“Idiots !” Morik screamed, the cue for Wulfgar.
The driver hesitated, and that cost him. Holding the end of a strong rope, Wulfgar leaped from his concealment along the left-hand rock wall and swooped in a pendulum arc with a bloodcurdling howl. The crossbowman spun and fired but missed badly. Wulfgar barreled in at full speed, letting go of the rope and swinging his mighty arms out wide to sweep both crossbowman and driver from the bench, landing atop them in a pile on the far side. An elbow to the face laid the driver low. Reversing his swing, Wulfgar slammed the crossbowman on the jaw, surely breaking it as blood gushed forth.
The three swordsmen from the trailing wagon came on, two to the left of the first wagon, the third going to the right. Morik went right, a long and slender sword in one hand, a dagger in the other, intercepting the man before he could get to Wulfgar.
The man came at the rogue in a straightforward manner. Morik put his sword out beside the thrusting blade but rolled it around, disengaging. He stepped ahead, looping his dagger over the man’s sword and pulling it harmlessly aside while he countered with a thrust of his own sword, heading for the man’s throat. He had him dead, or would have, except that Morik’s arm was stopped as surely as if he were trying to poke his sword through solid stone.
“What are you doing?” he demanded of Wulfgar as the barbarian stepped up and slugged the guard, nearly losing his ear to the thrashing sword and dagger. The man got his free hand up to block, but Wulfgar’s heavy punch went right through the defense, planting his fist and the man’s own forearm into his face and launching him away. But it was a short-lived victory.
Though staggered by Wulfgar’s elbow, the driver was up again with blade in hand. Worse still, the other two swordsmen had found strong positions, one atop the bench, the other in front of the wagon. If that weren’t bad enough, the merchant burst from the door, a wand in hand.
“Now we are the idiots!” Morik yelled to Wulfgar, cursing and spinning out from the attack of the swordsman on the bench. From the man’s one thrust-and-cut routine, Morik could tell that this one was no novice to battle.
Wulfgar went for the merchant. Suddenly he was flying backward, his hair dancing on end, his heart palpitating wildly.
“So that’s what the wand does,” Morik remarked after the flash. “I hate wizards.”
He went at the swordsman on the ground, who defeated his initial attempt at a quick kill with a circular parry that almost had the rogue overbalancing. “Do hurry back!” Morik called to Wulfgar, then he ducked and thrust his sword up frantically as the swordsman from the bench leaped atop the horse team and stabbed at his head.
The driver came at Wulfgar, as did the man he had just slugged, and the barbarian worked fast to get the hammer off his back. He started to meet the driver’s charge but stopped fast and reversed his grip and direction, spinning the hammer the merchant’s way instead, having no desire to absorb another lightning bolt.
The hammer hit the mark perfectly, not on the merchant, but against the coach door, slamming it on the man’s extended arm just as he was about to loose yet another blast. Fire he did, though, a sizzling bolt that just missed the other man rushing Wulfgar.
“All charge!” Morik called, looking back to the rocky cliff on the left. The bluff turned his opponents’ heads for just an instant. When they turned back, they found the rogue in full flight, and Morik was a fast runner indeed when his life was on the line.
The driver came in hesitantly, respectful of Wulfgar’s strength. The other man, though, charged right in, until the barbarian turned toward him with a leap and a great bellow. Wulfgar reversed direction almost immediately, going back for the driver, catching the man by surprise with his uncanny agility. He accepted a stinging cut along the arm in exchange for grabbing the man’s weapon hand. Pulling him close with a great tug, Wulfgar bent low, clamped his free hand on the man’s belt, and hoisted the flailing fool high over his head. A turn and a throw sent the driver hard into his charging companion.
Wulfgar paused, to note Morik skittering by in full flight. A reasonable choice, given the course of the battle, but the barbarian’s blood was up, and he turned back to the wagons and the two swordsmen, just in time to get hammered by another lightning stroke. With his long legs, Wulfgar passed Morik within fifty yards up the rocky climb.
Another bolt slammed in near to the pair, splintering rocks. A crossbow quarrel followed soon after, accompanied by taunts and threats, but there came no pursuit, and soon the pair were running up high along the cliffs. When they dared to stop and catch their breath, Wulfgar looked down at the two scars on his tunic, shaking his head.
“We would have won if you had gone straight for the merchant after your sweep of the driver and crossbowman as planned,” Morik scolded.
“And you would have cut out that man’s throat,” charged Wulfgar.
Morik scowled. “What of it? If you’ve not the heart for this life, then why are we out here?”
“Because you chose to deal with murderers in Luskan,” Wulfgar reminded him, and they shared icy stares. Morik put his hand on his blade, thinking that the big man might attack him.
Wulfgar thought about doing just that.
They walked back to the cave separately. Morik beat him there and started in. Wulfgar changed his mind and stayed outside, moving to a small stream nearby where he could better tend his wounds. He found that his chest wasn’t badly scarred, just the hair burned away from what was a minor lightning strike. However, his shoulder wound had reopened rather seriously. Only then, with his heavy tunic off, did the barbarian understand how much blood he had lost.
Morik found him out there several hours later, passed out on a flat rock. He roused the barbarian with a nudge. “We did not fare well,” the rogue remarked, holding up a pair of bottles, “but we are alive, and that is cause for celebration.”
“We need cause?” Wulfgar replied, not smiling, and he turned away.
“First attacks are always disastrous,” Morik explained reasonably. “We must become accustomed to each other’s fighting style, is all.”
Wulfgar considered the words in light of his own experience, in light of the first true battle he and Drizzt had seen together. True, at one point, he had almost clobbered the drow with a low throw of Aegis-fang, but from the start there had been a symbiosis with Drizzt, a joining of heart that had brought them to a joining of battle routines. Could he say the same with Morik? Would he ever be able to?
Wulfgar looked back at the rogue, who was smiling and holding out the bottles of potent liquor. Yes, he would come to terms with Morik. They would become of like heart and soul. Perhaps that was what bothered Wulfgar most of all.
“The past no longer exists, and the future does not yet exist,” Morik reasoned. “So live in the present and enjoy it, my friend. Enjoy every moment.”
Wulfgar considered the words, a common mantra for many of those living day-to-day on the streets. He took the bottle.
e’ve not much time! What am I to wear?” Biaste Ganderlay wailed when Meralda told her the wedding had been moved up to the autumn equinox.
“If we’re to wear anything more than we have, Lord Feringal will be bringing it by,” Dohni Ganderlay said, patting the woman’s shoulder. He gave Meralda a look of pride, and mostly of appreciation, and she knew that he understood the sacrifice she was making here.
How would that expression change, she wondered, if her father learned of the baby in her belly?
She managed a weak smile in reply despite her thoughts and went into her room to dress for the day. Liam Woodgate had arrived earlier to inform Meralda that Lord Feringal had arranged for her to meet late that same day with the seamstress who lived on the far western edge of Auckney, some two hours’ ride.
“No borrowed gowns for the great day.” Liam had proclaimed. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Biaste, your daughter will truly be the most beautiful bride Auckney’s ever known.”
How Biaste’s face had glowed and her
eyes sparkled! Strangely, that also pained Meralda, for though she knew that she was doing right by her family, she could not forgive herself for her stupidity with Jaka. Now she had to seduce Lord Feringal, and soon, perhaps that very night. With the wedding moved up, she could only hope that others, mostly Priscilla and Temigast, would forgive her for conceiving a child before the official ceremony. Worst of all, Meralda would have to take the truth of the child with her to her grave.
What a wretched creature she believed herself to be at that moment. Madam Prinkle, a seamstress renowned throughout the lands, would no doubt make her a most beautiful gown with gems and rich, colorful fabrics, but she doubted she would be wearing the glowing face to go with it.
Meralda got cleaned up and dressed, ate a small meal, and was all smiles when Liam Woodgate returned for her, guiding her into the coach. She sat with her elbow propped on the sill, staring at the countryside rolling by. Men and gnomes worked in the high fields, but she neither looked for nor spotted Jaka Sculi among them. The houses grew sparse, until only the occasional cottage dotted the rocky landscape. The carriage went through a small wood, where Liam stopped briefly to rest and water the horses.
Soon they were off again, leaving the small woods and traveling into rocky terrain again. On Meralda’s right was the sea. Sheer rock cliffs rose on the north side of the path, some reaching down so close to the water’s edge that Meralda wondered how Liam would get the coach through.
She wondered, too, how any woman could live out here alone. Meralda resolved to ask Liam about it later. Now she spied an outpost, a stone keep flying Lord Feringal’s flag. Only then did she begin to appreciate the power of the lord of Auckney. The slow-moving coach had only traveled about ten miles, but it seemed as if they had gone halfway around the world. For some reason she couldn’t understand, the sight of Feringal’s banner in this remote region made Meralda feel better, as if powerful Lord Feringal Auck would protect her.
Her smile was short lived as she remembered he would only protect her if she lied.
The woman sank back into her seat, sighed, and felt her still-flat belly, as if expecting the baby to kick right then and there.
“The flag is flying, so there are soldiers within,” Wulfgar reasoned.
“Within they shall stay,” Morik answered. “The soldiers rarely leave the shelter of their stones, even when summoned. Their lookout, if they have one, is more concerned with those attacking the keep and not with anything down on the road. Besides, there can’t be more than a dozen of them this far out from any real supply towns. I doubt there are even half that number.”
Wulfgar thought to remind Morik that far fewer men had routed them just a couple of days before, but he kept quiet.
After the disaster in the pass, Morik had suggested they go out from the region, in case the merchant alerted Luskan guards, true to his belief that a good highwayman never stays long in one place, particularly after a failed attack. Initially, Morik wanted to go north into Icewind Dale, but Wulfgar had flatly refused.
“West, then,” the rogue had offered. “There’s a small fiefdom squeezed between the mountains and the sea southwest of the Hundelstone pass. Few go there, for it’s not on most maps, but the merchants of the northern roads know of it, and sometimes they travel there on their way to and from Ten-Towns. Perhaps we will even meet up with our friend and his lightning wand again.”
The possibility didn’t thrill Wulfgar, but his refusal to go back into Icewind Dale had really left them only two options. They’d be deeper into the unaccommodating Spine of the World if they went east to the realm of goblins and giants and other nasty, unprofitable monsters. That left south and west, and given their relationship with the authorities of Luskan in the south, west seemed a logical choice.
It appeared as if that choice would prove to be a good one, for the pair watched as a lone wagon, an ornate carriage such as a nobleman might ride, rambled down the road.
“It could be a wizard,” Wulfgar reasoned, painfully recalling the lightning bolts he’d suffered.
“I know of no wizards of any repute in this region,” Morik replied.
“You haven’t been in this region for years,” Wulfgar reminded him. “Who would dare travel in such an elaborate carriage alone?” he wondered aloud.
“Why not?” Morik countered. “This area south of the mountains sees little trouble, and there are outposts along the way, after all,” he added, waving his hand at the distant stone keep. “The people here are not trapped in their homes by threats of goblins.”
Wulfgar nodded, but it seemed too easy. He figured that the coach driver must be a veteran fighter, at least. It was likely there would be others inside, and perhaps they held nasty wands or other powerful magical items. One look at Morik, though, told the barbarian that he’d not dissuade his friend. Morik was still smarting from the disaster in the pass. He needed a successful hit.
The road below made a great bend around a mountain spur. Morik and Wulfgar took a more direct route, coming back to the road far ahead of the coach, out of sight of the stone outpost. Wulfgar immediately began laying out his rope, looking for some place he might tie it off. He found one slender tree, but it didn’t look promising.
“Just jump in,” Morik reasoned, pointing to an overhang. The rogue rushed down to the road, taking out a whip as he went, for the coach appeared, rambling around the southern bend.
“Clear the way!” came Liam Woodgate’s call a moment later.
“I must speak with you, good sir!” Morik cried, holding his ground in the middle of the narrow trail. The gnome slowed the coach and brought it to a halt a safe distance from the rogue—and too far, Morik noted, for Wulfgar to make the leap.
“By order of Lord Feringal of Auckney, clear the way,” Liam stated.
“I am in need of assistance, sir,” Morik explained, watching out of the corner of his eye as Wulfgar scrambled into position. Morik took a step ahead then, but Liam warned him back.
“Keep your distance, friend,” the gnome said. “I’ve an errand for my lord, and don’t doubt that I’ll run you down if you don’t move aside.”
Morik chuckled. “I think not,” he said.
Something in Morik’s tone, or perhaps just a movement along the high rocks caught the corner of Liam’s eye. Suddenly the gnome understood the imminent danger and spurred his team forward.
Wulfgar leaped out at that moment, but he hit the side of the carriage behind the driver, his momentum and the angle of the rocky trail putting the thing up on two wheels. Inside the coach a woman screamed.
Purely on instinct, Morik brought forth his whip and gave a great crack right in front of the horses. The beasts cut left against the lean, and before the driver could control them, before Wulfgar could brace himself, before the passenger inside could even cry out again, the coach fell over on its side, throwing both the driver and Wulfgar.
Dazed, Wulfgar forced himself to his feet, expecting to be battling the driver or someone else climbing from the coach, but the driver was down among some rocks, groaning, and no sounds came from within the coach. Morik rushed to calm the horses, then leaped atop the coach, scrambling to the door and pulling it open. Another scream came from within.
Wulfgar went to the driver and gently lifted the gnome’s head. He set it back down, secure that this one was out of the fight but hoping he wasn’t mortally wounded.
“You must see this,” Morik called to Wulfgar. He reached into the coach, offering his hand to a beautiful young woman, who promptly backed away. “Come out, or I promise I will join you in there,” Morik warned, but still the frightened woman curled away from him.
“Now that is the way true highwaymen score their pleasures,” Morik announced to Wulfgar as the big man walked over to join him. “And speaking of pleasures….” he added, then dropped into the coach.
The woman screamed and flailed at him, but she was no match for the skilled rogue. Soon he had her pinned against the coach’s ceiling, which was n
ow a wall, her arms held in place, his knee blocking her from kicking his groin, his lips close to hers. “A kiss for the winner?”
Morik rose suddenly, caught by the collar and hoisted easily out of the coach by a fuming Wulfgar. “You cross a line,” Wulfgar replied, dropping the rogue on the ground.
“She is fairly caught,” Morik argued, not understanding his friend’s problem. “We have our way, and we let her go. What’s the harm?”
Wulfgar glared at him. “Go tend the driver’s wounds,” he said. “Then find what treasures you may about the wagon.”
“The girl—”
“—does not count as a treasure,” Wulfgar growled at him.
Morik threw his hands up in defeat and moved to check on the fallen gnome.
Wulfgar reached into the coach, much as Morik had done, offering his huge paw to the frightened young woman. “Come out,” he bade her. “I promise you won’t be harmed.”
Stunned and sore, the woman dodged his hand.
“We can’t turn your wagon upright with you in it,” Wulfgar explained reasonably. “Don’t you wish to be on your way?”
“I want you to be on your way,” the woman snarled.
“And leave you here alone?”
“Better alone than with thieves,” Meralda shot back.
“It would be better for your driver if you got out. He’ll die if we leave him lying on the rocks,” Wulfgar was trying very hard to comfort the woman, or at least frighten her into action. “Come. I’ll not hurt you. Rob you, yes, but not hurt you.”
She timidly lifted her hand. Wulfgar took hold and easily hoisted her out of the coach. Setting her down, he stared at her for a long moment. Despite a newly forming bruise on the side of her face she was truly a beautiful young woman. He could understand Morik’s desire, but he had no intention of forcing himself on any woman, no matter how beautiful, and he certainly wasn’t going to let Morik do so.
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