Amira thrust one arm forward, pointed at the bowman, and forced out a single word-'Dramasthe!'
It was one of the first spells she'd learned as an apprentice, one of the first spells every apprentice learned for its simplicity and sheer effectiveness. A bright beam only slightly longer than the Tuigan's arrow shot forth from her finger and struck the bowman square in the chest. He flew backward as if struck by a hammer, his arrow streaking into the grass a few paces away and his bow falling to the ground where he'd stood.
Amira shifted her aim to the leader and struggled to draw in another breath.
Tuigan learned to fight from horseback not long after they learned to walk. As cavalry, few in Faer?n could match their ferocity. But fine swordsmen they were not, and these two relied upon superior numbers and brute force, charging Gyaidun together, one stabbing while the other swiped his blade at Gyaidun's midsection.
Rather than try to block both swords, Gyaidun simply stepped backward out of their reach.
Amira tried to speak the incantation, but it came out a harsh rasp that turned into a cough. Some of the dirt she'd been unable to spit out had gone down her throat and she couldn't form the syllables.
Gyaidun swiped at the leader with his club, but the Tuigan merely leaned away. Following through, Gyaidun brought the club back around.
Again the Tuigan leaned away, but this time Gyaidun let go of his weapon. The long shaft of heavy iron shot forward and slammed into the leader's face. Even over the crackling of the flames and Durja's racket, Amira heard bone crunch. The bandit leader collapsed like a newborn foal.
The handle of Gyaidun's club had about two paces of leather cord braided through it, the other end of which was bound to the big man's wrist. With a flick of his arm he brought the iron club toward him and slapped it back into his hand.
The remaining Tuigan stood alone against a larger foe and a wizard. Amira half-expected him to turn and run. But the Tuigan apparently decided-and rightly so-that it was kill or be killed, and he attacked with renewed ferocity.
Gyaidun blocked two slashes of the man's blade with his club and swiped at the Tuigan with his knife. He missed and the Tuigan lowered his blade and thrust. Gyaidun brought the full weight of his club down on the sword, and the steel blade snapped a hand's length above the hilt. Thrown off-balance, the Tuigan stumbled, and before he could right himself, Gyaidun's long knife swiped under his chin. Blood fountained outward in a long arc as the man fell back.
The Tuigan hammered the ground with his hands and heels. Amira could hear him trying to draw breath into his lungs, and she winced at the wet gurgle. The man coughed, blood and bile sprayed out of the gash in his throat, and Amira looked away. She'd seen worse. Many times. But never did it do anything but fill her with revulsion.
'Good,' her old master had told her long ago. 'That's good. Don't fight the horror. If you do, one day you won't feel the horror at killing anymore. On that day, put away your battle spells and retire to a life of scholarship. Cormyr needs warriors, not murderers.'
The fight done, Amira rummaged through their belongings until she found her waterskin. She untied the knot, sloshed water through her mouth and spat, repeating until she could no longer feel grit in her throat. Then she took a long drink, tied the skin shut, and climbed out of the gully.
The fire on the other side was dying. Dry as the grasses were, the cold night had brought dew, and with her magic no longer fueling them, the flames were having a hard time spreading. Steam was rising off four blackened corpses, and for the first time Amira noticed the sweet smell of roasted flesh. She turned away and walked to Gyaidun, who was cleaning his knife and club on the tunic of the dead bandit leader.
The Tuigan's skull was bashed in.
The final bandit to fall had stopped his struggles. He lay on his back in a sickly mud, drenched in his own blood, his empty eyes staring up at the cloudless sky. Several paces away lay the body of the first bowman. Gyaidun's blade had cut him deep on the inside of his thigh from knee to groin. Amira knew from her years on the battlefield that such a wound bled a man to death in moments.
Gyaidun stood and sheathed his knife. He was covered with dirt from lying in wait under his sand-covered cloak. He looked to Amira.
'You did well, though the fire wasn't the best idea.' Amira bristled.
'And why is that?' 'Fire means smoke. A big fire like that made a lot of smoke. Everyone within thirty miles will know right where we are.'
Durja landed on a tussock near Gyaidun, let out a final caw, then fell silent. 'I'm a war wizard,' Amira said. 'I needed something to take them all down fast. It worked.' Gyaidun grunted and walked over to the bowman whom Amira had taken down. Amira followed him. The man lay in the grass. He clutched at his chest, his face twisted in pain and tears streaking his face. But he was very much alive, though he seemed to be struggling to breathe. Gyaidun stood over the man. 'You and your friends,' he said, 'you had horses, yes?' The man glared up at Gyaidun. 'Kill me. Spare me my… my shame.' 'The horses.' The Tuigan took in a shaking breath, then spat on Gyaidun's boots. Gyaidun shook his head, then placed one heavy foot on the man's chest and pressed down. The man's eyes went wide and his mouth opened as if to scream, but nothing came out. 'The horses,' said Gyaidun. The Tuigan pounded his head on the ground, struggling to breathe. Gyaidun stepped off. 'I won't ask again.' The man raised one trembling hand and pointed northward. 'That… way. A mile. No more.' 'How many guards?'
'One,' the Tuigan said. 'Ujren's… son. Don't harm… him. Just a boy.' Gyaidun scowled. 'I'll leave him most of your horses. The rest is up to him. Your thievery made him fatherless today.' The Tuigan said nothing, just lay there struggling to breathe. So fast that Amira jumped, Gyaidun brought his iron club down on the man's skull. Amira looked away, but she heard the wet crunch. Durja cawed twice, and in the following silence, she could no longer hear the man's harsh breathing. She looked on Gyaidun in shock. 'Why did you do that?'
Gyaidun's brow fell as he looked down on her. 'I could have used the knife, but he would have suffered. The club was quicker.' 'He might not have died. There was no need!' 'You're in the Wastes now, girl.
That-' 'Do not call me 'girl!'' Gyaidun continued undeterred. 'That man tried to kill you. If we'd left him to recover and nurse his wounded pride, he might well have come after us. The Commani-even outcasts-do not forgive an affront. We have enough to worry about without setting enemies on our trail.' She held his gaze and considered pressing the point. But it hit her: He was right. She was a long way from home, and her notions of honor and chivalry weren't going to get Jalan back to her. And Gyaidun knew this country, knew it like she knew the Hiloar meadows. Finally, she dropped her gaze, careful to avoid the corpse at her feet, and said, 'You won't… you won't harm the boy?' 'Not if he's smart. Let's get our things and be gone before anyone curious decides to have a closer look at your smoke.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Endless Wastes
Sitting in the grass, his wrists and elbows bound behind his back with rough strips of elkhide cord, Lendri watched the first edge of the sun peek over the horizon. He sat in the middle of the Vil Adanrath, wolves and their elf brothers seeming to mix in equal measure, on a long rise of land that was not quite steep enough to be called a hill. Nearly a quarter mile of land rose at his back, and twice that fell at his feet so that he seemed to look down upon the sunrise. Mingan lay near his feet, sound asleep. Tension ran through the camp like mice in the grass-more felt and heard than seen. Every elf or wolf walking about or lounging in the grass shot furtive, suspicious glances at them. Some stared in open malice. Still, once Mingan had realized there would be no immediate violence, he had settled down. It was the first time he'd been among his own kind in many seasons. The elves, both men and women, had the same pale complexion and hair as Lendri, but they wore even less clothing-barely enough for modesty, and none wore any covering on their feet. They too had skin decorated in many swirls and thorns-the younger members of the pack sporting only a few while the elders seemed more black lines than white skin. This had been a hunt, not a permanent camp, and they were still a ways from the nearest cache, so few of the elves had weapons. A dagger or rough spear here and there, but nothing more.
Many of the elves walked the dreamroad next to their sleeping wolf brothers, but a half dozen or so of each patrolled the area, scanning the horizon and sniffing the breeze while the others kept close watch on Lendri and Mingan. Lendri did not know whether to cling to hope or despair. They had not killed him on sight, which was good, he supposed, but every attempt to speak to them had been met with either cold silence or a command to close his
