Free Glimpses by Lynn Flewelling Page A

stepped from the trees less than twenty feet
from where he’d been sitting. Scratched and shaken, Seregil peered
out through the thorny stalks, watching the intruder stroll up the
hill.
    The last glow of sunset was at the man’s
back, casting long shadows in front of him. All Seregil could make
out at first was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, with a long
scabbard swinging heavily against its left hip.
    The man halted near the tree, then looked
around. “Hullo?” A young, deep voice, colored by an accent Seregil
couldn’t place. “Don’t be scared, girl. I won’t hurt you.”
    Girl? Seregil allowed himself a sour smile.
Stupid, blind fool of a Tírfaie, just like all the others. By the
Light, he was sick of the whole lot.
    All the same, this one had gotten dangerously
close, and Seregil couldn’t move now without being heard. Looking
quickly around, he found a fist-sized rock in reach and gripped
it.
    The fellow turned slightly and the light
struck his face. He was man-grown but still young by Tír reckoning.
His face was strongly boned, and freckled as a trout’s sides.
Coarse auburn hair hung in an unkempt mass over his shoulders. A
sparse, coppery moustache drooped over the corners of his mouth and
his cheeks and chin were thatched with stubble. His battered
corselet and worn boots marked him as a wanderer of some sort, at
best a caravan guard; at worst, a bandit.
    Harsh experience had taught Seregil something
of reading faces; this man was not stupid, not at all. All the time
he was gazing about, he seemed to have an ear cocked in Seregil’s
direction. He knows I’m here. Seregil gripped the rock, bracing for
an attack. If he could surprise the man, stun him with a
well-placed blow, then he could escape, perhaps even with the sword
and that bundle the man had over his shoulder. He didn’t look the
sort to travel without food or flints.
    But the man just stood there a moment longer,
then shrugged. “Suit yourself, girl.” With that, he dropped his
bundle and set about gathering sticks and tinder for a fire.
    Sprawled on the damp ground, Seregil watched
with growing suspicion as the fellow struck a spark with his knife
and a flint and kindled a good blaze under the tree. When it was
burning well, he rummaged in his bundle and brought out a small
iron pot and a few cloth-wrapped parcels. Leaving his supplies by
the fire, he headed down to the river with the pot.
    It was tempting to make a dash for the
supplies, but it was obviously a ruse to draw him out. Seregil
stayed where he was, and presently the man came back with his pot
and some green ash sticks he’d cut at the riverbank. He rigged up a
fire hook with some of them and set the pot of water over the
flames. Then he sharpened another stick with his knife, unwrapped
the parcels, and fixed a large chunk of yellow cheese and some
sausages on the stick to toast.
    Soon a mouth-watering aroma spread over the
little clearing. Seregil’s stomach, empty these past two days
except for river water and what little he could forage, let out a
long growl.
    As if he’d heard, the man called out, “More
than enough for two here, girl. From the glimpse I got of you, I’d
say you could use something solid under your ribs. And a blanket,
too. I won’t ask to share it with you. I swear by the Flame and the
Four.”
    Seregil remained where he was, hating the man
even more.
    “Come now, I know you’re there. That
raspberry patch won’t make much of a bower for you when the dew
falls.” After a long moment, the fellow let out an exasperated
sigh. “No? Well, I won’t force you out, but I don’t fancy sleeping
with you lurking there like that, so we’re both in for a weary
night.”
    Seregil lay still, mouth watering, as the dew
settled through his scant clothing, chilling him from the back as
the damp ground chilled him from the front. The sausages sizzled on
their stick, redolent of rosemary, mutton, and garlic. He hadn’t
smelled anything so good since the