cut short by the sound of a thunderclap on a dry, cloudless night. Zvain cursed, the dwarf dived for cover, swearing it wasn’t his fault, while Ruari stared at one of the buildings where dust puffed through the upper story shutters.
“That white-skinned friend of yours?” Orekel asked from his hiding place.
“Yes,” Ruari answered absently. He wondered what else could go wrong, and Pavek’s voice at the base of his skull told him to quit wondering.
“Who’d she go with?”
“A mul. Big shoulders. Huge shoulders.”
“Bewt. That’s bad. You want to leave Ject now, son. Right now. Forget about her. It’s late. I’m sorry, son, but Bewt—he’s got a temper. You don’t want to be in his way, not at all, son. We’ll just leave the kanks here and tip-toe out the back. Son, son—are you listening, son?”
“Ruari?” Zvain added his urgent whisper. “Ruari—what’re we gonna do?”
He didn’t know—but he didn’t have to make any decisions just yet. Mahtra had emerged from the building and was running toward them on Ject’s solitary street, with her fringes flying. She didn’t have Ruari’s nightvision; he had to shout her name to let her know where they were. Other folk were coming onto the street, looking around, looking at Mahtra as she ran toward them.
Orekel was gibbering. “She—Her—She must’ve killed him.”
That was a possibility; they’d better be running before the Jectites found the mul’s body. It had come down to a choice Ruari was loathe to make: Orekel and tiptoeing into the mountains, or a kank-back retreat into the barrens. He was sure he was going to regret it later, but Ruari chose Orekel over the kanks because someone had unharnessed them.
Without the proper saddles, there was no way to ride or control the bugs.
An enraged mul—Bewt—stumbled onto the street. “Where is she?” he bellowed, looking left and right. Muls inherited their dwarven parent’s strength, but their human parent’s sight.
He turned to the dwarf. “Get us out of here, quick. Before he spots us.”
Orekel cast a worried glance toward the tavern.
“Now—if you want to go to the black tree. Get going. I’ll catch up.” On level ground, a half-elf could literally run circles around a dwarf. “Keep an eye out for Mahtra; she’s got ordinary eyes, and I’ve got something to do before I go.”
“Ru—!”
“It should improve our chances,” he said to Zvain. “Now go!”
After one last glance at the tavern, Zvain and Orekel shuffled off through the maze of animal pens. Ruari had Pavek’s steel knife out when Mahtra came to a stop at his side.
“I told him I wouldn’t remove my mask. I told him.”
Ruari thought the words were an apology as well as an explanation. It was hard to tell with Mahtra; her tone of voice never varied no matter the circumstances. Bewt might not have understood the risk he was running when she warned him, but then, he shouldn’t have tried to take off her mask, either.
“It’s all right,” Ruari assured Mahtra as he knelt down beside the kirre’s pen and went to work on the knotted cha’thrang rope the Jectites used to secure the door. “Zvain’s gone ahead—around there—did you see him? He was with a dwarf.” The kirre came over to investigate. It touched his hand with a soft-furred paw. There was some rapport between them, curiosity mostly on the kirre’s part. Even a half-elf druid needed time to bond with a creature of such size and ferocity—time they didn’t have.
“Did you see them? Zvain and the dwarf? They headed for the mountains. It would be better if you went after them. I don’t know what the kirre’s going to do when I get this pen open.”
“I saw a shadow,” Mahtra replied, eyeing the kirre with discomfort. “Ruari—hurry. They’re coming. I’m sure they saw me run around the tavern. I’m sorry.”
Ruari could hear the Jectites, too. He sawed furiously at the tough fiber. Without steel, he wouldn’t have had a chance. “Just go. Follow the dwarf and Zvain. I’ll catch up.”
“All right,” Mahtra said, and then she was gone, without a word of encouragement or hope.
But that was her way; Ruari understood the expressions playing across the kirre’s tawny eyes better than he’d ever understand the New Race woman.
“Stand away from that pen, boy!” one of the Jectites shouted from a distance. “Call your friends back. You’ve got deeds to answer for.”
Some of the Jectites split away and backtracked toward the front of the tavern, where the racks of spears stood outside the door. The rest, though, weren’t coming closer.