The Hob's Bargain

WATCHED THEM leave. Loneliness and fear ate at him, a loner by choice who had prided himself on his daring and courage.
    The last , he thought. I am the last one left . The thought left ashes of sorrow in his mouth, and he lowered his head and wept for his people, who had only a mountain to remember them.

    W HEN WE FINALLY GOT BACK TO WHERE THE HORSES waited, Kith had them ready to go. He led the Lass to Wandel.
    â€œMount and ride,” he said, biting off the words.
    It was hard to tell if he was still twitchy from the same unease that had gripped him earlier, or if there was something else worrying him. I hurried to Duck and, after a quick check to see if Kith had tightened the cinch (he had), I mounted, falling back into my usual place behind Wandel.
    The area was relatively level, one of the shoulders of the mountain, almost a hanging valley except that the far side fell rather than rising in a peak. Kith led us into the grassy land at a brisk trot. Despite the rest, the horses were too tired to move quickly for long. As soon as we were on open ground, he slowed his horse and waved us forward.
    I could see a slight tic by his eye. Torch was collected and ready to sprint, though Kith was holding the reins loosely.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “I thought I saw something up above us. Might have been an animal…but it didn’t smell right.”
    â€œDidn’t smell right,” I said neutrally.
    â€œIf you’re on the trail for very long, you learn to use your nose as well as your ears and eyes,” replied Kith a shade too easily.
    I happened to glance at Wandel at just that moment. He looked sad.
    â€œBetter to be safe than sorry,” the harper said after a moment. “With the magic free, things could change, no knowing how quickly. Old Merewich and our lass here”—I assumed from the context that he was talking about me and not his horse—“sound pretty certain that it will be sooner rather than later.”
    Kith met the harper’s eyes and said, “Yes, well, I’ve learned to trust…my instincts.”
    I saw something pass between the two men that left Kith cold-eyed and stone-faced while the sorrow on the harper’s face remained unchanged. I wondered what it was that I had missed. There would be time to extract it from them after we set up camp.
    Kith fussed around for a while before he let us dismount at the place he’d originally planned on, a flat, rockless stretch of ground not far from a stream but a little farther from the wooded area. I couldn’t tell if it was the place where we’d camped the time we’d come here. If it wasn’t, it was very similar.
    He’d reluctantly decided it was better to keep an eye out than to try to find cover where we’d not be seen. Muttering something about being so leery that his mother’s womb wouldn’t feel safe to him for a day or so, he stomped into the trees to find wood for a fire.
    We hadn’t brought tents, but Wandel and I laid down oiled cloth before we put out the bedrolls, and each of us had another piece to lay on top of ourselves if the rain held by the gathering afternoon clouds fell.
    Having laid out my own bedroll, I took Kith’s off Torch’s back. War-trained he might be, but he knew me well enough not to object to my fiddling—I’d helped train him. I patted his hip as I left.
    Now , I thought, try it first while you have Wandel alone . If Kith decided not to talk about something, it was almost impossible to get it out of him. The harper, on the other hand, liked to talk. “Why does Kith’s woodsmanship cause you to exchange sorrowful glances?”
    He looked up from digging the fire pit and waggled his eyebrows at me. “Ask Kith. It’s his story, not mine. I’d not last long as a bard if I were to tell other people’s secrets to anyone who thought to ask, now would I?”
    â€œHa,” I said. “You’d tell the world what your best friend wore to sleep if you thought it made a good enough story.”
    â€œTell her,” said Kith flatly.
    I started, not having heard him come back. He dropped a large pile of wood an arm’s length from the fire pit and unfolded one of the smaller oilskins with a snap. He tucked it carefully around the pile.
    He was all I had left of my brother…of my family, really, though we were not blood kin (at least not close kin). I wouldn’t have hurt him