Hweilan stopped to listen, and she heard something else. At first she thought it was just her own heartbeat, but as she stood there in the path, taking deep, steady breaths, there was no mistaking it. Hoofbeats. Coming up behind her. That could only mean Nar.
Her hand seemed to search for her knife of its own accord. The anger in her was seething to come out. But her rational mind forced that down. Had she been able to use the bow, had she even a few arrows… maybe. But on her own, with a knife, against mounted men… no.
She looked around, searching for a place to hide. Squat trees and bushes everywhere. If she could take care not to leave any tracks…
The hoofbeats were getting closer. At least three horses. Perhaps more. And moving just shy of a gallop. The fools were risking breaking their mounts' legs on the icy ground, which meant they were pursuing something.
Hweilan leaped off the path, going from rock to rock or the thickest ice as best she could. Only once did her boot crack the frost. She passed the first bushes and trees, fearing they were too close to the path. When she had put at least a dozen yards between herself and the path, she threw her father's bow under a large bank of scrub brush, then wriggled under it. With the thick Nar cloak and both packs still riding her back, it was no easy task.
Lying on her belly under the bush, she pushed herself up just enough to bend back an outer branch and peer out on the path. Other foliage was in the way, but between them, she caught her first glimpse of the rider.
A large horse-larger even than that of a Nar chieftain's war mount. One of the huge Carmathan stallions that Damaran traders sometimes rode through the Gap in summer.
Trees hid the rider a moment, and when he came back into view, he had slowed his horse to a canter as he cast his gaze about. Hweilan's breath caught in her throat.
"Soran!" she cried. "Uncle Soran!"
Grabbing her father's bow in one hand, she scrambled out of her hiding place as quickly as she could, heedless of the branches scraping her face. The rider reined in his horse with such ferocity that it screamed and skidded to a halt on the frosty ground.
Hweilan ran to him, but the first good look at Soran stopped her in her tracks. She wasn't sure what she'd expected to see on his face. A look of utter relief perhaps. Joy. Grief that they were the last of their family. Or maybe even anger that she was all the way out here while the good people of Highwatch and Kistrad were suffering. But there was nothing. Not even a sign of recognition. The look that he turned on her was completely blank, like…
Just like Scith had looked after he took his last breath. Soran looked dead.
Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or maybe only a sign of Hweilan's exhaustion and frayed nerves, but as Soran turned his horse toward her, she thought she saw a flicker of red in his eyes.
"Uncle Soran?"
More riders came into view. All were Nar, save one. Kadrigul. One of Argalath's lackeys-and Jatara's brother.
Kadrigul followed Soran's gaze, saw Hweilan, and reined in his own mount. The Nar behind him did the same. The other riders urged their horses off the path, right for her. All were reaching for weapons.
The tingling in Hweilan's head suddenly spread through her body, like being woken from deep sleep by a splash of cold water. The anger was no longer just an emotion. It was a physical force, making her muscles tremble with a sudden irresistible urge to hurt all the men before her. The world around her became sharp and clear, perfectly focused, every sound sharp and distinct. Every sensation, every breath, every beat of her heart screamed at her to lash and rend and kill. So sharp were her senses that she thought she could hear the beating hearts of the horses and the men on them-though not Soran's.
A blur of gray ran among the Nar horses, barking and snapping at them. Hechin! The horses screamed and tried to scatter, but their riders reined them around and brought their weapons to bear against the wolf. But he was too quick, evading their spears and the swipes of their swords.
Soran reached over his shoulder and drew a sword-a huge, ugly thing of black iron-then urged his mount forward. Hweilan could feel the ground shaking as the huge horse surged toward her.
"Soran!" It was Kadrigul, calling out as he spurred his horse toward her. "Soran, no! We need her alive!"
Hweilan couldn't move.
An arrow struck Soran in the back. He didn't even flinch.
"Run, you stupid girl!" It was Lendri, reaching for another arrow as he ran from cover on the far side of the trail.
"Soran!" she shouted. "Uncle, please!"
Still no recognition in his face, and then her mind caught up with what her instinct had known all along. This was not her uncle. She didn't know why and could not fathom how, but this horror bearing down upon her was not her uncle.
Hweilan screamed in defiance and charged.
She heard Lendri scream, "No!" and another arrow hit Soran.
Hweilan was less than five or six steps from the horse when it screamed and reared. Whatever it was about her that spooked horses-some effect of her Vil Adanrath heritage, she now suspected-it worked on Soran's horse. The stallion's eyes rolled back in its head as it fought to scramble away. In its panic, its hooves slipped on the uneven, icy ground, and the horse fell, smashing Soran's leg. Even over the noise of Hechin's barking and the screaming of men and horses, Hweilan heard a crunch of shattering bone.
Soran's mount fought its way to its feet, then bounded away. Soran tried to push himself to his feet, but his right leg folded beneath him.
"Hweilan, run!"
Lendri stood his ground just this side of the trail. He dodged a spear from one of the Nar, planted an arrow in his attacker, knocking the man from his horse, then reached for another arrow.
Soran regained his feet, and he lumbered toward Hweilan, leaning on the sword like a cane and dragging his shattered leg.
The breeze shifted, just for a moment, and the thing's scent washed over her. Worse than a charnel house, it made Hweilan's gorge rise to the back of her throat.
Hweilan's hand fumbled for the knife at her belt.
"Run!" Lendri called. "These aren't the only-!"
Another arrow hit the Soran-thing, lodging in his good leg. A pure white arrow-shaft and fletching all white as snow, and smaller than Lendri's arrows. Where had it-?
Soran didn't slow. Didn't even seem to notice the arrows sprouting from his body. Only a few paces away now.
Hweilan couldn't get her knife free. The thick glove over the bandages robbed her fingers of all nimbleness. She stumbled backward, her heel struck a rock or root, and she fell.
Soran stood over her. This close, she got her first good look at his eyes. Black eyes. Dark as polished stones. Not a fleck of white or color remained. And they seemed too wide, as if something mean and hungry were trapped in his skull, trying to press its way out. When those eyes looked down on her, it woke something deep inside Hweilan, like a spark catching in dry tinder. Her anger flared, and she had to push down a sudden urge to snarl.
The Soran-thing lunged. Hweilan scrambled backward, but the uneven ground was slick, and pain shot up her injured arm. The creature's iron-hard fist locked round her ankle.
Hweilain's uninjured hand found a rock and closed around it. She smashed it into the side of his face. He didn't even flinch. She hit him again. And again. On the fourth strike, she gouged off a long strip of skin and heard bone crack.
He released his hold on his sword and caught her next strike. Hweilan screamed and tried to pull free. She felt the cloth of her coat and shirt slipping under his grip, but then the fist tightened.
"Let me go!" She planted her free leg and pulled with all her strength. The fabric between her arm and his hand slipped again, and for an instant, they touched, skin to skin.
Something passed between them, sizzling, like cold water tossed on hot steel. The thing's black eyes locked on her, and she could feel them penetrating skin, flesh, and bone, gazing upon something she had only felt in her dreams.
Soran's face
twisted into a scowl. Pure malice.
"I can smell him on you, girl." It was a hollow voice. Nothing like Soran's. All malice and hunger. His mouth opened wide, and he took in a deep breath, as if tasting the air. Dead lips pulled back over his teeth in mockery of a smile. "You reek of-"
A black cloud washed over him. Hundreds of ravens hit the Soran-thing, cawing and screaming, burying him beneath flapping wings as their sharp beaks pecked at him. The wind of their wings buffeted Hweilan, and she felt their feathers brush her cheeks, but they passed over her to attack the Soran-thing. Soran released Hweilan and swiped at the birds with both hands, but for every one he hit, ten or more descended on him.
Soran stood, his sword in one hand, his other continuing to swipe at the birds. But his eyes locked on Hweilan as he shambled toward her.
A huge, shaggy shape hit the ground between Hweilan and her pursuers. Kadrigul's horse screamed and reared, and then the roars filled the valley, one after another, pounding through the air like thunder off the mountains. The trees shook with the sound. Hweilan felt their force like a punch in the gut, and the marrow in her bones trembled.
Tundra tigers. One swiped at Kadrigul's horse, and two more ran among the Nar.
Soran, still covered in ravens and hampered by his shattered leg, lurched toward her. Just beyond him, Kadrigul, upon his horse, was bearing down upon her. Beyond them, two tigers were pressing the attack against the Nar. Only the long spears of the Nar warriors held them at bay.
Hweilan's eyes widened, and she scrambled to her feet. One of those tigers carried a rider. Small as a ten-year-old child, clothed in furs and a snug blue material. She had no idea who or what it could be. Even as she watched, she saw more of the little people emerging from the trees, spears in their hands.
Where was Lendri? Where-?
Run, girl…
Hweilan wasn't sure where the voice came from. It seemed to pass her ears entirely and speak in her mind.
Run! Run! Run!
Hweilan ran.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Broken branches snagged Hweilan's cloak and scraped her face, roots beneath the carpet of snow tripping her. Again and again she fell, but each time she pushed herself up and kept going. Before long she could discern little but the lingering blue glow in the snow set amid the deeper black of the surrounding brush and heavy sky.
The sound of the fighting grew fainter with each step, and bit by bit, reason began to return to Hweilan. She knew she was making an awful racket, blundering through the timber, her feet crunching through new snow and old frost. But she didn't care. Every beat of her heart screamed at her to get away from the thing that wore Soran's face. And the ravens…
She pushed through a thick patch of darkness-some thick bush or scrub that kept its thick, waxy leaves throughout the winter-and the ground fell away beneath her feet.
She tumbled, striking hard ground beneath the snow and sliding down a steep enough slope that her stomach seemed to jump up her throat.
She hit level ground. It drove what little air she had left from her body, and for a long moment, all she could do was lie there, half her face in the snow, trying to draw breath back into her chest as bright orbs of light danced in her vision. With each breath, the lights winked and faded a little more.
She'd managed to keep a grip on her father's bow during the fall. She still held it, her right fist locked around it. Something else was poking her in the chest, just below the soft part of her neck. Something under her shirt. The kishkoman.
Hweilan pushed herself up to her knees and pulled the bone whistle from her shirt. She put it to her lips, took in a deep breath, and blew a shrill note, as loud and as long as she could. The sound cut through the night, hurting her ears.
She sat, holding her breath, straining to hear an answering call. Nothing. Only a breeze rattling winter-brittle branches. She tried again, holding the note as long as she could. Still nothing.
Now that she was no longer running, her body began to shiver, and she could feel her own breath beginning to freeze against her face.
A thick darkness loomed before her. It was one of the great pines, but fallen ages ago. Most of the trunk had probably gone to rot, but the thicker wood of the roots had gone iron hard, and the years of brush that grew up and around them formed a sort of woody cleft. It would do. She dared not risk a fire, not with that Soran-thing maybe still out there, but she had to keep the wind off her and find someplace close to keep in her own body heat.
Hweilan threw herself into the cleft, branches and nettles and thorns ripping her clothes and skin. There was no wide way through, but her body found the path of least resistance, and she pushed and pushed, turning herself sideways to squeeze through the crack. She hit a wall of tangled brush, rotted wood, and soil, all frozen hard as stone. Exhausted, terrified, and cold, Hweilan wept.
She had no idea how much time passed, wedged between old roots and frozen soil. Her body shivered so badly that the roots and frost around her were rattling. She could no longer feel her fingers, toes, or face.
One clear thought rose in her mind: You have to move, or you're going to die.
Hweilan moved, the roots digging into her clothes again. She thought they were most likely scraping her face, as well, but she could no longer feel her exposed skin. The farther she went, the easier it became.
She was nearly out when she heard it: something coming through the brush.
Hweilan held her breath and kept her body perfectly still.
The sounds came closer, and besides the crunching of branches and snow, she heard something sniffing.
Hweilan took a chance. With fingers she could no longer feel, she brought the kishkoman to her numb lips and blew one note-very softly, scarcely above a whisper.
A plaintive whine came from the darkness.
"Hechin?" she called out.
But whatever it had been was running away.
Hweilan waited, counting to a hundred, listening. If anything was out there, it wasn't moving. Never in her life had she been so cold. Lendri's packs still rode her back. Surely he had flint and steel. Maybe even dry grass for kindling. But she could not get the image of Soran out of her mind The dead face.
The implacable approach.
The red fire, all malice and hunger, flashing behind the dead eyes.
And she knew that any fire would be seen, even if she could muster the will to gather dry wood.
Her teeth would not stop chattering, and she was shaking so hard that her jaw ached. Gooseflesh prickled her from head to toe, and she felt as if every hair on her head was standing straight up. She had to keep closing her eyes to keep the moisture on them from freezing. Each time, she had to force her eyelids open again. Her body cried out for rest, but she feared that if she slept, she'd never wake again.
She knew her only two choices were to build a fire and risk being seen by the Nar and… that thing. Or freeze to death. Given the two fates…
Scith had once told her that freezing to death became painless after a certain point. One even began to feel warm again, before the end came.
Hweilan closed her eyes, and remembering that moment, the thing she cherished the most was the fire that had burned merrily between her and Scith, wafting long, slow breaths of warmth over her open hands.
Just thinking of it, Hweilan felt warm again.
She stood on black rocks, looking down on clouds and listening to the roar of the world. Above her, a clear night sky rimmed the horizon. There was no moon, but the stars burned like fresh-cut diamonds set on velvet tapestry. One star just topping the horizon burned bright as a small sun, though it shone blue and cold.
Behind her, a great wall of mountains pushed up against the sky. Their heights dwarfed any mountains she had ever seen. Fully half their slopes were draped in snow, and even the nearer foothills were taller than the Giantspires near her home.
She stood on the fingertip of the mountains' last grasp, and the world fell away at her feet. Miles away to her
right, a river thundered over the chasm, its voice so powerful that it shook the rocks beneath her. Hweilan had no way to fathom the depth of the valley, for it was all a mass of starlit mist stirred by the cataract. Woods covered the lower slopes of the mountains and the distant lowlands, and they were black amid the trails of mist winding through their boughs.
Turning her back on the valley, she faced the woods of the mountainside. Mists curled through the trunks, and here and there she could see birds or small animals flitting from branch to branch.
She relaxed her eyes and took it all in, not focusing on any one spot. Just the way Scith had taught her. Let your eyes drink every dreg of light. In the darkness or in thick cover, watch for movement. If you see something, do not focus on it. Keep it at the edge of your sight. That part of your eye takes in more light than looking at it straight on.
There it was. Pale shapes moving amid the boughs. Just a shade paler than the mists themselves. They moved without haste, and now and then one or more would stop, and Hweilan knew they were watching her.
She looked to each side. A broken, uneven chasm all around. To her left, climbing up again to the mountain's heights. To her right, sloping down and finally curving to the edge of the falls. No paths anywhere, and the few protruding rocks that might serve as holds or even the occasional shelf to rest upon… all were slick with spray from the falls. One slip, and Hweilan would soon find out how deep the valley was inside the mists.
Howling wafted down the mountainside, and when she turned back, the shapes had come much closer. Dozens of them at least. Maybe a hundred or more, and the nearest ones were only a stone's throw away. She could see that although most were pale as ghosts, some were a darker gray, some brown, and one was black as dreamless sleep.
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