Текст книги "The Howling Delve"

Автор книги: Jaleigh Johnson

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Haig's blade came up, but he stayed at Kall's side. He laid a hand on Kall's arm, as if he might draw him away from his father. "Your captain was one of those who betrayed you, Lord Morel," he said calmly. "Do not trust him."

Dhairr glanced sharply at Balram. "That can't be," he said. "Kortrun—"

"The accusation is fair," Balram replied, cutting him off and surprising a frown onto Dhairr's face. "But you should know its source before you judge." He raised his blade. Haig batted it aside with a clang that was loud in the stillness of the garden. Balram merely smiled and pointed with the sword's tip at Haig's collar. A small silver pin glinted there, barely visible from the folds of cloth. Its crescent moon surrounded a harp and tiny stars. "A piece to rival even your finest work, my lord, if you'll forgive my saying so." His smile melted into a sneer. "We have a Harper in our midst."

"Harper?"

Dhairr started at the sound of his son's voice, as if he'd forgotten Kall was present. Kall stared at Haig, his hand outstretched to the man, too many questions pressing into his throat.

Balram continued, "There are traitors in your house, my friend," he said to Dhairr. "This one, I warrant, is Alytia's work."

"Is this truth?" Dhairr asked. "Speak!" he shouted when Haig hesitated.

Haig met Kall's eyes briefly. "I was asked by the Harper Alytia Morel to see to her son's protection when she was forced to leave this house. I honored her request. . . and continued to do so after her death."

"No," Kall shook his head in denial even as the words sank into him like a cold kiss, through the heat, the buzzing of insects, and the tension of raised blades all around him. His chest seized up. His mother... a Harper? Sent away? That was impossible. His mother died giving birth to him. His father told him the story long ago. Haig was confused, he was lying…

Beside him, Dhairr stood in a similar state of shock, but Haig's words did not have the same paralytic effect.

His gaze still on Kall, Haig never saw the attack coming.

Dhairr hit the Harper from the side, driving him to the ground. Haig's skull struck the fountain's edge, and Kall could see the whites of his eyes as he went limp. Dhairr hauled him over and plunged him up to his neck in the fountain, jolting the man back to semi-consciousness.

"Not yet, not yet," Dhairr growled. The sudden outpouring of rage transformed htm into a creature Kall did not recognize. Stunned, he fell back a pace.

"Before you die, you will tell me who hunts me!" Dhairr screamed. "Do you hear?" He shook the senseless Harper, plunging him beneath the water again. Haig's hands came up, spasming weakly. "Did Alytia send you to kill me? Is this her revenge?"

"Father, stop!" Kall grabbed Dhairr's shoulder, trying to wrench him off Haig. He pulled, gasping, pounding with his fists, but the lord's muscles were clenched balls of heat and strength. A boy couldn't hope to overpower him.

Kall felt a hand close over his throat, yanking him back. He glared hatefully up into Balram's eyes. "Liar," he gasped. Balram shook him.

"Now, now," he said soothingly, stroking a thumb across Kall's windpipe. "Leave them alone. You and I can entertain ourselves." He raised Kall to his toes. "You say Aazen was injured?" His jaw tightened. "How careless of them. It was supposed to be you. And where is Aazen now, Kall ?" Balram asked, his voice rising. "Alone . . . wounded? Did you leave him to die?" He pressed down. Spots clouded Kall's vision. Disgusted, Balram dropped him into the mud.

"He ... alive," Kall choked. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth. Using one arm for leverage, he dragged himself through the ferns as Balram stalked unhurriedly after him. "Haig!" he sobbed, watching the Harper's body twitch as his father held him under the water for the space of a breath, two, three—too long.

"Father!" Kall screamed as he clumsily dodged a swipe from Balram's foot. "Stop! Help me!"

Balram kicked him in the ribs, knocking the air from Kall's lungs. He tried to curl into a ball, but Balram kicked him again. Kall's arm went numb. He lurched back, reaching desperately, but his father didn't seem to hear anything going on around him.

"If you do not resist, I will tell your father you died defending him," Balram promised, and the reassurance, the sincerity in his voice sent a horrible chill through Kall. He scooped up a handful of mud and hurled it into Balram's face.

The guard captain staggered back, and Kall ran—out of the garden, through the main hall and the double entry doors. He stopped when he saw Haig's horse standing on the track leading from the estate. His ribs burned—hard breathing sent a fire raging over them.

He stumbled to the horse and crawled up the animal's back. It neighed and balked, but eventually settled as Kall draped himself over its back and kicked its flanks. The horse sprang to life, but Kall didn't even glance at the direction it chose. He half-expected a hailstorm of arrows to follow him out the front gates. He buried his face in the horse's dark mane and waited, but he felt only the fire in his ribs and an awful, searing pain in his heart.

CHAPTER FOUR

Esmeltaran, Amn

12 Eleasias, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)

Balram spat mud. The boy wouldn't get far. He raised his sword to the east tower, signaling Meraik. The man saluted and disappeared from view.

"Captain." Dencer hurried to him. He cast a wary glance at Morel, who crouched beside the fountain next to Haig's body floating in the water.

"Speak," Balram said, and added pointedly, "Kall yet lives."

"Forgive me, Captain," Dencer said, and lowered his voice. "Haig interfered. My arrow missed the boy."

"And found its way into my son," Balram said grimly.

"Forgive me," Dencer pleaded.

Balram regarded the man for a long time. "Bring my son home to me, Dencer," he said finally.

"I have already seen to it," Dencer said, visibly relieved. "Someone has healed him."

The Harper, Balram thought. "Begin a count of who is dead and who is merely wounded. If you find witnesses, silence them."

Dencer nodded and departed. Sheathing his sword, Balram went to Dhairr. The lord clutched the Harper's pin in his fist and watched the body float in the fountain. He looked up at Balram like a lost child.

His mind is shattered, Balram thought. This will be easier than I could have hoped.

"Come away, my friend," he said. "It isn't safe for you here."

Dhairr stood unsteadily. He allowed Balram to lead him from the garden, up the stairs to his office. He paused along the way, murmuring, "Kall?"

Balram fixed an expression of sorrow on his face. "I am sorry, my lord. I'm afraid your son was in league with the Harper. I cannot be certain, but he may have helped the assassins gain entrance to the house."

"To kill me. . . ." Morel's face turned ashen. "He is only a boy. The guards—he said they were traitors—"

"A lie," Balram said smoothly. He draped an arm over Dhairr's shoulder and pressed the object he'd been palming into the cloth of the lord's cloak and through, piercing the skin below his collarbone with a needlelike point.

Dhairr stiffened and tried to brush the stinging object off, but Balram held him fast, waiting for the magic to seep into his blood. When he was sure, he drew the object—a small, silver broach set with a square amethyst—out of Dhairr's skin and pinned it neatly to his cloak, as if it were an ornament that had always been there.

He supported Morel the rest of the way up the stairs and into the office, putting him in a chair. He took the one across the desk and waited, watching the magic swirl like winter clouds in his friend's eyes. Abruptly, Dhairr's vision cleared, and he sat up.

"Are you well, my friend?" Balram asked.

"Aye," Dhairr murmured, pressing both palms to his forehead. "What happened?"

"The wounds the Harper inflicted nearly overcame you," Balram said, rising. "I will send a servant in to tend them."

Dhairr touched the drying blood at his shoulder and temple. "The wounds, yes." He looked up at Balram. "I killed him?" he asked uncertainly.

"You slew the assassins who stalked you twelve years ago," Balram assured him. "Be at peace, my friend. You are safe."

"Safe," Dhairr repeated. He settled uncertainly in his chair as Balram strode from the room. When he was alone, he murmured, dazedly, "Kall."

* * * * *

Daen sat at the bottom of the stairway, his legs tucked up against his massive belly like a dam holding the floodwaters at bay.

"It appears you're finally learning, Kortrun," he remarked as Balram stopped and glared down at him.

The guard captain gritted his teeth. "My attempt failed," he said, "as you see."

"Spectacularly," Daen agreed, "but just as well. Now you can get on to the real business."

Had Balram not held the faint hope that the Shadow Thieves might give him another chance, he would have sliced open the fat rogue's belly where he sat. "What might that be?"

"Learning what it means to walk with us," Daen said, his manner turning serious. "How long do you think we would be able to continue our operations if we conducted our affairs in the manner you just displayed?"

"The Shadow Thieves object to the use of assassins?" Balram scoffed. "On what grounds? Morality?"

"Gods' laughter, no," Daen said. "We kill without hesitation . . . and without flair," he pointedly added, "unless the need arises. Only then do we draw attention to ourselves. Violent displays of death-dealing we do not require. We rely on Tethyr for that sort of high entertainment. I don't mind admitting, I despaired of you learning this lesson before it was too late." The rogue didn't appear the least concerned. "But rather than accept failure, you have turned your unfortunate mistake into a venture with promise. Lord Morel is now little more than a corpse, and you are holding his hand, directing him where to turn."

The description, however apt, sent an unexpected shudder through Balram. "And you prefer this .. . state of being?" he asked.

"Absolutely," Daen said. "Morel can keep making his baubles and increasing his fortune; you will continue to siphon the excess to your cause and, ultimately, to ours."

Balram pictured the look of childlike confusion in Morel's eyes and suppressed a wave of revulsion. "For how long?"

At that, Daen's gaze hardened. "As long as is required to convince me that you are worth my time and effort. Although, if it concerns you, I believe that Morel will perish of either the magic you used or the afflictions of his mind—perhaps both—long before his years catch up to him."

* * * * *

Aazen opened his eyes to the slanted wood ceiling of his room. A dull ache was all that remained of the searing pain in his shoulder. Blinking sleep away, he slid to a sitting position and rubbed a hand over the wound. It had closed completely, leaving the flesh smooth—a pink blemish in the surrounding pale.

His room—he was home, in Morel house. Aazen listened intently for the sounds of battle, for wounded cries, but he heard nothing. What had become of Kall and the assassins?

Footsteps echoed on the stairs—the familiar, purposeful tread of his father. Aazen pulled the quilt up to cover his healed wound, realizing immediately it was a useless gesture. Someone—Haig?—had brought him home—washed the blood from his skin. Likely his father had already seen the evidence of the magical potion.

"He cannot fault me," Aazen murmured. "I was unconscious. I was not responsible for what was done to me." He repeated the words like a protective charm. "He cannot blame me."

"You're awake." His father entered the room and perched on the edge of the bed. "Much has happened that we must discuss."

Aazen immediately sat up straighter. His father issued commands. He rarely offered to discuss anything with him, as one man would to another. "Kall and I were attacked at the lake," Aazen said, "by Dencer and men of Morel."

"I know," his father said calmly. "I orchestrated the attack."

Aazen opened his mouth, but no sound issued. He thought his father must be jesting, but by the look in Balram's eyes, Aazen knew he was not. Fear uncurled in his belly like an oily serpent. He swallowed and asked, "Why?"

"To slay Lord Morel and his son, to show our strength to the Shadow Thieves, that we might eventually gain a place among them," Balram explained. When Aazen only gaped, he went on, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you what I intended. I realize Kall is your friend. Dhairr was mine. Nothing about this decision was simple, Aazen, but I am trying to secure our future—your future. My actions were justified."

Aazen nodded automatically. He had heard such reasoning from his father before. When he awoke facedown on the floor of his room with a loose tooth or swollen lips, or when his belly burned from lack of food two days after some transgression, the actions were always justified. "Is Kall... are they dead?" he asked, striving to keep emotion out of the question. "Haig was with us—"

"Haig is dead," confirmed Balram, "but not by my hand. Dhairr killed him."

"Why?" Aazen hid his horror beneath confusion, which wasn't difficult. Morel, kill an ally? It made no sense.

"Haig was a Harper," his father explained. "Morel has reason not to care for them. Dhairr still lives, but he is no longer a concern. He is under my control and believes his son to be a traitor. Kall, however, escaped. I do not know where."

Relief nearly caused Aazen to swoon. His friend was safe.

"Men loyal to me are searching for him right now," Balram continued. "The boy has seen too much to live." His gaze fixed intently on his son's face. "That's why I need your help, Aazen."

Aazen's fear intensified. "What can I do?"

"Nearly all of your time is spent with Kall. You must have secret places, hidden grounds for whatever foolishness the two of you concoct. Do not deny it," he warned softly as Aazen started to shake his head. "Kall has no other family, nowhere to run except such a place. If we do not find and silence him, if he manages to reach the authorities in Esmeltaran, they will learn what I have done.

"Think, boy," he said, mistaking Aazen's hesitation for a lapse of memory. "You must know a place. We have to hurry. If I am caught, I will be killed."

Aazen frantically searched for a way out of his father's trap. His heart thudded wildly against his ribs. Betray Kall? It was unthinkable. Yet if he didn't, his father would be taken away, and it would be Aazen's fault. "I... I know of a place," he stammered.

Balram's face lit with an ugly smile. "Where?"

He would have to tread very carefully, Aazen thought, or his father would sense the ruse. The serpent in his belly threatened to rise up and choke him, but Aazen forced down the fear and guilt. "Near the lake—the Veshpel estate." He named a house that had burned in mid-Tarsakh. He waited a breath and added, as if it were of no consequence, "Many of us go there to explore the ruins."

The spark of triumph in his father's eyes dimmed. "Will it be occupied, at this time of day?" Balram asked.

"Possibly," Aazen said, and in truth, many of the local boys his age spent their free time among the blackened stones. But Kall would not go there for safety, of that he was certain. The estate was too near Morel house and too open to the world. There were better places to hide.

His father was silent, trying to determine the best course to take. Aazen prayed he would let him act, but that decision depended entirely on how much Balram trusted his son. In his heart, Aazen had always believed his father had little faith in him, and so he was surprised—and shamefully warmed—when Balram said, "Then you will have to do it." He nodded, the idea seeming to gain merit the more he considered it. "Kall trusts you. Take my horse. Find Kall in the ruins and draw him out, away from any watching eyes. You need not be the one to slay him," he assured Aazen, squeezing his son's shoulder briefly. "Draw him away, and we will be waiting."

Aazen sat silent a long time under his father's penetrating gaze. This would be the critical test. If he gave in too readily, his father might grow suspicious. Aazen swallowed, hard and audibly in the quiet room. "No."

Balram's eyes narrowed a fraction. "No?"

"I can't betray him, Father." Aazen put a tremor in his voice, a weak, small titter that his father would not be able to tolerate. His father despised weakness. "Please don't ask me—"

The slap blurred the edges of Aazen's vision. His left eye immediately began to throb and water, but the blow had not been debilitating. His father meant only to silence him.

Obediently, he sat, teary-eyed, as Balram rose slowly to tower over him.

"I am asking you, boy," he said, his breath hot and sour on Aazen's face. "I am asking you to help me, to protect me, as I would lay down my life to protect you. Do you hate me so much that you would allow me to be taken, to be killed?" His eyes softened. The hurt crept in. The sight of it made Aazen sick to his stomach.

"No, Father!" he cried, "I don't hate you!" And that was the truth. The only person Aazen hated in that instant was himself. "No, of course not!"

"Of course not," his father repeated, his tone soothing. "You are becoming a man, a loyal son." He touched a large hand to Aazen's head and wiped the moisture away from his reddening eye. "I will bring my horse, and you will ride. Go swiftly, and do as I instructed. In the morning, all this will be a fading memory."

A memory, Aazen thought. If only his whole life could be someone else's memory.

CHAPTER FIVE

Esmeltaran, Amn

12 Eleasias, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)

Kall swung off the horse. He seemed to fall a long way to the ground. He felt grass under his feet, and mud. In the colored twilight, he gazed up a steep hill speckled with what looked like small swaying firebrands.

The tangerine rose bushes were seasons old and thriving, planted one each in front of a dozen small headstones. The land he stood on belonged to Morel, the burial plots for servants who had died without family in his father's employ. No one passing on the nearby lane would notice the graves, but the expensive flowers—grown for the memory of twelve servants whose names would never be recalled—were sure to be marked by all.

He climbed to the steepest side of the hill, leading Haig's horse up alongside him. Letting go of the horse's reins, he dropped to his knees between two markers. He began plucking at the grass, fingers and nails raking, searching for a seam. His father had shown him the place long ago, but Kall remembered this pair of stones clearly. His father had made him memorize the names: Seth Tarin and Rose Olindrake.

Mud and grass stains covered his hands. It was no good—he'd need something to cut through. Reluctantly, Kall stood and turned to Haig's horse. He felt around the saddle blanket to the bags draped on either side. He found a knife in one.

Movement from behind set every nerve in his body on edge. Kall spun, slashing blindly with the knife.

Aazen caught Kall's arm before he could drive the blade into his neck. "It's me," he said.

Breathing hard, Kall took a long time to focus on his friend and comprehend that he was not some specter from the surrounding graves. The knife fell forgotten to the grass. "What are you doing here?"

Then it came to him in a rush—Aazen's washed-out face, his swollen eye, and the grim set to his mouth. "Your father," Kall croaked. "He—"

"I know." Aazen nodded. Kall mirrored the gesture. It was all the acknowledgment either seemed capable of giving.

"He will kill you," Aazen said. "His men are hunting for you now."

"They don't know about this place," Kall said. He retrieved his knife and started digging.

Aazen scraped dirt aside with his hands. "You don't have much time," he said. He hesitated, looking at the ground. "These won't help you."

Kall's blade found the niche he'd been looking for, and he peeled the grass back, like slipping the lid off a stubborn box. Beneath lay a hollow space lined with wood and cloth. Two bundles of tightly wrapped linen were nestled on top of this, the larger tied with a rope to be worn on the shoulders. He drew them out reverently, as he'd seen his father do when he'd first shown them to Kall.

"I'm going back," he said, glaring into Aazen's skeptical eyes. "If I can just get to Father . . ."

"Your father believes you have betrayed him," Aazen said bluntly. "He is allowing mine to deal with you, in whatever way he sees fit."

Kall's gaze faltered. "You're lying," he said automatically. "Father would never believe I betrayed him."

"He has no say in the matter. Father has Morel under his control. I don't know how. . ." Aazen's mind seized on his healed wound. "Magic, perhaps."

"Magic." Kall's forehead wrinkled. Magic was only a vague concept to him, little more than a fixture in the stories his father used to tell of his mother. Fantastic and sometimes brutal as the tales had been, he'd only ever listened to the parts about the woman herself, soaking up every small detail.. . .

No, Kall thought savagely, thrusting the memories away. All that had been a lie. "It doesn't matter," he said. "I'll go back and free him. I have these"—he clutched the bundles—"they have magic. Father told me. I'll kill Balram!"

The words rang out between them, and Kall sucked in a breath, watching Aazen, hearing the words and their implications for the first time.

He'd just sworn to kill Aazen's father. In one day, their worlds had shattered. Nothing would ever be the same for either of them again.

Aazen said nothing at first, only smoothed the dirt and grass back in place over the hole. He looked up as the sun dipped below the horizon. "You have to leave the city. I was sent out to lead Father's men to wherever you might be hiding. I came to warn you, but I can't stay here. When Father realizes I've put him on a false trail, he'll be tracking me." Aazen stared into the distance, as if seeing something frightening in the dark. "I can't hide for long."

"He won't forgive you. He'll beat you to death and won't know he's doing it," Kall said bitterly. "You have to run."

They had no choice. Aazen was right. If Kall went back now, without his father's aid, he had no hope. It shamed Kall to admit his fear, but stronger than that was the anger, the fury at Balram and all he'd stolen from Kall's family. Balram wanted him dead. The only action Kall could take right now to thwart him was to stay alive.

Absorbed in thoughts and plans, Kall didn't notice Aazen's silence. His friend got to his feet and started walking, out into the dark. Abruptly, Kall realized what he intended and yelled, "You can't go back. You'll die!"

Aazen paused, not looking back. "No. I don't think .. . no. I'm all he has. He cares for me."

Kall's mouth twisted. "How can he? Your father's a murderer."

Aazen said, calmly, "So is yours."

And then, as if it had been waiting, the scene in the garden broke fresh in Kall's mind. He saw his father drowning Haig as the sun shone down and insects buzzed around their bleeding wounds. He'd managed to block it out before, when he'd needed to escape, but Aazen's words conjured the memory effortlessly.

Kall put his head in the grass and vomited. Sweat dripped between his shoulder blades, but he was so cold his fingers were numb. He tried to stand, but the sickness racked his body. Aazen made no move to help him.

"You said ... you said he was under Balram's control!" Kall spat and wiped his mouth. "Father would never have killed Haig."

"Morel hates the Harpers. My father told me your father had reason to want Haig's death."

"No!"

Aazen looked down at Kall pityingly. "Get on your horse," he said. "Don't come back. Don't come after Balram. I'll have to ... to kill you, if you do."

Then Aazen went, his footsteps shuffling dully through the grass. Kall sat, frozen in shock, but he didn't call out again. He simply listened, his breath aching in his chest, as his best friend walked away from him.

Finally, his movements wooden, Kall tied the linen bundles on to his back and mounted. He pointed the horse in the direction of the city gates, picking his way in and out of sparse trees, avoiding the open fields of the cemetery wherever possible. After a dozen glances over his shoulder, he left his home behind.

The horse plodded on the road south, and when next Kall opened his eyes, he saw nothing but moonlight on grass and a row of carefully laid stones.

Kall thought he'd turned a complete circle, bringing him back to the same cemetery he'd left earlier that night. No, the stones were different—there were more here, older, and of elaborate design.

He slid down for a closer look, but the family names were none he recognized. A twisted oak overrun by tall grass and brush marked the border of the cemetery. Kall tied the horse to the tree, out of sight, and settled on the grass.

For a long time he stared straight ahead, listening for the sounds of hoofbeats or footfalls that might indicate pursuit. Hearing none, he untied the bundles from his back and clutched them tight.

His empty gaze focused on one of the unfamiliar markers. The name "Alinore Fallstone" was carved deep into the stone next to some kind of symbol. There were more words written underneath the name in a language Kall did not recognize.

He stared at the symbols, at the incomprehensible language, until the words blurred and darkness fell completely over his mind.

CHAPTER SIX

Esmeltaran, Amn

12 Eleasias, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR)

Balram waited at the door to Aazen's chamber. His gaze flicked briefly to Dencer, who'd found Aazen on the road and escorted him home. «Wait outside,» he said.

Dencer nodded and shut the door, sealing them off from the rest of the house.

Aazen stood in the middle of the room, waiting, while Balram locked the door and slowly turned. They stared at each other for a quiet breath, measuring, Aazen thought, how much had changed since they'd last spoken in this room.

"Kall is gone?" his father asked at last. He already had the answer, but Aazen recognized what he really wanted to know.

"Kall is leaving Amn," Aazen said. "He knows that to stay is to die. Your secret is safe. I made sure of it," he added, and realized immediately that it was a mistake. He sounded too confident, too powerful, and Balram sensed it.

His father's eyes narrowed and something ugly broke on his calm, inscrutable face. "You made certain. You stood in this chamber and lied to me, took my life into your hands. . . ."

"I protected you."

"You were protecting Morel's whelp!" His father took a step forward. Aazen flinched. He couldn't help it. "You gave no thought to me."

"That's not true, Father," Aazen said quietly. "I give every thought to you, every breath of my life."

"What is it you want, Aazen?" his father asked, his tone altering to curiosity. "You could have gone with Kall. You were clever to lead me astray, more careful than I gave you credit for. I will never make that mistake again," he added, his face darkening. "Yet you returned to me."

"Yes. I want nothing from Kall."

"Why did you come back?"

Aazen would never know why, just as he had never understood the desire that clawed him from the inside. The galling need to please his father, to win approval from this man, this thing who might kill him with a misplaced blow—the need would destroy him one day. He knew that, accepted it, because he could not do otherwise.

He tried to hide the helplessness he felt, but his father saw, and he smiled—a small, satisfied expression. Satisfied because he still had a loyal son, or because he had a pawn he could twist and control? Aazen wondered. Deep down, he knew it was the latter, and for one burning instant, he hated his father as he had never hated anything in his life. Then the feeling was gone, fading to ash as Balram put a hand on his shoulder.

"We will talk more of this later. For now, all that matters is you chose to return."

"Yes, Father," Aazen said. Resignation drained the anger as it had long ago drained the fight out of him. He barely registered the change in pressure at his shoulder, the alteration from affection to purpose—his father's hand slowly turning him to face the wall.

Then there was only pain.

* * * * *

Kall awoke to the sound of a falling tree.

He scrambled up and around Alinore's grave as the sun disappeared, blotted out by the falling trunk. It struck the forest floor with a deafening thud.

Forest.. . Kall's head whipped around. Trees surrounded him, and in the distance, a cap of mountains graced the southern sky. Haig's horse was gone, and so was the cemetery. All that remained were the bundles he'd been clutching against his chest and Alinore's grave.

Wrong . . . wrong, all wrong. Was he dreaming? Then ...

"Watch out, you!" A terrific weight slammed him from behind, knocking him to the ground as another trunk fell past his vision.

"That the last of them, by the bloody gods?" shouted a second, muffled voice.

"All clear." The crushing weight fell away, and Kall saw a man peering down at him, haloed by a sea of leafy green. The man's eyes were large and startlingly blue against a dirt-smothered face, and his ears curved as if the tips had been threaded through a needle. On rare occasions, Kall had seen half-elves in Esmeltaran, but never one so large as the figure staring at him now.

"Six young oaks! Six of Nine Hells, that's what you're in for," said the muffled voice again, this time at Kall's elbow.

Kall shrieked as a head burst up from the loose dirt where only a few breaths ago a tree had swayed. A hand followed to wipe the dirt out of a black beard on a pitted, distinctly human face.

"Garavin drew the map," the half-elf said, a bit defensively.

The head and the arm weren't having any of it. "Which you strayed from by a full thirty steps! Look, you." The human's other arm burst up, spraying Kall with more dirt. He flapped a crude drawing in front of the half-elf's blue gaze. "Any more off and you'd have taken the Weir!"

As the pair continued to argue over him, Kall started to slide backward, groping for a weapon, a stick, a rock, anything.