Trembling, Treskan put out his left hand. He never got it closer than half an arm’s length, but the black nostrils flexed deeply. Slowly the creature uncoiled itself, withdrawing from Treskan’s imminent death.
“Go now. Seek out the others. They will tell you what is happening. Do you understand? Your being here violates our covenant with the Creator. Go!”
An arrow whizzed out of the darkness and struck the ground, quivering, by Mathi’s right knee. The creature sprang away, snarling. Mathi snapped to one side, and Treskan rolled the other way. She saw the creature running away into the stormy night. A spear flew in a heavy arc and hit the ground behind the fleeing beast, not even tangling its feet. In a moment it was gone, though a silent blink of lightning highlighted it as it loped off into the storm.
Artyrith and Lofotan appeared.
“Which way did it go?” shouted the cook.
Shaken, Mathi pointed in the true direction. “There! Next time don’t miss, my lord!”
“I didn’t miss. I was only trying to drive him off. If I hit him, he might have torn you limb from limb.” Lofotan rode off after the creature.
“Any sign of the general?” said Treskan.
“None.” Artyrith was grim. He took a long swig of nectar. “We couldn’t find a trace! We did locate the spot the creature jumped on his horse, but there was no sign our lord fell off or was carried away!”
“What shall we do?”
“It’s pointless to hunt in a storm,” Artyrith said. “We can’t see, and we can’t smell anything but rain!”
“What’s Lofotan doing, then?”
The cook was almost respectful. “He won’t give up. He’ll ride through the storm until he finds Balif or kills the beast-maybe both.” He sighed wearily. “I had better join him. He’ll never let me hear the end of it if I don’t!”
Alone again, Mathi and Treskan sat together by the struggling fire. Much had been revealed between them in the brief, tense moments when they faced the beast.
“You are not an elf,” he said after a long silence.
“Neither are you. Why are you here?”
“I cannot say. You must trust that my presence is totally benign. I mean no harm to you, the general, or anyone. I am a scholar on a mission of learning,” said Treskan. When Mathi did not reply in kind, he said, “And you? You are one of those beast creatures.” Still she said nothing. “More presentable, more civilized, I see, but still one of them.”
“Civilized? Civilized?” She laughed bitterly. In her dark mirth, Mathi leaned forward quite far. The odd necklace Rufe had left on her swung free of her rain-soaked gown.
“My talisman!”
Treskan’s hand darted out to snatch the little artifact. Faster by far, Mathi caught his wrist first.
“Yours? How do I know that?”
“I brought it with me from my homeland. I must have it back!”
Mathi closed her free hand around it. “The little man, Rufe, took it from you and gave it to me. I don’t know why.” She pulled the string over her head and gave the talisman to Treskan. He looked vastly relieved to have it back.
“Is it magic?”
“You could say that. It’s worth more than my life.”
She caught his hand holding the talisman in both of hers. “Then swear to me on your precious artifact you will not reveal me to the others. I will swear the same for you.”
Treskan hesitated only briefly. He clasped his free hand around hers.
The storm blew itself out after midnight. Stars winked in one by one until their usual millions were displayed. The scribe and the orphan girl passed the night awake, saying little, wondering who would return to them-Lofotan, Artyrith, Balif, or the indestructible beast that was haunting their steps.
CHAPTER 11
The first ones to arrive at the soaked and misshapen tent were the kender. They came up from the ford in no certain order, no definite formation. There were more than two dozen of them, bare headed and empty- handed. Aside from the fact they were more than a hundred miles from any sizable town, the little people looked as if they were out for a morning stroll, not a strenuous migration.
They found Treskan and Mathi huddled together by the smoldering remnants of their campfire. The first ones walked by, eyeing the pair curiously. Some waved a greeting and kept walking. Twenty passed before the first stopped to speak.
“Lousy night, eh?” It was Rufe.
Mathi blinked red-rimmed eyes at the apparition. “How can you be here?” she mumbled.
“I go where my feet and my fate take me,” he replied cheerfully. Hunkering down in the muddy grass, he poked at the dead fire. “Truth is, the Longwalker asked me to look after you. He said you were in trouble.”
Treskan stood up. From his waist down, he was soaked with mud and cold rain.
“Filthy night,” he said sourly. “Unless you have a tub full of hot water in your vest, you aren’t going to help me much.”
Rufe lifted each side of his vest in turn. No bathtubs in his pockets, his winking eyes seemed to say. “Where are the others? The mean one, the snobby one, and your boss?”
Mathi had no idea. She described the night’s events, carefully omitting her newly forged pact with Treskan. Rufe listened, nodding his head from side to side every so often.
When Mathi was done, he said, “Can I see the horse? The scratched one, I mean?”
“Why not?” Treskan threw off his sodden cloak and outer robe. He stripped to his last garment, a short- sleeved tunic held on by a fabric sash tied around his middle. Mathi would have liked to have gotten rid of her wet clothes too, but modesty forbade. Squishing, she followed as Treskan led the kender to the picket line.
Balif’s horse was there. Rain had washed the blood from its neck but the scratches were still evident, red and raw through the animal’s sleek coat. Rufe patted the horse on the ribs and walked under its neck, glancing sideways at the wound. He grabbed the saddle ring and hoisted himself up, picking at the torn leather with his free hand.
“It’s scratched,” he said.
“Amazing. How did you figure that out?” said Mathi crossly.
“Scratched by nails.” Rufe dropped to the ground. He held up one hand, fingers curled. “Like this, only bigger.”
Mathi got a glimmer of what the kender was getting at. She went to the horse. It shied from her until Rufe calmed it with soothing words. Making her hand a claw like Rufe’s, Mathi held it over the parallel tears: four lines, four fingers. The scratches on the left side of the saddle matched the spread of Mathi’s left hand. That meant-
She asked Treskan to climb into the saddle. The horse stirred under the scribe, not liking his weight and carriage. Mathi told him to lean forward. When he complied, his left hand lay over the scratches on that side; his right hand lined up on the other side too.
“Gods’ preserve us,” he muttered. He knew who the beast was that Mathi saw in Free Winds. The same creature had visited them during the night. A lot of little pieces of a very large puzzle suddenly took on form and shape. Suddenly Treskan feared for Lofotan and said so. If he met the beast, he might not be prepared for what he found.
