Fugitive of the Sky

Chapter Twelve: Bowls of Soup

The hunters stepped on the edge of a faint cart track and stopped for a brief rest. Tampul, who was carrying the girl, wiped the sweat off his forehead with a free hand and turned to triumphantly bare his teeth at the forest. "Katarrhan's wisps can't touch us now. We're out of the Màlterbelah mountains. Taf ha."

Notir grinned at him. "Yes we have. Taf ha yourself."

Tampul scowled at him, but for once there was no anger behind it. Notir smiled back. Natan shook his head in wonder. Neither of them seemed angry at all. He could almost believe that Hornar didn't have to drag them from each other's throats all the time. Natan shifted his pack to ease the ache in his shoulders. Perhaps the hunters were more nervous in the cursed mountains than they ever admitted.

Hornar drew his sword and used it to trace a line in the dirt between them and the mountains. "Th' hunt is complete."

"Until th' next cape," Tampul and Notir said in unison. They stood back and let Hornar spit on the line and smudge it with his boot before sheathing his sword.

Natan watched with interest. What did the line, spit, and boot represent? Was it the hunters' way of warding wisps back into the mountains? Or was it just strengthening the border separating them and the mountains?

Hornar stared at the forest for a few moments before turning away. "Th' nearest village isn't too far from here, if I've got my bearings right." He ignored Tampul and Notir's identical sarcastic expressions and started without waiting for the others to follow. He spoke over his shoulder. "We should get there before noon if you hurry up."

Tampul made an exaggerated face. "Two more hours carryin' th' girl. I'd say we stop earlier and eat our own lunch."

Notir elbowed him in the side. "You're lookin' forward t' real food as much as I am. You've got th' light pack, after all!" He chortled and trotted after Hornar.

Natan stared after him. Notir was positively giddy. Was he this pleasant after every hunt? Had leaving the mountains flipped his sword? If he was like this all the time, he was almost an acceptable man to be around. It would be almost too bad that he would have to duel him.

His stomach turned uncomfortably. He wasn't looking forward to having to duel an angry Notir. Tarpersi was no small matter. It would be his life, or Notir's. Once he stepped into the arena, there was no backing out until lifeblood stained the sandy stones. Natan's fingers itched, and he resisted the urge to finger his sword hilt. Perhaps he should challenge someone to a few practice duels. He was long out of practice. He hadn't fought in the practice grounds since before Natik.

His chest constricted. The last practice battle he'd had had been against Natik. He'd insisted on taking a day off between caravan routes just to spar. It'd been a good bout and he'd gotten hits in, but Natik had won in the end like he almost always did. He had sheathed his sword and laughed, tossing his head back and letting his curly hair bounce around his face. "Got you again, Father."

Natan had thumped him on the back. Back then he hadn't minded always losing. Natik had had a knack for winning graciously, both in swordfighting and in striking a bargain, a trait far too few people had. Natan blinked moisture out of his eyes and quickened his steps to catch up with the others. Natik would have been a successful heir. He would have brought far more honor to his family than Natan had ever had. He hadn't had the quick temper most Mongors had, and his dark brown eyes had always had amusement in them. If only Natik had never attempted to cross the Western sea!

Natan kept silent as Tampul and Notir bantered, trailing behind and attempting to block out his gloomy thoughts. When their laughter started to grate on his nerves, he sped up and tried to walk next to Hornar. Hornar didn't say a word, ignoring Natan and staring at the path ahead of them. After a few minutes, Natan grunted and fell back again. If Hornar didn't want to talk, he didn't want to talk. That was his problem.