“Tell us something about Tails Rohk,” Quentin asked quietly.
Panax regarded him solemnly for about two heartbeats and then smiled almost gently. “I think I’d better wait and let you see for yourselves.”
He changed the subject then, asking them for news about the Southland and the war between the Federation and the Freeborn, listening intently to their answers and comments as he resumed work on the carving he had been shaping while awaiting their return to the stables. Bek was fascinated by the Dwarf’s ability to divide his attention so completely between the tasks. His eyes were focused on the speakers, but his hands continued to whittle at the piece of wood with his knife. His blocky, solid body settled into a comfortable position and never shifted, still save for the careful, precise movement of his hands and the occasional nod of his bearded head. He might have been there or gone somewhere else entirely inside his head; it was impossible to tell.
After a time, he placed the carving on the bench next to him, a finished piece, a bird in flight, perfectly realized. Without so much as a glance at it, he reached into his tunic, produced a second piece of wood, and went back to work. When Bek managed to work up sufficient courage to ask him what he did for a living, he deflected the question with a shrug.
“Oh, a little of this and a little of that.” His bluff face was wreathed momentarily in an enigmatic smile. “I do some guiding for those who need help getting through the mountains.”
Who, Bek wondered, would need help getting through the Wolfsktaag? Not the people who lived in this part of the world, the Dwarves and Gnomes who knew enough to avoid passing that way. Not the hunters and trappers who made their living off the forests of the Anar, who would choose better and safer working grounds. Not anyone who led a normal life, because there was no reason for those people to be here in the first place.
He must guide people like us, he concluded, who needed to go into the mountains to find someone like Truls Rohk. But how many like us can there be?
As if reading his thoughts, the Dwarf glanced at him and said, “Not many people, even Dwarves, know their way through these mountains—not well enough to know all the pitfalls and how to avoid them. I know because Truls Rohk taught me. He saved my life, and while I was healing from my wounds, he instructed me. Perhaps he thought he owed it to me to help me find a way to stay alive when I left him.”
He stood up, stretched, and picked up his carvings. He handed the bird to Bek. “It’s yours. Good luck against the things that frighten you now and again. Like a good carving, such things can be better understood when we give them shape and form. Whatever undertaking Walker has in store for you, you’ll need all the protection you can get.”
He started away without waiting for their response. “Time to be going. My place, first, then up into the mountains. We should be there by midnight and back again by sunrise. Take what you need for the hike in and leave the rest here. It’ll be safe.”
Bek tucked the carving into his tunic, and the cousins followed after obediently.
They walked out of Depo Bent and up into the shallow foothills fronting the peaks of the Wolfsktaag, the shadows lengthening before them as the sun settled into the west and twilight descended. The air cooled and the light failed, and a crescent moon appeared overhead to the north. They proceeded at a steady pace, climbing gradually out of the flats into more rugged country. Within a short while, the village had disappeared into the trees, and the trail had faded. Panax led the way, head up and eyes alert, giving no indication of having to think about where he was going, saying nothing to either of them. Bek and Quentin kept silent in turn, studying the forest around them, listening to the sounds of the approaching night begin to filter out of the twilight’s hush—the cries of night birds, the buzz of insects, and the occasional huff or snort of something bigger. Nothing threatened, but the Wolfsktaag loomed ahead like a black wall, craggy and forbidding, its reputation a haunt at play in their minds.