Herrin met Mirra at the crossroads, two good horses saddled and ready and concern on his face.
“Where do you think they’ll have taken him?”
Mirra swung herself up into the saddle and kicked the horse into motion, all in one smooth motion. “I don’t know. We’ll just have to follow until we work it out.”
Herrin mounted his horse quickly and hurried after Mirra.
“How can we follow them,” he called to her. “We don’t even know which way they went!”
She freed a hand from the reins and dug into the satchel she carried.
“This is telling me,” she called back, holding up a grotesque, misshapen thing.
Herrin stared at it. “That’s disgusting,” he said. “What is it?”
Mirra laughed, tucking it back into the satchel. “The half-dwarf gave it to me. It’s called a Mefrinakk.”
Herrin frowned. “I’m none the wiser,” he admitted. “What does that mean?”
“Well, he was drunk when he gave it to me so he wasn’t particularly eloquent, but I gather that it’s sort of an earthy spirit bound with dwarven engineering to create a sentient compass,” she said with a nonchalant shrug.
“Oh,” said Herrin. The satchel twitched, as if the thing inside was pointing the way, and Mirra turned her horse’s head.
“What do you think we’ll find when we get wherever we’re going?”
Herrin pondered for a moment. “I wouldn’t like to wager on the specifics, but I think a fight is quite likely.”
Mirra laughed. “Quite likely. One we’ll win with ease, like in the good old days. Then Tryls will tell you that he owes you three times over!”
© Kari Fay