“This is hardly a tour, Devin,” the old man said testily.
Devin sighed in silence and thought better of half a dozen responses. “It will be faster this way, Obair. Trust me.” He looked around again and met the old man’s eyes. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”
“Chance would be a fine thing!” Obair muttered, loud enough for Devin to hear and he snorted a laugh. It was a fair point. The cart was hardly ideal as a place to sleep and it rattled and creaked along the road. That would have been bad enough but it was the snoring Obair had been complaining about.
Ylsriss snored. Not the soft, feminine sighs that he might have expected but a grating rasp that mounted a determined assault on the ears. Obair had woken her twice and tried to move her head to stop the noise three times, but each time the snoring had begun again. Softly at first, and then louder until it was a wonder she didn’t wake herself up.
She probably would have woken if she hadn’t been so tired. They all were. The strain of keeping watches during the fae nights was wearing. They’d taken to watching in pairs. The prospect of sitting alone in the dark watching for the fae was terrifying and the practice of taking watches in pairs had evolved on its own, without the need for anyone to discuss it.
Sleep was elusive. It slipped through the camp and out the other side with ease, avoiding the feeble efforts of those that sought to snatch at it. It was rare for any of them to have more than three hours in a night. Sleeping on the wagon was not easy but the light of day made everyone feel safer.
“If you can’t sleep why don’t you come up here and talk to me?” Devin said.
A shaking of the wagon’s bed was answer enough and Obair picked his way through the packs and supplies and clambered over the back of the seat to join him.
“How one does one tiny person make so much noise?” he muttered as he tried to make himself comfortable.
“You’re not all that quiet yourself, you know?” Devin said as he smiled into the face of indignation. Obair sputtered at him for a moment but neither of them had the energy for it. Still, it was easier to stay awake with someone else to talk to, and the wagon was making better progress on the wider road.
The rains had found them again by mid-afternoon and they huddled under cloaks and blankets as the winds shrieked down at them, hurling the rain with a vengeful spite despite the protection of the trees on either side of the trail. Devin eased the wagon off the road and onto the grass close to the woods. “We’re not going to make much progress in this. The roads are already getting bad and the horses are struggling.”
There was no protest from the others. Obair had water dripping from his nose and beard and Joran looked the very picture of misery. The trees offered some protection but not as much as Devin had hoped. Rain still managed to find them as the wind rose and tore at the canopy above them.
“Why don’t you see if you can find some dry wood,” he called over the noise of the wind. “I’ll see to the horses.” He set to work unhitching them from the wagon and rubbing them down as best he could. They were in fair condition despite everything they’d been through.
The fire they managed was pitifully small, fed from a small supply of wood. Wet sticks and small branches were piled close to the fire, in the hopes they would dry enough but Devin didn’t hold out much hope. They’d not had to bother with the tents since the hills. They were small, awkward things. Hard to put up and not having the room to hold the four of them in any comfort anyway.
Devin fought with the thing for the best part of an hour until he managed to get it right. As it was, the best he’d managed to do was erect a tented sheet of canvas over ground already wet from the rain. The groundsheet would lock some of this away but not all of it, and the prospect of sleeping in the wet did not improve his mood. The others had tried to help but Joran and Obair were actually worse than useless and he was left to struggle with Ylsriss.
The rain eased off as it grew darker and they clustered close to the fire, trying to dry out. The woods were filled with the sounds of distant dripping as drizzle misted down onto the leaves above them. The conversation was muted, as miserable as they all felt. Finally, for want of something else to do, Devin crawled into the closest tent and slept.
A shaking woke him. A frantic shaking rather than the gentle rousing that came when it was time to switch watches. He blinked at the darkness but it was so absolute that there was nothing to see. “What is it?” he whispered, and then realised how foolish that was.
“I heard something,” Obair told him in a tight, strained whisper.
Devin scrambled out of the tent, joining Obair and Joran as they crouched low beside the sullen glow of the fire. “What is it?” he began but Joran hissed him to silence.
The woods were quiet and the rains had fled leaving a cool moonlight to shine down from the cloudless sky. Devin had been hunting since he was small and knew well that woods never really grew truly quiet. There should have been birds and the faint rustle of distant animals in the undergrowth. Instead, the only noise was the whispered conversation of the leaves above them.
He stared into the darkness between the trees, trying to focus on using his ears rather than his eyes. The sound was distant but enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. It was childlike but there was no innocent joy in that noise. It was the laughter of a cruel and thoughtless child.
“Satyr,” Devin whispered to Joran and saw him nod in the dim light of the coals. He thought quickly. If the creature knew they were there it would probably come straight for them. Its eyes would be better than his in the dark, he knew. Hiding would be futile unless it had no idea they were there.
The laughter came again, closer this time but from another direction. Devin looked into the trees, following the sound. “More than one.” He grunted. “They’re playing games with us. They already know there’s someone here.”
“What do we do?” Joran hissed.
Devin smiled slowly. The expression stole what little warmth remained from a face already made pale by his hair that shone like frost in the moonlight. He turned his eyes to the darkness, “We play games of our own.”
***
The fire was easy enough to stir back to life. The wet wood they’d stacked beside the coals had dried well and, before long, a large fire was crackling and tossing sparks skyward. Obair sat beside the fire, poking idly at the flames.
Devin waited, crouched low between the first tent and a broad horse chestnut tree. The bowstring felt good against his fingers as he held the ironhead to the string. Joran was positioned on the other side of the camp and they both had a clear view of Obair at the fire.
The druid had put up remarkably little protest, all things considered. He would be in the most danger, and that was assuming things all went to plan. If not… Devin was trying hard not to think about ‘if not.’
The long minutes passed. Twice Devin had to shift to ease the cramping muscles in his legs and he’d had to settle for dropping to his knees. Joran was still, a patch of darker shadow pressed to the trunk of the tree. Even knowing he was there Devin had trouble making him out.
Doubt began slowly. A small question that grew steadily until he gnawed at one knuckle. Had he been wrong? Had the sound just been a bird? What if the satyr attacked as he gave up and stepped out from hiding? Indecision joined with doubt as, together, they whispered into his ear.
The leaves rustled softly, as light as the stroke of the breeze, but it was enough to freeze Devin. He stared past the fire into the bushes as Obair stiffened.
A man emerged from the woods, moving cautiously towards the fire. Devin eyed him curiously. A tall man in a simple white shirt, with dark trousers tucked into polished black boots. He moved slowly, making no sound as he passed over the dry leaves and twigs. Devin scanned the trees for signs of movement but the trees were silent.
Obair jumped visibly as he spotted the man and opened his mouth to speak. An arrow hissed past him and the man screamed as it buried itself in
his shoulder, close to the collarbone. The image shattered as the satyr fell to the ground, the familiar blue fire spurting from his chest. It wouldn’t be a killing shot, Devin knew. The arrow had skittered along bone before finding flesh and hadn’t gone deep enough, though the fire might play its own role. He sighted quickly and let fly, taking the satyr in the side of the neck and the flicker of blue fire became a torrent as the creature exploded into flame.
“Just what was th—” Obair began but turned as figures exploded out of the bushes. Devin fired again, dropping a satyr as Obair staggered back towards the tents and fell hard, tripping over his own staff. Joran fired true this time and within seconds the camp was silent again.
“Is that all of them?” the old man’s voice was shaky as he picked himself up.
“I don’t know,” Devin said softly. “I think so.” He picked his way over to the charred remains of the closest satyr, working the shaft of the arrow back and forth to free it. It snapped before it came loose, the fire had eaten away at the shaft until it was little more than a charred stick.
He moved on to the next body and pulled the shaft free. The sensation hit him all at once and washed over him, taking him back to his childhood, back to the tatters of memory he had about Garret and fleeing into the trees. It was an intense feeling of being watched, coupled with the desire to cower down, to run and hide. He raised his head slowly, already knowing what he would see. The fae stood at the very edge of the trees, watching him calmly with its glowing eyes.
“Three satyr gone at the hands of a manling,” the fae mused with a cruel, half-smile.”
Devin froze as thought left him, feeling as exposed as a hare before the hounds. The fae watched him for a moment, seeming to take pleasure from his growing panic. It darted forward. Just two quick steps as it crouched low but even this had Devin scrambling backwards with a cry of panic. The fae’s musical laughter followed him, carrying through the trees, mocking and belittling.
“Joran!” he heard Obair call out. “Joran, shoot it!”
The fae cocked his head curiously and looked at the tree Joran had pressed himself to. “Well, manling?” His words were simple but malice hung heavy in each one.
Devin watched as Joran stepped into the light, bow held ready with the string pulled to his lips. The fae regarded him with calm contempt, a faint smile curving his lips as Joran’s hands began to shake. He raised one perfect eyebrow and Joran dropped to his knees in the dirt, sobbing in terror.
“Damn you, Joran!” Devin spat. “You should have shot him.”
“Yes, Joran,” the fae mocked him. “You should have shot me.”
The fae took three more steps, each one slow and deliberate as he surveyed the clearing. “You have managed to slay my satyr. Though not true fae. They are far more than the measure of you pitiful creatures. This will not stand.” He reached behind his back and pulled knives free with a casual motion. A blur of movement behind Joran stopped the fae cold as Ylsriss snatched up the fallen bow. Her hands shook as badly, or worse, than Joran’s had and the fae gave her an incredulous look before bursting into laughter.
The arrow was close. Ylsriss was obviously unused to a bow but, despite that, the arrow still buried itself in the ground less than two feet from where the fae stood. His laughter followed his smile as both fled into the darkness and he froze in place as Ylsriss reached for another of the ironheads thrust into the ground at the base of the tree. She nocked it smoothly with hands now steady and assured.
“Maehro, fae!” she hissed in a voice as bitter as it was hateful.
The phrase rocked him. Shock stood out clear on the fae’s face at the words. His pulled lips back in a snarl and then, moving so fast it was almost a blur, he darted to the side and retreated back to the edge of the trees before Ylsriss had time to settle the bow on him. He paused, looking back into the camp and the whisper was as clear as if he’d spoken in a normal voice. “You should have shot me, Joran.” Laughter trailed behind him as he vanished into the trees.
“You damned fool!” Obair raged as he rounded on the young man. “You could have killed us all!” Joran ignored him, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.
“It’s not his fault…” Devin began, but he fell silent. It was Joran’s fault. The shot would have been an easy one. He may have had his reasons but the blame was all his.
He looked to Ylsriss, still staring after the vanished fae “What was that you said there, right at the end?”
“The words, I speak?” she queried in broken Anlish.
Devin nodded.
“I say, ‘die, fae.’ The casual shrug made the words that much more chilling. He sank down beside the fire, hands shaking gently as he buried them under his arms.
The sound of a hunting horn cut through the woods just as the others joined him. A clarion call as clear as any general’s charge.
“Shit!” Joran gasped as Obair turned frantic eyes on Devin.
“What do we do?” the old man whispered.
“We run!” he said flatly.
“But our things! The tents, the horses—?”
“…Are no use to us if we're dead,” Devin told him. He snatched up the bow and pulled the ironheads from the ground. “Grab some things quickly, I’ll see to the horses.” He stood with arrow held ready as the others scrambled for the packs. Would they be better with the horses? Obair could barely ride on the best of days and Ylsriss and Joran seemed to know nothing of horses at all. He watched the others loading the packs as he thought, making his way over to the horses. A rustle in the trees made the decision for them and he stripped off the bridles, letting the horses go free before he turned and led the others out towards the road at a run.
They ran at a panic-driven sprint, packs bouncing on their backs until Obair called out in a breathless gasp as he began to lag behind. Devin called the others back as he stopped beside the old man. Obair was bent double, chest heaving as he leaned on his knees. Devin put one of the precious ironheads to the bowstring and felt in the quiver, counting with his fingers. He swore viciously as he counted only four more.
“What?” gasped Obair, turning his head to look at him.
Devin pointed at the nearly empty quiver. “They must have fallen out on the road.” He looked over to where Joran and Ylsriss approached. “How many arrows do you have, Joran?”
He checked and, even in the darkness, Devin could tell it wasn’t good. “Just three.”
“Shit!” Devin spat. “This was his plan, to make us panic. This is all a game to him and we’re playing right into his hands. We left the tents, the horses. Now he’ll drive us before him until he’s ready to finish us.”
A shrill, whinnying scream carried to them, chilling despite the distance. Ylsriss looked back towards the camp and then to Devin with wide, scared eyes. Frightened but not panicked, Devin realised. He glanced as Joran and saw a different story entirely.
He spoke softly as the others gathered round. “Okay, let’s not be stupid about this. We have the ironheads, Obair’s staff, and even the knives if it comes right down to it. We are not helpless, that’s what just what he wants us to think. We keep moving but we’ll stay close together and be ready to stop if need be.” They nodded, even Ylsriss who’d probably only caught three words.
They set off at a trot, packs jingling and bouncing on their backs. Not for the first time Devin wished they’d gone back for the horses. The scream of the animals had been harrowing, worse still because it was so needless. It had been an effort to strike fear into them. An act of demonstrating cruelty for cruelty’s sake. It put him in mind of what Obair had told him of the satyr and his goat.
They ran in cycles. A gasping walk became a jog, which then grew into a run. When Obair couldn’t go on they fell back to a walk. The night was still, save for the leaves in the treetops, but somehow the silence behind them seemed to spur them on even more and they never slowed for long.
Shadows danced in the trees on either side of the road, shifting in the pale mo
onlight and the breeze-tossed branches, drawing the eye. By the third hour Obair was suffering. His run had become a juddering stagger as his feet sought to find the ground in front of him in time to keep him from falling.
Their walks had grown longer, the runs so short they barely began, yet they pushed on. All of them had glimpsed the eyes glowing in the darkness behind them. They never drew any closer but seemed to dance around them in the darkness. Sometimes to one side of them, sometimes appearing up ahead for a moment, only to vanish in a blur of movement.
The light grew slowly. It was a glacial lifting of the gloom that turned the moon-pierced darkness into shades of grey. It paled further still, to the strange light of pre-dawn as the first blush of pink stained the sky. Obair cried out when, at last, the first glimpse of the sun stabbed at them between the trees. He stopped, pointing at the light as if it were something new and wondrous. Devin grinned and sank down onto the packed earth of the road on legs that trembled with the effort. Not even bothering to make a camp they slept, lying beside the road like the abandoned victims of bandits.
***
The horn came as soon as the moon rose. Each night, for the past three nights, it had come. A hunter's call, haunting, and somehow mournful, but also filled with a hunger that pushed them into a run.
After that first night they’d taken to sleeping at sunrise, rising after mid-day and setting off once more. Obair had managed well, despite his age, but Devin knew it wouldn’t be enough. They were being toyed with. He’d realised that on the second night when the horn sounded. Even with Obair's slow pace they’d covered at least fifteen miles from the point when the sun rose the previous morning yet the horn sounded as if it were less than half a mile away.
He glanced at the others as they ran. He’d not said anything about his realisation yet, it wouldn’t help anything if he did. He’d guessed that Obair probably knew anyway, possibly Ylsriss too, but Joran seemed oblivious to it. He greeted each sunrise with a look of triumph and was the first to suggest they set off as they rose from their camp after noon.
The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set Page 109