bastard with self-righteous aversions to liquor and ladies and comforts.I’d sooner take Dharkaron Avenger to be my drinking companion.’
‘Ah,’ said Medlir. He raised his lids and smiled, his eyes caught like a cat’s in the dying gleam from the fire. ‘If you fear Asandir might catch up with you, why not share the road with us? We’re headed into the low country, then southward to Shand in easy stages.’ He arose, stretched, then set the half-emptied flask companionably by Dakar’s left knee. ‘Halliron’s fingers get sore in the cold and lengthy hours of performance tax his strength. We seldom play long at one tavern. As our guest, you’d have free beer and most of the comforts you could wish.’
‘Oh, bliss.’ Dakar laughed, drained his goblet and licked the sweet dregs from his moustache. ‘I’ve just been kissed on the lips by lady fortune.’ He hefted the decanter with slurred thanks, and savoured the brandy by himself until he passed out in a heap beneath the bench.
The Mad Prophet awakened thick headed and tasting a tongue that felt packed in old fur. If lady fortune blessed him with her kiss the night before, she had stomped on his head the next morning. Peach brandy dealt a hangover to rival the most horrible torments of Sithaer. He could hardly have felt less miserable if somebody bad sunk a pair of fleecing shears up to their handles in both eyes.
His discomfort was not improved by the fact he sat wedged between bundles of baggage in a jostling, low-slung conveyance that just now was rolling downhill. Small stones and gravel cracked and pinged under iron-rimmed wheels that made as much noise as a gristmill. Poked in the ribs by something hard, buffeted to sorry chills by winds that smelled of spruce and fresh ice, Dakar groaned.
‘Oh, your acquisition is alive, I see,’ somebody observed with jilting humour. ‘Should we stop and offer him breakfast? Or no. Better ask first if he needs to piddle.’
Dakar cracked open gummed eyes. Granted a retreating view of a switched-back road edged with evergreen, he groaned and rolled back his head, only to be gouged in the nape by a flat griddle. He was in the Masterbard’s pony cart, inveigled there by Medlir’s sweet tongue and imprudent consumption of alcohol. Being stranded and broke in a backcountry tavern in hindsight began to show merits.
The brandy had spun him wicked dreams.
Badgered through his sleep by a quick-tongued man with green eyes, black hair, and the sharp-planed features of s’Ffalenn royalty, the Mad Prophet wondered what prompted his mind to play tricks and prod him with memories of the Shadow Master.
Then the cart jerked to a stop, which taxed his thought to a standstill. A shadow fell over him. Somebody not much larger than his nemesis in build, but with intentions infinitely kinder said, ‘
Do
you have to pee?’
Dakar rubbed crust from his lashes. Medlir leaned on the cart side and watched him with eyes of muddied hazel. His smile was sympathetic. ‘I don’t imagine you feel hale. Who’d have thought you the hero, to drain that flask to the dregs?’
‘If there’d been another just like it, I could’ve emptied that one as well. You would too, if you knew the man I’m supposed to be protecting.’ Dakar added with thick urgency, ‘Since you asked, the bushes are a very good idea.’
Medlir let down the tailgate, whose fastening pins and boards and battered binges combined to make a terrible racket. Holding his head, Dakar levered himself up and out from his nest amid the camp gear. He staggered into the roadway, not to relieve himself, but to find himselfa cranny in which to crouch and be sick. He managed to reach the ditch by the roadside. There Medlir’s thoughtful grip was all that kept him from pitching head-down into puddles scummed over in ice and stitched with brambles.
That wretchedness finished, back upright on unsteady legs, Dakar realized his feet were no longer unshod. Somebody had kindly, if
‘Ah,’ said Medlir. He raised his lids and smiled, his eyes caught like a cat’s in the dying gleam from the fire. ‘If you fear Asandir might catch up with you, why not share the road with us? We’re headed into the low country, then southward to Shand in easy stages.’ He arose, stretched, then set the half-emptied flask companionably by Dakar’s left knee. ‘Halliron’s fingers get sore in the cold and lengthy hours of performance tax his strength. We seldom play long at one tavern. As our guest, you’d have free beer and most of the comforts you could wish.’
‘Oh, bliss.’ Dakar laughed, drained his goblet and licked the sweet dregs from his moustache. ‘I’ve just been kissed on the lips by lady fortune.’ He hefted the decanter with slurred thanks, and savoured the brandy by himself until he passed out in a heap beneath the bench.
The Mad Prophet awakened thick headed and tasting a tongue that felt packed in old fur. If lady fortune blessed him with her kiss the night before, she had stomped on his head the next morning. Peach brandy dealt a hangover to rival the most horrible torments of Sithaer. He could hardly have felt less miserable if somebody bad sunk a pair of fleecing shears up to their handles in both eyes.
His discomfort was not improved by the fact he sat wedged between bundles of baggage in a jostling, low-slung conveyance that just now was rolling downhill. Small stones and gravel cracked and pinged under iron-rimmed wheels that made as much noise as a gristmill. Poked in the ribs by something hard, buffeted to sorry chills by winds that smelled of spruce and fresh ice, Dakar groaned.
‘Oh, your acquisition is alive, I see,’ somebody observed with jilting humour. ‘Should we stop and offer him breakfast? Or no. Better ask first if he needs to piddle.’
Dakar cracked open gummed eyes. Granted a retreating view of a switched-back road edged with evergreen, he groaned and rolled back his head, only to be gouged in the nape by a flat griddle. He was in the Masterbard’s pony cart, inveigled there by Medlir’s sweet tongue and imprudent consumption of alcohol. Being stranded and broke in a backcountry tavern in hindsight began to show merits.
The brandy had spun him wicked dreams.
Badgered through his sleep by a quick-tongued man with green eyes, black hair, and the sharp-planed features of s’Ffalenn royalty, the Mad Prophet wondered what prompted his mind to play tricks and prod him with memories of the Shadow Master.
Then the cart jerked to a stop, which taxed his thought to a standstill. A shadow fell over him. Somebody not much larger than his nemesis in build, but with intentions infinitely kinder said, ‘
Do
you have to pee?’
Dakar rubbed crust from his lashes. Medlir leaned on the cart side and watched him with eyes of muddied hazel. His smile was sympathetic. ‘I don’t imagine you feel hale. Who’d have thought you the hero, to drain that flask to the dregs?’
‘If there’d been another just like it, I could’ve emptied that one as well. You would too, if you knew the man I’m supposed to be protecting.’ Dakar added with thick urgency, ‘Since you asked, the bushes are a very good idea.’
Medlir let down the tailgate, whose fastening pins and boards and battered binges combined to make a terrible racket. Holding his head, Dakar levered himself up and out from his nest amid the camp gear. He staggered into the roadway, not to relieve himself, but to find himselfa cranny in which to crouch and be sick. He managed to reach the ditch by the roadside. There Medlir’s thoughtful grip was all that kept him from pitching head-down into puddles scummed over in ice and stitched with brambles.
That wretchedness finished, back upright on unsteady legs, Dakar realized his feet were no longer unshod. Somebody had kindly, if
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