Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) by J.S. Morin Page B

amenities—less than the barest by some
estimations—and with no pots or kettles to be found, they had been forced to
spit the meat on sticks and hold it over the fire. Two small bowls were all
that the hermit kept to eat from, and they were of little use in cooking meat.
    Following the hermit was a brown-haired man carrying
an armload of firewood. He was a stranger to Brannis and his men, though
Jodoul’s mouth gaped dumbly at his first glance of the man.
    “Tod! You are alive!” Jodoul cried out in the man’s
direction.
    Forgetting all else, Jodoul let his dinner slip from
his hand and fall back into the fire. He rushed over to Tod with almost
childish glee. Tod smiled and dropped the firewood in self-defense as Jodoul
bowled into him, crushing him in a bear hug.
    “Well, for the time being, until you squeeze the last
of my breath outta me,” Tod said.
    Jodoul eventually released him from his grasp and
helped him gather up the firewood. During the remainder of the evening, Brannis
listened as Tod and Jodoul exchanged tales of their escapes. By Tod’s account,
he had been lucky to escape with his life. He described the feeling that his
flight had been dogged by the goblins, though he could never catch sight of
them. From what Tod had been able to gather from the hermit, his course had
taken him mostly to the north and east from where Sir Ferren had met his
demise. When Tod had come to the river—the same one that Brannis’s men had
crossed just that morning—he had decided to chance a fording in the hopes that
the goblins would not be able to follow. His plan had worked, at least to his mind,
for the nagging sense that he was being followed had not returned since he
reached the northern bank of the river, and some hours later, he had been found
by the hermit.
    In his brief time in the hermit’s care, Tod had
learned little of the man. The odd young man helped clean the small cuts and
scrapes that he had incurred while madly scrambling to escape a foe he was sure
had followed at his heels. He had then provided Tod with a bit of a meal in the
form of some very tasty nuts that were to be found aplenty in the surrounding
woods. After that, though, he had mostly let Tod alone to do as he pleased,
disappearing into the woods on some unknown and unexplained errand for hours on
end. Brannis noticed that in all Tod’s account, he never mentioned having learned
the hermit’s name.
    In time, the talk and tales died down as weariness of
both body and heart overcame the beleaguered soldiers. The hermit took Iridan
inside the cottage to shelter him from the chill breezes that were wont to
grace autumn nights, and from any rain that might fall, for clouds had covered
the night sky and threatened to storm. The rest of them, the hermit
included—for there was no room for two to sleep within the tiny cottage—found
what comfort they could on the soft forest floor. There were blankets to be had
from the salvage of the battlefield, but not enough for all to sleep upon them.
Brannis and Sir Lugren opted to allow the common soldiers what comforts they
could find, and went without. The hermit merely sat cross-legged with his back
against a tree and rested his chin on his chest, seeming unconcerned by the
elements or the loss of the shelter of his cottage for the night.
    It had been a long day indeed for those who slept
beneath the forest canopy that night, starting at dawn with an ambush by
goblins and followed by a long march through the woods carrying whatever they
could manage, including an unconscious sorcerer. Within a span of several
moments, Brannis heard a chorus of snores and slow, deep breathing and knew
that others at least could find slumber. He was keenly aware of his own
exhaustion and felt the welcoming call of sleep, felt quite keenly the need to
give in and put an end to a day he had wished had never happened, but he could
not. Something in him resisted the call; he was sure that the “something” that
kept him