Free Guardians of The Flame: To Home And Ehvenor (The Guardians of the Flame #06-07) by Joel Rosenberg Page B

grain—if you know enough about balancing proteins, vegetarianism is more efficient by an order of magnitude—but a lot of what they can get by on just fine isn't edible for humans.
    Grazing rights on some of the baron's pasture wouldn't help out the peasant's family. Peasants don't eat grass.
    "Sounds like wolves to me," Jason said. His lips twisted into a frown. "The population went way up during the war."
    Ruling classes are good for something; keeping the number of other predators low is one of them. In Bieme, it's also one of the traditional jobs of the baron.
    Tennetty shrugged. "We can handle wolves," she said. "The four-legged kind, or the two-legged. Shotguns all around?"
    Durine nodded. "Not for chasing them down, but for chasing them away."
    "Took the cow out of his paddock?" Ahira shrugged. "Possible." He looked at me and raised an eyebrow about halfway, spreading his palms just so.
    I pursed my lips and shook my head. "Nah."
    Ahira nodded.
    "You don't think it's a wolf pack?" Jason was irritated.
    I sighed. "You missed it. Ahira just asked me if I thought it was too likely to be a trap, or if we ought to go out and take a look at the corpse before the wolves finish it off."
    "You did?" he said, turning to the dwarf.
    Ahira nodded. "Actually, I did." He smiled. "Pretty disgusting, eh?"
    Jason frowned; I smiled.
    It happens with old friends: you spend a lot of time with somebody over a number of years, you have some of the same discussions over and over again. Then one day you realize that when you're doing some things, or talking about others, you're leaving out most of the words, or even all of the words. You don't need to guess how they're going to deal with a situation: you know. A gesture, a word, or even less than that—and it's clear.
    But that's not something you can explain to a seventeen-year-old, even a very responsible, precocious seventeen-year-old. They won't believe you.
    In this case, though, it was easy. It wasn't necessary for Ahira and me to involve ourselves in an ordinary wolf hunt, but if it was something else, it could be connected to those stories of things coming out of Faerie, and anything involving magic could involve Arta Myrdhyn, and us.
    Look: I don't know why Arta Myrdhyn—yes, the Arta Myrdhyn of tale and legend—sent us across. It's even barely possible he did it so that we'd open the Gate for his return, as he claimed. Me, I'm skeptical. I guess it's partly that I don't like people I don't like pushing me around—my friends do enough of that. I've never liked jigsaw puzzles, and like even less being a piece in one.
    Or I'm afraid that the universe might do to me what I was always tempted to do: bash the piece into place, even if it doesn't quite fit.
    Tends to be hard on the piece.
    The trouble with life is that none of it comes with a manual, and you always have to decide what involves you and what doesn't. After more than twenty years of friendship, I knew that this was the sort of thing that Ahira would sleep better after checking out, and that he wouldn't want to sleep until we were closer to checking it out.
    As usual, he was nagging me into doing something that I had misgivings about.
    Well, we were trying to teach the kid about life and such, so I might as well continue the lesson.
    "Equipment," I said to Ahira. "Tell him what I think we'll bring."
    He nodded, and beckoned Jason over, whispering in his ear.
    Actually, this might be a bit tough.
    "Okay," I said. "Figure one flatbed wagon and a team to draw it." That was easy; everybody knows I prefer a padded bench to a hard saddle. "Rations, and standard road gear—just grab a couple of packs in the stables. But we'll take a quick run up to the supply closet and grab one net hammock each." They were of elven silk, light as a feather and strong. Given the right geometry, I'd much rather sleep a few feet off the cold, cold ground than on it. Or in it, for that matter. "Signal rockets, five fast horses—just in case.