The Forest King (Tracy Hickman Presents the Anvil of Time) by Paul B. Thompson

Author:Paul B. Thompson [Thompson, Paul B.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786955930
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2010-01-14T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

Hunters

Mathi, Treskan, and Lofotan walked parallel a while, wading through knee-high scrub toward the fire-lit hill. The old warrior moved like a cloud, hardly stirring the leaves as he passed. Mathi slipped along, trying to match the elf’s deftness. Treskan had a harder time. If Mathi hadn’t already known he was a human in disguise, she would have figured it out. His progress was labored and noisy.

The route wasn’t easy. Roots tripped their toes, thorny branches ripped their elbows, and insects swarmed around their faces. The ground was a hazard covered with fallen tree limbs. She avoided them all, but Treskan stepped down on an unseen burrow. The turf broke loudly, and the scribe sprawled on his hands and knees. By the time he got up, Lofotan was standing over him.

“Give our position away once more, scribbler, and I’ll take you back and chain you to our lord!” he hissed. Treskan swallowed hard and swore he would be more careful.

They began to hear voices. Without warning, Lofotan angled toward some good-sized trees off to the left. They were dogwoods, very old and gnarled. He climbed the twisted trunk. Casting around, Mathi and Treskan saw others and hauled themselves up as well.

Two nomads appeared, laughing and talking loudly. Each carried a large canvas bucket. They passed right under Mathi.

“—he said he could do it, so I said try. He strung his bow and zzup! Put an arrow in the buck’s brisket. The crazy thing kept boundin’, and we ended up chasing it another mile!”

“Daxas never was a good bowman,” said the other.

They stopped on either side of a freshly dug hole in the turf. Dumping out the buckets, they retraced their path and disappeared in the cleft between the hills.

They swung down. Treskan clamped a hand over his nose. “What was in the hole?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Offal,” Mathi whispered. The humans had butchered a deer and disposed of the parts they didn’t want. The smell of blood made Mathi tingle in ways she had not experienced in a very long time. She found herself staring at the noisome pit until Lofotan called her away.

Rather than follow the two nomads, Lofotan went up the dark side of the hill to the summit. With great care, Mathi and Treskan shadowed him, trying to step in the same spots as their leader. They arrived at the top soundlessly. They found the old warrior crouched by a boulder. Below, a broad hollow lay spread out before them. Lofotan pointed down at the fire-lit expanse.

The camp was large indeed. It filled the hollow from end to end. Surrounding the sprawl of rude tents was a palisade of spears driven butt-first into the ground. Nomad spears had metal or stone end caps that allowed them to be driven in like stakes. Inside that fence lay tents, pens, and corrals, laid out in disorganized fashion. Lofotan said nomads shared their tents with up to five comrades. Counting the shelters, he reckoned they were looking at a camp of more than one thousand.

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