Brin stared ahead at the lights. They danced through forest boughs still thick with autumn leaves, bits and pieces of brightness. Fire! She whispered the word urgently, and it pushed back against the despair and the hopelessness that had closed in about her in steadily deepening layers since the march east from the Chard Rush had begun. How long ago it all seemed now—Allanon gone, Rone so badly wounded, and she alone. She closed her eyes against the memory. She had walked all that afternoon and into the night, following the run of the Chard Rush eastward, hoping, praying that it would lead her to some other human being who could help her. She didn’t know how long or how far she had walked; she had lost track of time and distance. She only knew that somehow she had managed to keep going.
She straightened, pulling Rone upright. Ahead, the lights flickered their greeting. Please! she cried silently. Please, let it be the help I need!
She trudged ahead, Rone’s arm looped about her shoulders, his body sagging against hers as he stumbled beside her. Tree limbs and scrub brushed at her face and body, and she bent her head against them. Putting one foot before the other with wooden doggedness, she went forward. Her strength was almost gone. If there was no help to be had here…
Then abruptly the screen of trees and shadows broke apart before her, and the source of the lights stood revealed. A building loomed ahead, shadowed and dark, save for slivers of yellow light that escaped from two places in its squarish bulk. Voices sounded from somewhere within, faint and indistinct.
Holding Rone close, she pushed on. As she drew nearer, the building began to come into focus. A low, squat structure with a peaked roof, it was constructed of timbers and sideboards on a stone foundation. A covered porch fronted a single storey with a garret, and a stable sat back away from the rear of the building. Two horses and a mule stood tied to a hitching post, heads lowered to crop the drying grass. Along the front of the building, a series of windows stood barred and shuttered against the night. It was through the gaps in the shutters that light thrown by oil lamps had escaped and been seen by the Valegirl.
“A little farther, Rone,” she whispered, knowing that he didn’t understand, but would respond to the sound of her voice.
When she was a dozen feet from the porch, she saw the sign that hung from the eaves of its sloping roof: ROOKER LINE TRADING CENTER.
The sign swayed gently in the night wind, weathered and split, the paint so badly faded into the wood that the letters were barely legible. Brin glanced up at it briefly and looked away. All that mattered was that there were people inside.
They climbed onto the porch, stumbling and tripping on the weathered boards, to sag against the door jamb. Brin groped for the handle, and the voices within suddenly went still. Then the Valegirl’s hand closed about the metal latch, and the heavy door swung open.
A dozen rough faces turned to stare at her, a mix of surprise and wariness in their eyes. Trappers, Brin saw through a haze of smoke and exhaustion—bearded and unkempt, their clothes of worn leather and animal skins. Hard-looking, they clustered in groups about a serving bar formed of wood planks laid crosswise on upended ale kegs. Animal pelts and provisions lay stacked behind the counter, and a series of small tables with stools sat before it. Oil lamps hung from low-beamed ceiling rafters and cast their harsh light against the night shadows.
With her arms wrapped about Rone, Brin stood silently in the open doorway and waited.
“They’s ghosts!” someone muttered suddenly from along the serving counter; and there was a shuffling of feet.
A tall, thin man in shirt-sleeves and apron came out from behind the counter, head shaking slowly. “If they was dead things, they’d have no need to open the door now, would they? They’d just walk right on through!”
He crossed to the middle of the room and stopped. “What’s happened to you, girl?”
Brin realized suddenly, through the haze of fatigue and pain that assailed her, how they must appear to these men. They might well have been something brought back from the dead—two worn and ragged things, their clothing damp and muddied, their faces white with exhaustion, hanging onto each other like straw-filled scarecrows. A bloodied strip of cloth had been bound about Rone’s head, but the rawness of the wound showed through. On his back, the scabbard that had once held the great broadsword lay empty. Her own face was soiled and drawn, and her dark eyes haunted. Spectral apparitions, they stood framed in the light of the open doorway, swaying unevenly against the night.
Brin tried to speak, but no words came out.
“Here, lend a hand,” the tall man called back to the others at the counter, coming forward at once to catch hold of Rone. “Come on now, lend a hand!”
A brawny woodsman came forward quickly, and the two ushered the Valegirl and the highlander to the nearest table, placing them on the low stools. Rone slumped forward with a groan, his head sagging.
“What’s happened to you?” the tall man repeated once again, helping to hold the highlander in place so he would not fall. “This one’s burning up with fever!”
Brin swallowed thickly. “We lost our horses in a fall coming down out of the mountains,” she lied. “He was sick before then, but it’s grown worse. We walked the riverbank until we found this place.
“My place,” the tall man informed her. “I’m a trader here. Jeft, draw a couple ales for these two.”
The woodsman slipped behind the counter to an ale keg and opened the spigot into two tall glasses.
“How about a free one for the rest of us, Stebb?” one of a group of hard-looking men at the fat end of the counter called out.
The trader shot the man a venomous look, brushed back a patch of thinning hair atop a mostly balding pate, and turned again to Brin. “Shouldn’t be in those mountains, girl. There’s worse than fever up there.”
Brin nodded wordlessly; swallowing against the dryness in her throat. A moment later the woodsman returned with the glasses of ale. He passed one to the Valegirl, then propped Rone up long enough to see that he sipped at the other. The highlander tried to grasp the glass and gulp the harsh liquid down, choking as he did. The woodsman moved the glass away firmly.
“Let him drink!” the speaker at the end of the bar called out again.
Another laughed. “Naw, it’s wasted! Any fool can see he’s dying!”
Brin glanced up angrily. The man who had spoken saw her look and sauntered toward her, his broad face breaking into an insolent grin. The others in the group trailed after, winking knowingly and chuckling.
“Something the matter, girl?” the speaker sneered. “Afraid you… ?”
Instantly Brin was on her feet, barely aware of what she was doing as she snatched her long knife from its sheath and brought it up in front of his face.
“Now, now,” the woodsman Jeft interceded quickly at her side, pushing her gently back. “No need for that, is there?”
He turned to face the speaker, standing directly before him. The woodsman was a big man, and he towered over the men who had come down from the end of the counter. The members of the group glanced at one another uncertainly.
“Sure, Jeft, no harm meant,” the offender muttered. He looked down at Rone. “Just wondered about that scabbard. Crest looks like a royal seal of some type.” His dark eyes shifted to Brin. “Where you from, girl?”
He waited a moment, but Brin refused to answer. “No matter.” He shrugged. With his friends trailing after him he moved back down the counter. Gathering close to resume their drinking, they began conversing in low tones, their backs turned. The woodsman stared after them for a moment, then knelt down beside Brin.
“Worthless bunch,” he muttered. “Camp out west of Spanning Ridge masquerading as trappers. Live by their wits and the misfortune of others.”