Though staggered by Wulfgar's elbow, the driver was up again with blade in hand. Worse still, the other two swordsmen had found strong positions, one atop the bench, the other in front of the wagon. If that weren't bad enough, the merchant burst from the door, a wand in hand.
"Now we are the idiots!" Morik yelled to Wulfgar, cursing and spinning out from the attack of the swordsman on the bench. From the man's one thrust-and-cut routine, Morik could tell that this one was no novice to battle.
Wulfgar went for the merchant. Suddenly he was flying backward, his hair dancing on end, his heart palpitating wildly.
"So that's what the wand does," Morik remarked after the flash. "I hate wizards."
He went at the swordsman on the ground, who defeated his initial attempt at a quick kill with a circular parry that almost had the rogue overbalancing. "Do hurry back!" Morik called to Wulfgar, then he ducked and thrust his sword up frantically as the swordsman from the bench leaped atop the horse team and stabbed at his head.
The driver came at Wulfgar, as did the man he had just slugged, and the barbarian worked fast to get the hammer off his back. He started to meet the driver's charge but stopped fast and reversed his grip and direction, spinning the hammer the merchant's way instead, having no desire to absorb another lightning bolt.
The hammer hit the mark perfectly, not on the merchant, but against the coach door, slamming it on the man's extended arm just as he was about to loose yet another blast. Fire he did, though, a sizzling bolt that just missed the other man rushing Wulfgar.
"All charge!" Morik called, looking back to the rocky cliff on the left. The bluff turned his opponents' heads for just an instant. When they turned back, they found the rogue in full flight, and Morik was a fast runner indeed when his life was on the line.
The driver came in hesitantly, respectful of Wulfgar's strength. The other man, though, charged right in, until the barbarian turned toward him with a leap and a great bellow. Wulfgar reversed direction almost immediately, going back for the driver, catching the man by surprise with his uncanny agility. He accepted a stinging cut along the arm in exchange for grabbing the man's weapon hand. Pulling him close with a great tug, Wulfgar bent low, clamped his free hand on the man's belt, and hoisted the flailing fool high over his head. A turn and a throw sent the driver hard into his charging companion.
Wulfgar paused, to note Morik skittering by in full flight. A reasonable choice, given the course of the battle, but the barbarian's blood was up, and he turned back to the wagons and the two swordsmen, just in time to get hammered by another lightning stroke. With his long legs, Wulfgar passed Morik within fifty yards up the rocky climb.
Another bolt slammed in near to the pair, splintering rocks.
A crossbow quarrel followed soon after, accompanied by taunts and threats, but there came no pursuit, and soon the pair were running up high along the cliffs. When they dared to stop and catch their breath, Wulfgar looked down at the two scars on his tunic, shaking his head.
"We would have won if you had gone straight for the merchant after your sweep of the driver and crossbowman as planned," Morik scolded.
"And you would have cut out that man's throat," charged Wulfgar.
Morik scowled. "What of it? If you've not the heart for this life, then why are we out here?"
"Because you chose to deal with murderers in Luskan," Wulfgar reminded him, and they shared icy stares. Morik put his hand on his blade, thinking that the big man might attack him.
Wulfgar thought about doing just that.
They walked back to the cave separately. Morik beat him there and started in. Wulfgar changed his mind and stayed outside, moving to a small stream nearby where he could better tend his wounds. He found that his chest wasn't badly scarred, just the hair burned away from what was a minor lightning strike. However, his shoulder wound had reopened rather seriously. Only then, with his heavy tunic off, did the barbarian understand how much blood he had lost.
Morik found him out there several hours later, passed out on a flat rock. He roused the barbarian with a nudge. "We did not fare well," the rogue remarked, holding up a pair of bottles, "but we are alive, and that is cause for celebration."
"We need cause?" Wulfgar replied, not smiling, and he turned away.
"First attacks are always disastrous," Morik explained reasonably. "We must become accustomed to each other's fighting style, is all."
Wulfgar considered the words in light of his own experience, in light of the first true battle he and Drizzt had seen together. True, at one point, he had almost clobbered the drow with a low throw of Aegis-fang, but from the start there had been a symbiosis with Drizzt, a joining of heart that had brought them to a joining of battle routines. Could he say the same with Morik? Would he ever be able to?
Wulfgar looked back at the rogue, who was smiling and holding out the bottles of potent liquor. Yes, he would come to terms with Morik. They would become of like heart and soul. Perhaps that was what bothered Wulfgar most of all.
"The past no longer exists, and the future does not yet exist," Morik reasoned. "So live in the present and enjoy it, my friend. Enjoy every moment."
Wulfgar considered the words, a common mantra for many of those living day-to-day on the streets. He took the bottle.
Chapter 19 THE CHANCE
"We've not much time! What am I to wear?" Biaste Ganderlay wailed when Meralda told her the wedding had been moved up to the autumn equinox.
"If we're to wear anything more than we have, Lord Feringal will be bringing it by," Dohni Ganderlay said, patting the woman's shoulder. He gave Meralda a look of pride, and mostly of appreciation, and she knew that he understood the sacrifice she was making here.
How would that expression change, she wondered, if her father learned of the baby in her belly?
She managed a weak smile in reply despite her thoughts and went into her room to dress for the day. Liam Woodgate had arrived earlier to inform Meralda that Lord Feringal had arranged for her to meet late that same day with the seamstress who lived on the far western edge of Auckney, some two hours' ride.
"No borrowed gowns for the great day." Liam had proclaimed. "If you don't mind my saying so, Biaste, your daughter will truly be the most beautiful bride Auckney's ever known."
How Biaste's face had glowed and her eyes sparkled! Strangely, that also pained Meralda, for though she knew that she was doing right by her family, she could not forgive herself for her stupidity with Jaka. Now she had to seduce Lord Feringal, and soon, perhaps that very night. With the wedding moved up, she could only hope that others, mostly Priscilla and Temigast, would forgive her for conceiving a child before the official ceremony. Worst of all, Meralda would have to take the truth of the child with her to her grave.
What a wretched creature she believed herself to be at that moment. Madam Prinkle, a seamstress renowned throughout the lands, would no doubt make her a most beautiful gown with gems and rich, colorful fabrics, but she doubted she would be wearing the glowing face to go with it.
Meralda got cleaned up and dressed, ate a small meal, and was all smiles when Liam Woodgate returned for her, guiding her into the coach. She sat with her elbow propped on the sill, staring at the countryside rolling by. Men and gnomes worked in the high fields, but she neither looked for nor spotted Jaka Sculi among them. The houses grew sparse, until only the occasional cottage dotted the rocky landscape. The carriage went through a small wood, where Liam stopped briefly to rest and water the horses.