The Rover

by Mel Odom

  But Cobner didn’t hesitate and ripped the quarrel out.

  Wick screamed again as the pain swept through him once more. Nausea rolled his stomach. Before he was ready, Cobner had him on his feet but he didn’t have the strength to hold himself up.

  “Get him on a horse,” Brant ordered.

  Limp and shaking, not believing the harsh treatment he was enduring at the hands of the dwarf he’d tried to save, Wick groaned in pain as Cobner threw him up onto the nearest horse.

  “Can you sit a horse?” Cobner demanded.

  Sitting anything at the moment didn’t sound appealing, but Wick nodded.

  “Take his reins, Cobner,” Brant ordered. “Lead his horse.” The master thief kicked his own mount in the sides and guided it toward the back of the cemetery. “We’re going through the woods out back. There’s a creek back that way from what I remember, then about a mile of rough country. We’ll stay clear of the main roads for the time.”

  Rough country? With his posterior hurting, Wick didn’t like the sound of that at all. He liked what happened next even less. Baldarn and Rithilin took up their bows from their saddles and set themselves to take up the rearguard at Brant’s urging.

  The master thief took up the lead, whipping his horse and racing across the graveyard.

  Wick clung to the saddle pommel with both hands and tried to find a position that wasn’t agony. Can’t I still bleed to death? He wasn’t certain, but there was no denying that even now a fresh group of torches marked the advance of another goblinkin patrol. Staying was out of the question.

  Cobner led the little librarian’s horse across the ransacked cemetery grounds as if the holes didn’t exist. Wick clung to the horse in white-knuckled terror, certain that at any instant his horse was going to plunge into an open grave and break both their necks. The horse’s muscles bunched, then it leapt forward over a skeleton sprawled on the ground below them. Wick screamed in wild-eyed terror as he momentarily lifted clear of the saddle. Then his injured rump slammed back into the saddle and he screamed again.

  Before he’d had time to take another tight breath, the little librarian saw the cemetery fence coming up quickly. The horse matched Cobner’s mount perfectly, running as if they were old wagon mates.

  “Hold onto yourself, little warrior!” Cobner warned.

  Wick tried desperately not to pass out from the pain and sheer terror. Dwellers are not meant for such things as this! We’re a peaceful folk! A warm hearth, a good meal, and a pipe! That’s as much adventure as I ever wanted!

  The horse stutter-stepped for just an instant, then gathered itself and vaulted over the high fence.

  Wick lifted again from the saddle, then crashed back down. Forested and treacherous terrain took shape ahead of him. The little librarian leaned over the saddle so he wouldn’t be knocked loose from the horse. Even hurting and dizzy-headed as he was, he had the presence of mind to reach back and make certain the backpack with the four books remained in place. If he lived—and he wasn’t at all certain that was going to happen——he had to find a way back to Greydawn Moors. The books had to be saved if at all possible.

  And what will Grandmagister Frollo think of them? the little librarian wondered. The existence of the books shook the Vault of All Known Knowledge’s edicts down to their core. If not all of the books are safely stored at the Library, what is Grandmagister Frollo going to do? But even as he thought that, he wondered again about the package Grandmagister Frollo had given him to take to the Yondering Docks Customs House.

  The ride became a wild mixture of shadows and splintered moonlight, thudding horses’ hooves and vengeful shouts from the rear, horses’ breaths that formed gray plumes in the darkness. They splashed through the small creek Brant had told them to expect, and wetness covered Wick’s legs, followed instantly by the biting cold of the night.

  The horse redoubled its efforts beneath him as it charged up the next hill. Cobner called back encouragement. Wick lowered his head to the horse’s neck, his nostrils filling with the great animal’s musk, and prayed fearfully that none of them died in the insane race through the woods that led out of Hanged Elf’s Point.

  Hours later, Brant called for a brief stop to rest the horses, which were near exhaustion as much as their riders. In only a moment, the master thief assigned lookouts to establish a perimeter guard. And, to Wick’s eternal chagrin and mortification, fierce Cobner insisted on tending the little librarian’s wound. To make matters worse, Cobner had to clean the wound and needed the light from the small campfire they’d started in the foothills of the mountains deep in the Forest of Fangs and Shadows.

  Once he was properly bandaged, though comfort and dignity seemed out of the question, Wick sat gingerly on the fallen tree near the campfire. The tree branches over the hollow formed a canopy that blocked out the star-filled sky.

  Lago warmed soup he’d hastily thrown together from water in their waterskins, some spices in his saddlebags, and wild onions and mushrooms he found growing near the hollow.

  Wick’s mouth watered in anticipation when the old dwarf pronounced the soup fit to eat. Lago even had two loaves of bread in his saddlebags. To the little librarian’s way of thinking and how his stomach felt, they had the makings of a feast.

  “Here,” Cobner said, fetching a cup full of hot soup over to Wick, “let me get that for you, halfer. Wounded as severely as you are, you ought not strain yourself.”

  Embarrassment flamed Wick’s cheeks as he took the cup of soup and the chunk of bread the big dwarf handed him. At this point, he was uncertain whether he preferred Cobner distrustful of him or nursing him. There seemed to be no happy medium. Wick sopped his bread in the soup and ate it gratefully as Brant joined him.

  “All the gems were found,” the master thief said. “So if we ever had occasion to visit that wizard’s hole again, we could.”

  Wick considered that an option he never wanted to exercise, but he didn’t say that.

  “All things considered,” Brant said, “all of you took a good haul off the dead wizard.”

  Wick shook his head. “We don’t know that he was the wizard that created that place.”

  Brant spread his hands. “Who else could he be?”

  “I don’t know.” Wick sipped his soup miserly, knowing that Lago’s cauldron wasn’t bottomless and that it could be a long time between meals.

  An owl screeched in the distance. The little librarian fell silent with the thieves as they carefully listened.

  “Frustrated,” Baldarn said, “from the sound of him. Probably missed a fat mouse.”

  Wick sopped more bread, too conscious of Brant’s eyes on him.

  “I couldn’t help but notice,” the master thief said, “that your backpack seemed a little heavier.”

  “Urm,” Wick said, striving desperately to think of something to say.

  “Everyone else has shared their loot,” Brant said.

  Wick looked around the campfire as small orange cinders drifted up from the burning wood. All the thieves’ eyes were on him, though Cobner looked somewhat uncomfortable.

  “Attempting to save Cobner,” Brant said, “was very commendable.”

  “A very brave thing to do,” the big dwarf added, scratching his beard. “Why, if the little halfer hadn’t sacrificed his backside the way he did, doubtless I’d have a sore foot at the very least.”

  Grins passed around the thieves’ faces, and only Hamual had the good grace to attempt to hide his amusement behind a hand.

  “If I hadn’t heard Lago’s version of the events in the crypt,” Brant said, “you could see how I could suspect how easily you opened that wizard’s gate once I left.”

  “I didn’t know you were leaving,” Wick protested.

  “I know.”

  “And I didn’t know how to open that door. It was an accident.”

  Brant nodded easily. “I believe that. But I still wonder about the backpack. Baldarn said you were the first to enter the wizard’s—” The m
aster thief caught himself. “—the dead man’s bedroom.”

  “It might not have been his bedroom,” Wick said. “It could have been someone else’s.”

  “I don’t care.” Brant let out a short breath.

  Warily, wishing he had another choice, Wick put his soup and bread down on the tree trunk beside him. “I did take some things.”

  “See?” Baldarn asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest smugly. “I told you the little halfer took something.”

  Even Sonne shot the little librarian a reproachful look that cut Wick to the bone.

  Wick opened his backpack. He took out the books, feeling guilty again for taking them in the first place, and then for not telling Brant and the others. He handed the books to the master thief, then added the paper, inkwells, and quills he’d taken as well. When he finished handing over his ill-gotten gain, Wick felt a little better. Now there were no real secrets between them.

  Brant looked at the books and the writing supplies. “This is it? This is all you took?”

  Wick nodded.

  “Well, Baldarn,” Brant said, “it appears that you were right about Wick taking things from the room. Would you care to trade your share of the gold and silver that was in that room for these books and things?”

  “They could be wizard’s papers,” Baldarn replied haughtily.

  “Right,” Tyrnen said sarcastically. “And if they had been wizard’s papers, the little halfer and Brant would have been warty toads by now after touching them.”

  “Books could be worth something,” Baldarn insisted.

  Brant held the books on one hand toward the dwarf. “Would you want them then? I hear you can get as much as a gold piece apiece from Orpho Kadar.”

  Wick held himself back from objecting only through the knowledge that nothing he said would matter.

  “No,” Baldarn answered. “They’re bigger and bulkier than carrying a gold piece, and traipsing through these woods with them in my pack isn’t something I’m wishful of doing.”

  “Good,” Brant said. “I’m glad we’ve settled that.” The master thief turned his attention back to Wick. “You set some store by these books?”

  “Yes.”

  The master thief flipped open the cover of the first book. “What are they about?”

  “I don’t know,” Wick admitted.

  “You don’t?” Brant looked surprised.

  “I can’t read them.”

  The master thief chuckled. “And here I was, thinking you were so proud of your reading ability.”

  “They’re written in a language that I can’t read,” Wick said. He shifted on the rough bark of the fallen tree, trying in vain to find a comfortable spot.

  “If you say so, little artist.” Brant handed the books, paper, and writing utensils back.

  “I really can read,” Wick said, slightly affronted.

  Despite the tension surrounding the campsite, everyone laughed, which only annoyed the little librarian greatly. He put the books, paper, and writing utensils back in his pack.

  “Those books count as a gold piece apiece,” Baldarn added. “And they count as part of his share of the loot.”

  “Fair enough,” Brant declared. “Little artist?”

  Wick nodded grudgingly, not caring anything at all about the treasure the thieves had taken from the magic room. If there was anything at all that he wanted, it was safe passage back to Greydawn Moors.

  The dark night around them seemed impenetrable, though, and the little librarian had no false hopes at all. He turned his attention back to his soup and bread, trying again to find a comfortable position.

  “I could teach you to fight, you know.”

  Still groggy from lack of sleep caused by the all-too-short night spent in the woods and the painful wound, Wick glanced up at Cobner. The big dwarf rode beside the little librarian as Brant led them through the Forest of Fangs and Shadows.

  “I appreciate that,” Wick replied tactfully. Morning was still pink and gold in the east, and Jhurjan the Swift and Bold could still be seen racing as a red ball streaking through the dark purple of the western skies. “But I don’t think fighting is something I would be good at.”

  “Maybe you’ve just never had a good teacher,” Cobner declared, pushing a low-hanging branch from their way, making it obvious he was removing it from Wick’s face as well even though the branch would have passed inches above the little librarian’s head. “You know, a good teacher makes a lot of difference.”

  “I know.” And Wick couldn’t help but think about his father and Grandmagister Ludaan. Both of them had taught him things that had stayed with him all his life. Amazingly, though, he also thought of Hallekk and the other pirates of One-Eyed Peggie that had taught him to ride the ocean swells and race the wind.

  “I had a good teacher,” Cobner said. “And although I’ve never taught anyone before, I think I could be a good teacher.”

  “I’m sure you could,” Wick replied.

  “It’s just that I’ve never found someone I really wanted to teach before,” Cobner said. “Until you.”

  Wick shifted painfully on the saddle, trying to find a new way to position the folded blanket that padded the saddle for his backside.

  “Would you like another blanket?” Cobner asked. “I could suggest one of the others give up theirs.”

  “No,” Wick said. “Thank you.”

  “I think you should really give fighting training some thought,” Cobner said. “After seeing you in action last night, I think you’d be a natural.”

  Wick’s ears burned. Maybe I’d have been better off letting the goblinkin shoot Cobner in the foot. Still, the big dwarf’s good intentions were touching, even though they were also exhausting. At least it would have made fleeing from Hanged Elf’s Point much more comfortable.

  The group of thieves had started the day almost an hour before dawn with a cold breakfast made up of cold ham and bread. Brant had decided to head the group east, through the Forest of Fangs and Shadows, and across the Broken Forge Mountains, hoping to reach Blackgate Cove where the dweller villages were supposed to be. From there, Brant said, they’d be able to secure passage aboard a merchant ship away from Hanged Elf’s Point.

  No one had offered a better idea, and going anywhere near Orpho Kadar’s city was considered too risky by all concerned.

  Hooves thudded against the ground, coming up fast behind them.

  Twisting painfully in the saddle, Wick glanced over his shoulder and watched Tyrnen riding up swiftly from behind. He and his twin had been assigned as rearguards.

  “What’s going on?” Cobner demanded as the young dwarf got closer.

  “We’re being followed,” Tyrnen answered as he rode past.

  “By who? Goblinkin? It’s not like them to venture so far from Hanged Elf’s Point.”

  “Purple Cloaks,” Tyrnen shouted over his shoulder.

  “Purple Cloaks?” Cobner shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it. “Why would Fohmyn Mhout’s lackeys pursue us so hard and so far?”

  Wick could only guess that the Purple Cloaks’ zeal could only have something to do with the things they’d taken from the magically hidden room. The only things that he would guess would be the books he carried in his backpack. And if Brant reached that assumption too, what would the master thief insist be done with those books?

  “Well, Wick,” Cobner said, “it sounds as though you’re going to get more experience at fighting before this little chase is over.” The big dwarf grinned confidently. “Stick with me. I’ll show you everything you need to know.”

  Although Brant carried no map of the Broken Forge Mountains and had never traveled there, the master thief nevertheless had a description of the area. During his time there, he’d gleaned details from conversations with several trade caravan masters in Hanged Elf’s Point.

  Brant called a brief halt at the edge of the mountain foothills leading up from the Forest of Fangs and Shadows. There, the group had a
clear view of the valley they’d just ridden up from. The master thief climbed to the top of a nearby promontory, lay on his stomach, and surveyed the valley.

  Hobbling a little, actually more sore from all the riding of the last few days then the wound in his backside, Wick looked out over the valley as well, trying to fathom what the master thief was thinking. The little librarian held his journal, a piece of charcoal in his hand as he blocked out the scene. During the ride, in between Cobner’s continued attempts to interest him in learning to fight, Wick had captured several loose images of the forest and the thieves.

  Activity, barely seen but for a moment, drew Wick’s attention from the drawing. The long line of Purple Cloaks threaded through a bare spot of the forest at a canter, following the same little-traveled trail Brant had chosen.

  “Well,” Sonne said in exasperation, “there’s no question that they’re following us.”

  “No,” Brant agreed quietly as he pushed himself up from the ground. “What remains to be seen is what we’re going to be able to do about it.”

  “We could try to ambush them,” Cobner suggested.

  “They’re Purple Cloaks,” Hamual said. “Away from Hanged Elf’s Point, their powers will be strong.”

  “We’d have surprise on our side,” Cobner argued.

  “Only for a short time,” Brant said. He loosened the saddle cinch on his horse for a moment, then tightened it again. “Once the surprise is gone, they still have their powers. And perhaps Fohmyn Mhout has equipped them with magic weapons as well.”

  The little group was silent again for a time. Wick watched the progress of the Purple Cloaks, knowing if any kind of physical confrontation took place they would surely lose. The Purple Cloaks outnumbered them nearly two to one.

  “Then we go over the mountains,” Sonne said.

  Brant looked doubtfully up the sheer sides of the mountains. “If we don’t find the mountain passes that the caravan traders told me they’d heard went through here, we’ll have no choice but to face them.”

  Without warning, a distant rumble of thunder sounded, then came closer and rolled over the group of thieves.