and pointed back the way they'd come, she stood still for a moment, staring into his eyes, and breathed a kiss at him.
His habitual frown sharpened, but she kept her eyes on his as she turned, slowly, to obey him, following the shuffling warriors of Darswords back to the smooth-floored cavern.
Baerold was frowning at her, too. She met his narrowed eyes for the briefest of moments before bowing her head submissively, and was pleased to see some of that malice ebb before he turned away.
Only these two were wary of her; the rest kept stealing glances at her bared curves, when they looked her way at all.
She waited until he looked back a second time—a suspicious man indeed, our Baerold—saw nothing to alarm him, and returned his attention to trudging back to where he could rest.
Then Daera turned, nude and magnificent despite her graying skin, to whisper to Taroarin, "I know where rich treasures are hidden, man—but spells have been laid on me by the great wizard Narmarkoun. My tongue is bound, unless I speak to one who has mastered me. To him, and him alone, I am free to speak."
"One who has mastered you," Taroarin echoed, his whisper as ghostly quiet as hers, and gave her the merest crooked hint of a smile. Hint taken.
Men were already settling themselves as best they could on hard rock, with a chorus of sighs, muttered curses, and groans, by the time Taroarin led Daera to the back of the cavern, where it branched into three narrow fissures curving off into the darkness.
As Baerold watched wordlessly, he forced her to her knees on the sharp rocks there, took off his sword-belt, and used it to strap her arms together behind her back, winding it around and around them from elbows to wrists before buckling it tight. Then he did off his half-cloak, wound it around Daera's head, lowered her face-first onto the stones, and arranged stones on the trailing cloak-tails to pinion her head where she lay.
Two swift kicks spread her legs apart, and he growled, "Don't move. Or else." Half a dozen swipes of his boots raked loose stones away from all around her into a ring, so his captive lay on cleared stone but surrounded by a little wall of rock. Reclaiming his blade, Taroarin turned his back on her and returned to Baerold.
"I'll stand first watch," he said, but the deep-voiced man shook his head.
"Second," was his terse response. "I'm first. Wake Sargult to relieve you."
Taroarin shrugged, nodded, and sought the far side of the chamber, where he sat down and curled himself up against the wall.
He had barely begun to snore when Baerold went over to Daera, squatted down, and gave her trussed body a baleful glare.
"I want to trust you," he muttered quietly, "but I can't."
His hand closed over the solid, reassuring pommel of his dagger. "It'd be best if I just cut you apart right now. Though that just might mean severed arms and legs and a head all bouncing around, clawing at us and working mischief. We should burn you. Not that I've seen any wood since we got in here."
He drew his dagger, hefted it, and leaned closer.
"Well, dead woman? Wizard's monster? What if I started cutting you up right now?"
From inside the cloak enfolding her head came a soft snore.
The landings were heavy but precise, the two weary Aumrarr thumping down on a high mountain ledge half a breath behind their harnessed burdens.
It was a big ledge, but not so large that four sprawled, tired folk—two with wings—didn't feel crowded.
"We're in Galath," Juskra announced faintly.
Garfist Gulkoun looked up at the peak behind them, then the other way, down over the lip of the ledge.
It was a sheer drop, a long way down to many jagged rocks heaped below. This had been the smallest of the marching mountains, but more than large enough to be deadly.
A cold breeze whistled past. He gazed out at the dark treetops ahead, and smaller rock ridges beyond that, then turned to stare at his steed.
"I fail to see your promised inn," he growled, as the wind
His habitual frown sharpened, but she kept her eyes on his as she turned, slowly, to obey him, following the shuffling warriors of Darswords back to the smooth-floored cavern.
Baerold was frowning at her, too. She met his narrowed eyes for the briefest of moments before bowing her head submissively, and was pleased to see some of that malice ebb before he turned away.
Only these two were wary of her; the rest kept stealing glances at her bared curves, when they looked her way at all.
She waited until he looked back a second time—a suspicious man indeed, our Baerold—saw nothing to alarm him, and returned his attention to trudging back to where he could rest.
Then Daera turned, nude and magnificent despite her graying skin, to whisper to Taroarin, "I know where rich treasures are hidden, man—but spells have been laid on me by the great wizard Narmarkoun. My tongue is bound, unless I speak to one who has mastered me. To him, and him alone, I am free to speak."
"One who has mastered you," Taroarin echoed, his whisper as ghostly quiet as hers, and gave her the merest crooked hint of a smile. Hint taken.
Men were already settling themselves as best they could on hard rock, with a chorus of sighs, muttered curses, and groans, by the time Taroarin led Daera to the back of the cavern, where it branched into three narrow fissures curving off into the darkness.
As Baerold watched wordlessly, he forced her to her knees on the sharp rocks there, took off his sword-belt, and used it to strap her arms together behind her back, winding it around and around them from elbows to wrists before buckling it tight. Then he did off his half-cloak, wound it around Daera's head, lowered her face-first onto the stones, and arranged stones on the trailing cloak-tails to pinion her head where she lay.
Two swift kicks spread her legs apart, and he growled, "Don't move. Or else." Half a dozen swipes of his boots raked loose stones away from all around her into a ring, so his captive lay on cleared stone but surrounded by a little wall of rock. Reclaiming his blade, Taroarin turned his back on her and returned to Baerold.
"I'll stand first watch," he said, but the deep-voiced man shook his head.
"Second," was his terse response. "I'm first. Wake Sargult to relieve you."
Taroarin shrugged, nodded, and sought the far side of the chamber, where he sat down and curled himself up against the wall.
He had barely begun to snore when Baerold went over to Daera, squatted down, and gave her trussed body a baleful glare.
"I want to trust you," he muttered quietly, "but I can't."
His hand closed over the solid, reassuring pommel of his dagger. "It'd be best if I just cut you apart right now. Though that just might mean severed arms and legs and a head all bouncing around, clawing at us and working mischief. We should burn you. Not that I've seen any wood since we got in here."
He drew his dagger, hefted it, and leaned closer.
"Well, dead woman? Wizard's monster? What if I started cutting you up right now?"
From inside the cloak enfolding her head came a soft snore.
The landings were heavy but precise, the two weary Aumrarr thumping down on a high mountain ledge half a breath behind their harnessed burdens.
It was a big ledge, but not so large that four sprawled, tired folk—two with wings—didn't feel crowded.
"We're in Galath," Juskra announced faintly.
Garfist Gulkoun looked up at the peak behind them, then the other way, down over the lip of the ledge.
It was a sheer drop, a long way down to many jagged rocks heaped below. This had been the smallest of the marching mountains, but more than large enough to be deadly.
A cold breeze whistled past. He gazed out at the dark treetops ahead, and smaller rock ridges beyond that, then turned to stare at his steed.
"I fail to see your promised inn," he growled, as the wind
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