Shadow’s Lure by Jon Sprunk Page A

like the stag he had shot.
    “Are you going to take one?” Caim asked in a low whisper.
    His guide shook his head as he watched the animals for a few moments more. Then he started off again, his boots crunching through the snow. Caim tried to stay abreast of the old man, but soon fell behind again. After another half a mile, the guide stopped beside a tall hemlock tree. The lower branches had been chopped away to create a small hideaway. Caim didn’t see how he had found it; this tree looked the same as any of the other evergreens around. But he was grateful to duck out of the wind just the same.
    The guide dropped his rucksack by the trunk of the tree and hunkered down over a cold fire pit. As the guide began making camp, Caim sank down on the bed of pine needles, too tired and sore to lend a hand. The man muttered something about being back soon and tromped off through the underbrush.
    Caim had just closed his eyes when a soft glow pierced his eyelids.
    “Caim.”
    He opened one eye. Kit levitated over him, just a few inches from his face.
    “What?”
    “You just can’t resist the urge to play hero, can you?”
    “What’s wrong now?”
    “What were you thinking back there?” She floated down to lay beside him. “Taking on five men by yourself. And for what?”
    He wanted to laugh, but it was too much effort. “Kit, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been tugging me toward the straight and narrow.”
    “That’s preposterous.”
    “How about that time in Brevenna when I nearly killed that palfrey racing Kevan? You hounded me until I swore to never treat another animal like that again.”
    “And you forgot your promise riding to save your precious mud-woman, didn’t you? Rode that poor horse to death.”
    “I didn’t forget. I had to do what needed doing.”
    “I know.”
    “Kit, what’s wrong?”
    The crunch of snow interrupted their conversation as the guide returned with a bundle of sticks under his arm. Without looking at Caim, he knelt beside the campfire and fed it smaller branches until the flames grew into a blaze. Caim inched closer to get at the warmth. When he glanced over at Kit, she was gone.
    “Figures,” he said under his breath.
    “What’s that?” the guide asked.
    “Just thinking aloud.”
    Caim introduced himself and offered his hand.
    The guide took it with a firm grip. “I’m Hagan.”
    Caim got a better view of his guide as Hagan set a battered pan over the fire. His face was creased and pitted like an ancient boulder. The silver bristles of his beard were matted and stiff. His only weapon was the long knife on his belt, a double-bladed seax.
    Flames licked up the sides of the pan as Hagan dumped in a lump of meat. Bacon, by the smell. Caim’s stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten much today. They sat in silence as the meat cooked. When Hagan deemed it ready, slightly on the rare side but Caim wasn’t in the mood to be picky, he scooped out portions in two tin cups.
    The fire snapped and popped as they ate. Caim wolfed down the food and licked the juice from his hands. Hagan, when he was finished, reclined against the tree trunk and ran his fingers through his beard.
    “You’re from the Southlands,” he said.
    “Calanth.”
    The lie came easy. Trust was a fragile thing, especially for a man in his former line of work. Former? So it’s decided then ?
    “Those blades you wear.” Hagan gestured down toward Caim’s side. “ Suete knives, aren’t they?”
    Caim reached back and drew the left-hand knife. He held it up so the light reflected off the long blade. He still remembered the day he had claimed them off the body of a mercenary in Michaia. At the time, he’d had no idea they would become so much a part of him.
    “I haven’t seen a knife like that in a long time. Not since the war.”
    Caim believed him. The Suete rarely left their highlands far to the north in the lee of the Drakstag Mountains, and when they did it was to make war.
    Hagan tossed another