Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
There: the familiar child-sized silhouette moved among the black trunks of the trees, still limping a little,
slow and careful to not trip in the dark.
"Stop there, Zak." No dry wit now; he didn't have it in him. He was tired. She froze. He couldn't see her
face, just a feathering of moonlight through shadows of branches, catching the lock of silver in her hair.
She turned to face him.
"What is it now—you've poisoned him and it has yet to take effect? Is that it?" Underneath the demand
in his voice, he heard his own desperate hope.Shit… maybe I just gave away the whole game . She
just stood still, three paces in front of him. Wind touched the trees, momentarily shone a patch of
moonlight on her face.
She was smiling, moon-glint on teeth and eyes giving them a dull cruel sheen, like sword-steel. Slowly he
realized he could see a lighter patch of meadow between two tree-trunks,through her. Then she
vanished.
Oh shit. Almost imperceptible from such a small person, the sense of warmth, of presence,behind him
to his left, close … He whirled, his face turning straight into the dark flash of a small arm reaching up, a
blow, slashing, snagging dully, across his cheek.
"Shen!" The shriek tore out of him, almost breathless; involuntarily he did a standing leap two paces
straight backwards, clutching his face. Wet, warm, his blood trickled.
"Some things are more important than kin, Arkan." The high small female voice was as cold and edged
as steel claws. "Like seeing a corrupt Empire die. Ask yourself how long the poison will take to kill you.
Then go to Hayel, for failing." She turned, and was gone into the dark.
Matthas staggered to the stream, thrust his face under, icy cold seizing his skin, knowing he was
muddying the water as his hands slipped on the stones, scrubbed his face with one palm trying to drive
dirty water into the claw-gouges, draw blood out; better the chance of infection than the certainty of
poison. The wounds stung, but perhaps no more than they would anyway; he couldn't tell.
"Shen shen shen…" He pulled himself up from the stream, struggled to his feet. The cold flowing on his
face went warm again; he pressed his kerchief to it. Ineed a healer . But if he went to a Haian here,
they'd take records of his wounds, he'd be asked how he'd got them, leave a paper trail for them to
follow.God, why did Manajas have to get killed ? His good contact with the Arkans gone, he had only
the replacement, a dour old fart who was suspicious of anything underhanded. How to explain?Shen …
Truth impinged.I've failed. Even if I send a note to snuff the little bastard, snuff him slowly,one
fikken sinew at a time the little son of a worm and a witch, I've still failed . A tread in the
underbrush; he froze behind a tree, while the other passed. Urges without reason came, desperately
strong, to be in a warm bed, with his mother sitting next to it stroking his brow.That dwarfish bitch calls
herself a mother, throwing away her son's life like that, that's unnatural .
He'd hired two men to guard his tent, northern mercenaries drawing a little extra pay for a little extra
sentry-duty. "KrasFrahhnsssohhndeNuubohhn, you all right?" The bumpkin accent grated on his ears.
"Get healer?" He just mumbled a no thank you, the Thanish accent coming naturally.Good thing I kept
the habit of thinking in it .