“Knowin’ Cornellus,” he muttered, “I expect there’s at least a half dozen others hiding somewheres we haven’t spotted yet.”
The dwarf’s companion, a lanky human with a coarse bristle of unshaven whiskers, leaned over and spat ostentatiously, using the moment to conceal a glance to the left. A fringe of the pine forest extended close to the trail, providing perfect concealment. The man’s eyes narrowed as if squinting against the afternoon sunlight as he studied the underbrush.
With an air of casual unconcern the two riders moved slowly past the bit of woods. A scaly claw touched a bristling green pine branch in that thicket, pulling it back to permit yellow slitted eyes a better view of the road. The man and dwarf both ignored the rustle of foliage, allowing their horses to amble along as each took note of the taloned hand.
“They’ve spotted us,” the dwarf declared, after another two dozen steps. “No turning back from here.” He twitched in his saddle again but resisted the urge to glance again over his shoulder. Instead, he whirled first one arm, then the other, through a series of loose, limbering circles.
“My gut is a bundle of knots!” he barked in disgust, very loudly. “Must have been that stanky bacon last night.”
They looked like they had come a long way, these two. Tanned faces and untrimmed whiskers were grimy with dust. Despite their clear racial differences-the man was long and lean, while the dwarf’s frame was a stocky square, slightly broader at the shoulders than at his keg-sized waist-they had the look of comfortable old companions.
A woolen cape as dirty and travel-stained as his face concealed the man’s torso, covering his legs to his knees and even his arms except for the one gloved hand that emerged to grasp the reins. A leather cap covered his head, a stiff brim dropping down to protect his nape, forehead, and ears. His boots were plain and worn, the heels nearly scuffed away. A face that might have been handsome was rendered rough, even threatening, by the scruff of bristling whiskers. His eyes were narrowed, always moving. He sat straight in his saddle, the hilt of a tall sword jutting over his left shoulder and extending upward through the neck of his cape.
The dwarf was clad in a brown bearskin, a cloak with a stiff collar higher than his ears forming a cowl encircling his head. A stout battle-axe was strapped to his left side, and several scabbards suggested daggers of differing types hung from the right side of his belt, though the hilts of the weapons were concealed by his heavy cloak. He glowered and huffed as he made a show of looking from side to side.
Before the two riders the crest of the Garnet Range rose into the sky, a snowy palisade across the horizon beyond the ridge. That vista of glaciers and peaks gleamed now in the late afternoon sun. The near horizon was formed by the ridge, which was no more than a long bowshot away now, much closer than the high summits.
“Over this next hill,” the dwarf whispered, concealing the movement of his lips with the back of his hands. “Then we’ll be in sight of the place.”
“As long as we have a clear road out of here,” the human replied softly. His head remained immobile, as his eyes flicked back and forth from one side of the rutted road to the other. He leaned on the front of his saddle, seeming the very picture of trail-weary fatigue.
“I’ll get the ball rolling,” the dwarf muttered. “You take care of the loose ends.”
“Yeah,” said the human in a low voice. “Same as ever.”
The man reined in as his stocky companion angrily pulled his own horse to a stop. “I’ll be right back. I’m in desperate need of a little privacy!” he snorted, once again speaking more loudly than was necessary. “I can’t ride another step with my insides all riled up. Wait for me here.”
The human shrugged, resting easily astride his gelding while the dwarf dismounted and stomped off into the brush beside the road. He was muttering and cursing loudly, mingling remarks about foul bacon and saddles designed by torture-masters as he pushed through the underbrush, his voice growing fainter and fainter, until the noise faded all together.
After several minutes of waiting with his arms crossed on the pommel of his own saddle, the man grimaced and shook his head, sliding down from the saddle, twisting this way and that as if he, too, needed to work the kinks out of his back. Uncorking a battered canteen, he tilted back his head for a deep drink, watching the woods from the corner of his eye. He saw the pine branch rustle again, pulled back by the same clawed hand. Strapping the canteen to his saddle, he turned so that his back was toward the hidden observer. Both of his hands were concealed under his flowing cape.
The breeze died away completely, as if the woods, the whole mountain range, held its breath. The sun slipped behind a cloud, and suddenly the mountain air felt much colder.
The stillness was broken by an ear-splitting scream, a cry of terrible anguish that immediately faded into a bubbling gurgle. The sound came from the far side of the road, near where the dwarf had disappeared. Shouts followed, intermingled with the unmistakable clash of steel blades ringing together.
The man spun, turning his back to the commotion, his narrowed eyes studying the woods where he had seen the hand of the concealed watcher. At that very moment three figures burst from that grove and charged toward him with short swords drawn. Two were humans, while the third was a kapak draconian. The latter, sword clenched in its teeth, had dropped to all fours and was sprinting like a cat, two flapping wings adding speed to its charge. Its reptilian body was slick, and wiry with taut sinew.
The dwarf’s companion grimaced, as if faintly disappointed by this development. Both of his hands emerged from beneath the cape, each holding a small, cocked crossbow. He raised both weapons but first sighted carefully along the bolt in his right hand. When he pulled the trigger, the missile was released with a powerful, snapping clank. The deceptively small dart flew truly, the razor-sharp steel head lodging in the throat of one of the human attackers. Even as that fellow sprawled onto his face the man loosed the other crossbow, dropping the second human with a dart that punctured the leather tunic over his chest.
The draconian roared, rising to its rear legs and snatching up its sword with a taloned forepaw. Down the road, the dwarf emerged from the woods, retreating from attackers, swinging his bloodstained axe, the haft clutched in both hands. Two brown draconions-baaz-flanked him, hissing and snapping furiously, held at bay by the skillfully wielded axe.
The black draconian, spotting the dwarf, hesitated, casting a glance at the two dead men slain by the crossbows, next at the pair of baaz engaged in fierce battle with dwarf, and finally at the crest of the ridge, where the road vanished against the skyline some two hundred yards away. After only a moment’s pause, the kapak made up its mind, turning from the battle, once again dropping to all fours, and racing up the road toward the crest.
The human rider saw that the dwarf was hard-pressed, for now a third brown draconian joined his attackers. But the dwarf could take care of himself. One stride took the human to his gelding, which had been standing nearby, shivering and wide-eyed during the fight. He threw himself into the saddle with an easy spring, kicked the horse’s flanks, and snatched up the reins.
The horse sprang forward, head low, exploding into an almost instantaneous gallop. The twin crossbows were gone from view, tucked beneath his cape again, though the man made no move to draw the great sword that he wore strapped to his back. Instead, he pulled a shorter blade, single-edged and curved, from beneath his cape. The black kapak was in a full sprint, only a hundred yards from the crest of the ridge… eighty… sixty. The creature’s black wings were flapping, adding speed, while the sinuous tail stretched out straight behind it.
The man’s horse was fast. The kapak was still forty yards away from the summit when the steed drew up, ignoring the leathery wing that swatted the gelding’s lathered shoulder. Wielding the cutlass in his left hand, the rider brought the weapon down in a single, speedy sweep, a blow that sliced the draconian’s head cleanly from its shoulders. Even as he followed through with the blow, the man pulled the horse to the side, away from the spatter of acid that immediately erupted from the decapitated corpse. The kapak, in the way of its kind, immediately dissolved.
Turning sharply, the rider steered the animal through a tight semicircle and back down the road toward his companion. By the time he drew up at the side of the road, the three baaz were dead, their bodies lying grotesquely rigid-in their cursed fashion-in the poses they held when they died.
The dwarf was cleaning his axe on a dirty fringe of his tunic. He eyed the crest of the ridge. “I think that’s all of ’em… so far. Help me pull these bastards into the brush,” he said.
The man nodded, dismounting. Together they rolled, tumbled, and pulled the three petrified corpses off the road, dumping them in the underbrush. They did the same with the two humans the warrior had shot with his small crossbows. Up the road, the kapak had fully dissolved. The remains left a smoking scar of acid on the side of the
