Free Guardians of the Lost by Margaret Weis Page A

back to place blame.”
    â€œNeither my grandmother nor I would ever ask for anything to heal a person,” Bashae said, thoughtfully scuffing dirt with his bare feet. “She says that healing is in our bones just like magic is in the Earth’s bones and that the Earth gives of her bounty and so we give of ours.”
    â€œAn estimable woman,” Wolfram stated. “I would like very much to meet her.” The dwarf fell into step with the pecwae and the Trevenici. “I’m going your way. Mind if I tag along?”
    â€œHow do you know which way we are going, Dwarf?” Jessan returned shortly.
    â€œYour way is my way,” Wolfram returned. “My way is any way. All ways are the same way—in the end,” he added reflectively.
    Jessan maintained a dignified silence. The Trevenici do not discuss the afterlife with outsiders, considering that topic too sacred to be bandied about during casual conversation.
    They continued on down the trail that was nothing more than two wagon ruts worn across the prairie. The land in these parts was flat and barren, covered with tall, rustling grass that had dried up and turned brown in the sun’s heat. The trail ran straight and true with never a turn until it reached the Little Blue river. A stand of cottonwood trees, some ways distant, marked a creek or a pond. The Crackerneck Mountains could be seen to the northeast, but they were far away, a smudge on the horizon. The sun was edging its way into the west. This was summer and there were still several more hours of daylight left for travel.
    Bashae showed Wolfram his purchases: apple bark from the north lands for female troubles, feather foil from the south to treat the swelling joints of the elderly, green tea from the elven lands. Wolfram described some herbal treatments used by the dwarves. Bashae listened with interest, making special note of the ingredients. This topic exhausted, Wolfram went on to tell about his people, the pony riders, who live their lives on the backs of their shaggy beasts, roaming the hills far to the east.
    Wolfram knew a great many stories. He knew how to be entertaining. He knew how to win over a sulky audience. His livelihood depended on his charm, something for which dwarves are not particularly noted, but which Wolfram had cultivated over the years. Jessan never said a word, but he listened attentively and, occasionally, during some especially exciting encounter with elven warriors or orken raiders, the Trevenici would either nod his approval or glower his disapproval, depending on circumstance.
    They halted toward nightfall. Jessan produced a packet of venison strips and actually shared them with Wolfram, a mark of favor. Bashae ate dried berries and chewed on the root of some plant, which he also offered to the dwarf. Wolfram politely declined. Dwarves are meat-eaters.
    The night air cooled rapidly in early summer. Following the meal, the two young men lay down on the still-warm ground and both were immediately asleep—the sweet and uncomplicated slumber of youth. Wolfram could not remember a time when he’d slept like that. He lay down, but he remained awake, listening to Jessan’s deep breathing, watching Bashae’s hands and feet twitch in his sleep like a dog on a dream-hunt. Sighing, Wolfram sat up. He peered again at the bracelet on his arm. The burning had ceased. The gems glowed faintly in the darkness. A sign that he was obeying instructions.
    Wolfram had no idea why these two youths were of such importance. He looked forward eagerly to finding out. Rubbing the bracelet, thinking fond thoughts of the silver argents his mission would bring him, Wolfram lay back down. He was on the verge of drifting off when Jessan awoke and announced that it was time they were moving on.
    Wolfram had forgotten this custom of the Trevenici warrior—to sleep only a few hours and then, if possible, continue the journey during the night.
    The dawn was