for them to ambush Davyn and the others. Oddvar had given the job to Drefan, Fyren, and Gifre since theywere goblins themselves. He told them to meet him right here on this log after they had met with the mercenaries. The three goblins should have been back by—
Oddvar’s thoughts were interrupted by a rustling in the underbrush on the other side of the trail. An instant later, Drefan, Fyren, and Gifre poked their heads out of the greenery and looked around, frowning in confusion.
Oddvar should have expected this, the three goblins had found the right section of the forest, but they were on the wrong side of the trail.
He hoisted his stumpy legs over the log and walked to the edge of the trail.
Drefan was the first to see the Theiwar, and the goblin leader raised his hand in acknowledgement and opened his mouth to speak.
Oddvar quickly made a slashing gesture across his throat to indicate the goblin should keep quiet.
The crimson skin of Drefan’s face turned light pink—the goblin version of going pale. Fyren and Gifre took one look at Oddvar and their faces paled to pink, too.
Oddvar instantly understood what had happened. The stupid goblins thought he meant that he wanted to cut their throats!
He shook his head to let them know they’d misinterpreted, but the goblins paid no attention. They turned and fled in terror, crashing noisily through the forest.
Oddvar sighed. At least they hadn’t screamed.
He chanced looking down the trail in the direction Davyn and the others had gone. He was relieved to see that none of them had turned around. Perhaps they hadn’t heard the goblins’ flight, or if they had, perhaps they’d assumed some forest animal had made the noise. Since none of the youths were looking, Oddvar risked dashing across the trail in pursuit of the three goblins.
And when he finally caught up with the fools, perhaps he really would slit their throats.
“How long does it take for a new pair of boots to become broken in?” Nearra asked no one in particular.
They had entered the forest hours ago. Walking on the uneven path was taking its toll on Nearra’s feet.
“It depends on how much you walk in them,” Catriona said. “A few days, perhaps longer.”
“A few days? By then there won’t be anything left of my feet! They’ll be worn down to nubs!”
Catriona, Davyn, and Elidor laughed, but Jax remained silent. Nearra wondered if the minotaur had a sense of humor. If so, she’d seen no sign of it so far.
“It’s a good thing we’re taking you to a temple full of clerics, then,” Sindri said. “Maybe they’ll be able to heal your feet.”
“Clerics?” Jax said.
Nearra realized that no one had informed the minotaur of the purpose for their journey, so she told him all that had happened to her since waking up on the trail of the southern forest yesterday morning.
When she was done speaking, Jax said, “It is a strange story. One that is difficult to believe.”
The minotaur walked at the rear of the group, and Catriona—who was up front with Elidor—had to look over her shoulder to address the man-bull.
“Are you saying Nearra is lying?” the warrior said, a challenge in her tone.
“No,” the minotaur said evenly. “But humans have a tendency of being … over-imaginative.”
Before Catriona could get into an argument with Jax, Nearra said, “Nevertheless, it’s true. On my honor.”
Jax opened his mouth as if he intended to dispute the story further, but then thought better of it. He accepted Nearra’s statement with a nod.
The six companions continued walking, and Nearra thoughtthe matter was settled. At length Jax said, “My people tell stories of a time when priests and priestesses could perform miracles in the name of our god Sargas, the Great Horned One. But these days, very few minotaurs believe the tales were true.”
“People used to believe that dragons were only myths,” Elidor said, “but the great beasts have returned to the world.
Oddvar’s thoughts were interrupted by a rustling in the underbrush on the other side of the trail. An instant later, Drefan, Fyren, and Gifre poked their heads out of the greenery and looked around, frowning in confusion.
Oddvar should have expected this, the three goblins had found the right section of the forest, but they were on the wrong side of the trail.
He hoisted his stumpy legs over the log and walked to the edge of the trail.
Drefan was the first to see the Theiwar, and the goblin leader raised his hand in acknowledgement and opened his mouth to speak.
Oddvar quickly made a slashing gesture across his throat to indicate the goblin should keep quiet.
The crimson skin of Drefan’s face turned light pink—the goblin version of going pale. Fyren and Gifre took one look at Oddvar and their faces paled to pink, too.
Oddvar instantly understood what had happened. The stupid goblins thought he meant that he wanted to cut their throats!
He shook his head to let them know they’d misinterpreted, but the goblins paid no attention. They turned and fled in terror, crashing noisily through the forest.
Oddvar sighed. At least they hadn’t screamed.
He chanced looking down the trail in the direction Davyn and the others had gone. He was relieved to see that none of them had turned around. Perhaps they hadn’t heard the goblins’ flight, or if they had, perhaps they’d assumed some forest animal had made the noise. Since none of the youths were looking, Oddvar risked dashing across the trail in pursuit of the three goblins.
And when he finally caught up with the fools, perhaps he really would slit their throats.
“How long does it take for a new pair of boots to become broken in?” Nearra asked no one in particular.
They had entered the forest hours ago. Walking on the uneven path was taking its toll on Nearra’s feet.
“It depends on how much you walk in them,” Catriona said. “A few days, perhaps longer.”
“A few days? By then there won’t be anything left of my feet! They’ll be worn down to nubs!”
Catriona, Davyn, and Elidor laughed, but Jax remained silent. Nearra wondered if the minotaur had a sense of humor. If so, she’d seen no sign of it so far.
“It’s a good thing we’re taking you to a temple full of clerics, then,” Sindri said. “Maybe they’ll be able to heal your feet.”
“Clerics?” Jax said.
Nearra realized that no one had informed the minotaur of the purpose for their journey, so she told him all that had happened to her since waking up on the trail of the southern forest yesterday morning.
When she was done speaking, Jax said, “It is a strange story. One that is difficult to believe.”
The minotaur walked at the rear of the group, and Catriona—who was up front with Elidor—had to look over her shoulder to address the man-bull.
“Are you saying Nearra is lying?” the warrior said, a challenge in her tone.
“No,” the minotaur said evenly. “But humans have a tendency of being … over-imaginative.”
Before Catriona could get into an argument with Jax, Nearra said, “Nevertheless, it’s true. On my honor.”
Jax opened his mouth as if he intended to dispute the story further, but then thought better of it. He accepted Nearra’s statement with a nod.
The six companions continued walking, and Nearra thoughtthe matter was settled. At length Jax said, “My people tell stories of a time when priests and priestesses could perform miracles in the name of our god Sargas, the Great Horned One. But these days, very few minotaurs believe the tales were true.”
“People used to believe that dragons were only myths,” Elidor said, “but the great beasts have returned to the world.
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