Avriel and Zerafin both regarded the dwarf. Avriel laughed. “Well he seems to be fully healed, and then some.”
“Yes, our gruff friend should be awake any moment and full of dragon piss.”
The last word had not escaped Zerafin’s lips when Roakore’s eyes popped open and he jumped to his feet. He jerked his head in all directions, eyeing each of them. He frantically felt his chest and his ribs.
“What in dragon’s hellfire happened here, eh?” He snorted and spat. “No blood, me side don’t hurt, and why do I feel I might explode from within?”
Whill waved off the others, who were starting to giggle. He put an arm around the dwarf and walked him away.
“Roakore, do you remember nothing?”
Roakore eyed the others over his shoulder with a scowl. “I remember-I don’t know. I remember stopping fer a rest and then-”
Whill stopped him. “I offered to help you and you accepted. You did not ask for help, and probably didn’t need it. But I felt obliged to do what I could and I tended to your wounds, minor as they were.”
Roakore felt his ribs again. “I agreed?” He looked back at the others. “Is this the work o’ those two damned elves? They think they need to look over me-aye, me!”
Whill shook his head. “No! No! They did nothing, I swear to you on the blood of my father. I alone tended to you, I alone.”
“That damned Dark elf sent me own weapon back at me. Took a good hit, I did.”
“A hit that would have killed a dragon,” Whill agreed.
Roakore’s scowl slowly left his face. “Yer a good healer,” he said, and went to join the others.
Whill knew that in his own stubborn way, Roakore had just said thank you. A smile spread across his face as he followed the dwarf.
Rhunis and Zerafin were leading the horses back from their drink at the brook. Abram and Tarren had started a small fire and were preparing what was left of the venison. Whill walked over to Tarren and took the boy by the shoulder.
“Listen, Tarren, I ask a favor of you.”
“Anything.”
Tarren’s tone was so serious, it almost made Whill laugh out loud. He composed a serious face to match. “Do not tell Roakore what you saw. You may not understand, but trust me and give me your word.”
To Whill’s surprise, Tarren winked. “Oh, I understand. If Roakore knew he was healed by elven ways, we wouldn’t hear the end of it. Don’t worry, Whill, your secret’s safe.”
He laughed out loud and rustled Tarren’s hair. “Good lad.”
After a quick meal, the companions were off again. They were many hundred miles from Kell-Torey and had days ahead of them. But the mood was light, the talk merry.
They had passed a few roads leading to this town or that town, but they did not venture down any. Trouble had followed Whill since Fendale, and he did not intend on bringing any to anyone. Danger was a shadow that wrapped itself like a cloak around Whill of Agora. He did not know how he could possibly live up to the prophecy. He had barely wrapped his mind around being the son of a king. At moments it was all too much, and he found himself having to mentally stomp out the fires of fear and doubt. It was in those moments that he thought of his new-found friends. If any good at all had come out of the last few days’ revelations, it was the company he now kept. Never had he met dwarf nor elf; never had he seen such fierce warriors.
“You are not such a bad warrior yourself, Whill of Agora,” Avriel stated softly as she rode by.
Whill smiled at the compliment but quickly realized that Avriel had read his mind. He quickened to ride beside her. “I thought you would not read my mind without permission.”
“And I have not.”
“But what you said-it was along close lines to what I was thinking.”
“I did not read your mind as much as you did the telling.” She smiled. “You were projecting your thoughts towards those you thought of. Unintentionally, it seems.”
Whill blanched. “You can hear my thoughts if they’re…about you personally?”
Avriel slowly moved her horse closer to Whill’s. “If you are thinking intensely enough about me, or someone, it is sometimes hard for that person to ignore.”
Whill looked away.
Whill fell back, thinking of nothing but witch’s warts as he came to ride next to Zerafin.
“You have to teach me how to not project,” he said.
Zerafin smiled. “If you wish. Why? Are you afraid of offending naked dragons?”
Whill gulped and slowly fell back again. It was safest it seemed, to ride beside Abram.
They rode on for the remainder of the day. As night fell, they stopped and made camp once again. They had eaten the remaining venison, to Roakore’s dismay. He had not had it in quite some time and had a keen liking for it. He strode up to Whill and patted him on the back. Whill was almost knocked over by the strong hand.
“C’mon then, lad, let’s get us all some dinner.”
Whill tied off his horse and retrieved his bow. “Night hunting?”
Roakore scoffed. “Is it night? I see fine no matter the light. I was raised within a mountain, ye remember.”
They ventured into the dense forest under faint, cloud-covered moonlight for more than ten minutes. Roakore was, Whill discovered, following a game trail. He came to a stop, lifted his broad nose in the air, and took a long slow sniff.
“Hmm. Somethin’s about.” He went left and Whill followed. After a minute they came to a small clearing where a small herd of deer sat in the grass. Roakore crouched and cursed the wind under his breath.
“No time fer stealth, lad. The wind’ll give us away soon, don’t ye doubt.”
Whill strung his bow and took aim at the closest deer. Roakore grabbed his arm gently.
“Let me, laddie,” said Roakore, and he started his stone bird a-whirling.
The deer became aware of the hunters as the soft whoop of the weapon resonated through the night air. The stone bird came in with a blur as the deer got to their feet and began to bound into the woods. The stones caught one round the neck, a buck with a magnificent set of antlers, it fell to the ground and moved no more.
“Bahaha! Now that’s how it’s done, laddie!”
They returned to camp to find that a fire had been started. Roakore found a suitable stone to work on and washed it off before spreading salt upon it. He hung the deer from a tree and skinned and butchered it with the help of Tarren, who was more than eager to use one of the dwarf’s hatchets.
From the woods Avriel had gathered handfuls of leeks, herbs, onions, and a few wild potatoes. She laid them out next to the fire and began washing them.
Roakore nodded in approval. “If only we had a pot we could get a bit o’ warm stew a-brewin’.”
Avriel rose purposefully and went looking around at the surrounding stones. Roakore and the others watched with interest as she found one she liked, a large one the size of Roakore’s head. She lifted it with ease and brought it near the fire. Avriel stood before the rock with the firelight catching her raven hair. She put a hand to the hilt of her blade and extended a hand to the stone. Suddenly the rock began to indent in the center until it was almost flat. Then the edges of the flat stone rose while the center remained upon the ground. Avriel took a look at her work. Roakore looked on in awe at the large stone bowl she had just created.
“Will that do?” she asked.
Roakore only nodded with an approving smile.
Water was gathered and in no time a hot venison stew was brewing. Around the fire everyone sat, except for Zerafin, who was walking the perimeter on guard duty.
“’Bout another twenty minutes, the food’ll be done,” said Roakore as he found a suitable rock to sit on.
“Sure smells good,” Tarren piped up. “Say, Roakore, why didn’t you make a bowl like Avriel did? You have powers over stone, don’t you? Or so I’ve overheard.”
