Ilse Witch

“That’s probably because we’ve tramped all over this village searching for Truls Rohk,” Bek said sourly.

The Dwarf nodded. “I doubt that anyone in Depo Bent even knows who he is. If they do, they don’t know him by his name.” His brown eyes had a distant look, as if they were seeing beyond what was immediately visible.

Bek glared openly. “You could have saved us a lot of trouble by finding us sooner.”

“I haven’t been here all that long myself.” Panax seemed unruffled. “I don’t live in the village, I live in the mountains. When I got word you were coming, I came down to find you.” He shrugged. “I knew you’d be back for your horses sooner or later, so I decided to wait for you at the stables.”

Bek would have said more on the matter, but Quentin cut him short. “How much do you know about what’s going on, Panax? Do you know what we’re doing here?”

Panax snorted. “Walker is a Druid. A Druid doesn’t feel it necessary to tell anyone more than what he feels they absolutely have to know.”

Quentin smiled, unperturbed. “Do you think Truls Rohk knows more than you do?”

“Less.” Panax shook his head, amused. “You don’t know anythi1ng about him, do you?”

“Just that we’re supposed to deliver a message from Walker,” Bek said rather more sharply than he intended. He took a steadying breath. “I have to tell you that I don’t like all this secrecy. How is anyone supposed to make a decision about anything if there’s no information to be considered?”

The Dwarf laughed, a deep, booming sound. “You mean, how is Truls supposed to give you an answer to whatever question you’re bringing from Walker? Hah! Highlander, that’s not what you’re doing here! Oh, I know you’re carrying a message from the Druid. Let me guess. He wants you to tell Truls something about what he’s up to now and see if Truls wants to be a part of it. Is that about right?”

He looked so smug that Bek wanted to tell him it wasn’t, but Quentin was already nodding agreeably. “You have to understand something,” Panax continued. “Truls doesn’t care what Walker is up to. If he feels like going with him, which he usually does, he will. It doesn’t take you two coming all the way here to determine that. No, Walker sent you here for something else.”

Bek exchanged a quick glance with Quentin. To test the power of the Sword of Leah, Bek was thinking. To put them in a situation that would measure their determination and toughness. Suddenly, Bek was very worried. What sort of challenge were they being asked to measure up to?

“Maybe we should go talk with Truls Rohk right now,” he suggested quickly, wanting to get on with things.

But the Dwarf shook his head. “We can’t do that. First off, he won’t be out until after dark. He doesn’t do anything in the daylight. So we have to wait until nightfall. Second, it isn’t a matter of going to him to have our talk. He has to come to us. We could hunt for him until next summer and never catch even a glimpse.” He gave Bek a wink. “He’s up in those mountains behind us, running with things you and I don’t want anything to do with, believe me.”

Bek shivered at the implication. He had heard stories of the things that lived in the Wolfsktaag, creatures out of myth and legend, nightmares come to life. They couldn’t hurt you if you were careful, but a single misstep could lead to disaster.

“Tell us something about Truls Rohk,” Quentin asked quietly.

Panax regarded him solemnly for about two heartbeats and then smiled almost gently. “I think I’d better wait and let you see for yourselves.”

He changed the subject then, asking them for news about the Southland and the war between the Federation and the Free-born, listening intently to their answers and comments as he resumed work on the carving he had been shaping while awaiting their return to the stables. Bek was fascinated by the Dwarf’s ability to divide his attention so completely between the tasks. His eyes were focused on the speakers, but his hands continued to whittle at the piece of wood with his knife. His blocky, solid body settled into a comfortable position and never shifted, still save for the careful, precise movement of his hands and the occasional nod of his bearded head. He might have been there or gone somewhere else entirely inside his head; it was impossible to tell.

After a time, he placed the carving on the bench next to him, a finished piece, a bird in flight, perfectly realized. Without so much as a glance at it, he reached into his tunic, produced a second piece of wood, and went back to work. When Bek managed to work up sufficient courage to ask him what he did for a living, he deflected the question with a shrug.