Noble Dead 6 - Child of a Dead God by Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee

Author:Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2009-04-23T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Welstiel had rested through the day in the makeshift tent Chane had rigged among the beach-top trees, but he had not fallen dormant. He still possessed enough elixir to keep him conscious for many days, so he’d merely remained quiet until Chane and the ferals roused. Now the monks crawled to their hands and knees around him. Despite their long swim, their tabards were still bloodstained.

“She has a long lead,” Chane said. “Likely traveling all day.”

Welstiel knew Chane’s true thoughts were not fixed on Magiere but rather on his little scholar, Wynn. Such a trivial matter did not deserve attention. He left the tent and walked through the growing darkness down to the gravel beach, to crouch and pull out his domed brass plate.

“Straight south,” Chane said, standing over him. “Between the Blade Range and the ocean, she can only follow the shore.”

“For now,” Welstiel responded.

He stood up, not liking having Chane at his back, and decided not to scry for Magiere. It would be pointless so early in her journey. His main concern was to follow her closely enough not to miss any major course change—and yet keep his group beyond her or Chap’s range of awareness. A fine line to walk.

The monks clambered downslope, sniffing the shore air.

“Have them pack up,” Welstiel said. “We will start as soon as they finish.”

Despite recent events, he believed himself in a good position. Still unaware of his presence, Magiere was moving onward.

The sister of the dead will lead you.

Of his former patron’s taunts, this one phrase held true. He would allow her to lead, without needing to rein her in under his control.

Two ferals mewled softly in agitation. Jakeb began slapping a tree with his hand and then motioning southward. Sabel grabbed Chane’s arm.

“Chhhhhaaan,” she slurred, and dragged Chane a short distance past Jakeb’s tree.

“What is it?” Welstiel asked.

“I do not know,” Chane answered. “Their senses are stronger than mine, even when . . .”

He fell silent, his nostrils flaring wide as he looked off through the trees.

“Life?” Chane whispered. “They could not be so close and . . . wait . . . it is gone.”

Welstiel hurried over. Chane’s sense of smell was more developed than his own, but Welstiel doubted Magiere could be this close—or could she? His concern turned to anxiety.

Had she or one of her companions been injured? Or had something else delayed her? He could not allow Magiere to learn of his group’s presence; she must not have warning.

“Wait here,” he said. “Keep the monks quiet. Get them back in the tents if I do not return by dawn.”

“By dawn?” Chane asked in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“Do as I instruct!”

He pushed past along the rough forested slope, staying clear of the beach. If Magiere was ahead, his ring would hide him from her. He caught only glimpses of the ocean as he worked his way south. Then he began sniffing about for himself, until he finally picked up a scent.

He crept on, and the odor sharpened more frequently on the unpredictable ocean breeze twisting through the foliage.

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