Free The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) by Robert P. Hansen Page A

they were quite steep and clearly used much less frequently than
the ones near Wyrmwood; it would take a sure foot to climb them, and many of
the town-dwellers would pass on them. Perhaps that was the risk? Treacherous
footing? In places, the road was carved into the rock of the hillside to widen
it, and near one of these places, a faint, barely noticeable, rhythmic echo
crept around it. It wasn’t the steady, methodical, clattering rhythm of a
horse’s hooves; the gap between the sounds was different. A loud clank quickly
followed by a muffled clank, and then a noticeable pause before it was
repeated. Another pause followed, and it happened again.
    What is that? Angus wondered, frowning. It sounds
metallic. He slowed his pace and moved as far as he dared to the edge of
the road, near the now-steepening drop to the valley floor. The sounds grew
louder as he approached— definitely metal striking metal —and he brought
the magical energy around him nearer to the surface of his consciousness. It
was heavy-laden with earth magic, but there were still plenty of strands of
flame available.
    He edged around the corner and the sounds grew louder. They
were now accompanied by occasional muffled voices, and then he saw why:
Rockfall. A massive granite boulder had tumbled down the hill and come to a rest
in the middle of the road. A group of workmen were chipping away at it with
chisels and mallets. As he neared, he noticed a growing pile of manageable
stone slabs stacked next to the dwindling boulder. Each slab looked to be about
the same size and color as the cobblestones: two foot gray-green squares one
foot deep.
    Angus approached the construction crew cautiously but not
with fear; they were unlikely to be a threat. Still….
    Most of the workmen ignored him and kept chipping away at
the stone. They seemed to be grouped in three, one holding the chisel and
turning it, and the other two alternating hitting it with a mallet. The granite
was hard, resistant, and tiny puffs of rock dust and rock chips fluttered up
with each new strike a mallet made. When the man orchestrating the activity saw
Angus, he stared for a few seconds and then stepped onto the scaffold that had
been assembled next to the stone. He bounced down quickly and jogged up to
Angus.
    “Greetings, Fair Wizard,” he said, as if it were Angus’s
name. “A fine evening will soon be upon us, eh?”
    “Indeed,” Angus said, watching the workmen. “A most pleasant
one.”
    The man fell in at a deferential distance beside Angus and
absently brushed stone dust from his clothes. He walked with him for a few
paces before asking, “Have you a place to stay the night?”
    “I had thought to make the next village,” Angus said,
raising his voice a bit to combat the clatter. “Or inn. They seem to be spaced
most reasonably on this road.”
    “Yes, yes,” the man agreed. “Near Wyrmwood, but not here.”
He hesitated, leaned in conspiratorially, glanced around, and said, “We’re too
close to The Tween.”
    The Tween. What is it? Why does it worry him so? “A
caravan stop, then,” Angus said, slowing to a stop near the boulder and
watching the men working. There were ten of them, three groups cutting the
stone and a boy moving among them with a large jug of water. He occasionally
splashed a little water on the groove being chiseled or poured some in a
workman’s mouth.
    “There’s them,” the man agreed, stopping. “But no tents up
yet.” He gestured at a large tent anchored to the cobblestones and said,
“That’s the last shelter you’ll find until a day from Hellsbreath.”
    “What is this Tween I’ve been hearing about?” Angus asked.
    “Ah,” the man said, shaking his head. “It’s a bad place.
King Tyr claims it for his kingdom but doesn’t patrol it. The mountain dwarves
repel any attempt he makes to settle it. They don’t like encroachment in their territory, and they only barely tolerate the road. They wouldn’t
even do that if they