Looking at the dark line of the trees before her, the dream from days ago hit her again, not simply as a memory, but as an assault on her senses.
The smell-foul, putrid, rotting.
The black wolf, its yellow eyes suddenly brighter than the moon in her mind's eye, its voice-Run!
Laughter, devoid of all goodwill. The giggle of a girl ripping the wings of a butterfly. The eager smile of a boy, tearing the legs off a grasshopper and heading for the anthill.
Singing. Sweet voices. True melody. All set to blasphemies.
The motherly voice-
Death comes… be sure of it.
It hit her with such force that she stumbled, for a moment her mind separate from her body. She fell in the snow, her father's bow striking her painfully in the ribs.
"Hweilan?" Menduarthis's voice. "Are you-?"
She heard them before she saw them. Something large-or more likely many large somethings-breaking through the brush, and the sounds of many heavy hooves churning through snow. When the herd broke out of the woods just upriver from them, Hweilan actually felt the ice vibrating under their feet. Running against the dark backdrop of the forest, Hweilan could not make out what they were at first, but as they came out onto the snow- covered ice, she saw huge antlers crowning the herd. Swiftstags? If so, they were the largest she had ever seen.
"Stay calm," said Menduarthis as he helped her to feet. "Act like we're going about our business. And remember, I do all the talking."
Hweilan opened her mouth to ask how he planned on talking to giant deer, but then she saw them. The creatures were almost upon them now, the sound of their hooves on the ice like slow thunder. She thought she saw nine, though it was hard to tell through the great cloud of snow and frost churned up by their legs. Every one of them bore a rider, and every rider carried weapons.
The herd split into a V formation to surround Menduarthis and Hweilan. As they rode past, spraying her and Menduarthis with snow, she saw the riders' pale faces turn to watch her. Beautiful, lean faces, but solemn. Starlight played off the frost in their dark hair-elves. She saw two carrying bows, but most bore long, black spears.
Menduarthis stood unmoving as the ring of creatures closed around them. Not swiftstags after all, but something like them. Draped in shaggy gray fur, the smallest of the beasts was easily seven feet tall at the shoulder, and their antlers, which ended in curved points, spread more than ten feet across, so that as their masters turned them to face Hweilan and Menduarthis, the beasts had to stand well apart. Their breath froze as they panted, painting Menduarthis and Hweilan in fine frost.
Hweilan looked wistfully past them. They'd been so close. The embankment and nearest trees were only a few dozen feet beyond the riders.
"Menduarthis?" said one of the riders, as he slid off the back of his mount and approached them. He held a spear in one hand, and he didn't even have to duck to make it under the antlers. He was nearly the same height as Menduarthis, but leaner, his features sharper, and his ears ended in an upward curve. Definitely an elf. He stopped a few paces away and said something to Menduarthis in his own tongue.
Menduarthis answered in kind, then said, "I am taking this one to the Thorns."
The elf glanced at Hweilan and scowled. "Why do you speak the vulgar tongue?"
"She goes to the Thorns." Menduarthis gave Hweilan a sly smile over his shoulder. "I wish to remind her of it."
"Why?"
"Pain tastes sweeter if it is seasoned with fear."
The elf's scowl deepened as his eyes lit on her bow, and his fist tightened around the haft of his spear. "You are taking her to the Thorns, but she goes armed?"
"It is my bow," said Menduarthis. "She bears it because I command her to carry it."
"You have no bow like this."
Menduarthis shrugged. "Recent spoils."
"Indeed?" The elf lowered his spear and used its point to peel the heavy fur cloak back from Hweilan. Several of the other elves, still on their mounts, tensed. One of the bowmen reached for an arrow. "Word flies on the wings that Roakh lies murdered in his roost. And here is this one, covered with blood. Recent spoils, you say. Spoils from where? Where exactly, Menduarthis?"
"You accuse me?"
The elf pulled his spear back and planted its butt in the snow. "Accuse? No. But… you never liked Roakh. That much is known. He lies dead, with you nowhere to be found. Until now. And I find you with a captive covered with blood. You can explain this?"
"I can," said Menduarthis. "But not to you… Tirron, is it? I don't answer to you."
"You may not answer to me, Hound. But I answer to Kunin Gatar, and she orders any who find you to bring you to her at once. So you will come with us. Both of you. Nicely"-five spears lowered in their direction, Hweilan heard creaking wood as the bowmen drew feathers to cheeks, and Tirron smiled-"or otherwise."
Menduarthis bristled, his back straightening, and he gave Tirron his best withering stare. "Your orders are old. Kunin Gatar herself ordered me to take this one away. I am taking her to the Thorns. I would demand your aid, but I tire of your insolence. Send us on our way, and I might forget to tell the queen that this happened."
A few of the riders exchanged nervous glances, and Hweilan thought she caught a hint of doubt in Tirron's gaze.
But then the elf looked at her again. She had neglected to close her cloak, and her blood-spattered clothes were still on display for all to see.
"I think not," said Tirron. "Something is amiss here. We will take the matter to the queen."
The heaviness in Hweilan's mind seemed to drop and shatter, shards stabbing her awareness. Not blinding her, but making her incredibly aware.
Death comes!
Every shade of light and shadow suddenly seemed clear and sharp as new steel. Every sound-the heavy breathing of the elves' mounts, the crunch of the snow under their hooves, and something… something else. Something coming closer. Its footsteps pounding her skull like a hammer.
Scent filled her head. Sweat from her body. The reek of Roakh's blood in her clothes. The musky scent of the huge elklike creatures, and the stink of their breath wafting over her. The wind-through-frosty-pines smell of the elves. And a slow rot, stirred to an agonizing mockery of life by the fire within. Closer… closer…
She felt every fiber of her clothes against her skin. The greasy coat of halbdol on her face. The bite of the cold night air in her throat. The shaking of the ice beneath her feet as some foul dread approached.
And so it was that Hweilan was the first to see it.
A tall, broad figure walked out of the shadow of the wood. Not rushing, but not hesitating either. Hweilan cried out and pointed.
At the same time, the elves' mounts began to snort, toss their heads, and fight the reins of their riders.
One of the riders shouted. "Tir ened! Tir ened!"
The figure stepped off the bank, landed on the snow-covered ice below, and continued its advance.
The elves' mounts scattered, forsaking Hweilan and Menduarthis for the moment to assess the newcomer. Tirron, lithe as a deer himself, leaped back onto his mount and turned it to face the newcomer, spear lowered. The huge elklike creatures snorted and fought their reins, and even in the dark Hweilan could see the whites of their eyes, wide and frightened.
"Ri ened!" Tirron shouted. "Deth! Deth!" Tirrons mount pranced sideways, spraying snow in every direction as it fought its master's control. "Liikut! Liikut! Stop!"
If the figure understood him, it gave no sign, neither slowing nor speeding up, just coming at that same implacable pace.
Tirron's mount had gone well to one side now, and as the snow settled, Hweilan saw the figure's face.
Soran. Or at least the cold mockery of his face. The same grim, square-jawed countenance that looked as if a smile might break it. The deep set eyes. The close-cropped hair. But it was an image only. A likeness. Devoid of all life.
Tirron shouted, "Hled et!"
Two arrows hissed through the air. On
e struck Soran in the chest and bounced away. The other buried itself up to the fletching in his stomach.
He didn't even flinch.
His eyes were fixed on Hweilan. She could feel the gaze burning her, like noonday summer sun. Pace unfaltering, he reached over one shoulder and drew a massive sword from its scabbard.
Two of the elves kicked their mounts into a charge, the great antlers lowered as they closed on Soran. He spared them a glance but did not slow his pace.
The first of the creatures veered at the last moment, and the elf threw his spear. Soran stopped long enough to smash the spear out of the air with his sword, then managed another two steps before the second creature was on him, raking with its sharp antlers.
Soran stopped. One hand brought the sword down on the creature's neck, while the other grabbed the antler. Hweilan heard a crack of breaking bone, a short scream cut off, the smash of bodies colliding, then all was lost in a cloud of snow.
Soran emerged from the settling snow, the broken body of the huge elk lying beside the motionless body of its rider. She could smell the fresh blood wafting off him.
He was less than twenty feet away now, and Hweilan could see his face clearly, even behind the mask of blood and snow. Another arrow struck him, then two more. He didn't even flinch.
"Hweilan?" Menduarthis said, and Hweilan heard fear in his voice.
"Run!" she said.
A spear struck the Soran-thing, hurled with enough force that it threw him off his stride as it pierced him, tearing flesh and shattering ribs.
Menduarthis and Hweilan ran downstream, away from the horror. Her senses were still sharp as a razor, and she heard every hoof breaking through snow, every cry of the elf warriors behind them. She heard a snap and risked a glance over her shoulder.
The Soran-thing still had the broken haft of a spear protruding from his side, but he had either hacked or broken off the spear's length. Seeing his quarry fleeing, he broke into a run. Even wielding the massive sword and bearing wounds that would have killed any man, he came at them incredibly fast. Another of the elves' mounts plowed into him.
"Hweilan, move!" Menduarthis shouted.
She turned and ran, fast as she could.
Menduarthis waved his hand, and a gust of wind struck the snow before them, clearing a wide path. Another wave, and the great cloud of snow swept over and behind them, hiding the battle. She could hear elves and their mounts screaming.
Two more riders were between them and the woods. The nearest seemed content to let them pass, concentrating on the graver foe at hand. But the second reined in his mount just under the boughs.
A pale man, dressed all in skins and furs, white hair flowing behind him, leaped from the tree shadows. A long blade, slightly curved near the end, caught the moonlight and flashed in his hand. The elf didn't see him.
"You two!" the elf called. "Stop or-!"
The pale man passed over the rump of the elklike creature, his sword swinging out beside him, and sliced the elf's head from his body. Elf, swordsman, and a great gout of blood hit the snow at the same time. The elf's mount screamed, almost humanlike in its fright, and bounded away.
The pale man stood and faced them, a smile playing over his lips. He was more than pale. His skin was as white as the snow.
"Kadrigul," Hweilan said.
Menduarthis kept his eyes fixed on the newcomer as he said, "Not another uncle, I hope?"
Kadrigul swiped his sword, cutting the air. "Been awhile since I killed one of your kind."
"Really?" Menduarthis smirked, and his fingers began their intricate motions.
Wind shot past Hweilan. Not a gale. Just a good breeze, but she could feel it narrowing and gathering force as it passed.
"Been awhile since I did this trick," said Menduarthis, "and the lady here ruined my last try."
Kadrigul's chest swelled, and his eyes went wide. He dropped his sword, fell to his knees, and clamped his mouth shut.
"Hmph," said Menduarthis, and twirled his fingers faster.
Kadrigul's nostrils flared, the air whistling as it forced its way in.
"You might want to look away, Hweilan. This can sometimes be a bit m-"
Something dark passed over Hweilan's right shoulder, spraying her with warmth and wetness, there was a thunk, and Menduarthis screamed and fell forward — the pale man fell on his hands and expelled a great gout of air — and Hweilan saw what had hit Menduarthis. An arm. By its size, she knew it had to have come from one of the elf riders.
Hweilan turned and saw Soran coming, black sword in one hand. She drew the knife Menduarthis had given her and stepped in front of Menduarthis. She dropped into a defensive crouch, just like Scith had taught her, and brandished the blade.
A gale swept down the hillside, spraying snow and branches and a million pine needles. It swept over Soran in a flood.
Hweilan felt a tug on her arm. "Don't be a fool, girl!" said Menduarthis. "Run!"
They turned and ran.
Kadrigul was back on his feet, sword in hand, fury in his gaze.
A great ram of air-the strength of a winter gale off mountain heights, but concentrated into the force of a giant's fist-tore through the snow beside Hweilan and struck him. He flew through the air in a cloud of snow and broken ice.
The sounds of a savage fight still raging behind them, Hweilan and Menduarthis ran up the embankment and into the woods.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The woods tangled around them. Hweilan had never seen such trees, had never imagined such trees. Most grew no more than a few dozen feet, but hardly any grew up. Trunks twisted, turned, bent sideways, and smaller ones even wrapped around their larger neighbors. Deep winter as it was, still dark green leaves grew in abundance, so thick that they had blocked out nearly all the snow-and every trace of star- and moonlight.
Hweilan kept a firm grip on Menduarthis's arm and trusted that her feet would find their own way in the dark. She made it no more than twenty steps into the wood before striking a root or low branch and falling, almost pulling Menduarthis on top of her.
Menduarthis let her go, said, "A moment," and Hweilan could hear him searching his pockets.
Light bloomed, blue and cold, no brighter than a small candle, but in the nearly impenetrable gloom of the wood it seemed very bright to Hweilan's eyes. It shone forth from a round crystal, no larger than an owl's egg, that Menduarthis held in one hand.
In the near distance, an elf's voice cried out in a defiant battle cry, then rose into an agonized shriek.
"Move, girl!" Menduarthis pulled her to her feet and they plunged onward.
The land began to climb almost at once. The trees grew larger and even more tangled the farther they went, but Menduarthis always seemed to find a path-ducking under the great arch of a branch, pushing their way through the leaves; finding narrow paths that snaked among the branches; sometimes even running along broad trunks that grew along the ground, like slightly curved roads.
"Careful," said Menduarthis, and Hweilan soon saw why.
They were walking along the wide bole of a tree, but the ground fell away beneath them, the tree forming a natural bridge across a ravine. The sky opened above them, giving enough light for Hweilan to see that the cut in the ground was not that wide, and no more than thirty or forty feet deep. But the trees down there had been choked by vines covered with wicked thorns.
When they reached the other side and stepped off the tree, Menduarthis stopped and turned. Over the sounds of their heavy breathing, they listened for pursuit. Nothing.
Still, that nagging weight, that sense of dread pulsed in Hweilan's mind. It had lessened somewhat in their flight from the frozen river, but now that they'd stopped again…
"We need to keep going," said Hweilan.
"Half a moment," said Menduarthis. He pulled her behind him. "And hang on to something."
He stood away from the tree and threw back his cloak. He began waving his arms and hands in an intricate motion, faster and faster
. Wind rushed past them, snapping branches and toppling smaller trees in its path.
It struck the tree-bridge. Roots broke and came up with such force that dirt exploded dozens of feet into the air, and the tree itself shattered in the middle. The wind died, and the broken tree fell into the ravine with a crash that shook the ground.
"That should throw off the pursuit," said Menduarthis.
Hweilan wasn't so sure.
More and more vines-their thorns ranging from small, almost furlike protrusions along the creepers to long thorns thick as nails on the stalks-crawled through the trees as Hweilan and Menduarthis climbed the final slope. But the trees themselves didn't seem to suffer. The foliage, rather than lessening, grew even thicker, and in some places Hweilan felt that their path was walled in by leaves and thorns. Menduarthis's light began to catch bits of white in the air. At first, Hweilan thought that it was snowing again, and some few flakes had managed to find their way through the canopy. But no. They were tiny moths, their wings white as new frost. How they managed to survive the cold, Hweilan had no idea. The close air of the woods was warmer than it had been out on the frozen river, but it was still cold enough for Hweilan's breath to steam before her.
Menduarthis stopped, their path seemingly ending in a great tangle of thorns. One hand grasping the little light stone, he turned and looked at Hweilan.
"This gets tricky here," he said. "Once again, you must trust me."
"Trust you how?" she said.
With the hand holding the light, he pointed at the wall of thorns before them. "This is our way."
The vines looked tough as wire, their thorns sharp as wasps' stingers. Even the leaves looked sharp. "You can't be serious," she said.
"Trust me. You'll be safe as a babe in her cradle as long as you keep moving forward. Don't stop. Don't slow. And whatever you do, do not move backward. As long as you move forward, these creepers are all bark, no bite. Soft as feathers. Stop or try to move backward… well, the only thing that'll get you out then is fire, and I don't think you'd like that much."
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