Wyrms

"Angel's still alive. The only way to bring him is in the carriage."

Sken looked at the arrow in his throat, grunted, then took her place at the front of the carriage. "Just keep a good lookout," she said.

Angel's wound wasn't bleeding much, and Patience knew to leave the shaft in place until they had time to try surgery. Unless they could find a good-sized town with an expert physician, though, there wasn't much hope for him. She should go back, hurry back to Waterkeep, where there would be a physician. And they could continue their trip by water, after Angel was better.

But she recognized this thought, too, as coming from Unwyrm. Or did she? Maybe it was common sense, maybe what she was doing with this determination to resist was killing Angel. How could she push on, not even knowing if there was a village ahead, when this loyal man, her teacher, virtually the only father she had ever really known, lay dying in the carriage?

On. She held that single thought in her head, go on.

Go on. She sca

Perhaps they had given up. It didn't matter. For Angel's sake there could be no slackening of the pace.

She tried to join Sken in pulling the carriage. "Go away," said the woman. "You break up my rhythm.

Keep watching."

And finally the trees thi

"Tinker let you through?" asked a child.

"Have you a healer!" called Sken.

"Not a village healer," Patience said.

"They sometimes know more than the town physicians," she answered. "And if they have one, so much the better for the old man."

"We have a healer," said a man. "A gebling. But a fine healer all the same."

"Can you pull this carriage?" asked Sken. "Can you pull this to the healer? We can pay."

"Tinker left you with money?"

Patience was tired of hearing his name. "Tinker's dead," she said. "Take us to the healer."

"The boy's a pretty one," said one of the girls, a snaggle-toothed wretch who was trying to flirt. Patience sighed and climbed onto the carriage. Angel's eyes were open now. She held his hand to ease the fear he no doubt felt. "We're with friends," she said.

The villagers took hold of the carriage leads, and some pushed from behind. Sken gratefully climbed aboard. A strange feeling came over Patience as soon as the carriage started to move again, a feeling of sweetness, of peace. All the resistance from Unwyrm was gone. And now the Cra

"There," cried some of the villagers. It was a good- sized house at the far end of town.

"He lives there with his sister," said a villager.

"And a human, a giant."

"They say the geblings sleep together," said another. '

"Filthy beasts."

"But he's a healer, a true healer."

"What is his name?" asked Patience.

"Ruin," said a man.

Sken snorted. "That's a promising name."

Smoke curled from the chimney. Pass it by, said the Cra

The door opened and a gebling woman emerged, covered with fur. She was clean, not filthy at all, beautiful by gebling standards. There was an intelligence in her eyes that made Patience decided to be wary with her. No sense in letting her know that she could speak Geblic.

This house was important enough that Unwyrm didn't want her there. So she would enter it as an ambassador, and learn all she could before committing herself to anything.

And in the meantime, she hoped against all likelihood that Angel could be saved. Blood oozed from the arrow's root as the villagers carried him in. Patience thought of scattering copper coins for them, but instead took a steel coin and handed it to the old man who seemed to be the village headman. "For the whole village, for your kindness to us." The old man smiled and nodded, and people murmured their thanks. It was more money than the whole village earned in a year.

Chapter 8. THE GEBLINGS' HOUSE

RECK HEARD THE VILLAGERS COMING WHEN THEY WERE STILL well away from her little house. There was an excitement in the murmur that the wind brought. She cocked her head to hear better. Could it be a gobbing? No, there was no anger in it. This wasn't a village that was given to letting the priests stir them up against the geblings. Which was not to say that it wasn't always a possibility. One never knew when humans would get religion and start killing.

But why the excitement, if they were coming for a healing? Someone important needed physicking, then, someone unusual or powerful. A stranger, of course, since no one unusual or powerful had ever lived anywhere near Waterside Village-one of a hundred villages by that name along the shores of Cranwater alone. The stranger must also be injured, not sick, for disease never drew a crowd for long. Fear of contagion.

Reck went to the door and called to Will. He was in the field, hoeing out the potatoes. He heard her, waved, tossed the hoe onto the sledge and pulled the heavy burden along the ground toward the barn. He was a tall man, a giant even by human standards; to a gebling he was almost double size. He had once been an owned soldier, a slave in the service of a general officer in one army or another. He was an accomplished killer, and stronger than any other man Reck had heard of.

But Reck had no fear of him. She had found him as a runaway slave many years ago and offered him protection and a place to farm. It was enough for him. He and Reck made a pleasant enough life of it. Neither said much to the other, because neither had much to say. Both did their work dependably and well, and took pleasure in the labor.

Still, they were wise enough to be discreet. After all these years it was no secret in the village that there was a giant man living with the geblings near the forest's edge.

But they didn't enrage the villagers by flaunting it, just kept Will out of sight when people brought their sick and injured to be healed. It was not a problem with them.

Will got the sledge in the barn and no doubt climbed into the loft to sleep until the people went away. Will had a remarkable ability to sleep whenever he wanted, for as long as he wanted. Reck often wondered if Will was ever haunted by the dreams that kept her sleepless so many nights. She wondered, but did not ask. Dreams were not a subject that a gracious gebling asked about.

She saw the people drawing a carriage toward her house. No horses. That meant that the owners of the carriage had fallen afoul of the robbers-Tinker's men, no doubt. That was no surprise. The surprise was that anyone came out of it alive. Tinker was usually more careful.

She sniffed the air. Blood, but no bowel smell. Perhaps only a superficial wound, something she could clean and bind up without waiting for her brother to come home.

There was a young boy in the carriage, sitting up and conversing with the villagers. He seemed to be in charge of things. An old man lay with his head in the boy's lap.