Fardale glanced her way, making eye contact so he could speak. Images formed: A brutish, bruised-skinned beast snuffling along a woodland trail. Fardale was right. The hunt for them would continue. Their best chance was to reach their camp below the Stone of Tor and seek another path to Castle Mryl. The woods ahead were too dangerous.
Three nights ago, she and Fardale had left the others to scout the territory north of the Ice River, but they had run afoul of a troop of d’warf raiders. The two had barely escaped with their lives. It was only luck that the raiders had borne none of the Grim among their party. If the twisted creatures of the Dire Fell had been among them, neither wolf nor rider would have escaped.
For the past moon, Lord Tyrus had set them a hard pace north through the forests of the Western Reaches, camping at last by the Stone of Tor, a pinnacle marking where the Ice River joined the Willowrush. According to reports from the trappers and hunters, the forests north of the Ice River were no longer safe for man or beast. Tales were whispered around campfires, of strange lights that baffled and led the unwary to their deaths, of keening wails that drove strong men to their knees with fear, of trees found twisted and gnarled, as if tortured to death.
Mycelle and Tyrus both knew what these portents suggested. The Grim wraiths from the northern forest of the Dire Fell had truly spread into the Western Reaches. If left unchecked, the entire length and breadth of the mighty forest would be corrupted by their touch.
Even now, Mycelle tightened a fist. She would not let that happen. But their only hope lay in reaching Castle Mryl and repairing the damaged Northwall, restoring the barrier between the diseased Dire Fell and the expanse of virgin woodlands. Mycelle stared back over the flow of the Ice River, toward the dark forest beyond. Another path must be found to the castle.
Suddenly Fardale was at her side, appearing as if from mist. A low growl rumbled at the back of his throat—a warning.
Mycelle did not wait. She swung out her swords from the crossed scabbards on her back. “What is it, Fardale?” she hissed. The wolf’s senses were keener than hers.
At her forearm, she felt a stirring and the slide of scale on flesh. She risked a glance. A tiny rainbow-colored snake lay wrapped around her arm. It squirmed in a slow dance around its perch. Even the paka’golo, the healing snake of Mama Freda, sensed something was amiss.
Mycelle concentrated on the forest. Fardale stood tensed at her side, hackles raised and wary.
They did not wait long. A rising wind soughed through the forest’s eaves. Leaves shook overhead, and a flurry of dry pine needles skittered in small whirlwinds. But it was another sound, a hollow moaning, that ate through flesh and bone. Mycelle’s swords shook in her grip. It was no natural wind that moved through the forest toward them.
“Flee!” Mycelle yelled, giving up any pretense of hiding. “Make for camp!”
Fardale hesitated, but Mycelle swung up onto Grisson. “Flight is our only hope!”
Already the moaning rose in pitch to a piercing cry.
“A Grim wraith!” Mycelle screamed above the growing wail. “Flee! They cannot be fought!” Mycelle tugged Grisson around. The horse’s eyes rolled white with fright. Froth spattered from around his bit. Mycelle dug her heels into him, but the gelding only trembled, too terrified to move. She struck Grisson’s rump with the flat of her hand; still the horse only cowered.
Fardale, who had sped several paces away, turned back toward where Mycelle struggled with Grisson. Images flickered rapidly before her mind’s eye: A deer freezing at the appearance of a wolf. A human falling to all fours and changing into a snowy-maned wolf and racing away.
Mycelle groaned and kicked at her mount again, but the horse only tossed its head and whinnied its terror. Fardale was right. Grisson was already lost to the cry of the wraith. She slid from the saddle. Her only hope was flight. But how could she?
She turned to touch Grisson’s nose, to will her mount back to calmness, but teeth snapped at her fingers. Her horse was too mad with fear to know better. There was no hope. Mycelle reached toward her saddlebags, but a low growl from Fardale warned her away.
She pulled her hand back. What was she thinking? She had taken human form for too long, become too grounded into their way of thinking. From here, she could carry neither bag nor sword. She swung back to the treewolf. “Run,” she said and willed the change.
Beneath her leathers and undergarments, flesh melted and flowed, bones twisted and bowed. Shrugging and writhing out of her human clothes, she fell to her hands and knees. With a final prickling tremor, snowy fur burst forth from her skin, claws sprouted, and a long narrow snout stretched to sample the air. New eyes opened on a world much brighter. She sniffed the air and discovered paths unseen, marked in spoor and musk.
Tufted ears pricked at the wail of the Grim wraith. It was almost upon them. Mycelle glanced one last time at Grisson, then at the pile of shed clothes with the crossed scabbards resting atop it. She felt a deep sense of loss, as if she was abandoning a part of herself, but now was not the time to mourn. All she could carry was the small snake nestled in the fur of her forelimb. The paka’golo was one item she must never lose. It had helped resurrect her in Port Rawl, and now its magickal bite was still necessary to sustain her.
Turning on a paw, she flashed past Fardale and dashed away. He joined her, two shadows fleeing, now just two wolves of the wood.
Behind them, a sudden scream of terror rose from Grisson, the cry unlike any Mycelle had heard from a horse before. She glanced back in time to see a dark shape sweep over her loyal mount. It was as if a shredded piece of shadow had torn loose from the world and attacked Grisson.
Mycelle’s keen nose caught the coppery scent of the horse’s panic. She slowed her pace, turning slightly. Flee, she willed Grisson.
Whether hearing her or merely finally sensing the true peril, Grisson broke for the cover of the wood. But as the horse brushed under the limbs of a black pine, the shadowy wraith flew through the same tree’s branches, and a tangle of roots suddenly shot up and snagged the horse’s limbs. Grisson squealed again, a cry of death and defeat.
The wraith descended on its trapped prey. As it draped over its meal, the nearby trunk of the black pine twisted; overhead, its branches scrabbled and writhed into torturous tangles. It was as much a prey as the horse. As the Grim wraith fed, life drained from both wood and flesh. Green pine needles yellowed and showered down; the flesh of her mount sank to bone. It was as if their very essences were being sucked away. Soon all that would be left was a pile of bones under a twisted grave marker. That was all the Grim ever left behind.
Mycelle swung around as her horse’s cries grew strangled. She could delay no further. They had best be far away before the forest wraith finished its meal and sought more nourishment. No one knew how to defeat a wraith. It was rumored they could be held off with silver, but such claims were just myth. At Castle Mryl, she had been taught that the only guard against the Grim was continual vigilance. Their deathly moans always preceded an attack. A keen ear and a swift retreat were the best defense.
Acknowledging this adage, she raced after Fardale, following his scent as surely as a well-marked trail. For the better part of the long night, the two wolves fled through the forest, splashing along brooks and streams to confound any trackers, constantly alert for the telltale wail of a Grim wraith. But the night remained quiet, almost hushed.
They stopped only to feed briefly on the steaming remains of a small hare caught by Fardale. To her wolfish tongue, the blood and raw meat tasted like the finest wine and roasted loin. Despite the terror and hardship of the long night, Mycelle could not suppress a tremble of exhilaration. It had been so long since she had run free and sampled life in a new form.
Fardale must have sensed her elation. His eyes shone at her over the bloody remains. An image formed: A lone wolf tired and pad-sore, rejoining its pack after a long night’s hunt.
She growled her assent. It was like coming home again.
&
nbsp; With the small bones eaten and the pelt buried in a hole to hide the scent of their meal, the pair took off once again, ready for the last leg of their journey back to camp. The leagues seemed to disappear under her paws. She and Fardale settled into a pace both swift and steady. Mycelle thought she could run like this forever.
Still, as the sun finally rose over the distant mountains to the east, the glow of dawn found Mycelle beginning to stumble and trip. Her inexhaustible energy seemed finally to be waning. Even Fardale moved with a slight limp, his tongue lolling as he panted away the heat of their night-long run.
At last, ahead, a pinnacle of granite rose from the wood, piercing the canopy of trees to thrust up at the sky. Morning sunlight had already reached its highest ramparts to glow brightly and announce the approaching day. It was the Stone of Tor.
Delighted at the sight of their destination, both wolves found renewed strength to race the last distance to the camp. So excited were they to return to the others that neither noticed the acrid reek to the air until they were only a few paces from the clearing.
Fardale pulled to a stop. Mycelle crept beside him. Her ears were pricked for any noise from the camp ahead. She heard nothing. Even if the camp was still asleep, she should hear some sign of life. She slinked forward, Fardale beside her. What was that smell in the air?
She cautiously pushed her face through the last of the underbrush to view the camp and tensed at the sight that awaited them.
Ahead, the camp lay in ruins, tents and bedding shredded, horses dead in fetid pools of blood. A flock of carrion birds raised bloody beaks at her approach. A few angry squawks tried to drive her away, but Mycelle ignored them.
She worked her way forward.
With the Stone of Tor looming to the east, the camp remained in shadow. Amid the gloom, Mycelle and Fardale searched for signs of the living. Had anyone escaped this attack? She came upon an ax with a short handle. It was slick with blood. She nosed it. The scent of d’warf still lay heavy upon it.
Straightening, she willed her body to change. If she was to investigate further, she would need hands. Though it was a strain to shift twice in one day, she forced her flesh to melt and the snowy fur to retreat away. She rose from a crouch and stretched back into her familiar form. Naked of both fur and clothing, she noticed the morning chill to the air. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth.
“Search for any signs of the others,” she ordered Fardale.
With a whip of his tail, the wolf sped off. Mycelle watched him a moment, with a twinge of worry. His sendings had grown coarser and less frequent. Fardale grew close to losing himself to the wolf. He was already beginning to settle into this form. If the curse wasn’t lifted soon, the wolf would claim him forever.
As she continued into the camp, these worries were overwhelmed by the horror at hand. Past the remains of a dappled mare, she found the body of one of the Dro warriors who had guarded Lord Tyrus. The woman’s blond braids were fouled with blood and mud. She lay on her side, her bowels draped across the ground from a savage rip in her belly. Mycelle stepped farther into camp and discovered the other two Dro warriors, sisters to the first. Each had died horribly.
As she searched, she discovered no sign of any of the others: Lord Tyrus, Kral, Mogweed, Nee’lahn. Frowning, Mycelle returned to one of the Dro women.
Praying for all their spirits, Mycelle stripped one and donned her leathers, fixing a new set of crossed scabbards to her back. Though exhausted, she did manage to adjust her form enough to fit the new garments. “I will avenge you,” she promised as she slid the two swords into place.
Fardale had wandered farther to the west. A growling drew Mycelle’s attention. She crossed to the wolf’s side.
Even without the keener wolf’s senses, she noticed the acrid reek grew stronger as she approached Fardale. Before the wolf, an area of the clearing’s floor had been blackened and burned in a perfect circle. She knelt and fingered the region. Even the dirt had been blasted to form a glassy crust.
With a heavy heart, she stood and surveyed the ruins of the camp.
Where were the others? What had happened here?
As she stood, the sun finally broke around the looming pinnacle of rock. The ravaged camp became bathed in the new dawn’s light. Mycelle began to turn away, but her gaze was caught by a sharp glint in the blasted circle. Frowning, she stepped cautiously into the ring. The forest floor was deeply burned; it was like walking on granite. She crossed to the source of the reflection and knelt on one knee.
Leaning closer, she discovered a silver coin. She tried to pick it up, but it was imbedded in the blasted surface. She had to tug hard to yank it free.
Standing, she studied the coin, flipping it back and forth in her fingers. On one side was stamped a familiar face, old King Ry, father to Prince Tyrus. And on the other was the sigil of their family—a snow leopard, crouched to strike. Clutching the silver piece, she studied the burned circle. Lord Tyrus could not have survived.
Fardale sank to his haunches beside her. Images flashed at her. He had discovered no sign of the others in the camp.
She shoved the coin into a pocket. “Then we will find them.”
BOUND TIGHT, MOGWEED lay slumped on his side in the wagon, feigning sleep. Each bump of the wagon’s wheels as they passed along the old rutted forest track jarred his spine. He had to bite back a gasp as the wagon popped over an exceptionally large root. Mogweed flew several handspans above the buckboard and landed with a thud. He heard a groan to his left and carefully moved his neck to view the large form of the mountain man, Kral, who lay behind him.
In the dawn’s light piercing through the tiny barred window of the enclosed wagon, Mogweed could just make out Kral’s thick black beard, still damp with blood. He prayed the larger man remained unconscious, fearing further abuse from the d’warf guards if Kral should try to free himself. Mogweed glanced surreptitiously around the cramped space. Only the four of them remained. They were too few to fight the score of armored d’warves that still marched outside the enclosed wagon.
If only I had remained awake at my post . . . Mogweed thought with a twinge of guilt. Then he bit his lip in anger. No! He would not accept blame for this. Even if he had been awake and could have alerted the camp in time, they all would surely have been caught anyway. There was no safe path through the forests north of the Stone. He had begged them all repeatedly to abandon this journey to Castle Mryl, but none had listened. It was their own fault they had been captured.
I should have left when I had the chance, he thought sourly. But in his heart, he knew such an option was not a real one. He tugged his arms and tested the ropes for the thousandth time. His efforts only succeeded in tightening the knots further. In truth, he was bound to these others as surely as these ropes bound him now—bound by a whisper of hope.
Lord Tyrus, former pirate and prince of Mryl, had lured him and his brother with words of prophecy, a chance to finally free themselves of the curse that trapped the two shape-shifting twins into their current forms, man and wolf. The prince’s words echoed to him now: Two will come frozen; one will leave whole.
Now even this thin hope was vanquished. With Fardale lost in the deep wood somewhere, how could their curse ever be lifted?
Mogweed rolled over as the wagon hit another stubborn root. He lay on his other side now, staring at the prone form of Lord Tyrus. The man showed no signs of life. He lay as limp as a dead eel, head lolling with the wagon’s motion, blood dribbling from both nose and mouth. From here, Mogweed could not tell if the man still breathed.
But what did it matter? For all their fighting and swordplay, what had it won them? The three Dro women slain and the others beaten to within a life’s breath. Foolish men. During the melee, Mogweed had remained hidden. Once the fighting had passed him, he had crawled to one of the women’s corpses and smeared his brow with her cooling blood, then lay sprawled at her side, pretending to be knocked out.
As Mogweed recalled his subterfug
e, he became lost in the memory of screaming horses and the grunting barks of the d’warf raiders. While feigning injury, Mogweed had watched between narrowed eyelids as Lord Tyrus, shielded by the last of his Dro bodyguards, had defended himself with a flashing blur of his ancient family sword. It was a dance of death that none who neared had survived.
Farther back in the camp, the mountain man had attacked the d’warves with ax and teeth. Even now, a chill ran down Mogweed’s back at this memory. It was as if Kral had become more beast than warrior. But no one could question his results. D’warves had died all around the large man.
For that single moment, Mogweed had entertained thoughts of their victory—but even the strongest bear is eventually brought down by enough wolves.
Kral fell first, swamped by six massive d’warves. On the other side, Lord Tyrus continued his bloody dance. He seemed to grow more invincible with the loss of Kral, sustaining not even a scratch as his bodyguards died around him. Hope of victory still burned in the strength of the prince’s steel.
Then a thunderous crack split the night, and a monstrous shadow appeared behind Tyrus. Though the clearing was lit only by a single campfire, Mogweed had no trouble making out the shape of the new attacker.
Darker than oiled pitch, it stood out starkly in the gloom. Towering on clawed hind limbs, its shape was that of a thick-maned cat. But the spread of wings to either side of its muscled shoulders belied this image.
Tyrus named it at that moment. “The griffin!” he yelled.
In horror, Mogweed buried his face in the mud. During their trek north to the Stone, refugees fleeing to the south had told rumors of such a monster: a beast so repellent that the mere sight of it could kill a man. Taking no chances, Mogweed squeezed his eyes tightly closed. His last view was of Lord Tyrus backing away, a silver coin falling from the prince’s fingers.
Then a roar shattered through the clearing, so loud it seemed to suck at Mogweed’s mind, trying to draw his will away. For a brief moment, Mogweed passed out in truth, overwhelmed by the griffin’s scream. When next he became aware, the camp was as silent as a tomb. A peek revealed the griffin gone and Lord Tyrus sprawled and bloodied in a circle of burned soil.