Bladesinger (4 page)

“Is time for the waking, little friends!” he exclaimed. “Much ground to cover today.”

Taen hated that voice—if not the man, he had to admit. The Rashemi ranger had guided them skillfully across the lands of his birth. That much the half-elf had expected. What he hadn’t expected was the trust and friendship that was growing between them. As annoying as Borovazk’s obvious delight in their own discomfiture was, the broad-shouldered human more than made up for it with his bravery, skill in battle, and willingness to shed his own blood in the course of protecting those who hired him. Taen knew that the others felt the same way, though he doubted they’d admit it, especially during mornings like this.

With a sigh, the half-elf began to gather up his bedroll and stow what little gear he had brought in his pack. He certainly wasn’t going to give Borovazk an excuse to berate him further by being the last one ready to go.

When he had finished, Taen grabbed his pack and walked to the center of the small camp to check on the others. Roberc acknowledged his presence with a scowl and a nod of his head. The halfling stood before Cavan, adjusting the straps of the hound’s makeshift saddle and drawing deeply from a long, tapered bone pipe. The pungent scent of pipeweed, carried by the crisp morning breeze, filled the half-elf’s nostrils.

He looked for Marissa and found her sitting on a small outcropping of rock above the smoldering ash of their fire. The druid gazed deeply at a small yellow flower growing stubbornly in a small crack of the rock’s surface. Taen didn’t even bother saying good morning to the half-elf, for he knew that she could stay like that all day, contemplating but a single fiber of one of the flower’s petals. Marissa had always been like that, but more so now that they had entered this wild, unforgiving land. His own preference was for more temperate surroundings, such as the lush woodlands of his…

Home?

No, certainly not that, he thought. Not anymore. Home was a fable, a myth—a story spun by silver-tongued bards for coin or hearth. He had no home, he had no place to lay his head, except on the rough stones and tree roots of exile.

Borovazk’s booming voice, raised lustily in song, broke through the dark turn of Taen’s thoughts. The ranger led their horses, two thick-muscled dun geldings and his own chestnut stallion, to the center of camp. The Rashemi horses moved placidly, but Taen had ridden one enough to know that considerable strength and endurance lay within them when needed. The ranger stopped singing when he caught sight of the gathered companions. His strong-jawed face, framed by a thick, short-trimmed yellow-blond beard, broke into a smile, revealing a full set of large, white teeth. Twin lengths of thickly braided blond hair ran down to the center of his back.

“Ah, good morning, little friends,” he said, absently stroking the thick mane of his stallion as he did so. “Is good to see you awake and together. Did you enjoy our little breeze last night?”

Despite the misery brought on by yesterday’s weather, Taen found himself laughing at the ranger’s jest.

“If that’s a breeze, Borovazk,” Taen replied, “I’d hate to see what it’s like around here when the weather turns ugly.”

Borovazk returned the laugh. “In bad weather, mostly my people just get drunk on jhuild,” he said, referring to the dark reddish brew that others in Faerun called firewine. Taen knew, from unfortunate experience, that jhuild could drop a berserking giant at twenty paces. “This way,” he continued, “we not see how bad it really is.”

The half-elf shook his head in mock disbelief—though he suspected that Borovazk spoke the truth. Despite the harsh weather they had experienced in Rashemen, all of the native Rashemi he had seen dressed as if it were merely late autumn and not the depth of winter. Even now, amidst the remains of the last few days’ wintry assault, the ranger wore a simple fur vest over his chain mail, with thick leather trousers and fur boots covering the lower half of his body. His only concession to the bitter cold of the Rashemi winter was a rough-spun cloak made from the white pelt of a large bear that roamed the North Country of his land. Taen could see the wicked claws of the beast hanging from Borovazk’s neck and wrists, bound with a thin leather strip.

“Come,” the ranger said, all jesting absent from his voice. “Morning rides on and we will miss it if we do not hurry.”

With one last pat of his stallion’s crest, the Rashemi swung up onto his mount. Borovazk skillfully adjusted the scabbarded short sword and belted warhammer that were his constant companions while the horse threw its head to the side and snorted, obviously anxious to be away.

Taen grumbled with what he hoped was sufficient restraint so as not to be heard and mounted his own horse. He thought he might need to interrupt Marissa from her reverie but was pleasantly surprised when the druid sidled her own mount next to his and bid him good morning. Roberc, too, was ready, mounted on sturdy Cavan.

On Borovazk’s command, the group filed out of the camp and resumed their journey. What little convocations of trees and vegetation they had seen since leaving Mulptan disappeared completely by midmorning, leaving only a wide swath of windswept snow-covered plains. The horses plodded forward, surefooted and untiring, carrying Taen and his companions through league after league of unrelenting whiteness. The half-elf would surely have fallen asleep in his saddle by midday, but the voice of their Rashemi guide cut through his fatigue and boredom. Throughout the day, it would not stop rumbling across their trail. With great vigor, Borovazk regaled them with tales of Rashemen’s history—of the mysterious witches and their ages-long battle with the cursed Red Wizards of Thay; of the deeds wrought by the great heroes of the land, many somehow distantly related to the teller of those tales; and finally, of the ranger’s own family, his wife and three brawny children.

By late afternoon, the group reined in their horses and dismounted for a brief rest. Pulling out cold strips of roast venison, slabs of thick-rinded cheese, and servings of a pickled root the Rashemi called ordsk from their saddlebags, they ate a brief meal beneath the fading light of the day.

Amazingly, Borovazk continued to spin tales. Between great tearing bites of meat and long swigs of firewine, the ranger spoke of his wife and how, after he had stumbled home drunk late one night from a gathering of warriors, she had felled him with a single blow from an oak cudgel and dragged him out to a snowdrift where he had spent the night. When he had awakened bleary eyed and groggy late the next morning, the wounded man returned to an empty home only to discover that the cudgel had split beneath the force of his wife’s blow.

“That’s horrible,” exclaimed Marissa.

The rest of the group, having finished their meal, sat comfortably on thick wool blankets. Roberc puffed indolently on his pipe, one hand stroking Cavan’s fur.

“Is indeed horrible, little witch,” the ranger agreed, with more than a hint of sadness in his voice. “That cudgel was one of Borovazk’s favorites!”

Taen watched as the concern in Marissa’s eyes changed to disbelief then merriment. The druid began to laugh, followed soon after by Borovazk’s deep-chested chuckle. Taen found himself smiling at the outrageous ranger. Even Roberc’s normally taciturn face held a wry grin.

After a few more moments, their Rashemi guide stood up.

“Come,” he said, wiping venison grease from his beard with a swipe of a thick arm. “Is still a while before dark. We have many more leagues to travel, and I,” he jabbed a meaty finger at his own chest, “have many more stories to tell.”

Taen laughed, still caught up in the lighthearted moment.

“I bet you do,” Taen said as they broke their makeshift camp. “You seem to talk more than any human I have ever met.”

That brought another chuckle from the Rashemi ranger.

“Tell me, Borovazk,” Taen continued, emboldened by his companion’s reaction, “does your wife enjoy your stories as much as you seem to?”

The ranger stopped what he was doing and cast a puzzled look at him. “I not know,” he said after a moment. “My Sasha is as deaf as the stones of the Icerim Mountains.” He laughed then, a full-throated guffaw, and slapped the half-elf hard on the back before mounting his horse.

Taen pitched forward, stumbling from the force of the blow. It wasn’t until he sat in the saddle of his own mount and the group started forward once again that he realized he couldn’t tell whether Borovazk had been kidding or not.

By luck or some unasked-for blessing of the gods, the weather held over the next three days—crisp and clear, with only an occasional dusting of snow swirling and circling to the ground. In the face of such a gift, the group traversed a good deal of terrain. Taen found himself marveling at the steady, economical pace of their horses, crunching through drifts and ice with such surefooted grace. Lulled by the rolling rhythm of his mount and the now-gentle speech of the wind, he began to relax and look at the white-coated world around him, not as a thing to be endured, but as an experience to be savored. There was a beauty—a wisdom—in the broad sweep of plain and rock-strewn valleys of this wild land. Each step of his horse brought him deeper into that wildness, carried him to the heart of a mystery for which he had no name—only a sense of rock, ice, and unforgiving wind. In those moments, he thought that he could understand the pride and strength of the rough-tongued and insular Rashemi people. They were born from the very soil of wilderness, lived in harmony with its harsh rhythms, hewn and formed by its untamed forces the way rocks are shaped by the elements. They were heirs to windswept mountains, ice-curdled lakes, and the deep, enduring promise of the land.

Taen traveled onward with his companions. Borovazk must have sensed the half-elf’s change in mood, else he, too, was caught in the grip of such reflections, for the Rashemi’s stories and songs had eventually tapered off, allowing the wind-ruffled silence of the plains to replace his voice. The half-elf did not speak, dared not speak, against the vast silence of the landscape, and he knew that the others felt the same way.

Once or twice each day, Marissa would dismount and hand the reins of her horse to him. In moments, she would be running ahead of them in wolf shape, scouting their path or hunting in the fading light of day, only to return with a brace of hare, her own hunger sated.

They ate in silence.

Only Roberc seemed unaffected by their surroundings. Dozing in Cavan’s saddle or drawing his blade across a whetstone, the halfling appeared to Taen as dour and as solemn as he always did. Early on the morning of their third day of silence, he drew his dun close to the halfling’s war-dog and threw a questioning look down at the warrior. Roberc gazed up impassively and simply shrugged before leading Cavan into a loping run that put him well in front of the walking horses.

By afternoon of the next day, their fifteenth day out of Mulptan, the air grew noticeably warmer. Ice-covered snow gave way to wet-packed drifts, and a thin mist had begun to permeate the air. By the first fall of dusk, the horses had to slog through thick piles of slippery slush, and Borovazk eventually called an early halt to their travel.

The change in weather precipitated a change in mood as well. Taen felt free of the awe that had gripped him the past few days, as if the loosening of winter’s grip had somehow loosened his tongue as well.

“Why is it getting so warm?” he asked their guide.

“Who cares,” interjected Roberc as he helped his furred mount free of the leather barding that protected it. “It’s just nice not to have your nose hairs freeze every time you take a breath.”

“Indeed, little friends,” Borovazk replied. “It will be much better for you now. We draw near to Immil Vale. Winter’s heart cannot touch it. It is blessed by the gods—a gift to my people for their strength and bravery, eh?”

“How much further do we have to go?” Marissa asked.

The ranger smiled at her. “Ah, my little witch,” he said with obvious affection. “You grow anxious. You not worry. Borovazk know a path that will take us into vale. Two days at most.”

Taen awoke that morning feeling uneasy. Twice during the night he had been startled awake by a sound that he wasn’t sure he had heard. He’d swept the area surrounding their camp during his turn at watch but had found nothing that would indicate his suspicions were well founded.

Still, the half-elf couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him from somewhere out on the plain. That feeling grew throughout the day as they headed west toward their destination. Taen stood in his saddle and cast his glance as far as he could—but saw nothing. Finally, he indicated his suspicions to Borovazk.

The ranger nodded. “I feel it too,” the Rashemi answered. “We are being followed.”

From then on, they all kept a careful watch. Taen noted that Cavan threw his thick muzzle into the air and sniffed suspiciously several times, while the horses seemed unusually skittish.

The tension mounted.

Sometime after midday, Marissa’s white raven flew raucously to her outstretched arm. The druid nodded as the bird continued to caw and croon. Finally, she sent it back into the air with a flick of her arm.

“We are being followed,” she confirmed their fears. “Rusella says that there are several landwalkers keeping their distance behind us.”

Taen nodded at the news. At least he hadn’t been imagining things. His heart began to beat rapidly. Whatever it was behind them, the fact that they were trailing them probably meant that they weren’t friendly.

Roberc drew Cavan even with Marissa’s mount.

“Exactly what is behind us?” Roberc asked. “How many will we need to face?”

The druid shook her head. “I do not know,” she replied. “For all of her intelligence, Rusella is simply a raven.” Taen watched as she stared at the sky. “There is an easy way to find out, though,” she said after a moment and dismounted abruptly from her horse. Before Taen or anyone else could gainsay her, the druid took the shape of a falcon—a bright red-gold kestrel—and launched herself into the air with wind-swift wings. She cleaved through the air like an arrow, soaring higher and higher, until Taen lost sight of her.