The other had sent her staggering with an adjusting slap at the shoulder-plates her breastplates were hanging from and announced grandly, 'Beldimarr, at yer service-hands an'jaws an' I've one o' them little trinkets, too!'
Beldimarr sported a long, snakelike white scar that ran from his right temple right down his neck, to disappear somewhere in the unwashed hairiness below. Narm stared at it in fascination until the grizzled caravan guard thrust his face into the young mage's, bestowing on Narm the fruits of breath enriched by rotting scraps of meat amid rotten teeth, and snarled, 'Starin' at me, pretty boy? Well, begone with yer hungry eyes-'tis women I fancy, almost as much as-hah-they fancy me, now!'
Shandril ducked her head away to hide her mirth at Narm's incredulously gagging expression, but she needn't have bothered-Arauntar roared with laughter enough for them both. When he could speak again-still hooting with occasional glee-he slapped a crossbow into her midriff with enough force to drive her breathless, and announced gruffly, 'This way up, see? An' you can crank it tight an' ready, but mind you loosen it at every stop, after you wind another tight an' ready-so as to switch back an' forth, so they're slower to break, see? An' no loading of it until you've a foe to fire at, for I do perceive that y'art violently carried away from sanity-an' I'd just as rather I didn't get violently carried away by a stray bolt from you!'
Orthil Voldovan had come up to inspect his two new standing targets at that moment, with a wolflike smile and the cheerful words, 'Behold: Here be a pair of strange beasts, which folk of experience call 'fools.' '
Now, with her teeth clacking together every few breaths from the crashings of the journey-she'd already nipped her own tongue painfully, and they weren't even out of Scornubel yet! — Shandril was heartily glad her crossbow wasn't loaded… and in full agreement with old Orthil about she and Narm being fools, too. The drover down beside her knees was a thin, sour man by the name of Storstil, and Narm had a stouter one, Narbuth, who never stopped talking and telling jokes, even to himself.
No family or clan names were given among Voldovan's men-this seemed to be an unwritten but firm caravan rule-and they were all men, too. Narm and Shandril had counted thirty-two wagons, not counting the cook wagon, Voldovan's own 'strongwagon' where the smallest, most valuable cargoes were carried ('coffers o' gems,' as Beldi-marr had described the strongwagon's load, 'and maps 'n' treaties 'n' coins an' things-together wi' boxes of scorpions and deadly biting vipers, to give thieves somethin' final to think about, har har'), and the two ready wagons they rode on. Everyone riding with the caravan had been paraded before the guards so disappearances and uninvited guests among them could be noted, later, but Shandril couldn't say she remembered every face and name, or even all of those who'd looked suspicious… because that had been more than half of them.
Now, they could see few wagons and fewer faces of the riders, either-both because of the clouds of dust, and because of the improvised cloth masks almost everyone wore over their faces, against that dust. Shandril's eyes were already stinging as they finally left Scornubel behind, with its shouting traders and running, mud-clod- hurling boys, and gazed out on what would become a very familiar view, ahead of them: a wide vista of hills and mountains, distant and haze-shrouded off to the left, nigh the sea, and nearby and soaring to their right. Open wilderlands, of rolling hills and scrub forest, with a line of dust running ever ahead of them: the Trade Way, a- crawl with caravans.
The hills around them were alive with brigands and raiding bands of bugbears, ores, and goblins, the guards had delighted in telling every client riding with the caravan-and this was monster country, too. It was a long way to Triel, the next settlement of any size on the road- and as they passed the ashes and tumbled stones of a few burned and long-abandoned steadings, Shandril could guess why. Anything that wasn't well-armed and on the move in this lawless lower end of the Sword Coast was a sitting target waiting to be plucked. Suddenly she was grateful for the dust and the din around her and pleased to be rolling and bouncing along in the midst of thirty-odd groaning wagons. 'Twas comforting, though she knew it shouldn't be: unlike some of the small, fast caravans of a dozen wagons or even half that many, they could outrun nothing and hide nowhere. All they could do was fight whatever came at them. If it used bows, and there were a lot of them around her right now, some of them possibly in the hands of folk who knew who she was and what she bore within her, she might not even be able to use spellfire against that 'whatever' or whoever…
Shandril sighed, thrust aside such gloomy thoughts, and peered all around, through the dust, like a guard with any wits at all should.
Orthil was shouting at someone and waving one of those massive, corded arms, indicating that despite the heavy brush, his outriders should spread out to each side of the road and move ahead. Reluctantly two of the younger guards spurred their horses forward, and Voldovan promptly plucked a horn up from his belt-it remained fastened there, on long leather straps of its own, Shan noticed-and blew it, in a high, clear call.
Both of the outriders replied with horn-calls of their own-and when they were done, two more sounded from the rear.
Voldovan nodded and hooked his horn back into place. Shandril concluded that she'd be hearing those horns a lot during the days ahead. The caravan master's head was never still, she noticed. He seemed to spend most of his time peering at hilltops and gullies ahead and behind, but also from time to time he rode his huge horse through the caravan, glancing sharply here and there-almost as if he feared treachery as much among his clients as attacks from as-yet-unseen, lurking perils of the wilderland around them.
Excitement-nay, apprehension-was so strong in Shan as Scornubel disappeared in the rolling hills behind them that she could taste it and was almost sickened by it… but as the day wore on and the hot sun climbed the sky overhead, it faded into a wearying, lulling monotony of being, bruisingly jolted and nigh-deafened among the snorting, head-tossing beasts and ever-swirling dust. She could see, now, why everything-even the crossbows she and Narm held-were tethered to ring-bolts on the wagons, for 'twas all too easy to nod off and let something fall… and all too dangerous to leap down from a wagon and try to snatch something in the dust, with the wagons moving steadily and ponderously along like a purposeful herd of so many rothe.
Highsun-or rather, the next stream of goodly size they came to after the sun was at its beating height-meant a rest for the beasts and the folk riding in the wagons but not for the guards. This stopping place had been used by countless caravans before, and both outlaws and prowling beasts knew it. Even before the horn-calls were ringing out to slow and turn in, and Voldovan was turning himself into a whirlwind of shoutings and cursing pointings to avoid collisions between slowing and turning wagons, the guards were down from their saddles with their mounts swiftly and expertly hobbled and were fanning out into the surrounding brush to look for lurking dangers and to mark privy-hollows.
Arauntar came creaking along through the brush with a wickedly curved sword in one hand and a handbow-gun in the other, all grim business now, moving up and down the widening ring of guards. He gave Narm and Shandril a nod of approval because they'd heeded his earlier order to stay close together ('So pr'haps two dolts can serve as one fumbling guardsword') and passed on into the treegloom-to be followed, a few moments later, by Beldimarr.
Narm nearly choked in fear at the sudden, silent appearance of the second Harper, but Beldimarr gave him a calm nod, stepped around Shandril without saying anything, and stooped to duck under the fronds of a huge fern.
Then he froze as a low, blatting horn-call rose out of the woods ahead. 'Trouble,' he snapped, whirling back to Narm and Shandril. 'Fall back straight that way, until you can see the wagons, an' then hold there until Orthil or one of us tells you different-or something you need to fight comes right at you!'
Without another word Beldimarr whirled back under the fern again and was gone. Narm and Shandril exchanged glances, then did as they'd been told, casting fearful glances around at the forest as they went. It seemed alive with snapping sounds and rustlings, now, but that could just be all the guards on the move, and not a foe.
Or it could be a lot of foes moving in as one.
After what seemed like a very long time, Orthil Voldovan came striding through' the trees to Narm and Shandril. 'Either of ye driven horses harnessed to a wagon before?' he barked.
He didn't wait for them to shake their heads but whirled around again, waving at them curtly to accompany him.
They had to run to keep up with the caravan master as he strode along through underbrush and through branches, obviously not caring if he was heard a hundred miles off or broke every bough that dared to hang in his path. They climbed a little tree-cloaked ridge and plunged down into a wooded hollow beyond it, where a grim ring of guards was standing looking down at something in their midst.
