Er’ril mumbled something under his breath.
“What was that?” she asked as she cinched her glove on tight, unsure if the plainsman had been addressing her.
After a long pause, he raised wounded eyes toward her. “You need a better teacher,” he said. “I’m not learned enough to instruct you in the finer workings of your art and in the tools of safeguarding your spirit. This untutored use of your magicks risks so much.”
For the first time, Elena saw the depth of pain behind his stony features and realized she was not the only one who suffered when she used her powers. “I . . . I’ll manage. You’ve taught me well.” She smiled crookedly at him. “Besides, what choice do we have? You’re all I’ve got.”
Her words softened his pained expression. “Still . . . you must proceed with caution.”
“I will,” Elena promised.
Meric and Nee’lahn trotted their horses up to them. Meric leaned far in his saddle, one fist gripping his saddle’s horn to keep him upright. His words were coarse with fatigue. “The fire’s path has almost reached the forest’s edge. We’ve wasted too much time. We must hurry before the Horde retakes the burned corridor we’ve forged.”
“Go on ahead then,” Er’ril said. “Nee’lahn, stay close to Meric and help him.” Er’ril swung around in his saddle and called to the wagon that crept slowly behind them through the iced bower. “Mogweed, lean on the whip. We must run the horses if we are to outpace the spiders.”
Elena saw the shape-shifter’s pale face clench with fear, but Mogweed nodded. With a crack of a whip, the wagon bucked forward. The sudden start tumbled two figures from the rear of the wagon. It was Tol’chuk and the wolf Fardale. They had jumped from the rig and now ran alongside it. Elena was amazed the huge og’re could move with such speed.
Er’ril seemed more angry than impressed. “No, no, stay in the wagon,” he yelled. “We can’t slow to keep abreast of you on foot.”
Tol’chuk answered, his voice calm and steady as he loped beside the large wheel of the wagon. “Less burdened, the horses can pull faster. And we og’re be quick of foot—at least for a short way. I can race as far as the forest’s edge. Fardale and I will not slow you down.”
Er’ril’s face shone with doubt. “The spiders . . .”
Tol’chuk pointed to the side of the trail. Entombed in ice, the blistered bodies of spiders could be seen like red blemishes in a diamond. “They be not chasing us very quickly.”
Er’ril stared for a moment in indecision, then called out to Kral. “Keep to the back trail! Guard our rear!”
Kral raised an arm in salute, pulling his war charger behind the billowing canopy of the wagon.
Er’ril swung forward in his saddle and snapped his lead to urge his mount faster. “Does your mare still have enough heart in her to run the rest of the way?” he asked as Elena followed.
“Mist has a strong heart. She’ll be exhausted, but I believe she can run me out of this foul wood.”
“Then let’s be off,” he said, kicking his steed even faster. “I’m tired of trees and long to see the end of this forest.”
Elena urged Mist on with soft words of encouragement. Her mare snorted briskly and tossed her head, glad to run. Elena kept close behind Er’ril’s horse, following the plainsman’s broad back.
By now they were almost halfway through the dead hollow, the branches a frozen roof over their heads. Down the trail, Meric and Nee’lahn were small figures. Elena could see them ride through frosted drapes of webs that blocked the trail, shattering the frozen strands into thousands of glittering fragments. As they followed, wind-borne motes of web, like a light snow flurry, still floated in the trail. Loathe to have even these pinpricks of corruption touch her skin, Elena pulled her mask, which had fallen from her face as she worked her magick, back up over her mouth and nose. Still she shivered as pieces of web settled upon her cloak and hood. Even Mist nickered warily as she galloped, needing no further encouragement to run.
Soon they were climbing back out of the hollow and entering the burned wood again. But relief at escaping the hollow was a fleeting thing. The sudden return of heat felt pleasant for several heartbeats; then the air reeked of scorched wood and smoky poisons, and the burning breath of the fire swallowed her up. Elena coughed, and Mist noticeably slowed as the heated air taxed the sweating horse.
The distance between Elena and Er’ril quickly grew. Behind her, Elena could hear the ringing bells of the wagon closing in on her. She leaned forward and rubbed a palm over Mist’s wet neck. “C’mon, girl, you can do this,” she urged, the heat charring her throat. “It’s just a little farther.”
With the smoke and ash limiting her line of sight, Elena prayed her words were not a lie. She had lost track of Meric and Nee’lahn quite some time ago as they were swallowed in the haze, and now even Er’ril had become a ghost down the trail. She thought to call out to him but realized there was no need. He could not make Mist run any faster.
She tapped Mist’s flank and whispered words of encouragement, letting the mare know she needed to hurry. In answer, Mist huffed loudly, and her hooves dug harder. Her flanks heaved and rolled under Elena as the mare fought through the smoky air. Er’ril’s figure grew more solid as the distance narrowed. “Good girl,” she sang in the horse’s ear. “I knew you could do it.”
Suddenly Mist’s hoof struck a stubborn root, and the mare stumbled forward. Elena fought to keep her seat, arms pinwheeling, but she lost the battle and found herself tumbling through the empty air. She braced for the impact with the hard ground—but it never came. Instead, huge arms scooped her up before she hit.
Elena glanced up into the monstrous, fanged face of Tol’chuk. As he ran, he carried her in the crook of one arm. The og’re’s bare skin felt like rough bark against her cheek as he held her clutched to his chest. The smell of wet goats swelled around her from his steaming body. From the corner of her eye, Elena saw the black shadow of the wolf flash past, with Mist not far behind.
“Thank you, Tol’chuk,” she gasped. “I would’ve surely broken a bone. But I can run on my own now.”
“No time,” he growled, his ragged voice like grinding boulders. “Spiders be in pursuit from all sides.”
Elena glanced to the side of the trail. She had been so focused on the trail ahead that she had failed to see what threatened from the corners. Thousands of faceted eyes glowed back at her from the forest’s smoky edge. Rivers of spiders flowed toward them, roiling and surging like a single beast. The blistering-hot ground consumed hundreds of their brethren, but hundreds more used the bodies of the fallen as a bridge across the burning soil. It was as if the entire army had one intent, one mind. For the first time, she understood why the creatures had been named the Horde.
The og’re loped in huge bounds of his muscular legs, but exhaustion bowed his back. As he ran, his free arm knuckled often to the mud for support. Half beast, half man, Tol’chuk scrabbled in a fast gait down the trail.
Suddenly a thunder of hooves swamped over them as Kral drove his huge war charger even with them. “Quick arms, og’re! But I’ll take the girl from you now.”
Rorshaf, the mountain man’s steed, seemed hardly winded, dancing on steel-shod hooves, mane flaring black as Kral kept abreast of the lumbering og’re.
Tol’chuk didn’t argue. No false heroics, only common sense. Elena found herself half tossed onto the horse. Kral swung Elena’s small frame into the saddle in front of him, and with a coarse command in the guttural language of the crag horses, he ordered Rorshaf to race—and run the stallion did! Trees blurred to either side as they flew down the trail. In a heartbeat, she thundered past Mist and closed in on Er’ril.
“Yo!” Kral hauled his mount up to the plainsman. “The Horde closes from all sides. If we mean to escape these woods, we must do so now.”
Er’ril pulled his mask from his face, his eyes wide at seeing Elena with the mountain man. He glanced behind him to see the empty saddle atop Mist as the horse c
losed the distance. “What happened?” he began to mumble, then shook his head. “Never mind. Kral, get her out of these woods. I’ll help Tol’chuk and the wagon.”
Kral nodded, and without a word, he shot forward and left Er’ril quickly behind. As Elena clutched handfuls of black mane, Rorshaf’s hooves raced through mud and smoke. Elena found herself holding her breath in fear, not for herself, but for the others still behind with the spiders.
Kral leaned over Elena. “It can’t be much farther,” he whispered to her. Elena tried to gain hope from his words, but who could truly say how much farther the trail ran? Elena stared forward at the wall of swirling ash and smoke. Would this trail never end?
As if hearing this thought, the wall of blackness before them blew open for a heartbeat to reveal rolling meadows just an arrow’s shot away. Then a gust tore the sight from her eyes, swallowing the trail back up with smoke. Had it been a mirage, a trick of a hopeful heart?
“Thank the Sweet Mother,” Kral mumbled to himself. He kicked Rorshaf fiercely. “You saw it, you old bag of bones! Now get us out of this sick forest!”
The horse snorted in irritation. Then, as if to show his master the true heart of the war-charger breed, Rorshaf became the wind itself. The galloping stride of the stallion became a smooth current of muscle and motion, as if the horse’s hooves failed to even touch the mud of the trail.
In half a breath, the trio of horse and riders burst forth from the forest and smoke into a world of rolling hills and meadows. With a whoop of triumph on his lips, Kral reined his horse to a slower pace as they skirted into the tall grasses. The fire had scorched the green meadow for a quarter league before the wet grasses and wide streams smothered the fire to slumbering embers. Kral trotted his stallion in a wide circle, Rorshaf’s hooves splashing slightly in the flooded meadows.
Elena rejoiced in the snatches of late-afternoon sunlight that slipped through the gaps in the smoky sky. In the distance, she could see sprinkled patches of meadow flowers gracing the gentle slopes of these hills. They had made it free of the woods!
Suddenly, from behind them, Mist burst forth from the wall of smoke and raced past them into the green meadows.
“Mist!” Elena called, but the small gray was panicked and continued fleeing out among the meadowed hills. “Kral, we need to go after—”
The mountain man held up a hand, silencing her. He sat straighter in his saddle and searched the wet fields as he slowly swung his horse in tight circles. “Where’s Nee’lahn and Meric?” he mumbled. “They should be—”
Suddenly an arrow shot past Elena’s ear, and Kral fell backward from the saddle, almost carrying Elena with him. Alone atop Rorshaf, Elena twisted about. Behind the horse’s rump, Kral lay on his back in the grass, the feathered haft of an arrow protruding from his shoulder. He fought to sit up, the wind knocked from his chest. Managing to raise himself up to one elbow, he spat something in the language of the crag horses.
Rorshaf hesitated.
“Go, you useless piece of dung!” Kral’s voice thundered. “Ror’ami destro, Rorshaf, nom!”
The war charger suddenly snorted loudly and spun on its heels. Elena frantically grabbed fistfuls of mane as the horse shot away into the meadows. Overhead another volley of arrows rained past the racing horse.
With tears in her eyes, Elena clung to Rorshaf’s back. The horse flew across the empty hills and meadows, a black zephyr across the green fields. But where would this ride end? Elena risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the edge of the forest fading behind her. Then Rorshaf passed over the crest of a hill, and the forest disappeared completely from view. And with it, all those she knew and cared for in the world.
6
NAKED AND ALONE in the tent, Vira’ni knelt upon a pillow, her swollen belly resting on her lap. The ebon’stone bowl balanced on a small oaken tray before her. The stone’s surface already danced with darkfire, the black flames sapping the feeble light from the tent. She listened for the approach of any footsteps, shivering as the flames drank the warmth from her skin.
Outside, the camp was almost empty. Among these nomadic people, it was skill that judged the hunter, not whether the one who pulled the bowstring was man or woman. So most of the womenfolk had accompanied their men to hiding places among the meadows to lie in wait for those who moved through the forest. Only the children, guarded by two older women and one bent-backed man, still moved among the smoldering hearths.
Vira’ni had waited for the camp to empty before beginning the preparations for contacting her master. She had intoned the casting words and paid her debt of blood, then waited. Now all seemed quiet, a hush fallen over the encampment. It was time.
Bowing her face, she recited the final words and felt the surge as the Black Heart’s essence swept within the flames of the darkfire. The shadows thickened in the tent, and the air became difficult to breathe. Vira’ni kept her head bowed. Somewhere without, a hound began baying wildly but was quickly cuffed to silence. Vira’ni felt her children surge in her womb, agitated by the closeness of their true lord. She bent down to touch her forehead to the lip of the bowl, both as honor to her master and as protection for her children.
From deep within the flame, the Black Heart spoke, his voice dripping venom more poisonous than the entire Horde. “Why do you call?”
“To let you know, Sire. She whom you await has come. I have seen her and felt the burn of her magicks.”
“And she yet lives?”
“I have laid my web. She will not escape me.”
“She must not!” Vira’ni felt his wrath like a snake tightening around her neck. “If the cursed child reaches the plains, she could head in any direction, losing herself among the many lands. That must not happen!”
Vira’ni’s mouth dried with fear. “The . . . the Horde and I will not fail you, Sire. You can trust your servants.”
Harsh laughter crackled fiercer than the black flames and held even less warmth. The darkness grew denser near the core of the ebon’stone bowl. It was not just the blackness of a moonless night, but a total lack of light and substance, as if what swelled before her was a peek into the heart of death itself. Her belly quaked with fear, and the tent grew colder than the deepest crypt. The taste of iron filled her mouth as she bit her trembling lip.
From this inky void came the voice of her lord, sounding somehow closer. “Trust? You beg for trust?”
“Y-y-yes, my sire.”
The void wormed over the lip of the bowl toward her. “I will show you how much I trust you.”
Vira’ni squeezed her eyes tight. Bloody saliva drooled from her lips. “Master? Please . . .” Even with her eyes closed, she could still somehow see the darkness sliding toward her. She knew wherever it touched she would be forever scarred. She crouched, frozen, like a pig to slaughter.
She felt its first touch upon her exposed knee. A gasp escaped her throat, but she knew better than to move. The master did not like it when one of his servants flinched from his touch—that she remembered well from those early lessons taught in the dungeons of Blackhall. So Vira’ni held still, pulling her mind back to that corner of her being where she knew to retreat. Three winters spent in the twisted warren of cells below the Gul’gothal halls had taught her methods of preserving her sanity. She fled to that safe space now, barely aware of the cold finger crawling up her inner thigh.
In her safe place, she hummed songs her mother had taught to her among the boats and nets of her fishing village on the storm-swept northern coast. She wrapped herself snug in choruses of lost loves and life’s wonders. Here she couldn’t be harmed, here nothing could touch her, here she was safe—
Suddenly pain ripped open her warm cocoon, a blazing torment worse than any she had felt during the long dungeon winters. Her eyelids snapped open, but the agony blinded her as surely as if her eyes were still closed. All she saw was blackness etched with red lightning. But as the pain ebbed slightly, her vision returned, narrow and pinched, but wide enough to ra
ise a moan to her lips at what she saw.
A shadowy umbilicus, like the black tendril of some sea beast, now linked the ebon’stone to her womb. It pulsed and throbbed as it filled her belly with dark energies, searing her flesh with the fire of white-hot branding irons. Unable to scream as the pain trapped the breath in her throat, all she could do was writhe at the end of the burning tether. Only the magicks the Dark Lord had imbued in her veins long ago kept her heart from bursting. This protection, though, was no kind gift. Death, right now, would be a welcome guest.
But as the pain waned to a smoldering ember in her womb, death was not her companion now. The voice that filled her skull like leeches, sucking at her will, was something so much worse. “See how much I truly trust you, Vira’ni. I grant you another gift. I have taken the Horde in your belly and transformed them into something new for you to love.”
“My children!” she cried, sensing her loss. “No!” This new torture was so much worse than the pain of the flesh.
“Fear not, woman. This child you will love just as well.” The wicked umbilicus spasmed one final time, then detached and slid back into the ebon’stone bowl. “Enjoy my final gift.”
In her belly, worms of ice roiled through the burn in her womb, eating away the pain. A sigh of pleasure whispered from her lips as the agony vanished. Her belly now felt cool and calm. Released from the storm of pain, she found herself falling limp to her pillows, curling around her swollen belly.
Deep within, she felt something stir, something strong, something ripe with her lord’s black magicks. She hugged her arms around her belly, appreciating the strength in the movements of her unborn child. She closed her eyes, pulling her arms tighter, a smile on her lips.