The Serpentwar Saga. Raymond E. Feist

out. ‘Nothing in there but filthy rags and some pots, Captain.’

      Roo and Erik exchanged glances of wonder in the gloom. What magic was this?

      ‘What’s the matter with the dogs?’ asked the captain.

      The man who must have been the Houndmaster said, ‘They seem to have lost the scent. The charcoal must be confusing them.’

      ‘Then let us go back to the last place you know they had it, and begin again. Lord Manfred will have our ears if those murderers escape.’

      The dogs began to bark as the Houndmaster blew his whistle, commanding them to follow. The horses rode away, and Roo let out his breath, held since the soldier stuck his face into the hut.

      ‘What caused that?’ asked Roo.

      Erik said, ‘I don’t know. Maybe it was too dark to see.’

      ‘No, it was a spell. This Gert is a witch of some sort.’

      Erik said, ‘The captain said “Lord Manfred.” My father is dead.’

      Roo didn’t know what to say. He glanced at his friend; in the gloom he saw that Erik had leaned back and closed his eyes.

      After a few moments, the leather door was pulled back. Instead of Gert, a young woman appeared before them, tall enough to have to lean forward to enter. Her hair was dark, black in the gloom of the hut, and her features were masked, as she was silhouetted against the daylight.

      ‘What …?’ began Roo.

      ‘Say nothing,’ she replied, then turned to Erik. ‘Let me examine that wound.’

      Something in her manner caused Roo to feel uncertain. Her clothing was nondescript, at least what he could see of it: a simple dress of some middling color, perhaps grey, perhaps green or blue; it was difficult to tell in the dark hut. Her features were partially visible now that the door was again shut. She had a high forehead and a regal nose, fine features that would have looked pretty had they not been set in an expression of concentration.

      She pulled back Erik’s tunic and glanced at the wound. ‘This will have to come off. Help me,’ she ordered Roo.

      He helped Erik stay upright as the woman gathered up the bottom of the tunic and pulled it up and over Erik’s head, causing him no little pain. He lay back, perspiration running off his body, panting as if he had exerted himself in hard work for hours. She touched the wound and he grunted in pain, teeth clenching.

      ‘You’re a fool, Erik von Darkmoor. Two, three more days, and you’d be dead from blood poison.’

      Roo got a good look at the woman and thought she was beautiful, but something very offputting in her manner made him view it as a distant, unobtainable sort of beauty.

      ‘Where’s Gert?’ asked Roo softly.

      ‘Off on some business for me,’ came the answer.

      ‘Who are you?’

      ‘I told you to say nothing, Roo Avery. You need to learn there are times to speak and times to listen, and which time is which. When you have need to speak, you may call me Miranda.’

      She set about tending Erik’s wound. From somewhere in the cluttered hut she produced a bag from which she fetched a small vial. Opening it, she poured the contents over the wound, and Erik gasped at the pain. Then he relaxed. She next pulled the cork from a flask of liquid and said, ‘Drink this.’

      Erik obeyed and made a face. ‘It’s bitter.’

      ‘Not as bitter as untimely death,’ said Miranda.

      She quickly finished tending Erik’s wound, placing a poultice over it and then bandaging it. By the time she was finished, Erik was asleep. Without another word she rose and left the hut.

      Roo watched Erik sleep for a minute, then got to his feet and peeked outside. There was no sign of another person and he left the hut.

      Looking around, he saw only the charcoal kiln smoldering and a pile of dog droppings from when the pack had been nearby, but otherwise the area was deserted.

      ‘Hello there, love!’ came a cheerful voice behind him, and Roo jumped. He turned to find Gert approaching with a pile of wood in her arms.

      ‘Where is she?’ asked Roo.

      ‘Where is who?’

      ‘Miranda.’

      Gert stopped and made a face. ‘Miranda? Can’t say as I know any Miranda. When the soldiers left, I went to get more wood to burn, and haven’t seen any Miranda.’

      ‘A young woman, about this tall’ – he held his hand up a bit higher than his own head – ‘with dark hair, very pretty, came into the hut and tended Erik’s wound.’

      ‘Pretty, you say?’ Gert scratched her chin. ‘I think you must have been dreaming, boy.’

      Roo took a step toward the hut, drew aside the hide door, and said, ‘Did I dream that?’ He pointed to the fresh bandage on Erik’s shoulder.

      Gert stared at it. ‘That’s a puzzler, now, isn’t it, dearie?’ She stood there a minute. ‘All manner of queer folk in the woods, though. Perhaps she was one of those elf creatures you hear of, or a ghost.’

      Roo said, ‘She was the most flesh-and-blood ghost you’ll ever see. And she looked nothing like any elf I’ve heard of.’

      He looked at Gert and saw her smiling; then her expression turned somber. ‘Well, some mysteries are best left alone. I’ve got wood to burn, so get back in there and take a rest. I have something to eat around here somewhere.’

      Roo felt fatigue wash over him. ‘Rest is good,’ he muttered, suddenly tired beyond belief. The thought of sharing a meal with Gert did nothing for his sense of well-being, but sleep was welcome. Reentering the hut, he was surprised he didn’t notice the stench this time. Must have gotten used to it, he thought.

      Quickly he felt a heavy lethargy sweep over him. Odd sounds intruded, but he found them difficult to identify. He lapsed into a deep sleep, ignoring the very busy sounds of preparation from outside.

      A chattering from above caused Roo to sit upright, brushing leaves from his face. He looked around, then up, and saw the author of the scolding racket, a red squirrel defiantly challenging their right to be camped under his tree. Before Roo could clearly focus on the creature, it vanished around the bole.

      Then he realized he was outside. He turned and saw Erik sleeping soundly, under a clean blanket, his chest rising and falling evenly, his color good. Roo looked down and saw he was likewise bundled against the night’s chill in another heavy blanket, and he felt behind him, to where his head had rested.

      Like Erik’s, his head had rested on a travel bundle. His own was missing. He opened the new one, fearing he had been robbed. Inside, he discovered a clean tunic and trousers, a fresh pair of underdrawers and stockings, and at the bottom he found his money pouch. He quickly counted and was pleased to find his twenty-seven golden sovereigns and sixteen silver royals all there.

      Roo stood, and found himself remarkably rested. Of the charcoal burner’s hut there was no sign, not even ashes from the kiln. Roo felt he should have been alarmed by this, but he found himself amused and close to happy.

      He knelt beside Erik and tried to examine the bandage. It was still clean and, if anything, looked as if someone had just changed it. He gently reached out and touched his friend on the arm. ‘Erik,’ he said.

      Erik came awake, blinking for a moment, then sat up. ‘What?’

      ‘I wanted to see how you felt.’

      Erik looked around. ‘Where are we? Last thing I remember …’

      ‘A hut and an old woman?’

      Erik nodded. ‘And someone else, too. But I can’t recall who.’

      ‘Miranda,’