Читать книгу A Meddle of Wizards - Alexandra Rushe - Страница 18

Chapter 10

Divers Paths

Mauric grabbed Gertie and pulled her close, heedless of the malodorous gunk covering her hairy body.

“Don’t ever do that again.” A shudder ran through his big frame. “I thought you were dead for sure.”

“Not so tight, boy,” Gertie wheezed. “Can’t . . . breathe.”

“Sorry.” He released Gertie and stepped back.

“That was a crazy thing to do.” Brefreton slapped the troll on a gummy shoulder. “Mauric tried to go after you, the young fool.”

“Whatever for?” Her shaggy brows rose. “I was in no danger.”

“No danger?” Raine stared at Gertie in astonishment. “You let that thing eat you.”

Gertie ducked her head. “Pish, no need to make a fuss. The main thing is to avoid the choppers going in. A fine specimen and a pity to kill it, but there was no help for it. A worg has five hearts and a brain located near the head. Once inside, it’s simply a matter of stirring things up a bit.” She flexed her claws. “Nothing to it, though a little light would’ve been nice. Dark as Glonoff’s heart in there.”

“Poor old worgy.” Mauric wrinkled his nose. “Gertie, you know I adore you, but you stink.”

“You try digging your way out of a worg’s belly and see how you smell.” Gertie rolled an eye at Raine. “But I wouldn’t mind a wash. You, pet?”

The two men surveyed Raine, taking in her vacuum-sealed pajamas. She blushed and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“Gog,” Gertie said, noticing her embarrassment. “Reckon you’ll want your blanket back.”

She whistled sharply and the poncho dropped from the ceiling. Raine scrambled back into the garment.

Gertie raised her shaggy brows at the men. “Now, about that bath . . .”

Mauric built up the fire and prepared a bathing chamber by stringing a length of rope between two stalactites. A blanket draped over the line provided privacy. Brefreton produced a large waterproof skin from one of the packs and stretched it across a collapsible frame on legs to form a shallow bag. This device was placed behind the screen to serve as a basin. The men hauled in snow, which Gertie heated for their baths. It was agreed by unanimous vote that Gertie should go first.

“Here, stinky, try this.” Mauric tossed Gertie a bar of soap from one of the saddle bags. “Lemongrass from the batch you gave me last Trowyn’s Day.”

Gertie sniffed the bar. “Nice, if I do say so m’self,” she said, padding behind the partition.

Mauric took a seat in the sand beside Raine. “The soap’s a special blend.” He waggled his brows. “Women love it.”

“They do?”

“Of course. I’m irresistible. Surely you’ve noticed?”

Raine squeezed her eyes shut. “Trying . . . trying . . .” She opened them again. “Nope. Can’t say I have.”

Gertie let out a whoop behind the curtain. “Good one, gal. Our Mauric fancies himself quite the ladies’ man.”

“Me?” Mauric said. “What about Raven? He’s left a string of broken hearts from the Citadel to Esmalla.”

“Raven?” Raine asked, curious. “Who’s Raven?”

“My cousin.” Mauric raised his voice for the troll’s benefit. “Gertie raised him, and a grimmer, more cheerless fellow you’ve never met.”

Gertie poked her head around the blanket. “Just because Raven’s not easily amused like you, doesn’t mean he’s grim.”

Letting the curtain fall back into place, the troll went back to her ablutions.

“Enough about that.” Mauric leaned closer to Raine. “Let’s talk about me. Admit it. I’m a handsome devil.”

Of course he was handsome. The question was, why was he flirting with her? Raine had seen herself in a mirror. She knew she wasn’t much to look at; too bony and pale. A lifetime of the pukes did that to a person.

Maybe Mauric felt sorry for her. The thought was humiliating.

Gertie stepped around the screen, smelling strongly of wet fur and scented soap. The troll made a sight with her braids unbound and her spiky red fur on end.

“You’re next,” Gertie said, pointing a claw at Raine.

Rising, Raine trudged into the bathing chamber to empty the basin. Mauric followed. Taking the leather tub from her, he refilled it with clean snow and more hot water from the fire.

“There you go,” he said, handing her a square of cloth. “Don’t use all the soap.”

“Is she pretty?” Raine glanced at Mauric and quickly away again, her cheeks burning.

“Who?”

“The other one. My . . . my sister.”

“Hara? I’d toss her.” Mauric grinned. “Then run like hell. Pretty is as pretty does, Gertie says. Your sister may be a stunner, but she’s not a right one, like you.” He winked. “Need help with your bath?”

She was a right one? That made Raine feel better. “Thanks.” She shoved him toward the curtain. “I can manage.”

Once he was gone, she stripped out of the blanket and her clothes. The heat from the fire didn’t reach behind the curtain and it was cold. Shivering, she plaited her hair, wrapped the long braid in a knot on top of her head, and secured it with the string from her pajama bottoms. She examined the bar of soap. Gouge marks marred the surface, mute testament of Gertie’s effort to leave the soap fur free.

Bending over the leather basin, Raine scrubbed her face and neck, then dipped the cloth in the warm water and lathered it with soap. She was already freezing and she had yet to wash her body. She thought longingly of her warm home back in Alabama with its creaky furnace. Home was worlds away. This was her new reality.

Gritting her teeth, she scrubbed all over and rinsed, then looked around with chattering teeth

“Hey, where’s the towel?”

“Aren’t any,” Gertie said. “Come stand by the fire. You’ll dry in no time.”

“I’m naked. I don’t have fur, remember?”

“Oh,” said Gertie. “I forgot.”

Shivering, Raine grabbed the woolen poncho and yanked it over her head. The cloth was musty and clung to her damp skin, but it was better than nothing. She picked up her pajamas and gave them an exploratory sniff. Phew, they smelled terrible. She should burn the things, but they were another layer against the cold, and the wool blanket chafed. She quickly rinsed the PJs and the panties she’d been wearing in the soapy water and marched to the fire. Spreading the garments on a rock to dry, she sidled up to the blaze, resisting the urge to lift the blanket and warm her frozen backside.

Gertie gave Mauric a pointed look. “Next.”

Mauric strode behind the curtain. Returning with the basin, he dumped hot water from the fire into the leather bag. “I’m going to wash now.”

“We’re ecstatic,” Gertie said. “We’ll send up a flare to celebrate.”

By the time Mauric and Brefreton had bathed, Gertie had a meal warming by the fire. It wasn’t much—ham and cheese on toasted bread and dried apples—but Raine was ravenous. She wolfed down two sandwiches and eyed Brefreton’s uneaten portion.

“Here.” He handed her the rest.

“Thanks.” She bit into what was left of the sandwich. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry.”

Plagued with persistent nausea, she’d never been much of an eater, and her lack of appetite had worried Mimsie no end. Junk food, whole food, comfort food, fast food, bland food—Mimsie had tried it all, but Raine found none of it appealing. These bits of stale brown bread and dried ham, however? Delicious. Appetite truly was the best sauce.

“Fighting worgs is hungry work,” Brefreton said, watching her scarf down his portion.

Raine swallowed the last of the sandwich and smothered a yawn. “I wouldn’t know. I was too busy trying not to get eaten.”

“I wasn’t much use without my magic,” Brefreton confessed. “Gertie was rather spectacular, though.”

Raine remembered Gertie’s forward roll down the worg’s throat with a shudder. “Yes, she was, but don’t be too hard on yourself. At least you kept Mauric from diving in after her.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Brefreton’s expression brightened. “You’re being awfully pleasant. Does this mean you don’t hate me anymore?”

“Let’s just say we’ve progressed from utter loathing to active dislike.”

“Active dislike, huh? Say, that is an improvement.”

“Enough yammering, you two,” Gertie said. “We can’t stay here forever with a dead worg in our laps. Our gooey friend is bound to attract scavengers. Mauric, go see about the weather.”

“Yes, mor.”

The warrior ambled out of the cave, returning shortly.

“Snow’s stopped,” he announced.

“Good.” Brefreton stretched out in the sand and propped his head in his hands. “Get some rest. We leave at first light.”

“I’ll stand guard,” Mauric said.

“We’ll take it in shifts.” Gertie paced in a circle like a big dog, then curled up next to the fire. “Wake me at midnight.”

“Yes, mor.”

Raine was exhausted from the adrenaline of the worg attack and her bath, and comfortably full. She crawled under a blanket and was asleep in an instant, too exhausted to care that she was snoozing a few feet away from a giant worm carcass.

* * * *

She woke the next morning lying spoon fashion next to the troll, her head resting on Gertie’s furry arm. Gertie made an excellent blanket, and she radiated heat. Asleep, the troll seemed more teddy bear than monster, her long eyelashes resting like big brown spiders upon her downy cheeks.

The troll was snoring, her black lips quivering with each exhalation. Raine reached out to touch the tip of one of Gertie’s tusks.

“Wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Mauric said. “There’s an old Finlaran saying. Let sleeping trolls lie. Gertie’s a dear, but she’s not a morning troll.”

Raine snatched her hand back and carefully disentangled herself from the sleeping troll. Mauric and Brefreton were eating breakfast by the fire. The warrior had braided his pale hair into a single thick plait. A long-sleeved leather coat hugged his broad shoulders and fell below his knees. Split up the side for ease of movement, the coat gave him ready access to his sword. From the snow that dusted his hair and coat, she surmised that he’d already been outside. Brefreton still wore the shabby cloak, now minus a worg-sized chunk of cloth. His hair was brushed back and clubbed at the nape of his neck, and it gleamed like rubies in the firelight.

She sat down between them and did her customary mental check for symptoms of her illness. There were none. No nausea or headache. No aches and pains. She felt good. No, she felt great, energetic and hungry. Again.

Her tummy rumbled. “What’s to eat?”

“Ham.” Brefreton held up a small stick with a piece of bread on it. “And toast. Or worg. We’ve worg aplenty.”

“Tempting,” Raine said. “But I think I’ll take the ham.”

Brefreton handed her a stick. “Thought you might.”

She poked a chunk of bread on the branch and held it over the fire. When it was golden brown, she wrapped it around a piece of cold, salty ham, and took a bite.

“Been meaning to ask you about something,” Mauric said. “You kept raving about crows when you were sick. Unnerving, I don’t mind telling you, and it made me wonder.”

The sandwich in Raine’s hand tumbled to the cave floor as the old terror grabbed her with clammy hands. The huge dark shape on the river bridge . . . her mother’s horrified scream as Daddy swerved to miss the thing and slammed into the guard rail. The screech of metal as the guard rail gave way and the car toppled slowly into the water. The river rushing in, cold and relentless.

Her parents had died that day. Raine had been four years old, and she’d had nightmares about bridges and dark water ever since.

And crows. To this day, crows terrified the holy bejesus out of her.

“Raine?” Mauric waved his hand in her face. “Why are you frightened of crows?”

Raine forced her rigid muscles to relax. “No idea what you’re talking about,” she lied, not meeting his gaze. “So, how’s the weather? Has the storm passed?”

Mauric gave her a searching look and shrugged. “Aye. The wind is up and blowing the snow around. Temperature’s dropping. Going to be a cold day.” He tossed her a heavy cloak. “Found this at the bottom of one of my packs—a present from one of my admirers. I’d forgotten all about it. It’s yours, if you like. I don’t wear it. Hinders my sword arm.”

Raine stroked the luxurious fur lining with a trembling hand. “Thanks,” she murmured. “It looks warm.”

Gertie rolled to her feet with a snort. “Wuzzat? I heard a noise.”

“You heard yourself,” Brefreton said from the other side of the fire. “You snore.”

“You are mistaken.” The troll glared at him. “Ladies don’t snore.”

“Ladies may not snore, but lady trolls certainly do. Loud enough to rattle the rocks.”

Raine left the wizards arguing and slipped behind the curtain. Closing her eyes, she breathed in and out to regain her composure. She was a grown woman, not a child to be frightened by a bad dream. When she was calm once more, she donned her underwear and pajamas. They were dry from the fire and smelled of smoke and Mauric’s soap. She threw the poncho back on, took down the rope and blanket, and carried them to Mauric. He folded them and stuffed them in one of the packs. Gertie, still groggy from sleep, sat on a stone and watched them break camp.

They were ready to go in no time. Pausing at the entrance to the cave, Raine fastened Mauric’s cloak around her shoulders. It swallowed her whole but it was blissfully warm. She stepped outside, squinting in the watery dawn light. Her vision cleared and she gasped. A vast expanse of mountains surrounded them like a rumpled green and black carpet. To the east, snow glistened on the mountain tops and dusted the branches of the tall fir trees. To the west, the peaks were a purple smudge crowned by fading stars.

The air shimmered and Tiny appeared on the narrow trail beside them. They were an odd group, her companions: a giant, two wizards—one a troll—and a young Viking god. The red-headed wizard and the strapping warrior stood together in quiet conference with the giant. The troll stood apart, her squat, powerful body clad in the robe and torn boots. She lifted her snout and sniffed at the breeze like a hound at the scent.

Raine took a deep breath and blew it out in a frosty puff. This was real. The universe had thrust her, the most unlikely of adventurers, into this strange place with this improbable troupe of fellows. The god stone was lost, and there was no going back. She could accept it or go mad.

“Late yesterday afternoon, I saw smoke over that a-way,” Tiny was saying. He pointed to the northwest. “So, I wandered over fer a gander. There be a big fire and lots o’ dead folks.”

Brefreton nodded. “Gertie and I saw the fire too.”

“So, that’s where you went,” Mauric said. “Was it Glonoff?”

Gertie lowered her snout. “Magog. He’s awake and he’s not happy. He shattered the temple and flattened the hills around it. Even the temple stones were burning.” She shifted on her hind legs. “We’d best be moving. Finlars are rare in Shad Amar, red trolls even rarer. Hara will describe us to Glonoff and he’ll be thrunched.”

“The blizzard will have slowed him down,” Mauric said.

Gertie grunted. “Yes, but not for long. Every goggin in these mountains will be after us.”

As if on cue, an eerie howl sundered the peaceful morning.

“You’re right, mor. Look.” Mauric pointed to a dozen shaggy shadows on the next ridge.

“Vuks.” Gertie pronounced the strange word with an ooh sound. “Magog’s pet wolves. They’ve caught our scent.” She smirked. “Glonoff thinks he’s got us, but he doesn’t know about Tiny.”

“And glad I be, too,” Tiny said, his eyes widening in alarm. “‘Tiny, me boy, have no truck with wizards.’ That’s what me mam allus says.”

“I’m a wizard,” Gertie pointed out.

“Oh, aye, but that be different,” Tiny said. “You be special, don’t you know. Brefreton, too.”

“Hear that, Gertie?” Brefreton winked at the troll. “We’re special.” He stared at the pinkening skyline with a thoughtful expression. “It might be wiser to change our plans. Better, I think, to head for Durngaria, instead of going over the mountains into Tannenbol. Glonoff won’t expect that. And, as an added bonus, the vuks won’t venture into the grasslands. The Durngesi tribesmen have no liking for goggins.”

“Excellent notion, Bree,” Gertie said. “We’ll make for the Shara and catch a barge into Gambollia.”

“Gambollia?” Raine asked.

“The largest city in Durngaria and the only civilization, some would say,” Gertie explained. “From there, we’ll secure passage north.”

“I like it.” Brefreton stroked the reddish bristles on his chin. “But I won’t be coming with you. I need to warn Zora that the Eye has been stolen.”

“Zora?” Raine asked, swallowing her dismay at the news that Brefreton would not be coming with them. She was just starting to like the wizard, and she didn’t care for the notion of breaking up their little company. “Who’s that?”

“A slip of a girl and the queen of Tannenbol.” Gertie gave Brefreton a sly look. “Bree’s terrified of her.”

“You know that’s not true,” Brefreton objected. “I practically raised the child.”

“Hmm.” Gertie was plainly unconvinced. “We’ll do as you suggest. When do you plan to tell your precious Reba you lost her god stone?”

Brefreton groaned. “Gods, I’d forgotten about that. She’s going to be angry, isn’t she?”

“Apoplectic, and I’m glad, the breedbating, trundle-tailed—”

“Please, Gertie,” Brefreton said, holding up his hand. “We’ve trouble enough without you rousing the wrath of the gods by blaspheming.” He tugged on his auburn ponytail and seemed to reach a decision. “It’s settled then. I’ll catch up with you at the Neatfoot in ten days’ time.” He turned to the giant. “Tiny, I’m counting on you to keep them safe in my absence.”

Tiny’s eyes filled with tears. “I won’t let you down, and thas’ the truth.” He wiped his face and gave Mauric a watery glare. “And I ain’t crying, if that be what yer thinking. The wind be in my eyes. That be all.”

“The Neatfoot Inn and don’t be late,” Brefreton said again, and threw himself off the mountain.