Thrusk in the morning wakes a man, banishes sour breath, and kindles hero-fire within. It also leaves the drinker unable to taste anything else, sleepless, and swift to rage-and draws beasts near. Yet if a slinking monster disturbs a dedicated thrusk-drinker, it's often difficult from the snarls to tell one from the other.

Imgaun Cordelvur, Master of Platters

We Can All Dine Like Kings

Year of the Lost Helm

The hand on her shoulder was so gentle that for a long, murmuring time Shandril thought it was Narm's. Then her nose caught a whiff of rank breath and old sweat, and she came awake with spelllire boiling up in her, borne on a leaping flame of fear and rage-to stare into Arauntar's anxious face, as far away from her as he could be and still touch her with just the tips of his fingers.

He drew back his hand hastily and growled, "Up, lass. Orthil's in a rare rage this morn an' will be less merry still when he finds the two of you together. I've made you a fire an' put water on, for washing and thrusk-brew."

Shandril wrinkled her nose. "Thrusk? I hate thrusk! It tastes like old boots!"

The grizzled guard grinned. "I suppose you've enjoyed a steady diet of footwear, old boots included?"

"I was maid at a small inn," Shandril told him irritably. "Lick and polish, all too oft-"

She watched Arauntar's gaze descend, realized Narm's cloak had fallen away to her waist and that she wasn't wearing a Sembian stitch of anything, and snapped, "Thank you! Now get out of here!"

"Of course, great lady," Arauntar replied, keeping his gaze now on the curving inner roof of the wagon as he quickly ducked out. "I was just leav-whoa, get clothes on, lass, an' hurry! Orthil's on his way over here with a face on him like a winter storm!"

“Is he now!" Shandril snarled, turning to the warm and oblivious man still snoring ever so slightly beside her. "Narm, love, get up!" She kissed him, put her arms around him and tickled him mercilessly-and when he started to guffaw, whipped away the cloak and blankets so that the flower of the Tamaraiths roared at the cold. "Get dressed, and hurry!"

She hastened to use the chamberpot before he could, snatched up her clothes, and went running on chilled bare feet to the corner of the wagon where she'd torn her armor off last night-or rather, where Narm had hurled it, piece by clattering piece, in his haste to peel it from her.

She was still squatting over the heap, frantically untangling and heaving aside an unfolding chaos of rusty plate and leather, when the wagon-flap fairly flew aside and the master of the caravan strode into the remains of their bed. Kicking it aside, he glared around the wagon, past the hopping, sleepily blinking young man who was still knuckling his eyes and feeling about for his clothes- and stopped to place the full weight of his angry stare upon the unclad woman in the corner.

Orthil Voldovan put his head to one side and smiled in a way that somehow managed to combine leering and sneering and I-told-ye-so sarcasm, and said, "Well, well, well, if it isn't the Lord and Lady of Love, right here in my own ready-wagon! Here I thought yer spells and yer fire-take-all might be of some use to us, in the trifle of trouble that's made us later in leaving than I've ever been in all my runs, later than any sane wagoneer would desire to be who wants to make Orcskull Rise by nightfall-and I find ye still cooing and moaning away in yer snug little lovenest, not in yer armor and being guards at all! Why, I've half a mind to just fling wide the flap and show all the prize fools along with us what yer up to, just to-lass, what're ye doing?"

Wearing only her tousled hair and a tight little smile, Shandril marched past him, flung wide the wagon-flap with a loud snapping of tarred cloth, and waved cheerfully to the faces that turned her way.

Jaws dropped open and stares grew intense-as she turned her back on them, put her hands on her hips, and bellowed, "Finished, Lord Love Voldovan? Can I get dressed now? Tis cold, and I really should be back in my armor and getting us out of here!"

Orthil's jaw dropped and he stared at her in bewilderment. "Wha-buh-"

"Orthil," Shandril said icily, paying no attention to the gathering crowd of gawking men behind her but knowing quite well how their numbers were swelling, "get! Unless you'd be so kind as to take that blandreth off the boil and make thrusk for us. In fact, I'd like that-and over a tankard each, you can tell us about your trifle of trouble whilst I finish getting dressed… after, that is, you let me start getting dressed!"

Eager hands lifted the blandreth off the fire, stirred the thrusk, and handed tankards up to the baffled-looking caravan master. Shaking his head a little, Voldovan took them, set them down carefully, then whirled to face the crowd and roared, "Get out of here! Each of ye, to yer own beast and harness! Make ready to roll wagons-now!"

He pulled down the wagon-flap again to shut out the watching world, turned back to Narm and Shandril, and asked politely, "Thrusk, anyone?"

Narm couldn't hide his grin. Shaking his head, he accepted a steaming tankard, set it aside to avoid scalded lips, and went on settling his nondescript armor into place and rolling away bedding.

Shandril, wearing nothing but boots and the strange network of straps that would hold up her greaves and armored stomacher when they were fastened, strolled from the depths of the wagon over to Voldovan, turned her back on him, and said, "I've no Storstil nor Narbuth handy, so could you do me up, sir?"

For a moment she thought she was going to get a tankard of scalding thrusk flung over her, but instead she felt warm breath on her bare shoulder blades and heard the loud hissing of the caravan master heaving a gusty sigh. The sound of tankards being carefully set down again followed, and then rough-surfaced knuckles were gently snugging straps together down her back.

Orthil said in a low voice, "I-my apologies, both of ye. I'm… not a happy man, this morn. There was more trouble in the night."

"What sort of trouble?" Narm asked, taking his first cautious sip of thrusk-then grimacing and wishing he hadn't. Boiled tongue for breakfast again.

"More folk gone."

"Gone?" Shandril asked, as wiry, dirty hair brushed her behind and those hardened fingers laced and buckled their ways down to her ankles.

"Gone-vanished, leaving their wagons behind, goods and all. If they fought, we heard it not, and no one saw anything. I sent the lads out to search the woods and they found tracks, right enough: leucrotta and bear, plus a little blood here and there."

Narm and Shandril both heard the "but" in the caravan master's tone. Shan turned to regard Voldovan with a thoughtful frown on her face, but it was Narm who prompted him. "But-?"

"The tracks don't come close to any wagons. The beasts might have scavenged the dead, but they didn't drag or chase them away from camp. Why'd the men stray? Or did someone-a few men at least, it'd take-creep in with knife or strangle-wire and carry them off? If so, why steal nothing? Folk scared by brigands and all our warnings don't just wander from their wagons, right past my guards, and get clear out of a rock cleft unseen!"

"You need our magic," Narm said quietly, "now that you've come and seen and made sure we aren't the murderers you're looking for."

"I've made sure of nothing, lad," Voldovan told him heavily, "but for what 'tis worth, no, I don't think either of ye were snatching away a dozen merchants last night. I-I don't hold with wizards. There's none in Scornubel as I'd trust within a kingdom of me, and I can't afford one casting from any of'em, let alone entice one to set foot in the Blackrocks and ride guard for me. Damned expensive, arrogant nuisances, but when ye need them, ye really need them!"