covering the ground. No tracks were discernible on the hard, dry surface, but he took the path with confidence. His feet made no sound as he advanced into the wind, eyes scanning his surroundings. He relished the sweet, powerful scent of pine, after his months at sea.
Sunlight filtered through the thick branches at a steep angle, but though the trees were stunted by Silvanesti standards, the forest floor was shaded and dark. Ferns and juniper clustered between large, square-edged boulders. Kerrick wondered if he might be the first person in the history of Krynn to traverse this ground.
The trail followed parallel to the beach for a while, and several times he peered out to see his boat still at anchor, bobbing in the swells that were growing high even within the deep cove. Still, no sign of that damned kender, however.
Before long the path curved inland and the trees closed in to surround him on all sides. He found some pebbly droppings, and his heart raced. Whether it was a deer, elk, or large sheep that had left the spoor, the elven hunter felt keen anticipation. Jogging as fast as he could without making too much noise, he held his bow ready, arrow crossed at his chest.
Nor did he grow discouraged after a full hour passed with no sign of game. Several more times he spied the neat prints of small, cloven hooves. Fairly certain he was after a deer now, Kerrick’s mind entertained a dozen tempting imagined recipes for venison. He wondered if he might find wild chive or onions growing near one of the small boggy wetlands he passed. The trail had taken him across the valley, toward the base of the southern ridge, and now he skirted the edge of a small pond. Cedars reflected in the still water, and the reedy shoreline showed muddy tracks, slowly filling with water. Apparently his quarry had stopped to drink here, not minutes ago.
Again the trail entered the woods, and the elf slowed his pace. He was still out of shape after all his injuries and time at sea. He came to a steep-walled ravine that swung down to cut a low rocky swath through the forest.
Across the ravine, he saw the deer. It was a doe, large and brown and rigid with alertness, staring at him with long ears upraised. In a flash it whirled and bounded away, gone before he could even raise his bow. Returning the arrow to his quiver, he slung the bow over his shoulder and found a place where he could descend the rocky wall into the ravine. Stepping on stones, he passed the narrow stream at the bottom without getting too wet, then jogged along until he found a tall pine trunk, with branches jutting like the rungs of a ladder, leaning against the opposite wall. Quickly he climbed up and plunged in the direction taken by the doe.
Every sense alert, he continued on and froze as he heard a rustle in the brush ahead. The arrow was drawn now, bowstring tight as he drew a bead on a leafy thicket. He tried to anticipate. If the deer broke from cover it could go in any direction, and he would have a split second to aim and shoot.
Instead, the rustle was repeated, but he saw no sign of movement. His whole body vibrated with tension as he advanced, one step after the next, taking care to keep his footing.
He was utterly unprepared for the attack from behind. When something solid smashed into him he toppled forward, releasing the arrow into the ground and sprawling on his face. The force of the tackle knocked the wind from his lungs, and he gasped under the weight of a heavy body.
More attackers went for his arms, pulling away the bow, pressing him against the ground. He saw leather moccasins, several sets of leggings, one foot pushed firmly down on his hand. Finally he was hauled to his knees, then pushed onto his back as the first attacker-a massive human woman with a round, curious face-sat on his belly.
With smooth movements, the other two, also human women, lashed his hands. Still without talking, they hoisted him to his feet and started pushing him through the woods.
They were heading directly for the shore, toward the little cove where
“This is a good spot,” Moreen announced, after a mile of walking along the rim of the deep, steep-sided ravine. She gestured to a small, mossy grotto above the gully. “We can build a fire back there, and it won’t be seen unless someone’s right nearby. Those rocks will make it all that much harder for our prisoner to escape.”
“Sounds good to me,” Bruni agreed. “What about you, stranger?” She looked quizzically at their captive, who returned a blank stare, giving no sign that he understood their language.
Tildey stood three paces behind them, an arrow ready in case the man made some threatening move. Thus far, however, he had merely plodded along in listless, demoralized silence.
“Tie him to that tree, and keep his wrists bound. Oh, and search through his pack, and see if he has anything in his pockets.”
Bruni and Tildey went about securing the prisoner while Moreen gathered a pile of dried pine limbs. She kindled a fire, and quickly the warmth spread through the grotto area, driving back the damp chill of early nightfall. Huge, square boulders rose like walls to the right, left, and rear.
“What was he carrying?” she asked, as her two companions made themselves comfortable near the blaze. The prisoner was seated a short distance away, still illuminated by firelight.
“He had a bow and arrows, a knife-sharper than any blade I’ve ever seen-and this beaded waterskin,” Tildey said, laying out the stranger’s possessions. She held up the skin. “Nice craftsmanship.”
“Maybe he’s a rich Highlander,” Bruni said with a chuckle, and a quick glance at the still-impassive prisoner. He was leaning backward, his straggly blond hair hanging limply down on both sides of his head.
Moreen snorted. “He’s no Highlander. No beard, and his face is too skinny. Also there’s something about those big eyes that seems strange to me.”
“Yes, I know,” Tildey said, scrutinizing the stranger. “It’s as if he’s got a boy’s skin but much older eyes.”
The chiefwoman’s eyes, meanwhile, turned west, toward the coast hidden by the trees. “We could use that ship,” Moreen said softly. Bruni snorted and shook her head, while Tildey gazed at the fire.
The wind swirled, carrying the smoke toward the prisoner. Unable to move out of the way, he choked and coughed, finally twisting onto his side for relief. The Arktos took no note of his discomfort.
Finally, Bruni heaved a sigh. “Why do you want a ship so bad?” she asked.
“Because we could cross to Brackenrock, before the Sturmfrost! We could be into the old fortress, snug in the steam caves, by the time the first blizzard begins.”
“You can’t put the whole tribe on that little boat!” snorted the big woman.
“Not all at once, no,” Moreen acknowledged. “But you saw the far shore this morning-it’s not such a far crossing, and we could take the whole tribe in many trips.”
Bruni shook her head. “I’m not getting in that boat,” she said stubbornly.
“So you’d prefer the Sturmfrost, hunkered down here in the woods? Not just you, but Dinekki, Feathertail- every one of us? The elders? The children?” Moreen snapped impatiently. “Or perhaps we should go back to Guilderglow. You could be some Highlander’s concubine!”
“What?” demanded Bruni, her eyes blazing.
“
The large woman sighed, and looked in the direction of the sea. “I never cared much for those kayaks, but that’s a bigger boat out there. I’ll have to think about it.”
“What do we do with him?” asked Moreen, gesturing to the prisoner.
“Maybe we should kill him?” This was Tildey, more of a question than a suggestion. “He may not be an ogre or a tusker, but he’s not one of the tribe. I agree with Moreen. I don’t think he’s any Highlander, either.”
It took all of Kerrick’s self-discipline to feign ignorance of the language as he strained to listen. He grunted, shifted onto the rocks, half-turned his back to the women.
There was no feigning his search of a comfortable position as he twisted on the rocky ground. He couldn’t move far since his hands, lashed together at the wrists, were tethered to a pine tree with only a foot of loose line. Nor could he feel much of the warmth of the fire, which was several feet away.
At first, the elf pretended utter disinterest as he tried to eavesdrop on the women’s conversation. As they led him through the forest he had begun to understand some of their words: “camp,” “ogre” and “fire.” Their language was very similar to a coastal dialect common to humans from Tarsis to Balifor, and their accent was heavy. Still, many of the crewmen on his father’s galley had used the language, and he had learned it as a child.
