The Spine of the World - By R. A. Salvatore Page 0,85

other tucked defensively with a broken arrow shaft protruding from his shoulder-Wulfgar held the highwayman by the throat off the ground, choking the life out of him.

"I could stop him," Morik explained, walking over and putting his hand on his huge friend's bulging forearm. Only then did he notice Wulfgar's serious wound. "You must lead us to your camp."

"No camp!" the man gasped. Wulfgar pressed and twisted.

"I will! I will!" the thug squealed, his voice going away as Wulfgar tightened his grip, choking all sounds and all air. His face locked in an expression of the purest rage, the barbarian pressed on.

"Let him go," Morik said.

No answer. The man in Wulfgar's grasp wriggled and slapped but could neither break the hold nor draw breath.

"Wulfgar!" Morik called, and he grabbed at the big man's arm with both hands, tugging fiercely. "Snap out of it, man!"

Wulfgar wasn't hearing any of it, didn't even seem to notice the rogue.

"You will thank me for this," Morik vowed, though he was not so sure as he balled up his fist and smashed Wulfgar on the side of the head.

Wulfgar did let go of the thug, who slumped unconscious at the base of the tree, but only to backhand Morik, a blow that sent the rogue staggering backward, with Wulfgar coming in pursuit. Morik lifted his sword, ready to plunge it through the big man's heart if necessary, but at the last moment Wulfgar stopped, blinking repeatedly, as if he had just come awake. Morik recognized that Wulfgar had returned from wherever he had gone to this time and place.

"He'll take us to the camp now," the rogue said.

Wulfgar nodded dumbly, his gaze still foggy. He looked dispassionately at the broken arrow shaft poking from his wounded shoulder. The barbarian blanched, looked to Morik in puzzlement, then collapsed face down in the dirt.

*****

Wulfgar awoke in the back of the wagon on the edge of a field lined by towering pines. He lifted his head with some effort and nearly panicked. A woman walking past was one of the thugs from the road. What happened? Had they lost? Before full panic set in, though, he heard Morik's lighthearted voice, and he forced himself up higher, wincing with pain as he put some weight on his injured arm. Wulfgar looked at that shoulder curiously; the arrow shaft was gone, the wound cleaned and dressed.

Morik sat a short distance away, chatting amiably and sharing a bottle with another of the gnollish highwaymen as if they were old friends. Wulfgar slid to the end of the wagon and rolled his legs over, climbing unsteadily to his feet. The world swam before his eyes, black spots crossing his field of vision. The feeling passed quickly, though, and Wulfgar gingerly but deliberately made his way over to Morik.

"Ah, you're awake. A drink, my friend?" the rogue asked, holding out the bottle.

Frowning, Wulfgar shook his head.

"Come now, ye gots to be drinkin'," the dog-faced gnoll sitting next to Morik slurred. He spooned a glob of thick stew into his mouth, half of it falling to the ground or down the front of his tunic.

Wulfgar glared at Morik's wretched new comrade.

"Rest easy, my friend," Morik said, recognizing that dangerous look. "Mickers here is a friend, a loyal one now that Togo is dead."

"Send him away," Wulfgar said, and the gnoll dropped his jaw in surprise.

Morik came up fast, moving to Wulfgar's side and taking him by the good arm. "They are allies," he explained. "All of them. They were loyal to Togo, and now they are loyal to me. And to you."

"Send them away," Wulfgar repeated fiercely.

"We're out on the road," Morik argued. "We need eyes, scouts to survey potential territory and swords to help us hold it fast."

"No," Wulfgar said flatly.

"You don't understand the dangers, my friend," Morik said reasonably, hoping to pacify his large friend.

"Send them away!" Wulfgar yelled suddenly. Seeing he'd make no progress with Morik, he stormed up to Mickers. "Be gone from here and from this forest!"

Mickers looked past the big man. Morik gave a resigned shrug.

Mickers stood up. "I'll stay with him," he said, pointing to the rogue.

Wulfgar slapped the stew bowl from the gnoll's hand and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him up to his tiptoes. "One last chance to leave of your own accord," the big man growled as he shoved Mickers back several steps.

"Mister Morik?" Mickers complained.

"Oh, be gone," Morik said unhappily.

"And the rest of us, too?" asked another one of the humans