Legends of the Riftwar Read Free Page B

hesitation.
    He looked down at Jurgen now. The corpse’s eyes were closed, but in his mind, and in the nightmares that would come for the rest of his life, the eyes would be open, gazing back at him.
    â€˜It should have been me instead of you,’ Richard whispered, barely able to speak for his grief.
    He bent almost double, sobs wracking his body. He knew the others were watching, judging him. Why didn’t they cry? he wondered, and he felt ashamed for all his failures this day.
    He let the earth fall from his hand, recoiling as the clump hit Jurgen’s face. Embarrassed, he drew back and turned away, shoulders hunched, shaking as he struggled unsuccessfully to hide his tears.
    The few who followed Richard, most of them silent, tossed the ritual handful of earth into the grave then turned away, eyes empty of emotion.
    The company formed up for the march, Alwin detailing men off to bear the litters of the wounded.
    The grave-diggers were nearly finished. In spite of the cold theirfaces were streaked with sweat and their hot breath made clouds of steam in the air, as they hurriedly worked to complete their task.
    At the edge of the clearing Dennis continued to stare with unfocused eyes at the forest. Something, a sensing, refocused his attention. A lone bird darted through the branches overhead. The angry chatter of a squirrel echoed.
    His left hand drifted down to the hilt of his sword. He looked back over his shoulder. Gregory had been kneeling beside a Tsurani, studying the face of the enemy soldier as if he might learn something about the alien invaders from this man’s still features. He had sensed what Dennis had sensed, that someone was approaching. His gaze flickered to the men lining the trail. Several of the old hands were already reacting. Others, noticing this, started to react as well.
    Dennis watched Alwin and was disappointed, for the new sergeant-at-arms was several seconds behind Gregory and himself, but finally he raised his left hand, palm outward, at the same time drawing his right hand across his throat, the signal for everyone to fall silent and freeze. Dennis turned to look back at the forest, not yet giving a command.
    Gregory listened for a moment, then relaxed. He looked at Dennis and nodded once, then smiled.
    A flicker of a shadow moved in the darkness of the forest on the trail ahead and Dennis relaxed, too.
    The shadow stepped out from behind a tree, raised a hand and Dennis motioned for him to come in. The scout sprinted forward. He was clad in a white tunic streaked with cross-hatching lines of grey and black, the uniform designed by Dennis for the Marauders to wear during winter campaigning in the deep forest. He ran lightly, in the way only an elf could run, so softly that even in snow it was said they at times they would leave no prints.
    As he approached Dennis, he nodded, and with a hand signal motioned for him to follow.
    It was a bit of protocol that at times bothered Dennis. The scout was Gregory’s companion, not officially part of Dennis’s command, and as such he would report first to his friend. This, as much as anything else, was the reason Dennis preferred having Gregory lead any scouting mission; when the Natalese Ranger returned from amission, he reported to Dennis. Dennis, for not the first time, considered it a petty irritation, yet he couldn’t rid himself of it.
    â€˜Tinuva,’ several of the men sighed, as the elf came into the clearing. They were obviously relieved. Weapons were resheathed.
    The elf nodded a greeting. He looked over at the burial detail, busy filling in the grave and paused for a moment, head lowered, offering his thoughts for the fallen. At last, he looked back at Gregory. ‘You were right, two of them did escape.’ he announced.
    â€˜And?’ Gregory asked.
    â€˜Good fighters, tough, a long chase,’ Tinuva said, matter-of-factly.
    â€˜So you got all them?’ Dennis asked.
    The elf shook his head. He