Hunted (Book 3) (12 page)

“Your will.”

Sir Tornus glared at him, face alight with discovery. “You can command this abomination!” he yelled as he was dragged away, army following to aid in the task of his final incarceration. “I know what you are! Do they? Do you want to tell them or should I?”

“Silence him,”
Gen ordered.

Two snakes wrapped themselves around Tornus’s mouth and nose, turning his epithets into muffled grunts of frustration.

“Let’s go,” Gen said to his companions, who waited until the snake-dwarves had cleared away completely before joining him.

“Gen,” Gerand said nervously, “I hate to ask this, but can you communicate with that . . . thing?”

Gen nodded his head in reply.

“How?” Volney blurted out, face shocked.

“It uses Mynmagic to speak directly to the mind. It uses the corrupted tongue, just as the demon that sprang from the Burka pattern. I do not trust it, but it seems eager to help us for the time being.”

“You mean. . .” Volney started.

“It’s coming with us,” Gen finished.

“Are you mad?” Gerand objected. “That monstrosity could turn on us and destroy us at a whim! It is evil! Can you command it to stay behind?”

“I think doing so would anger it. It is evil, but it appears indiscriminate. Remember that it just annihilated hundreds of Uyumaak and is now burying a Craver. It thirsts for violence and cares little for right or wrong, our side or their side. I have a feeling that we and the Chalaine’s party will need aid before this is over. The Chukka are fools if they have not secured the beachhead against us, and Ghama Dhron is—at this point—willing to do as I say, for what reason I cannot fathom.”

“Ghama Dhron?” his companions said in unison.

“Its name. It means ‘Wrath of Poison’ in the dark tongue.”

“I don’t like this,” Gerand stated frankly.

“Neither do I,” Gen agreed honestly. “I will keep it at a distance, if I can.”

They crossed over the extended bridge, the early morning wind drying the sweat on their bodies and chilling them. They turned right onto the road, which started a slow, switchbacked descent through whispering pines.

“We have the mystery of Echo Hold solved,” Volney commented at last. “But what of the Craver? Why didn’t you kill it with your sword when you had the chance?”

“He could not be killed. His wounds healed the instant I delivered them. Do you remember nothing from when you were in thrall to the lantern?”

“Not a single thing,” Volney answered.

“‘They only have eyes for the lantern,’” Gerand quoted. “And how did you manage to escape that?”

Gen could not help but notice a note of suspicion creeping into his companions’ voices.

“As with the wail of demons, it seems that the effect of the lantern can be overcome by sheer will.”

Gen knew this did not satisfactorily explain what had happened. When Tornus had opened the lantern, it held no attraction for him. That, combined with the Craver’s inability to consume him led to some disturbing conclusions.

“As for the other question, Mikkik created Cravers. . .”

“There are more than one?” Volney interrupted worriedly.

“There were. Mikkik created Cravers to feed on the souls of living creatures. While no one knows for sure, it is rumored that creating them requires some kind of sacrifice. They do not eat. They do no sleep. And they can only be killed in two ways: a Trysmagician has to unmake them entirely, converting them into a different substance all at once, or they have to be starved.”

“But you said they don’t eat,” Gerand pointed out.

“They consume the essence of the living. It is a powerful need, and they must feed to survive.”

“That’s why he kept those lanterns out!” Gerand deduced.

“Exactly. Legend says they had to be kept from consuming for one year and a day. Of course, trapping one without being consumed is difficult, especially without magic.”

“So if Tornus really wanted to die, why didn’t he just starve himself to death?” Volney asked.

“The process of starving for over a year with food plentiful nearby probably proved too difficult. He wanted to be ended quickly. I don’t know whether to pity or curse him.”

Volney humphed. “I think I’ll choose the curse option. He is one of the most—if not
the
most—notorious traitor in the history of Ki’Hal.”

“Until me,” Gen deadpanned, ending all conversation.

“I am near, master. What do you wish?”
Ghama Dhron asked.

“Send half ahead and leave half behind. Kill any Uyumaak you find, but leave alive all else.”

“Your will.”

“Stand back off of the road,” Gen told Gerand and Volney, who obeyed without question. In minutes, two hundred and fifty snake soldiers marched eerily by, weapons resting on bony shoulders. One flicked his ax at a tree as it passed, a cloven squirrel falling to the ground. They waited until they lost sight of the ghastly company around a switchback before following.

“I’ll say one thing for this evening,” Gerand said, voice upset. “It has been instructive. I think the only thing left to happen is for Mikkik himself to hike up the path and dance a jig. You’ll let us know if he’s coming, won’t you Gen?”

Maewen permitted them little rest, awakening the company long before dawn and spurring them to pack more quickly. For the first time in her life, the Chalaine shouldered her own burden despite numerous offers to relieve her of it. She felt the need to prove she could stand on her own legs, and the virtue of Gen’s Training Stones infused her with an unusual vigor and a confidence in her own strength.

Samian had started his instruction immediately after Maewen had returned the stones, and the Chalaine already felt she could buckle, draw, and resheathe a sword with her eyes closed and hopping on one leg. While she had no pretensions that she would ever acquire the skill of Dason or Gen, she took a smug satisfaction in knowing more of the sword than her husband.

“Gather to me quickly,” Maewen ordered. “I have argued with myself all night about which course to take, and I choose the riskier one in terms of the way but safer in terms of Uyumaak. I am going to take you over the mountains and hopefully into the Dunnach River Valley and from thence across the plain to the lake. The wind and water in the mountains will hinder our enemy’s sense of smell, and, without a wide plain, it will be difficult for them to come at us in numbers or use their archers effectively. The dangers, of course, are the weather and the raw wilderness we must traverse.

“I will be plain. There is no trail. I have never traveled this way, before the Shattering or after. It will be cold and arduous, and a misstep in the wild can be deadly. If anyone sprains an ankle or breaks a leg, they will be left behind, Chertanne and the Chalaine excepted, of course. If any feel to disagree, do so now, but this is the course I think best.”

“What is the other option?” the Ha’Ulrich asked grumpily.

“The other way is to travel along the edge of the foothills but stay on the plain. The way is longer, but the travel would be faster. We would also be more visible and the Uyumaak able to approach us with superior numbers.”

After no one voiced any objections, Maewen removed her two knives from their sheaths. “We will be traveling in the dark and fog for the next few hours. If you have a weapon, keep it at the ready. Your vision will do you little good, and you must rely on your other senses to keep you safe. The Chalaine, Chertanne, Mirelle, Fenna, and Geoff walk in the center of the party. I will lead, and Dason, bring up the rear. Walk close together and raise a quiet shout if you are separated. Let’s get into the mountains.”

They left the ringed hill through the same opening they had entered, turning west and plunging into an almost impossible dark. The Chalaine followed Chertanne more by sound than sight, her husband’s stumbling and cursing warning her of obstacles in the path. By the time the first hint of light blushed the sky, she doubted they had covered a mile. The putrid stench of Throgs sometimes invaded their nostrils but quickly faded, inciting muffled curses. The Chalaine drove out thoughts of snaky tubules launching from the dark to leech blood from her leg, but images of Geoff pale on the ground stoked her fears until morning flooded the sky.

For the next several days, they climbed steadily and slowly, and—despite Maewen’s ample skill—they found themselves backtracking to find better routes or alternatives to dead ends. Only the foul reek of the Throgs and the intermittent appearance of a yellow eye just out of bowshot bespoke the enemy’s presence.

Maewen’s analysis, as usual, left little opportunity for hope or comfort. “The Uyumaak likely know the mountains better than we. It could be they have elements ahead and are content to let us stumble along until we encounter one of their fortifications.”

To the Chalaine’s satisfaction and relief, after Geoff’s near fatal encounter with a Throg, Fenna had doted on the dispirited bard, seeing to his comfort and cheering him with light conversation and little compliments. Both she and her husband tired quickly, breathing heavily and trudging slowly at the slightest incline, and as Maewen led them deeper into the mountains, the grade of their path increased in steepness and difficulty. Whatever their struggles, no one huffed and blew or complained more than the sunburned Ha’Ulrich, who found opportunity to curse nearly everything on the trail when he wasn’t busy sucking wind.

His comments ranged from the annoying to the ridiculous. “I swear, it’s as if someone placed these rocks here for me to trip on!” “I thought this was the top?” “Surely Mikkik created these bugs.” “I think moving more slowly is in order, for everyone’s safety. This reckless sprint into the mountains is folly enough as it is.”

Maewen eventually gave up trying to convince the Ha’Ulrich to keep quiet, though Chertanne’s complaints gradually subsided into barely vocalized mumbling.

For her part, the Chalaine found little difficulty in their ascent, thanking Gen for the stones she knew imbued her with a greater fortitude than most of her party. She used what surplus of strength she had to aid her mother, who, while uncomplaining, wore her exhaustion openly in spite of every attempt to hide it. Cadaen appeared ready to carry her at any moment, and between his help and her daughter’s, Mirelle kept pace.

As Maewen promised, the nights in the mountains chilled them almost beyond toleration. As a concession, she allowed fires, saying that the Throgs ensured that the Uyumaak knew of their whereabouts, fire or no, though she chose camps that would keep archers from using the light to pick at them in the dark. Geoff spent the evenings writing in his book, Fenna snuggled next to him. The Chalaine huddled with her mother, and Dason always sat uncomfortably close on the other side of her, whispering compliments and hopeful prognostications, however lightly the Chalaine treated them.

A full week into mountains they hiked through a lightly forested ridge just below the snowline.

“We should have an easier time of it now,” Maewen comforted them. “We will descend as directly as we can toward the Dunnach.

“I cannot see the river,” Chertanne said, peering into the valley below them.

“It is at least two ridges over, perhaps three,” Maewen explained. “We aren’t done ascending completely.”

Chertanne's face fell. “At least the weather is holding."

“It isn’t,” Maewen contradicted.

“What do you mean?” Athan inquired.

“Look to the northeast,” the half-elf invited them, casually whittling at a new arrow. “There is a slight haze at the trailing edge of a storm. Didn’t you feel the wind change?”

“Will it be bad?” Athan prodded.

“Yes, but brief, as well. We will need better shelter than we have found previously.”

“And when were you planning on informing us about this storm?” Chertanne grumped.

“I figured it would become rather obvious to you in a few hours.”

“I am the leader of the caravan!” Chertanne asserted. “Please inform me immediately of any changes of this kind.”

“As you wish. You may also want to know that a company of Uyumaak will likely overtake us by nightfall, probably around the same time as the storm. What do you command?”

Chertanne’s eyes widened and then darted about. “What do you suggest?”

“I suggest we find better shelter than we have found previously, by which I mean more defensible to weather and enemies.”

“Make it so,” Chertanne commanded lamely.

Maewen brushed the wood shavings from her legs and sheathed her knife. “Let’s march.”

As early afternoon set in, Maewen’s predictions came true. A dark mass of cold gray clouds sped across the sky directly toward them, and for the first time in days they heard the percussive thumping of the Uyumaak. More disconcerting was the troubled, frustrated look on Maewen’s face. Increasingly, she ordered halts as she wandered about in search of some place to hole up for the night, returning with a scowl.

As evening fell, the wind rose in gusts and the clouds threw a blanket across the sun. “Stay here,” Maewen commanded, running ahead and returning after several minutes. “I have found a cave just ahead. If we hurry, we can reach it before the weather turns dangerous.”

They descended down the ridge a bit farther before the Chalaine could spot the cave through her obscuring veil. A wall of brown rock ran along a steep incline to their right. Between the sparse but ancient trees the Chalaine could just make out a dark hole worn into the rock-face by water and wind.

The ascent took effort and time, shards of loose rock beguiling their feet and sending nearly everyone to all fours to keep from slipping down the hill. By the time they reached the base of the rock wall, the storm whipped snowflakes around their faces with fury.

The entrance to the cave rose shoulder high and stretched several feet wide, the bulk of the cave lying below the entrance after a slight descent. The interior, to their amazement, was quite commodious, and the change from cold exposure to relative warmth and protection prompted a wave of relief.

“Won’t the Uyumaak trap us in here?” Athan asked worriedly.

“Unlikely,” Maewen answered. “If you didn’t notice, we haven’t heard them speaking for nearly two hours. If there is a brain among them, they are doing what we are right now. We will leave as soon as we can to keep the advantage of distance, though the difficult approach to the cave and the cover of the trees actually make this an excellent place to stand, if needed.”

“Can we light a fire?” Chertanne asked.

“A small one, but we have no wood,” Maewen answered. “I doubt anyone wants to retrieve any.”

“You two,” Chertanne ordered his two of his personal guards. “Fetch us firewood.”

“Yes, Ha’Ulrich.”

By the time they returned, they shook with cold and carried a paltry amount of wood and tinder.

“Is that all you could find?” Chertanne complained, displeased.

“Forgive us, Lord Khairn,” they begged, “but that is all we could gather before our hands were too numb to gather more.”

“Warm your hands and return for more.”

It required three trips before the obedient soldiers gathered enough fuel for the fire to satisfy their Lord. Once the small flame sprang to life, the Chalaine invited them to enjoy its warmth first, for which they thanked her. While the smoke rose gradually out of the hole, the cave filled with a smoky haze that burned their eyes. The relaxing warmth far outweighed these inconveniences, and soon they all lay back against the cave walls and listened to the wind howl outside.

“If we had some meat, I would almost be content,” Chertanne announced. His two soldiers cast terrified looks at each other, but to their relief their Lord did not command them out into the bitter dark in search of game.

The Chalaine regarded her husband, wondering at his new-found assertiveness. Athan sat nearby lost in thought, face careworn and drawn. The Chalaine could not like the man, but she could appreciate the burden he had shouldered. Counseling and shaping Chertanne was a daunting task, as doomed, she thought, as the foolish potter who threw a slab of granite on his wheel only to find his hands worn away well before the stone.

Night fell completely some while later, driven snow spraying into cave when the wind kicked up. A scrabbling outside pulled them from their pleasant rest, setting everyone at edge. Weapons quietly slid from discarded sheaths as the sound persisted, nearing. Something ascended the incline toward their camp, disturbing the gravel and rocks on the hill. Breathing shallowed and eyes sharpened, all attention riveted on the opening to the cave just above them. The scrabbling stopped, and several tense moments passed, imaginations spawning everything from a stray deer to an Uyumaak Hunter in the cave entrance.

The Chalaine, hearing muttering nearby, turned toward the sound, finding Athan incanting something under his breath. At first she thought he might be warding the cave against entry, but as she watched, Chertanne, who hugged the cave wall, face pale, grew more composed, color returning. A bold determination took hold of his features, and he scooted toward the edge of the cave where Maewen, Tolbrook, and Jaron awaited in readiness.

Slowly, the sickly yellow eye of a Throg drifted in, facing the cave wall. As it rotated downward, Maewen switched her knives to a throwing grip, but before she could launch her attack, the glistening eye fell from the sky as if the invisible force that infused it with buoyancy and motion had suddenly dropped it. It clanked once as it hit the rocks, its second bounce shattering it like glass, little shards clinking as they descended to the floor. Chertanne, face exultant, sunk to the ground exhausted.