They got word of the cart after just a few miles. A great big heavy thing, they were told, with horses straining at its head as if they dragged the weight of the world.
“Ridiculous,” Mirra said. “Why would they bring something like that? Surely they’d know that word would carry of such a strange thing.”
Herrin laughed. “You’re getting a little slow, my dear.”
She stared at him blankly for a moment, then slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Of course,” she muttered. “Fat lot of good a trap is, that doesn’t pull in its prey. They want us to find it.”
Herrin nodded. “Which means, of course, that Tryls is likely not in there at all.”
Mirra dug in her satchel for the Dwarven Mefrinakk, and watched as it wriggled in her hand before pointing its stumpy limbs in two directions at once.
“Ugh,” she said, “It’s supposed to point to what I want. So now what?”
Herrin stroked his chin. “Well. One will point towards Tryls, and the other towards the cart, because you want to rescue the elf and you want to spring that trap.”
She sighed. “I wish I knew what I wanted most.”
The Mefrinakk twitched, and pointed directly at Herrin.
She blinked at it, a deep blush rising into her cheeks.
He smiled. “Well, that’s a start. But I do think we should get Tryls out of his pickle first.”
© Kari Fay