top of that, you’re jumpy as an unshod colt! Gotta be somethin’ to that, ain’t there?”
“My story?” Lad was once again unsure of what to say. Flindle wanted something from him, but Lad had no idea what a ‘story’ was. He was curious again, however, and forged ahead. “What is a story?”
“Boy, you’re an odd one, ain’t ya? You know! Where are you from? Where’s your family? How come you’re on the road all alone?” Flindle tilted the flask again then leveled a bleary-eyed stare into Lad’s eyes. He squinted slightly as if he were seeing something he didn’t understand, and then shook his head. He glared at the flask in his hand, jammed in the cork, and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Damned cheep booze got me seein’ things. Oh, to hell with it, Lad! You don’t have to tell me nothin’ about yourself, do ya? I’m just tryin’ to make conversation is all, ain’t I?” Flindle levered himself up to a slightly wobbly stance and nodded to Lad once more.
“It’s late, and I’m fer bed.” He glanced again at the boy and shook his head in confusion. “You put more coal on the fire if you get cold, now, hear? I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
“Yes, Sir,” Lad said, his curiosity blazing like a forest fire in his mind. What was Flindle talking about? Was the whiskey really making him see things, or had the man seen something in him that he did not understand? The thought worried him slightly, but not overly so. He was safe here, at least for the time being. He had food and a warm place to sleep, and would get money for the work he had done this day. He wrapped himself in the moldy old blanket Flindle had given him and sat down with his back to the fire box. The bricks were pleasantly warm from the banked fire, and the night was cool and alive with the sounds of the forest.
Not really tired, Lad sat up for some time, staring out at the quiet logging camp, listening and thinking about the decisions he’d made, the paths he’d traveled, and, of course, his destiny. The night dwindled on, and the moon settled behind the lofty pines, deepening the darkness and heightening the faint magical glow from Lad’s eyes.
Chapter VI
“D on’t stir up trouble, Targus,” the Grandfather of Assassins ordered his Master Hunter. The half-elfin chap had been hunting people for the guild for decades and could follow a ten-day-old trail over rock, snow, sand or even ice. Whatever he hunted, he brought back, be it animal, man or elf, dead or alive. “It’s two days past the appointed time of their arrival. Corillian would not be late for this; he knows what is at stake. Something has happened to them and kept him from sending word. There may be rumor of it somewhere on the road, and more can be learned from a wagging tongue than a slit throat.”
“Of course, Grandfather.” The slim man leapt into the saddle, snapping his fingers at his two apprentices, who followed suit. He squinted up at the faint blush of the early morning sky. “The weather has been good and will remain so. The tracks will be easy to read. I’ll find the weapon and bring it back to you.”
“Remember, Corillian could look like anyone if he so wished, old or young, man or woman, but the weapon should be about the age of your younger apprentice. He should look like a normal boy, but he may act strangely. He’s dangerous. If he’s run away, don’t try to capture him. Just track him.” He handed up a heavy pouch. “If you do not find them on the road from here to Krakengul Keep, send word, but keep looking. Spend whatever you must to loosen tongues, but find me that weapon.”
“Consider it done!”
Targus lashed the money to his saddle and dug one spur into his mount’s wither, spinning the gelding on its hocks. He and his apprentices clattered out of the courtyard and through the
“My story?” Lad was once again unsure of what to say. Flindle wanted something from him, but Lad had no idea what a ‘story’ was. He was curious again, however, and forged ahead. “What is a story?”
“Boy, you’re an odd one, ain’t ya? You know! Where are you from? Where’s your family? How come you’re on the road all alone?” Flindle tilted the flask again then leveled a bleary-eyed stare into Lad’s eyes. He squinted slightly as if he were seeing something he didn’t understand, and then shook his head. He glared at the flask in his hand, jammed in the cork, and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Damned cheep booze got me seein’ things. Oh, to hell with it, Lad! You don’t have to tell me nothin’ about yourself, do ya? I’m just tryin’ to make conversation is all, ain’t I?” Flindle levered himself up to a slightly wobbly stance and nodded to Lad once more.
“It’s late, and I’m fer bed.” He glanced again at the boy and shook his head in confusion. “You put more coal on the fire if you get cold, now, hear? I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
“Yes, Sir,” Lad said, his curiosity blazing like a forest fire in his mind. What was Flindle talking about? Was the whiskey really making him see things, or had the man seen something in him that he did not understand? The thought worried him slightly, but not overly so. He was safe here, at least for the time being. He had food and a warm place to sleep, and would get money for the work he had done this day. He wrapped himself in the moldy old blanket Flindle had given him and sat down with his back to the fire box. The bricks were pleasantly warm from the banked fire, and the night was cool and alive with the sounds of the forest.
Not really tired, Lad sat up for some time, staring out at the quiet logging camp, listening and thinking about the decisions he’d made, the paths he’d traveled, and, of course, his destiny. The night dwindled on, and the moon settled behind the lofty pines, deepening the darkness and heightening the faint magical glow from Lad’s eyes.
Chapter VI
“D on’t stir up trouble, Targus,” the Grandfather of Assassins ordered his Master Hunter. The half-elfin chap had been hunting people for the guild for decades and could follow a ten-day-old trail over rock, snow, sand or even ice. Whatever he hunted, he brought back, be it animal, man or elf, dead or alive. “It’s two days past the appointed time of their arrival. Corillian would not be late for this; he knows what is at stake. Something has happened to them and kept him from sending word. There may be rumor of it somewhere on the road, and more can be learned from a wagging tongue than a slit throat.”
“Of course, Grandfather.” The slim man leapt into the saddle, snapping his fingers at his two apprentices, who followed suit. He squinted up at the faint blush of the early morning sky. “The weather has been good and will remain so. The tracks will be easy to read. I’ll find the weapon and bring it back to you.”
“Remember, Corillian could look like anyone if he so wished, old or young, man or woman, but the weapon should be about the age of your younger apprentice. He should look like a normal boy, but he may act strangely. He’s dangerous. If he’s run away, don’t try to capture him. Just track him.” He handed up a heavy pouch. “If you do not find them on the road from here to Krakengul Keep, send word, but keep looking. Spend whatever you must to loosen tongues, but find me that weapon.”
“Consider it done!”
Targus lashed the money to his saddle and dug one spur into his mount’s wither, spinning the gelding on its hocks. He and his apprentices clattered out of the courtyard and through the
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