I again looked at Gilli, wincing this time at his flame-cracked skin. From the small grove of trees past the marsh spilled the mournful wails of the elves. The strange noise was rising and falling out of tune with the wind. There was something happy and tiresome about it at the same time, something that let me know that the people singing it felt something of our pain. The wind blew the grass around my horse’s hooves as it whinnied, as if in mourning. Then I once more smelled the unpleasant stink of burnt flesh on the wind, and I heard the bittersweet clamor of the elves’ wailing cease. I smiled, wishing Gilli farewell. With quick, thirsty carelessness I went about burying him. Then, without words, I nodded. I turned to find that our pack horses had already been strung together. A pair of thin gray figures stood outside the trees, staring at me. It was the chief and his dwarven shaman. There was an odd stillness in their silence. And there was something lonely and menacing in their frozen, small eyes, that contrasted the eager horses behind them. I shivered and thought to nod, but instead rode to them wordlessly. I gathered our supplies, and left before they told us we were no longer welcome there.
What do You think about Blood Of The Wizard (Book 1)?
