“As agreed,” he said. “Now follow me. I won’t give you your smuggler, but I’ll show you where to get him for yourselves.”
On the downward trail leading into the Vale of Sunder, Graywing called a momentary halt and crept forward alone to get the lay of the land. The trail ahead wound downward, in and out of stretches of forest so that only a turn here and there was visible to indicate the general direction of it.
The slopes in both directions were infested with Gelnians. Smoke from their many campsites hung like banners against the sky, and Graywing knew that there was other smoke as well. The blockade of Tarmish was strengthened by countless warriors of every ilk in the pay of the Gelnian regency. He had seen some of them on the roads leading toward the Vale. There were little bands of painted sackmen festooned with their deadly feathered darts, Abanasinian archers, swordsmen and mace-wielders from Estwilde and Nordmaar, little units of Nerakan infantry, plainsland horsemen of a dozen tribes and, among them, here and there, squads of Solamnic heavy cavalry, gaudy with armor and lance. Some still wore the raiment of knighthood, though reduced by circumstance now to the true first rule of chivalry: survive at any cost.
The orders of knighthood still lived in Solamnia, but there were few vacancies. Most “knights” now were free- lance fighters.
Graywing studied the smoke, and knew the placement of troops, but it was not those he could see that worried him. It was those he could not see, but knew were there, the Gelnian sentries and ambushers who would be lying in wait for any who tried to pass between the camps.
Tall and lithe in buckskins and soft boots, his great sword slung at his back with its hilt at his shoulder, Graywing at work was the very picture of the classic Cobar warrior. All that was lacking was his horse. The picture was not deceptive. With plainsman’s eyes now, he studied the trail ahead and knew its secrets.
Once on the open valley floor, they would be past the blockade. From there, swift feet and a little luck would carry them to the Tarmite stronghold. But here on the slopes, cunning was required.
The most likely ambuscades he discounted. The Gelnians would know that Tarmish awaited outside aid, and they would assume that someone like him-someone the equal of their own best mercenaries-would be with those trying to get through. Therefore, the place of ambush would be selected by a specialist.
His eyes narrowed as he spotted the rock spur only a quarter of a mile away, an innocent-looking little rise beside the trail, so low and innocuous that no one would suspect an ambush there. If assassins awaited, that was where they would be.
Retrieving Clonogh, Graywing headed down the trail, the hooded courier following close behind him, his ivory stick now thrust through his waistband at Graywing’s command. The stick’s faint tapping could alert enemies a hundred yards away.
Graywing glanced back at his charge as the trail bent around the top of a forested ledge. What do you have in that pouch, Clonogh? he wondered absently. What do you carry, that is worth risking your life and mine to deliver?
At the high end of the rock spur, Graywing gestured and veered off the trail, Clonogh following close behind. The slope here was heavily wooded, and they ghosted from tree to tree, angling downward. Then Graywing froze, and halted Clonogh with a hard hand. Immediately to his left, the leaves of a ground-spreader rustled faintly and rhythmically, a tiny, repetitious movement like a man breathing.
They were there, lying in wait above the trail, and their “specialist” was truly expert at his craft. Senses even a hair less honed than Graywing’s would never have found them.
Nothing moving but his eyes and his twitching nostrils, Graywing counted four of them waiting there. The count bothered him. Something told him there should be five, but he could find only the four. The Gelnians were facing the other way, watching the trail beyond the spur, and they were much too close! The nearest hidden assassin, so camouflaged that only his breathing betrayed his presence, was no more than two long strides from where Graywing crouched.
Soundlessly, he edged in front of the cowering Clonogh and eased his sword from its buckler. At that instant Clonogh’s foot slipped. He danced for balance, stones rattled and all fury broke loose.
Like the cat whose name he bore, Dartimien blended effortlessly with his surroundings. Crouched at the toe of the rock spur, he seemed no more than part of the rock beside him. Still as a leaf in a calm, he watched the trail directly above and counted his heartbeats. The smugglers should have stepped into sight by now, should be at the mercy of the Gelnian assassins by now, but moments passed and no one appeared.
He was going to give them a minute more, but sudden intuition-like an extra sense that he had always possessed-raised the hackles on the back of his neck. The prey had somehow outsmarted the predator. The smugglers were not there! His eyes narrowing, he turned and saw them yards away, behind him. With a growl he spun around, daggers appearing in both hands as he stood. And at his movement, the ambushers turned, too.
The first move was so quick that even Dartimien barely saw it. The foremost smuggler-a tall, blond-bearded man with a feathered ornament braided into his hair at one side-leapt forward, his sword flashing downward in a deadly arc, and one of the Gelnians collapsed, spewing gore from a severed neck. Before the others could react, a second fell, gutted by a backswing. The other two scrambled back, got their feet under them and drew bright blades as the buck-skinned warrior whirled full around, darted between them and struck again. One of the Gelnians fell. The remaining one scuttled back, stumbled over his own feet, then turned and ran.
Dartimien shifted one of his daggers and raised it to throw, then stopped himself. “This isn’t my fight,” he muttered, and faded into cover.
Graywing saw the third ambusher fall, and turned to aim a cut at the fourth. But terror seemed to have given wings to the man’s feet. He scrambled backward, dodged the flashing sword, then spun around and fairly flew over the rock spur, onto the open trail and toward the brush beyond. In a moment he would be gone, spreading the alarm, and moments after that they would be up to their necks in enemies.
Graywing spun around, saw Clonogh still trying to get his balance, and ripped the ivory walking stick from the man’s waistband. He heard Clonogh’s gasp and the beginning of his shout, but by then he had acted. The ivory stick was stout, and had good weight. Barely pausing to aim, Graywing hurled it. It whistled through the air, flashed once in open sunlight, and thudded satisfyingly against the skull of the fleeing ambusher. The man fell like a rock, face down, and the stick caromed away into the heavy undergrowth beyond.
“Don’t!” Clonogh shrieked.
“Got him,” Graywing muttered. Then without formality he slung his sword, picked up his employer as one would lift a sack of grain, and sprinted down the trail. There was still a fifth man back there somewhere, and Graywing had no wish to be around when he saw what had become of his companions. That one, his intuition told him, was their “expert,” and an entirely different sort than his fallen henchmen. Dealing with them had been easy. Dealing with him might take time that could not be spared.
Through flickering sunlight and shadow Graywing raced, letting the slope work for him. Within a few steps he was covering twenty feet at a stride, and the wind sang in his ears. Clonogh’s strident wail trailed behind him, lost in the wake of their passage.
For a quarter of a mile he ran, and then another quarter, and the slope beneath him eased toward level ground. He burst from a tree line, through stinging brush and into a tilled field, and kept going until they were out of arrow range before he slowed his stride.
Finally, when he was sure they were in the clear, he stopped and set Clonogh on his own unsteady feet. The man’s cloak had been whipped back, disclosing a totally bald head and a wrinkled, beardless face distorted now by rage.
“You fool!” Clonogh screamed at him. “You bloody, stupid barbarian! You’ve ruined me!”
Graywing stared at him, speechless for a moment, then his eyes narrowed to threatening slits. “What I did was save your life!” he snapped. “And your treasure!” He gestured contemptuously at the leather pouch still slung securely across the robed one’s breast. “I’ve-”
“Idiot!” Clonogh shrieked. “You’ve ruined everything! I was to deliver the Fang of Orm to Lord Vulpin. Now it’s gone!”
