Arein slowed still further. Durren suspected that if she'd had any say in the matter she wouldn't have gone on at all. However, by then he'd realised that they were no longer reliant on her powers. He could see a shape through the trees, accompanied by a muted glow—and the shape was moving. As he watched, he was certain he glimpsed something long and pale and pointed, like a flicker of lightning between the trunks. Then it was gone.
When Durren glanced to check whether the others had seen what he'd seen, Tia put a finger to her lips. A moment later she'd vanished into the shadows of a patch of foliage. Arein, despite her obvious resistance, was moving forwards too, and so was Hule, though of all of them he was making the least effort to be quiet. Durren opted for a compromise between speed and furtiveness, by the logic that, unless the beast was stone deaf, it was sure to have heard Hule's crashing footfalls.
Surely it had, and surely the unicorn could have fled had it chosen to. But as the forest began to thin on all sides, revealing a broad glade with a rock-strewn stream closing its far edge, Durren saw that the unicorn was there waiting for them. The beast had taken up a position on the stream's near bank and was watching, its head at a slight tilt.
Despite everything Cullglass had said, no rational person could have mistaken the animal before them for a horse. If they had, however, it would have been the largest, fiercest charger ever to storm across a battlefield—and even that comparison barely did any justice. The unicorn was huge. And its bulk was made up solely of muscle, slabs of the stuff that shifted with every slight motion. Its flank and mane and elegant legs and head were all of the same colour, a white too bright for the shaded woodland round about, as though during the night the beast's hide had absorbed the moon's pale light and was now leaking that radiance back into the world.
Then there was the horn—and the horn was another matter entirely. Somehow, Durren had imagined a stubby, twisting thing, perhaps the length of a candlestick at most. The point aimed in his direction was certainly not that. It was at least twice as long as the unicorn's own head, the off-white of fresh milk, and curled in a spiral that began gently and sweepingly—before tightening to a point sharp as any needle.
The unicorn was the most remarkable thing Durren had ever seen. Looking at it, he felt awe and fear in equal measure. The animal was probably beautiful, but only in the way that a thunderstorm or a turbulent sea was beautiful. There was an impression of vast, raw power, just barely held in check but ready to be released at any instant. Certainly, what Cullglass had told them seemed infinitely more plausible now; here was a beast that could probably tear a village down to its foundations if it so chose.
Still, the unicorn was hard to be truly afraid of. Durren was finding it difficult, in fact, to think anything at all, or to do more than stare in dumbstruck awe.
Which was unfortunate—because, just as they'd seen the unicorn, so the unicorn had seen them. Its eyes were a pearly shade that contrasted strangely with the blackness at their centres, and Durren could have sworn the creature was appraising them. Perhaps it even knew enough to recognise the sword Hule had just wrenched from its scabbard.
The unicorn huffed from its nostrils, the air actually steaming. Now it was looking straight at Durren. He couldn't escape the sense that those pale eyes were staring into the very depths of him. The unicorn dug at the earth with its front hooves, tearing up earth and grass, and shook its head, with a whinny that seemed closer to human speech than a sound any horse would make.
Once again, the beast fixed its gaze on Durren—and he felt in that instant that it was trying to communicate something to him.
Then the unicorn charged.
6
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urren was so transfixed that only at the very last moment did it occur to him he ought to be moving out of the way.
By then, his one option was to fling himself full length into the grass. He moved barely in time; he was certain he felt the unicorn's hot breath as it passed, like steam from a bubbling cauldron.
Durren landed awkwardly and hard, the hilt of his short sword digging into his hip. It took a great effort to shrug off the pain and drag himself back to his feet.
He glanced round for the others. Arein had retreated behind a tree and was watching warily. Durren considered calling out to her; surely there must be some magic she could use to distract the rampaging unicorn? But he suspected he wouldn't like her answer, and this was hardly the time for a discussion.
Hule, meanwhile, had taken a stance in the centre of the glade, his sword still drawn and his buckler now upon his other wrist. He looked faintly perturbed, perhaps because the unicorn had chosen to target Durren rather than him.
As for Tia, Durren could see no sign of her—but then that was hardly surprising.
Durren returned his attention to the unicorn. He'd half expected it to be already charging his way once more. However, as graceful as the beast might appear, it wasn't naturally suited for turning at speed amid the close-set trees. Having overshot by a considerable distance, it had taken a wide course and was only now picking up pace as it started back towards the clearing.
Durren considered nocking an arrow. But the prospect of shooting that elegant creature, even aiming only to wound, was simply too awful to imagine. On the other hand, he had no other ideas at all—and by then the unicorn had completed its arc through the underbrush.
Durren had just a moment to play through the possibilities in his mind. If he wasn't careful, Hule would try and put that sword of his to use. Then they'd find themselves trying to explain to Cullglass a dead unicorn, an impaled fighter, or perhaps both. Conversely, there was no reason to think Arein would use her powers as she had in their encounter with the rat-kind; clearly she considered the unicorn almost sacred, and it might even be that magic wouldn't work anyway, for even Durren could tell the creature was positively dripping with the stuff. As for Tia, he couldn't see how any amount of stealth was going to achieve much against a giant spike propelled by muscles and ill-will. Whichever way he looked at it, that left only Durren himself—and he still hadn't the faintest idea of what to do.
Nor was there any more time to think. Having finally corrected its course, the unicorn was heading back their way. Or rather, was heading his way. What have I ever done to you? Durren wanted to shout. For only a little distance away was Hule, still gripping his sword and clearly wondering if he was willing to try and turn its blade against a charging unicorn. Presumably he decided otherwise, but Durren didn't see—because by then he was hurling himself at the ground once more, the beast sweeping past like a pallid comet.
This time, Durren was quicker to regain his feet—and it was a good job, too, because here in the clearing the unicorn had a great deal more room in which to turn. Durren was beginning to doubt how long he could keep this up. If the animal was determined to kill him, he might not have a great deal of say in the matter. Really, all it needed to do was to stop this business of charging and bring its hooves into play, for each was as large as Durren's head and quite capable of cracking his skull like an egg. But even if the unicorn insisted on keeping to its current strategy, sooner or later Durren would be too slow—and if that horn should so much as clip him, he'd be finished.
A retreat was called for, Durren decided. He would be safer beyond the edge of the clearing, where the beast couldn't manoeuvre so easily. Perhaps, too, it would lose interest if it no longer felt he was trespassing on its territory. Durren took a step backward, another. The unicorn, having completed its arc, shook its head and eyed him with what could only be suspicion. Again, Durren felt that he could read some intelligence in its eyes, some message directed at him; not anger or hatred, but a warning of sorts. Durren took a third step, a fourth, and thought, This is actually working.
The unicorn charged.
Durren had just a moment to wonder at how it could move so instantly, so effortlessly. The beast had been perfectly still, now it was thundering towards him, and his eyes had registered no transition between the two states.
An interesting question—but now wasn't the time. Before Durren had time to debate what his feet were up to, he was running. The edge of the clearing was near, yet felt like a league compared with how close he was convinced the unicorn must be behind him. His imagination insisted he could feel its steaming breath hot on the nape of his neck.
Having begun, Durren was now sprinting with all the strength in his body. What he felt wasn't panic but something purer and somehow worse: an utter single-mindedness to save his own life, and at the same time a certainty that nothing he did would be enough. His arms swung, his legs whirred, his breath came in fierce gasps. But, however hard he ran, he knew without question that the unicorn would catch him before he ever reached the nearing line of trees.
Then he was across the boundary, the light abruptly dimming as he plunged beneath the foliage canopy. Durren veered sharply to the right, felt the beast sweep past him, perilously close. He didn't slow down even slightly. He was alive, for a little while longer at least, and that was more than he'd allowed himself to hope for.
Durren dared a glance to his left. He'd thought he might have a slender advantage amid the trees; however, the unicorn was keeping abreast of him effortlessly, matching his speed and threading a course through the trunks that would soon cut him off. Perhaps Durren might stop and dodge, using the boles for cover. But then their conflict would come back to those hooves—and between them and its horn, the unicorn didn't lack for reach. No, a tree or two wasn't about to keep him safe.
From the corner of his eye, Durren saw the unicorn veer closer. He leaped a root, barely ducked a branch, and when he looked again the beast was out of view. A horrid certainty assured him that it was behind him once more—and close.
He veered left, lurched towards a tangle of thorny spineroot. Dropping to hands and knees, he scrambled through a gap, oblivious to the needle points slashing at his wrists and ankles. However, if he'd expected the unicorn to slow or turn aside, he'd underestimated the creature. The sounds he heard an instant later, the snapping of shattered foliage, suggested that it had simply ploughed right through the middle.
Frantic, Durren tripped to the right, barely avoiding a headlong crash into a gnarled old greywood. How could the unicorn follow so effortlessly when he himself had no idea where he was going? This was nothing like the chase with the rat-kind had been; that memory seemed almost appealing now. For what were a few people-shaped rats in comparison to this implacable horned monster?
At the last moment, Durren saw the bank descending before him. With no time to slow, he skidded down the steep decline, lost his footing and rolled, before struggling once more to his feet with a gasp. Another tree cut off his path and he bounced off it, changed course. A thud from behind told him the unicorn had negotiated the drop more easily than he had, most likely in a single bound.
Durren grasped his side, trying through pressure alone to still the fire building there. He wasn't going to last much longer. He'd been running at full tilt, running for his very life, and he simply hadn't the strength to keep going. He felt like a small animal being hunted by a huge predator—a rabbit, maybe, become prey to the fox. Just like that rabbit, his only choices were to be torn apart or to…
Or to go to ground.
He couldn't outrun a unicorn. Well, of course he couldn't. But he had at least some abilities that it lacked—and now, before his last energy was gone, was the time to put them to use.
Durren glanced around for a suitable target. At first he saw nothing, only trunks like pillars in an ancient hallway, smooth as polished marble. Then, swerving right, he spied just what he was looking for: a stunted spiderleaf, its branches pushing outward in every direction as though fending off the taller trees about.
Durren hurled himself towards it. Yet again he could feel the unicorn right upon his heels, its furnace breath warming his back. Durren could imagine its horn poised, readying for the killing thrust—and the thought was all the incentive he needed. He leaped.
He missed one branch, floundered, caught another. He'd never been much of a climber, but this one time his body seemed to know precisely what to do. His feet scrabbled upon near-vertical bark, propelled him upward. Somehow he clutched another branch, hauled, gained a footing and kicked off, striving to get yet higher.
The tree shuddered, with a crash like thunder.
Only by pure luck did Durren keep his hold. At that instant he was grasping a firm bough with both hands, and by instinct he flung his arms about it. Even then, the shock very nearly tore him free.
He knew, of course, what had happened. He'd expected the unicorn to steer aside, but it hadn't—because only a sane, benign animal would have done something like that. Instead, it had chosen to ram the spiderleaf tree at full force.
When Durren glanced down, he was appalled to see the beast just below him. He hadn't climbed nearly as high as he'd believed he had. Had the unicorn thought to raise its head a little further, it could probably have jabbed him in the foot.
Instead, it turned away. Durren felt a moment's foolish hope, until he realised that all the creature was doing was circling about for yet another onslaught. Below him, Durren could see the deep gouge the unicorn had carved in one side of the trunk; it looked exactly as though a woodcutter had been at work there. How many more such blows could the tree withstand before toppling to the earth, and carrying him along with it?
He hadn't thought this through at all. Certainly unicorns couldn't climb trees, he'd been right about that much; but then they didn't need to, not when they could tear them down instead. And that was precisely what the fiend was intent on doing. Already it was pawing at the ground, readying for its next assault, horn levelled like a javelin.
He'd jump, he decided—he'd leap before the unicorn struck. He just about had his breath back now. If he was lucky, he wouldn't twist his ankle. Then, once he was back on solid ground, he would run, and—well, he didn't know what would happen after that. Perhaps the unicorn would forget about him. Perhaps he could find a sturdier tree to climb. Perhaps the situation was hopeless, and all he was doing was delaying the inevitable. But anything would be better than this—for he understood perfectly now how that cornered rabbit felt as the fox closed in, and why even the most timid animal would flee rather than find itself trapped and helpless.
Durren manoeuvred among the branches, readying to spring, aware as he did so that the most he could realistically hope for was a controlled fall. The distance looked further than it had only seconds before. He glanced back to the unicorn. Still it hadn't charged. Was the creature taunting him? But even as the thought crossed his mind, it was in motion once more.
His plan seemed desperate now. As the unicorn closed the distance between them, Durren felt his muscles dissolve to trembling jelly. It was all he could do to keep his grip on the branch he clung to. He might well be able to fall out of the tree, but jumping? That was another matter entirely.
Then Durren saw Tia.
She had appeared, seemingly, from nowhere. Now she stood perfectly still at the base of the tree, close enough that Durren could almost have reached down to touch her hood. She had no weapon in her hands, no anything. In fact, she held her palms up before her, a pacifying gesture that the unicorn was ignoring utterly. Even if Tia should try to get out of the way, Durren doubted she'd make it in time.
Apparently her intention was to let the unicorn kill her. If so, the plan stood an excellent chance of succeeding. The beast plunged closer, closer. Durren wanted to scream at Tia, to demand that she move, but he knew he'd be wasting his breath. He'd never seen anyone so perfectly still in the face of danger. Even as the unicorn closed the final distance, its horn angled squarely for her breastbone, Tia didn't so much as flinch.
Then the unicorn stopped. It shouldn't have been able to; it was too large, travelling too fast, and even watching as intently as he was, Durren couldn't have said how the beast accomplished such a feat. He felt there should have been a screech of torn air, perhaps
dirt geysering from its hooves. But all that happened was that one moment the unicorn was stampeding towards Tia, about to skewer her, and the next it was perfectly still, the tip of its horn no more than a finger's width from her chest. If Durren hadn't already known that the animal was entirely beyond the ordinary, that alone would have convinced him.
Then again, much the same could be said for Tia. Moving with inhuman patience, she reached out a hand and stroked the unicorn's silvery mane. The beast whinnied, shook its head; Durren felt sure that it must be readying to gore her. However, when Tia scratched behind its ear and murmured something Durren couldn't quite hear, it seemed to calm a little. Some of the fierceness went out of its movements. When the unicorn whinnied again, the sound was almost plaintive.
As unhurriedly as before, Tia reached to her waist. Durren remembered that she wore a sash there, bound tight around her stomach. Watching from above and at so abrupt an angle, he struggled to make sense of what she was doing. But then he realised she was unwrapping the fabric; a minute later and she held a great strip of night-black cloth. This she put around the unicorn's neck, until she had a sort of loose, improvised bridle. Durren was certain that at any instant the beast would realise what she was doing and respond accordingly. Yet it didn't—and even when she took a step, hauling gently, all it did was follow.
After the two of them had travelled a little way like that, Tia glanced back, acknowledging Durren for the first time. “You can't stay up there all day,” she said, “we've a long way to go.” Then she set off walking again.
Durren had almost let her slip out of sight before her words penetrated. His mind was working sluggishly; everything he'd just witnessed had an air of unreality. Finally he realised that he risked being left alone here, stuck up a tree in the middle of nowhere. Hurriedly, he clambered down; doing so proved harder than going up had. At the foot of the trunk, he noted the deep gouge the unicorn's horn had carved. With a shiver, he started in the direction Tia had headed.
The Black River Chronicles: Level One (Black River Academy Book 1) Page 7