The Darkness Before the Dawn - By Ryan Hughes Page 0,1
how to use it. He could get himself into trouble very easily if he wasn’t careful.
The breeze shifted, and the aroma of cooking meat drifted across the dune. Kayan’s stomach rumbled. She smiled and patted herself on the bare skin between her halter top and breechcloth. “I could certainly use a few bites of that,” she said.
Jedra nodded. “Me, too. That slop they served us in the wagon was even less than I used to get on the streets in Urik.”
“It was far less than what a templar’s assistant eats,” Kayan said, a note of sadness in her voice. Her former life had gone up in flames as surely as the caravan before her. Born into a noble’s household, she had become a psionic healer for the templars, a position she’d held until she crossed someone in power. Overnight she’d found herself in the hold of a slave wagon bound for Tyr. The elves had rescued her from that fate, but even so she would no longer eat good meals every day, nor live in a spacious apartment near the sorcerer-king’s palace, nor help control the resources of an entire city.
Jedra’s life had changed also, but not to the same extent. He had been one of link’s myriad street people before he had been enslaved; he had always foraged for his meals and shelter. Here in the desert both were more scarce, but even that would not be true tonight.
Standing, he said, “I think we should take the elves up on their offer before they decide to withdraw it.”
Kayan held out a hand for him to help her to her feet. “Yes,” she said, brushing the sand off her breechcloth, “I suppose even associating with boisterous elves is better than starving to death.”
They descended the sandy slope hand-in-hand, using one another for support, obviously not accustomed to desert travel. The loose sand rubbed uncomfortably between their sandal straps and their feet, and Kayan kept stopping to shake it out. It wasn’t so bad when they reached level ground.
They approached the party with caution. They had watched the elves chase away other survivors from the caravan when they drew too close. Even with their invitation, they weren’t sure how they would be received. They were right to be cautious; the elves looked at them suspiciously and whispered among themselves in their own language, and three warriors—one with a sword and two with longbows held ready—moved to intercept them. Before the warriors reached them, however, Galar, the elf who had been enslaved with them, spotted them and held out his arms, saying in the common tongue, “Aha, my friends, you have decided to join our celebration!”
“We don’t want to intrude,” Jedra said diplomatically, “but the smell of food has overcome us.”
“Intrude! Impossible!” Galar spoke loudly for all to hear. Shaking his head until his reddish-blond hair fell into his eyes and had to be shaken out again, he said, “It was you who led the tribe to us, and who fought the slave master with your minds. Without your psionic talent I would still be in the slave hold, another day closer to Tyr, and the Jura-Dai would still thirst for their revenge. You cannot intrude upon a celebration held in your honor.” He reached down for Kayan’s arm and led her into the midst of the elves, calling out, “Let’s show our friends the hospitality of the Jura-Dai. A pint of mead for each of them, and the best cut from the roast. And if we don’t hear a song about their exploits by the end of the feast, I’ll have the bard’s head on a pike!”
Galar’s enthusiasm amused the other elves—save for the bard, whose eyes bulged as he realized he now had to come up with an amusing ditty or face the taunts of his drunken tribe. Jedra caught his eye and shrugged in silent apology for his inconvenience, but the bard didn’t look mollified.
Jedra didn’t have time to worry; within seconds a smiling elf maiden shoved a mug of mead into his hands, slopping a fourth of it over his forearm in the process, and Galar led him on toward the crowd gathered near the cooking spit. Jedra’s mouth watered at the wonderful aroma that wafted from the dripping carcass. Inix, it looked like from his closer vantage.
The warrior who had been roasting his own meat had taken refuge behind a shield and edged up close to the burning wagon. The gobbet of steak impaled on his sword