Free The Ventifact Colossus (The Heroes of Spira Book 1) by Dorian Hart Page B

complaint. Dranko announced that he was naming her E.R—short for Emergency Rations.
    They headed off down the Street of Bakers, then wound their way through Tal Hae’s unimaginable crowds and out the city’s wide north gate. Once into the countryside, they followed a northwesterly course along hedge rows and sheep tracks. The air had the cool bite of early spring, but Ernie was soon sweating and huffing from the fast pace Grey Wolf had set. Hours later, as the sunlight was starting to fail, his feet were blistered and one of his calves was cramping, but he only needed to glance at Morningstar to banish any tendency to self-pity. Poor Morningstar! She had her black robe pulled down as far over her face as it could go, and her hands were pulled into her sleeves so not an inch of her skin was exposed. Ernie asked her from time to time if there was anything he could do for her, but she merely shook her head. They had stopped several extra times when she had gasped requests in cracked whispers, but she uttered not one word of genuine complaint.
    Aravia claimed in her know-it-all way that there was a small road that went more directly toward Verdshane. Grey Wolf decided they should detour slightly and march up a small steep hill to see if they could spot it before it became too dark. It turned out to be a tough climb. Morningstar had to stop half way up to catch her breath, and Kibi always seemed to be falling behind. Ernie’s heart was thumping and his legs ached by the time they reached the top, but from the high vantage it was easy to spot the thin ribbon of the road curling into the northern haze.
    “See?” said Aravia. “I knew it was there.”
    Grey Wolf paced around the flat top of the hill. “We’ve made good enough progress for one day, and this is a good place to camp for the night.”
    Ernie sat down gratefully and propped his back against a boulder. Who knew that hiking all day would be so tiring? He allowed himself a few minutes to recover, then broke out the cooking supplies and started on supper. At least cooking was something he was good at.
     
    * * *
     
    Mrs. Horn sat down beside him as he ate. “Ernest, these are excellent carrots.”
    “Oh, well, they’re from Abernathy’s food box. I just cooked them.”
    She smiled at him the way his grandmother used to before she passed away. “When someone gives you a compliment, it’s yours. Don’t turn around and hand it to someone else.”
    Ernie felt himself blushing. His trainer back in White Ferry, Old Bowlegs, used to say similar things. Ernie still remembered what the old man had said to him the day he left White Ferry. “You’re the best student I’ve got, and I don’t mean your skill with a pig-sticker, though that’s good enough for a start. I mean what’s in here.” Old Bowlegs had thumped Ernest on the chest. “You won’t misuse your gifts, Pyknite included. Copper to kettles, that’s why your great wizard picked you to visit him. You are destined for great things, Ernest Roundhill.”
    Pyknite was Old Bowlegs’ sword, the famous blade he had used twenty years earlier to singlehandedly slay the seven goblins that had raided White Ferry. It had been unthinkable that Ernie should accept it, but Bowlegs had insisted.
    Mrs. Horn wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “So, young man, tell me about your statue. Do I remember correctly you saying there was a statue of you in your hometown?”
    He had almost forgotten about that! “Yes, but it’s not because of anything I did. It’s so odd. Murgy Thorn owns a tavern, the Rusty Mug, next door to my parents’ bakery, and he’s having his wine cellar expanded. The pick-men working for him uncovered the top of a stone head while they were digging. They cleared out the earth around the head and neck, and guess what? It was me! At least, it looks exactly like me, but it’s been buried down there for hundreds of years, and I’m only seventeen.”
    “Amazing,” said Mrs. Horn. “How do you