’s shoulder. He had no answer. He put the question to Caeta.
“It’s an omen,” she decided. “A promise from the past we did not see till now.”
Bakar scratched his scruffy cheek. “What good is an omen if you find it too late?” he said, bewildered.
“Think of it as a token from the departed gods,” the old woman replied. “A mark of favor from the great spirits to our humble village.”
With considerable excitement, the men pried loose the lower half of the Ancestor stone, eager to see what it might show. Some prediction of the future, perhaps?
There was another image on the lower portion of the bloc: a full figure in profile, as long as Wilf’s palm, striding vigorously. The relief was low, and the carving worn by years of rain, hot days, and cold nights. But two features were clear: the striding figure wore wide, billowing trousers, festooned with flowers, and on his head sprouted a fine set of deer antlers.
“So that’s who he was,” said Caeta.
Among the people of the plains there was an ancient legend. A legend of a stranger who came to their isolated settlements, spreading new ideas and new knowledge, teaching Nowhere’s ancestors what crops to plant and sharing the secrets of fire and metal. The Wanderer, he was called.
Or, as Ezu always insisted, the Traveler.
The family of a farmer named Vank were clearing their hut by firelight. Vank had fallen in battle, fighting as one of Amergin’s slingers. His hut was on the south side of the village, where the fighting had been the most intense. The roof had been smashed when an armor-clad bandit fell through it. Inside was a rat’s nest of broken rafters and thatch, which Vank’s wife and children patiently pulled apart and removed.
When the floor was clear, Vank’s wife dug down a few inches to the open their storage pit. Where there should have been a plank lid, she found only loose dirt. Surprised, she called for her children to help her.
Digging furiously with their hands, they finally dragged out the broken planks, and Vank’s wife thrust a burning brand into the hole.
A pale, dazed face looked up at her.
“Did we win?” asked Carver.
Vank’s wife swooned. Her daughter ran for help, and soon half a dozen armed farmers came running, thinking a live bandit had been found in Vank’s cellar. Malek was among them. He recognized the kender at once.
“Pull him out!” he shouted. A rope was lowered, and Carver was hauled up. He was covered with fine dust, and one eye was black and swollen shut. He’d spent almost a week in the pit, but he was in remarkably good spirits, considering.
“I tried to dig my way out, but every time I touched the roof, more dirt fell in, so I quit. I figured Sir Howland would get me out eventually,” he explained. “There was plenty to eat and drink down there.”
“Howland is gone,” Malek said.
Carver stepped out of the ring of curious villagers. He looked up and down the length of the common and saw none of his comrades.
“The bounty hunter elf and Raika too?” he said, already knowing the answer. The farmers nodded mutely.
“They left me!”
“We thought you were dead,” said Malek.
The kender thrust out his small chest. “Takes more than an army of bandits to kill Carver Reedwhistle!”
A bucket of water was brought, and Carver set to washing. When his hands and face were clean, he clapped his small hands together, rubbing them briskly.
“Now that we’re alone, just us friends,” he said, grinning. “Tell me about the treasure.”
Neither Raika nor Robien questioned Howland about their destination until they were well away from Nowhere. Once they were alone on the open plain, Raika said, “Where are we bound, captain?”
“Sergeant,” he corrected. “I mean to find the iron mine Rakell was operating and free any slaves still working there.”
“What about the Throtian Mining Guild?” asked the elf.
His tone was grim, unbending. “They’ll see reason once I tell them Rakell is dead and his band dispersed.”
“And the red dragon-what’s his name?” Raika said.
Howland did not answer. His plan for dealing with the powerful guild and the even more powerful Overlord was the same: Creep in quietly, do what needs to be done, and don’t attract too much unfriendly attention.
They were only three against unknown odds. A month past Raika would have called the enterprise mad, but after their amazing victory, she counted nothing Howland said impossible. She shrugged. It sounded like a worthwhile adventure.
On they rode. Howland didn’t offer to stop or make camp. His companions stayed by him, unwilling to disappoint him by asking for rest.
Under a patchwork quilt of stars and wisps of cloud, they reached the high range, the last of the plains before the mountains rose in the east. Raika nodded in the saddle, letting her bandit-trained horse follow Howland’s mount as she dozed. Robien might have napped too, but some hours past midnight he reined up.
“Whoa … what is it?” Howland said. Raika’s horse fell to cropping the coarse broom straw at their feet.
“Someone’s following us,” the Kagonesti said.
Howland rode back to him. “How many?”
“Just one, on foot.”
A glimmer of recognition lit up Howland’s tired countenance. “One, eh? Why do I think I know who it is?”
If Robien knew, he didn’t say. With Raika’s horse still obediently following, Howland and the elf sauntered back the way they’d come. In less than a mile they spied a single figure wading up the center of the trail they’d made in the grass.
“How can you sense someone trailing us by half a mile?” asked Howland.
“The grass is dry. I heard his footfalls.”
Howland wasn’t sure if the Kagonesti was pulling his leg or not. They waited, reins slack, until the person on their trail was within easy earshot.
“Ezu! Is that you?” called Howland. Raika snorted and woke up when he shouted.
“Greetings, Sir Howland!” answered the familiar, cheerful voice.
He was wearing another one of his bizarre outfits-a short kilt made of some dark, checkered cloth, leggings, and a hip-length wraparound robe in red and gold. He had on a wide, stiff-brimmed felt hat and a pair of saffron-tinted spectacles. An enormous bundle was slung on his shoulders, and he balanced his load by leaning on a long hardwood staff.
“What are you doing here?” asked Howland.