“Shut up!” Thranic’s hand slipped on the gear and the string snapped back, slashing his fingers. He was shaking now.
“You can’t kill the elf inside, so you torture and murder all those you find.”
He was closer.
“I said shut up!”
“How much elven blood does it take to wash away the sin of being one yourself?”
Closer still.
“Damn you!” he screamed, fighting with the bow, which refused to cooperate with his shaking fingers.
He drew the string back again only to have it jump the track and snap free. He put a foot through the loop at the bow’s nose and pulled. Now it was stuck. He pressed desperately on the ratchet handle. It refused to move. Crack! The winch snapped.
In horror, Thranic stopped breathing as he looked down. He struggled to pull the bowstring back with just the strength of his arms. He pulled with all his might, but he could not get it to the catch. He was giving Melborn too much time. He let the bow fall to the grass and drew his dagger.
He waited. He listened. He spun. He looked.
He was alone.
“Get up.” Hadrian woke to Royce’s voice as his friend moved through the camp. He knew the tone and instantly got to his feet.
“What is it?”
“Company,” Royce told him. “Wake everyone.”
“What’s happening?” Wesley asked groggily as the camp slowly came alive.
“Quiet,” Royce whispered. He crouched with his dagger drawn, staring out into the darkness.
“Ghazel?” Grady asked.
“Something,” Royce replied. “A lot of somethings.”
The rest of them heard it now, twigs snapping and leaves rustling. They were all on their feet with weapons drawn.
“Backs to the river!” Wesley shouted.
Ahead of them a light appeared, then disappeared, and then another blinked. Two more flickered off to the right and left and sounds of movement grew louder and closer. Dovin Thranic stumbled back into camp, causing a brief alarm. Several people looked at him oddly but said nothing.
Everyone’s attention remained on sounds from the trees.
Shadowy figures carried torches within the thick weave of the jungle. Slowly they climbed out of the brush and into the clearing around the riverbank. Twenty approached from all sides at once. At first, they appeared to be strange, monstrous beasts. When they fully entered the clearing, Hadrian saw that they were men: stocky, bull-necked brutes with white-painted faces, bone armor, and headdresses of long feathers. They moved with ease through the dense brush. In their hands were crude clubs, axes, and spears. The men circled in silence, creeping forward.
“We come in peace!” Hadrian heard Dilladrum shout in Tenkin, his voice sounding weak. “We have come to see Warlord Erandabon. We bear a message for him.”
As they grew nearer, the men began hooting and howling, shaking their weapons. Some brandished teeth, while others beat their chests or stomped naked feet.
Dilladrum repeated his statement.
One of the larger men, who carried a decorated war axe, stepped forward and approached Dilladrum. “What message?” the Tenkin asked in a harsh, shallow voice.
“It is a sealed letter,” Dilladrum replied. “To be given only to the warlord.”
The man eyed each of them carefully. He grinned and then nodded. “Follow.”
Although it was the best they could expect, Dilladrum mopped his forehead with his sleeve as he explained the conversation to the party.
The Tenkin howled orders. Torches went out and the rest melted back into the jungle. The leader remained as they quickly broke camp. Then, with a motion for them to follow, he ran back into the trees, his torch lighting the way. He led them at a brisk pace that had everyone panting for breath—and Bulard near collapse. Dilladrum shouted forward for a rest or at least a slower pace. The only response was laughter.
“Our new friends aren’t terribly considerate of an old man.” Bulard panted in between wheezing inhales.
“That’s enough!” Wesley shouted, and raised a hand for them to stop. The crew of the Emerald Storm needed little persuasion to take a break. The Tenkin and his torch continued forward, disappearing into the trees. “If he wants to keep jogging on without us, let him!”
“He’s not,” Royce commented. “He’s hiding in the trees up ahead with his torch out. There are also several on either side of us, and more than a few to our rear.”
Wesley looked around, then said, “I don’t see anything at all.”
Royce smiled. “What good is it having an elf in your crew if you can’t make use of him?”
Wesley raised an eyebrow, looked back out into the trees, then gave up altogether. He pulled the cork from his water bag, took a swig, and passed it around. Turning his attention to the historian, who sat in the dirt doubled over, he asked, “How you doing, Mr. Bulard?”