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Deep in the Woods outside Falindar…
”Fire,” Simon whispered.
Nearby? He cocked his head
to listen, heard the breeze and the chirping of birds. Up ahead
was another line of trees—big pines a mile deep. Guessing
the smell was coming from the forest, he approached it warily.
Then he caught the first sight of smoke. White and thin. And
close by. A campfire, certainly. Simon steadied himself. He would
go around, he decided, and avoid whoever was here. But when he
turned to go he saw a man with an arm full of firewood.
Simon froze.
The man dropped the firewood
and stood gaping at him. Not Triin. Simon didn’t move.
Not bloody
Triin!
”Who the hell are you?”
barked the man. He was shorter than Simon but broader in the
shoulders, dark-haired, and as he spoke he surged forward, one
arm reaching for his blade. Simon put up his hands, his mind
groping for his pretext—the one he’d rehearsed so long.
”Don’t you move!”
the man roared. He had his broadsword drawn and held it out in
both hands. Simon raised his hands higher above his head.
”Easy,” he urged.
“Take it easy….”
The man was dressed like a
Triin, but was unmistakably Naren. Simon stopped moving backward
and let the stranger approach.
”I’m unarmed,”
he said loudly. “Just a dagger, in my belt. A dagger, all
right?”
”Don’t you move,”
repeated the man. He had the tip of his sword at Simon’s
throat now. “Or I swear to God I’ll cut your miserable
throat!”
”I’m not moving,”
said Simon. “Not a hair.”
The man looked him up and
down, then his hand flashed out and grabbed hold of Simon’s
collar. He dragged Simon to his knees, then flung him down. Simon’s
chest hit the ground with a painful thud. The man put his foot
on his throat and leaned.
”Stop!” Simon gasped.
”Shut up!” snapped
the stranger. He bent down and fixed his knee into Simon’s
back, pressing down hard and putting the edge of his sword to
Simon’s throat. With his other hand he grabbed a fistful
of hair and jerked back Simon’s head.
”Who the hell are you?
Tell me quick or I’ll break your neck.”
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