Flight of the Nighthawks by Raymond E. Feist

hut that sat snug in the middle of the clearing hadn’t been washed away by the recent flooding.
    The hut was constructed of sticks covered with mud, with a thatch roof and a rude stone chimney in back. It looked barely large enough to contain one person. A leather curtain served as a door and what looked to be a small opening high up on the left appeared to be the only window.
    The girl stopped a few yards from the hut and shouted, “Hello, old woman!”
    Instantly a voice answered, “What do you want, girl?”
    â€œI’m Margaret, from McGrudder’s,” she answered.
    Zane heard the reply in a cross tone: “I know who you are, you stupid girl. Why do you trouble my sleep?”
    â€œMcGrudder says you have to come. There’s a man in need of aid at the tavern.”
    â€œIn need of aid,” said the voice from within. “And why should I give aid to any who pass through this village?”
    â€œMcGrudder says it’s time to repay a debt.”
    There was a moment of silence, then the leather curtain was pushed away as the old woman stepped through. Zane had never seen a smaller person in his life. She looked barely more than four and a half feet tall. He had met a dwarf once, who was traveling through Stardock on his way to the dwarven stronghold near Dorgin, and even he had been a good four or five inches taller than this old woman.
    Her hair was white and her skin so sun-browned, like ancient leather, he couldn’t tell if she had once been fair or dark as a girl. Her stoop made her even shorter.
    But even in the dark Zane could see her eyes, alight as if glowing from within. In the dim moonlight he could see they were a startling and vivid blue.
    Toothless, she slurred her words slightly as she spoke. “Then come to McGrudder’s I shall, for I let no man hold debt over me.”
    She didn’t wait for either Margaret or Zane, but marched past them purposefully, muttering to herself.
    Zane and the girl easily kept pace, and when they reached the inn and went inside, Zane was amazed that the little woman looked even more frail and tiny than before.
    She marched up to McGrudder and said, “So, what debt do I owe you, McGrudder, that you’d call it in?”
    â€œNot me, old woman,” said the innkeeper. “Him.”
    The woman looked at the prone figure on the table and said, “Caleb!” She hurried to his side and said, “Get this tunic off so I may look at his wounds.”
    McGrudder began to pull Caleb upright to attempt to pull his jacket and tunic off, and the woman nearly screeched as she said, “Cut them off, you fool. Do you want to kill him?”
    Tad had been keeping Caleb’s hunting knife; he pulled it out and reversed it, handing the hilt first to the innkeeper. McGrudder set to with practiced efficiency and cut away the jacket, then the tunic.
    The old woman looked at the wounds and said, “He’s near to death. Boil bandages, and fetch me a cup of wine. Hurry.”
    The woman carried a small leather pouch on a strap she wore over one shoulder. She moved to stand next to the table and rummaged around in the pouch, finding what she sought. She removed a folded parchment and, when the wine was produced, she unfolded it, letting a fine powder fall into the wine. To Zane, she said, “You, boy, hold his head up and don’t let him choke as I give him the wine to drink.”
    Zane did as she instructed and Caleb’s lips moved slightly as she administered the potion. Then she went to the fire to check the cauldron. When the water began to roil, she put the bandages that had been cut from some spare bedding into it, and said, “You, girl, fetch me soap and cold water.”
    Margaret brought a bucket of cold water and the soap. The tiny woman ladled some hot water out of the cauldron into the bucket to warm the water then told Tad to put the bandages into the water.
    She set to with surprising