“Close your mouth and stop gaping,” she said crossly. “I hurt my knee when I slipped crossing that last stream.”
“How bad is it?” he asked as he scrambled over next to her.
Moira prodded the joint. “Bad enough. It is starting to swell.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts!” she said in disgust. “But more importantly I will not be able to walk on it much longer.”
“Maybe you should put some ice on it.”
Moira glared at him.
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“What I need is a healing poultice. I have the materials in my pouch, but they must be boiled and steeped.” She looked around and sighed. “We are unlikely to find dry wood anywhere in the Wild Wood this day.”
“There are ways of finding dry wood even in a rain.”
Moira looked interested. “Do you know how?”
Wiz realized he hadn’t the faintest idea. His apartment didn’t even have a fireplace and his method of starting a barbeque involved liberal lashings of lighter fluid followed by the application of a propane torch.
“Well, no,” he admitted. “But I know you can do it.”
“That I know also,” Moira snorted. “Were I a ranger or a woodsman I would doubtless know how it is done. But I am neither, nor are you.”
“Can’t you use magic?”
She shook her head. “I dare not. A spell to light wet wood is obvious and could well betray us. Besides, I threw away my fire lighter.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I can walk for a while longer. As we came over the last rise I saw a clearing that looked man-made. We shall have to go in that direction and hope we can find someone who will grant us the use of his fire.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Less dangerous than using magic, if we are careful. We will approach cautiously and if aught seems amiss we will depart quietly. Now, give me your hand.”
Wiz pulled the hedge witch to her feet and for a brief tingling instant their bodies touched down the whole length. Then Moira turned away and started off.
Mercifully, the going was easier in the new direction. There were no hills to climb and the rain gradually slacked off. Moira started to limp, but she refused Wiz’s offer of assistance.
As afternoon faded to evening, they threaded their way through the dripping trees until at last Moira motioned Wiz to stop and eased forward carefully.
There, in a rude clearing hacked into the forest, stood a cottage. Some of the felled trees had gone to build the dwelling and some into the split-rail fences around the field. Knee-high stumps still stood among the crops. The cottage was roofed with shingles and the chimney was stone. A thin curl of smoke hung low over the field. It was crude and Spartan, but to Wiz it looked beautiful.
“Hallo the house!” Moira called without entering the clearing.
“Who calls?” came a man’s voice from the cabin.
“Two travellers seeking a fire.”
“Show yourselves then.”
Moira limped into the clearing with Wiz following. Ostentatiously she reached up and threw back the hood of her cloak. She nudged Wiz and he did the same.
The householder stepped into the door of the cabin. He was a stocky middle-aged man with a full black beard shot with streaks of gray. Wiz noticed that one hand was out of sight, possibly holding a weapon.
“Advance then, the two of you,” he called. Wiz and Moira picked their way across the field to the cabin door.
The man stood in the door, just inside the threshold. “I will not invite you in,” he said stolidly. Moira nodded and stepped forward. He backed away to let her enter.
She turned and they both looked at Wiz, but neither Moira nor the householder bade him enter nor made any motion to him. They looked and Wiz looked. Finally he got tired of it and stepped inside.
“Welcome,” said the peasant, smiling. “Welcome, Lady.” He nodded to Wiz. “Sir.”
The cottage was a single large room with a fireplace at one end. There was a ladder leading to the loft and at the loft trap Wiz saw three wide-eyed children peeking down.