Free The Mirror's Tale (Further Tales Adventures) by P. W. Catanese Page B

young doe.
    The widow would appreciate a share of that meal. Parley’s mouth watered as he considered the stew she might produce from the tender meat. With all the stealth he could muster, he slipped off his horse and tethered it to the nearest tree. The doe took a few steps toward the brook and pawed the ground with a delicate hoof. So far she was not alarmed.
    Parley slipped his quiver over his shoulder and notched an arrow in his bow. He wasn’t as close as he’d prefer—with only one good arm and a missing eye, he was hardly the most adroit of archers—so he crept slowly toward the doe. She raised her head, and her tail flicked up. Parley froze and held his breath. The doe bounded across the brook and disappeared into the brush. He sighed. Was it worth it? His stomach insisted it was.
    The valley below was forbidden to anyone but Lord Charmaigne’s hunters—a typical edict from that brute—but Parley decided the doe wasn’t technically
in
the valley,
Not yet, anyway.
He followed her across the stream, picking his way carefully, and stepping on stones where he could to keep from making noise. Below him, the doe descended a slope. Farther below was a rocky pool where the brook splashed down after rushing over the ledge.
    The mist was thicker here. The sound from the brook concealed his steps. And the wind was in his face as he followed.
Three good signs for hunting,
Parley thought.
    His hope rose until he slipped on wet leaves. He lost his balance in an instant and tumbled down, flinging the bow and arrow aside to keep from impaling himself. As the world pinwheeled by, he saw the doe bound away. He rolled to a stop at the bottom of the slope and ended up in a seated position with his legs splayed.
    The brook was directly in front of him. And on the sandy bank, he beheld the strangest thing he’d ever seen.
    It was a sculpture of stone, a little taller than kneehigh. In the shape of a man, more or less … or a cross between a man and a frog—wide mouth, without a nose, and with two bulging white gems for eyes. But most remarkable of all, it was
moving.
Parley shook his head and wondered if the fall had left him woozy. Yes, it was moving, all right. Its head turned to look at him—if those diamond eyes could see, anyway. The broad mouth opened a crack, and a thin stream of smoke came out.
    It was so odd that it took a moment for somethingelse to capture Parley’s attention. A pair of sturdy, leather boots stood unoccupied on the sandy bank. His gaze kept moving across a trail of clues. A little farther to the right, slung over a branch, there was a wide belt with an enormous silver buckle, studded with gemstones that glittered green, red, and blue. A little farther, there were large rocks near the water, and draped across them to dry were many layers of clothes. Undergarments. Drawers. A leather shirt. A hooded cloak. All of these were the colors of moss, bark, and stone, so that they practically blended into the wilderness.
    Parley’s aching head finally deduced that the owner of these garments must be bathing nearby. After another uneasy glance back at the stone creature, he looked toward the brook. And, in fact, there the owner was, looking as startled as Parley. He was stark naked, which would have been more embarrassing if not for the long, thick beard that fell nearly to his knees.
    What a curious little man,
Parley thought. But no—if the man was little, it was only in height. This fellow, standing in the brook with a wet cloth in one hand, was as wide and brawny as any of the baron’s men. Parley was amused for a moment. And then he was afraid, because he saw how pale the man was. Pale as ash. Pale as a man who rarely saw the light of day … because he spent most of his life under the ground …
    “You—you’re
Dwergh!
” he sputtered.
    The Dwergh put up one hand. “Do not move. You cannot leave.” The voice was low and gruff, as if a bear had learned to speak, and the accent was