the wagon. One of the dark-robed men dashed up close to the ponies.
With incredible strength, he grabbed the bridle of the nearest and then
pulled back hard, his feet digging into the gravel of the road. The
dapples reared, whinnying in fear as the wagon shuddered to a sudden
stop.
“Away with you, dogs!” Grimm growled fiercely, reaching under
the seat for the heavy axe he kept there. The dwarf never managed to get
a hand on the weapon. With almost comic ease, the second dark-robed
man grabbed the dwarf by the collar of his tunic and lifted him from the
bench. The dwarf kicked his feet and waved his arms futilely, suspended
in midair, his face red with rage and lack of air.
Jastom could pay scant attention to the spluttering dwarf. He had
worries of his own. A glittering steel sword was leveled directly at his
heart.
Whoever these three were, Jastom was quite certain that they
weren’t townsfolk from Faxfail, but this did little to comfort him. The
man before him looked to be a soldier of some sort. He was clad in black
leather armor sewn with plates of bronze, and a cloak of lightning blue
was thrown back over his stiff, square shoulders.
Suddenly, Jastom was painfully aware of the fat leather purse at his
belt. He cursed himself inwardly. He should have known better than to
go riding off, boldly flaunting his newly-gained wealth. The roads were
thick with bandits and brigands these days, now that the war was over.
Most likely these men were deserters from the Solamnic army, desperate
and looking for foolish travelers like himself to waylay.
Jastom forced his best grin across his face. “Good day, friend,” he
said to the man who held the sword at his chest.
The man was tall and stern-faced, his blond, close-cropped hair and
hawklike nose enhancing the granite severity of his visage. Most
disturbing about him, however, were his eyes. They were
pale and colorless, like his hair, but as hard as stones.
They were eyes that had watched men die and not cared a
whit one way or another.
The man inclined his head politely, as though he
wasn’t also holding a sword in his hand. “I am Lieutenant
Durm, of the Blue Dragonarmy,” he said in a voice that
was steel-made – polished and smooth, yet cold and so
very hard. “My master, the Lord Commander Shaahzak, is
in need of one with healing skills.” He gestured with the
sword to the picture of the bottle painted on the side of the
wagon. “I see that you are a healer.” The sword point
swung once again in Jastom’s direction. “You will
accompany me to attend my commander.”
THE BLUE DRAGONARMY? Jastom thought in
disbelief. But the war was over! The dragonarmies had
been defeated by the Whitestone forces. At least, that was
what the stories said. Jastom shot a quick look at Grimm,
but the dwarf was still dangling in midair from the dark-
robed man’s fist, cursing in a tight, squeaky voice. Jastom
turned his attention back to the man who called himself
Durm.
“I fear that I have an appointment elsewhere,” Jastom
said pleasantly, his grin growing broader yet. He reached
for his heavy leather purse. “I am certain, lieutenant, that
you can easily find another who is not so pressed for – ” –
time, Jastom was going to finish, but before he could,
Durm reached out in a fluid, almost casual gesture and
struck him.
Jastom’s head erupted into a burst of white-hot fire.
He tumbled from the wagon’s bench to the hard ground, a
rushing noise filling his ears. For a dizzying moment he
thought he was going to be sick. After a few seconds the
flashing pain subsided to a low throbbing. He blinked his
eyes and looked up. Durm had dismounted and stood over
him now, his visage as emotionless as before.
“I recommend that you not speak falsehood to me
again,” Durm said in a polite, chilling voice, his tone that
of a host admonishing a guest for spilling wine on an
expensive carpet. “Do you understand, healer?”
Jastom nodded jerkily. THIS MAN COULD KILL ME