He turned the bow of the craft into the stream and began pushing it against the gentle current. Bronwynn gagged at the sight of the waste and rubbish that bobbed along the water surrounding them. She decided even Admon Faye’s face was preferable, and looked back at him. “Is it always this deep?”
“Often deeper,” the slaver answered. “Be glad you chose to be a good little girl. I could have left you behind and in the spring thaw you’d have drowned in the stuff.” He chuckled lewdly.
Bronwynn turned away from his ugly smile. Maybe the garbage was better. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll know it when we get there.”
“It must be somewhere in the Spinal Range, or you wouldn’t have provided this cape ”
“I told you once, girl. You’ll know it when we’re there.”
The Wizard in Waiting SJ
It was clear Admon Faye would say no more. Bronwynn snuggled back into the cloak and rested, watching reflected light dance on the granite vault above her. The rhythm of the pole ramming into the sewer bed and the gentle rock of the boat made her drowsy…
Then she was wide awake, as many pairs of hands lifted her out of the rowboat. She was carried like a rolled-up carpet up a flight of steps, under the rough arms of several most ungentle porters. They sniggered, pinching and tweaking her flesh all the way across an underground stable toward a waiting horse. There they tossed her skyward, and she instinctively spread her legs to slam down into the horse’s saddle. Her hands were untied, then quickly bound again in front of her, and someone slapped the animal on the rump. It moved sluggishly out of the stable, into the sunlight.
Bronwynn squinted. This was only the second time she’d seen the sun in months. She ducked her head, protecting her eyes against the glare, but they soon adjusted, and she saw that she was just one of many riders, mounted and ready to move. She heard many shouts and cries around her, but easily singled out Admon Faye’s voice above the rest.
“What about Joss?”
“He rides to Dragonsgate. The barman at the Bull’s End told him your plans.”
Admon Faye swore savagely, then muttered, “Have you dealt with that barman?”
“His body floats in the sewer.”
“But Joss knows,” Admon Faye snarled, and he cursed again. “Very well.
We’ll have to go by way of the Great South Fir. That’s well out of our way but no matter. We’ll break from the woods due south of Tohn’s castle. Joss will find nothing in the pass but a lot of snow.” Admon Faye chuckled. “Wonder how he’ll justify that to our gracious Queen?”
Admon Faye spurred his horse to move abreast of Bronwynn’s. “Well, little girl, are you ready to ride?” Before she could answer, he grabbed the reins of her horse and dug his heels into the flanks of his own. Bronwynn clamped her knees tightly onto her saddle and leaned forward, as Admon Faye’s band of rascals charged westward toward the Great South Fir.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Swordsman’s Surprise
“PERHAPS you didn’t hear me the first time, Rosha. You are crazy!”
Dorlyth mod Karl’s’ face was redder than his beard.
“I d-did hear you the first time, father. And every t-tiroe since.”
“Then why do you persist in making a fool of yourself. There’s a blizzard outside!”
Rosha mod Dorlyth, pretended champion of Heinox, friend of Pelmen Dragonsbane and a bear’s-bane in his own right, did not reply. Instead he cinched the saddle of his war-horse a notch tighter, then turned to fetch his saddlebags.
Dorlyth ran his hand through the unruly curls that ringed his mouth, and sighed. “Son, I know it’s very difficult to come home once you’ve become a hero, but ”
“It’s not difficult to come home, father. It appears the d-difficulty is in leaving again. Would you hand me that?” He pointed to a scabbarded great sword that hung on the wall. Dorlyth nodded and pulled it down, fingering it lovingly before passing it to Rosha across the horse’s back. He had given the sword to the lad only six summers before, and already it was the premier weapon in the land. King Pahd mod Pahd-el, ruler of Ngandib-Mar, had honored it with a name, making it the first named sword in Dorlyth’s memory. “Thalraphis” he had dubbed it “the eye needle for though the weapon was five feet long, it had been no more than a needle in the eye of the great dragon, Vicia-Heinox. With this very weapon, Pelmen had slain the mortal enemy of all mankind.
Rosha took the sword and strapped it to his saddle. Then be glanced around the stable, trying to think if he were forgetting anything.
“Rosha son think it over! If she really did call you her treasure, the woman’s not going to run off and marry someone else before spring!”
“It’s not just B-bronwynn, father. It’s s-s-simply time to go!” That was true. From the moment he had arrived home he’d been wined and dined by every wealthy family in the land of Ngandib-Mar. King Pahd had given him the biggest banquet anyone could remember. His stomach still felt bloated.
The celebrations of his heroism had barely passed before the yule season arrived, and once again the lords and barons of all Ngandib had clamored for his presence. He was so tired of eating and of honors that he hoped never to see another breast of pheasant or golden goblet again. Being a hero had grown boring to him, at last, so he’d ridden home to the comfort of his father’s fire.
Dorlyth and Rosha had watched the yule log dwindle together, wrapped in bear furs, and had finally talked themselves out. Rosha learned a sad truth. Being a hero was much less satisfying than doing heroic things.
It grew dull and stale in a hurry.
And then there was Bronwynn. Princess of the Golden Kingdom of Chaomonous, far to the south, her last words to him had been a declaration of her love. Then she’d ridden away, to reclaim her throne from the false Queen Ligne, and he hadn’t heard another word from her.
Day after day he had watched the southern horizon for a blue-flyer bearing a message, but those carrier birds that did arrive at the castle brought only more invitations to dinner. Worst of all, he was stuttering again. He had to go! He stepped to the doorway of the stable and gazed out the open gate. Large flakes of snow tumbled gracefully
J8 The Wizard in Waiting from the sky, adding to the three-inch blanket of the stuff that already covered the cobblestoned courtyard.
“Only a fool would ride east in this weather,” Dorlyth growled, “and I didn’t raise a fool.” Rosha slung himself up onto the back of his war-horse. “On the other hand,” Dorlyth muttered, “maybe I did.” Rosha wheeled his mount and would have ridden out, but Dorlyth shouted,
“Wait!” and grabbed the reins.
“No, father!” Rosha yelled, then he clasped his arms tightly around his horse’s neck, as the animal reared to protect its master. The horse had been a gift from King Pahd, and was nervous and spirited.
An old warrior like Dorlyth hadn’t lived to become old by being stupid.
He beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the stable, and Rosha’s warning shout disintegrated into a chuckle. The young swordsman slipped down to the ground and caught the beast’s head jn his hands, saying. “It isn’t good to trample your master’s father, my friend.
Relax.” Then he turned to look at Dorlyth, still twenty feet away.
His father made a wry face. “Can I come tell you goodbye without getting stepped on?”
Rosha grinned, and spread his arms wide. Dorlyth mod Karis hugged his son powerfully, then stepped back to look at him. “Can’t blame an old man for being lonely,” he said gruffly. Rosha understood what Dorlyth was truly saying to him… “Go with blessings.” The young man nodded. Then he laid a hand on his father’s shoulder and squeezed it