Blood Of The Wizard (Book 1) by Thomas Head

Jickie laughed with such an uproar that my cramped limbs ached to catch myself, lest I get tossed from the rocking vessel.
     
     
     
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    A dozen times I could have dozed off, but every time my eyelids became heavy, my uncle turned his grimace on me with a warning in his eyes:  fun may indeed be had along the way, sir, but it will certainly not slow the war party.
    Now wide awake, I turned wearily toward Delthal. 
    “What the thundering hell did you do back there to get those maids so fighting mad?”
    Not a muscle of his face changed, nor did any of the attitudes alter in the least.  They all seemed in a sort of stoic oblivion of my existence.  Gilli’s head was thrown back and the steely, unflinching eyes were fixed on the morning’s growing storm clouds. He looked guilty as all hell and half of Yrkland, as they say.
    “ Suffice to say, Mister Fie, that even a merry adventurer must adhere to certain boundaries.”
    “ Who was she, Gilli?” I asked.
    “ Angry whores , as it happens.”
    “ What?  Why would… Gilli!  You… didn’t pay them? ”
    “ I didn’t see paying no maid, not when I did all the work!” he thundered.  “Besides all that, I bought their madam a damn horse when I found out what they were!”
    “Oh, hell …  A large black horse?”
    At which the others lost their stoic cool, rollicking again like lads.
    I asked no more of it.  Still, Gilli spent the better part of the morning pouring out such a jumbled mouthful of quick-spoken explanations about drink, darkness, and so forth, that I was not a bit the wiser.  Laughing, I told him sharply he was to be more careful with that thing.
    He gave an evil leer and muttered, “Pah!  Likewise, Mister Fie!”
    “ Oh, Master Gilli, please.  You would assume to give council to such an expert?”
    It was not a particularly clever joke, but a good humor had settled on us, and the vessel was sent rocking once more.

 
     
     
     
                  Chapter 13
     
     
     
     
    Without any more reminiscing, we pushed forward .  And we pushed hard.  The river’s pace was merciless to row against.  At places, it seemed damned near impossible, and some ten miles out from Beergarden, the impossibility of going any further loomed more heavily than ever, as foul weather threatened.  The old lads were for proceeding at any risk, of course, but as the thunder clouds grew blacker, the wind more violent. 
    Delthal, the head steersman, lost his temper and grounded our vessel on a sandbar.  Springing ashore, he flung down his river pole and refused to go on.
    “By thunder!” Uncle Jickie grumbled, “Now listen here, you insolent young buck!”
    Bu t as lightening flashed, he could not sanely add anything more than that.  Indeed, any of us would be foolhardy to argue.  A blast of wind, snapping the great oaks as a cutter breaks kindling wood, enforced Delthal’s stance. We only boarded again to beach ourselves more securely, fastening battens down over the bales of provisions.  A few of us struggled to hoist a tent, but gusts of wind tossed the canvas above our heads.  Before the pegs were driven, a great wall of rain drenched everyone to the skin. 
    By afternoon , the river had turned brown and violent.  Plainly, we were there for the day—which meant we were there for the night, too.  Navigating a swollen river is too dangerous a spot for even the most adventuresome soul, be it man or dwarf. 
    So, with ample patience, we settled in.  And we at last managed to pitch our tents .  Then we kindled the soaked underbrush and finally got a pile of logs roaring.  We set up a makeshift windbreak and gathered round the fire. 
    We spent the afternoon hunkered down, which was fortunate, as it allowed me time to draw my tartan around me and manage some sleep.
     
     
     
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    I could not have slept long, but I had the strangest, most vivid dream of my life.  I dreamt of being old, and