accept the commission as a good excuse to explore the vale. As such, the following day she set out north for the mining town of Carsoon nestled against the southwestern tip of the Tanarian Hills, and then followed the southern edge of the mountains to the east, stopping at villages and homesteads along the way. A week later she had just one destination left, a Cistercian monastery located on the opposite side of a spur of mountains that extended east from the main mass of the Hills. Kuranes suggested that, rather than waste time going all the way around the range as most travelers did, she take a little used road that cut across the spur and came out above the monastery.
As she struggled up the precipitous slope, she reflected on how the old king had conned her good. On a map the way looked fairly straight, but in reality it started off as a road with a series of hairpin turns that snaked up the escarpment before turning into the corniche road that wound its way around peaks and followed the line of serpentine ridges. She had hoped to reach the monastery before dusk, but she calculated she probably had traveled twice the straight-line distance, and she doubted she had even reached the halfway point.
After a quarter hour she spotted the beginning of the ridge line. For the last third of the path, the stream fell as a waterfall from an outcrop of weathered rock before hitting the slope of the valley further down. When she reached the ridge, she saw that the stream flowed out of an adjacent mountain before being diverted by the ridgeline. Looking back, she watched as the water first spilled into a plunge pool in a smooth, flat shelf before running off the edge on the far side. She realized that must have been the rock outcrop she had spotted from below. A copse of firs, pines, ashes, and cottonwoods, with numerous deadfall logs and broken boughs, surrounded two-thirds of the circumference of the pool.
That looks like a fine spot for an encampment, she thought. It was sheltered from the weather, there was plenty of fresh water and firewood, and it lay hidden from casual observation. Only someone who stood where she did could see down into it. But could she reach it? Studying the wall formed by the ridge she spotted a trail, probably one used by deer. None were around at the moment, which briefly disappointed her; venison stew sounded rather good. Then she realized she didn't want to mess around with skinning and gutting a large animal, especially so close to her camp. She didn't want to attract predators.
She went to the head of the trail and started down. It was almost too steep for her to negotiate, and she ended up skidding on her backside. Once she reached the bottom, she noticed that the ridge wall overhung the shelf in the back, forming a broad, shallow cave. She walked to the edge of the pool and looked up to see where she had stood on the ridge, as the stream flowed over the ridge wall.
Turning, she headed for the cave, but stopped before her third step. A camp had already been set up. A fire sat prepared but not yet lit within a ring of stones with cooking gear placed nearby, a lean-to had been constructed from native material and a bedroll laid out inside, and neatly folded clothing lay on a flat rock, with a staff and a bowie knife resting on top. However, she didn't see a traveler.
Could he be out hunting?
A splashing sound caught her attention and she turned, reaching under her coat to grasp one of her pistols. A nude male figure emerged from the pool. At first she thought he was a child; he couldn't have been more than four feet tall. Then she noticed the minor disproportions in the sizes of his head, trunk, limbs, and hands. As well, his facial features resembled an adult, and his manner seemed mature by several decades of experience. A dwarf, she realized, relaxing.
He made for the camp, but only went a couple of feet before he spotted her: he came to an abrupt halt and stared at her with an expression that mixed surprise, apprehension, and keen interest. Suddenly mortified with embarrassment, she whipped around in an about-face.
"Oh, bollocks, I'm terribly sorry!"
"No, please, it's all right. I just wanted to wash off the trail dust." His voice was a smooth, gentle, lyric baritone, melodic and soothing, and it calmed her frazzled nerves. "It's probably my fault, anyways. This road is so seldom used anymore I assumed I would have privacy. But, you know what they say: when you 'assume' you make an 'ass' of 'u' and 'me'!"
She couldn't help chuckling at the absurdity of that statement.
"You have a nice laugh. You can turn around now."
She did so and saw he had dressed in what looked like a monk's hooded habit.
"I suppose this will sound like a dumb question," he went on, "but are you an adventurer? As opposed to being a hedge robber, assassin, or lady of pleasure."
She flashed a smirk. "I'm journeying to Cwmhir Abbey, but it's taking me longer to get there than I anticipated."
"Do tell! I'm bound there myself, but I'm afraid you won't be able to make it before night; there's another twelve hours of traveling ahead of us, at least."
"Hmph. I thought as much."
"Then allow me to offer you the hospitality of my campsite, such as it is."
"No, thank you, I couldn't intrude--"
"Don't be ridiculous. I would appreciate the company, and I don't see how you could intrude more than you have already." But he said that last with a wry grin.
"I'm sure I'll be able to find some other place--"
"Nonsense. There isn't any along the entire length of the ridgeway, and I wouldn't advise trying to camp up there, not with the way the wind can blow in off the mountains."
She grinned and shook her head. He certainly was persistent. "Very well, in that case I accept." She walked under the overhang.
"Splendid! My name is Michael by the way." He extended his hand.
She removed her glove and shook. "I'm Flynnette." She had adopted that alias for when she traveled alone. Being Kuranes's heir, she figured it wasn't a good idea to advertise her movements.
"Please, make yourself at home. I'll just get the fire started." He squatted down beside the ring of stones.
She walked over to the lean-to, taking off the other glove and stuffing both into a pocket of her red great coat. Sometimes she felt self-conscious about its colour, being British and all. She leaned the makila against the cave wall and slipped off her pack, placing it beside the stick. She then unhooked the harness that supported Caliburn on her back.
"That's quite a sword!"
She looked back at him and held it upright on the tip of its scabbard. The pommel came to just under her chin.
"Family heirloom." Which was no lie. Caliburn was another name for Excalibur. She descended from King Arthur Pendragon through her mother. Every member of that matrilineal line had been able to summon Caliburn in times of great need, and she had inherited that talent.
He hit flint against steel. "Is it a claymore?"
She placed the sword beside the makila. "Similar, but much older. You know about swords?"
"I have some small knowledge." His lilting tone suggested he was being facetious.
"Where should I sleep?"
"You're welcome to share my lean-to; there's plenty of room."
She examined it and decided he was right, if she lay lengthwise. Still: "Are you sure?"
"Of course. If you're worried about propriety, while I would love to ravish you, as my guest I am bound by the demands of hospitality to protect you and treat you well." He glanced up at her with a grinning leer, and winked.
She realized he was being facetious again. "Hmph. Well, if you do, and I ever find out about it, I'll hurt you good, little man."
He laughed. "My word, such wit! As Speedy Gonzales might say, 'I like you, you're silly.'"
She removed her coat and hung it over the closest upright support of the lean-to. "That isn't as obscure a reference as you might believe."
"You've heard it before?"
She unbuckled the harness over her sleeveless doublet. "From a friend in the Waking World." It was one of Sunny's favorite lines.
"Ah, so, you're a Dreamer--good heavens, woman!"
She glanced at him and saw him staring at the six pistols hanging
in the harness. She had two more in belt holsters, along with a rondel dagger and a few pouches.
"Expecting bear?"
She flashed a lopsided grin. "I get it. In a manner of speaking. I'm a pistol marksman in the Waking World. I feel more comfortable with a gun in my hand than a blade, and even if these are not what I'm used to, they're still better than nothing. Having eight of them just makes it possible to get off multiple shots before having to reload."
Then the shilling dropped. "You don't seem too surprised to see these."
He shrugged. "I've seen matchlock guns before, but nothing like those. Are they flintlocks?"
She slipped off the harness and laid it over the coat. She understood his confusion. Nothing more recent than 1500 could exist in the Dreamlands. "No, they use a mechanism called a wheellock. It was developed just before the 16th century. A spring-driven wheel turns against a piece of pyrite to create sparks." She unbuckled the belt and hung it off the harness.
"Are they common?"
She removed her red, wide-brimmed hat and laid it on top of the coat. "No; I believe my collection is the only one so far, but these were made by a weaponsmith in Ulthar, and he offers others for general sale. So you may see more of them as time goes on." She untied her pink ascot from around the doublet's high collar and draped it over the hat.
"Ulthar, you say. They could make my life a bit easier; safer, too."
She untied the lacings on her doublet and draped it over her pack. Underneath she wore a