The Shadow Within

  They should have run then, but everything was too far out of their ken. The nearest ones died before they’d even grasped what was happening, the beast ripping through them as it must’ve ripped through the sheep earlier. Rhiad stepped toward it, ordering it to stop. Perhaps he used the Command on it, but if so, it only worked to draw the beast’s attention to Rhiad himself. The heavy snout came around, the green eyes blazed, and the tide of Command turned. With a low yowl, Yammer sprang at him. They went down in a tumble, light sparking from their union, green and red intermingled. Already Rhiad was screaming, writhing beneath the thing as his body flamed with scarlet light and melted into the great hunch-shouldered form, swelling it even larger than had the flames.

  Panicked, Heron wheeled away, causing Carissa to drop the knife and almost lose her seat. Arrow fled now, too, lunging forward, the horses’ opposing motion snapping the reins in two. Heron lurched away, racing through the trees as behind her men screamed and the morwhol roared and the chaos of Torments seemed to have blasted up from beneath the earth.

  Carissa bent low over Heron’s neck as the mare veered right, then left, stumbling and lurching through the darkness. Branches slapped Carissa’s shoulders, clutched her arms, and snagged her cloak. She closed her eyes and hung on, praying as she had never prayed in her life—that Heron wouldn’t fall, that the beast would tire or lose their trail—knowing it was useless. For she could feel it right behind her and see the green eyes in her mind. Then Heron tripped over some unseen obstacle, and Carissa went flying through the darkness alone.

  __________

  A sudden gurgling snarl jerked Abramm’s attention from the book lying open in his lap to the shuttered window on the wall to his right, his pulse accelerating wildly. He half expected a massive, hunch-shouldered beast with low-slung hindquarters to come crashing through it, claws flashing, green eyes boring into his own as it bowled him to the floor. The window remained closed and intact, however, the wind gusting nothing more threatening than a few raindrops against its shutters. But the prickle-warning of imminent attack remained upon him, and he had not imagined that snarl.

  He looked around uneasily. The reading candle cast an eerie light across his spacious Stormcroft bedchamber. Piles of clothing and weapons and boots lay about the carpeted floor, slickers hung across the backs of chairs to dry, and cases of maps stood alongside a pile of books stacked on the table beside him. Trap lay blanketed on a pallet near the big bed, Jared just beyond him, both breathing deeply in undisturbed sleep. In fact, Trap was actually snoring intermittently.

  That must have been what I heard, Abramm thought, feeling silly now as his pulse began to slow. Serves me right for being up in the dead of night, filling my head with stories of bloodthirsty monsters. The hearth fire having burned down to coals, it had to be some hours after midnight. You should go to bed, he told himself. You have a battle to prepare for, remember? And it won’t do to be half asleep should Gillard arrive tomorrow. And he very well could, you know.

  Besides, the Goodsprings bear was likely just a bear, the stories he’d heard this evening born of hysteria and ignorance more than truth. Such depredations were so common along with margin of civilization and wilderness, no one had thought the tale even worthy of reporting to him. He’d never have known about it had he not overheard two junior officers discussing it and stopped to question them himself. But wild as their tales were, they’d still clearly believed it was just a bear. So why shouldn’t he?

  Because if Laramor’s right and the morwhol did go to the highlands, a reasonable route of return would be down the Goodsprings Valley? The tension that had lived in the pit of his stomach for days now, in anticipation of confronting his brother, wound itself a little tighter. Surely, my Lord Eidon, you would not have me face both of them at the same time?

  That would be a disaster of unprecedented proportion. With both brothers’ armies gathered here in the Valley of the Seven Peaks, there’d be a sea of victims for the morwhol to slaughter. And slaughter it would. In the weeks following Abramm’s encounter with Rhiad and his beast in the bowels of Graymeer’s, he had learned a good deal more about the little creature, which, as Madeleine had guessed, would not be little for long.

  Morwhol. The beast of the night written of in the Words of Eidon’s Revelation. The Ravager of Gilgan. The Demonwolf that smote the Egganites and killed two hundred armed men in a single night before it slew the one it sought. Spawned of the inner Shadow’s deepest lusts—hatred, envy, bitterness, revenge—the morwhol, like all rhu’ema spawn, was a mixture of physical and spiritual power, and thus was not subject to the rules of either world. Growing stronger with each life it took, the creature wreaked a path of destruction as it stalked the one for whom it was made, drawn especially strongly to those loved by him and who loved him.

  Madeleine had been right, as well, that it would not be easily killed. Only its prey could kill it, she’d said, and then only by means of Eidon’s Light. But in almost every such attempt on record, the morwhol had died last, and usually of starvation. Because each was made with its target’s own hair and blood, it was tied to that target mentally, able to know the man’s thoughts as he knew them himself, and in so knowing, elude his attacks. Only one man in all the records was said to have killed one. But the wounds he’d received were so severe, he had died with the dawn. And he had been a man skilled in the use of the Light, shieldmarked since his youth.

  In all likelihood, Abramm would simply be cut down, the monster turning then to the soldiers who were with him. It was a prospect that gave ominous new meaning to his visions of dead men sprawled across field and lane, and made him question whether he should even bother to continue this contest with his brother. Maybe he should just cancel the whole thing and send everyone home before it was too late.

  Except . . . so far as he knew right now, the Goodsprings bear was just a bear. And, yes, he’d had nightmares in the last few weeks, but considering the pressures upon him, that was hardly surprising. That they’d all featured grisly rehashes of the vision Rhiad had inflicted upon him at Graymeer’s was not surprising, either. Especially given the type of reading material he’d been choosing. And if the bear did turn out to be just a bear, he’d have thrown away everything he’d come back to Kiriath for—and ruined the lives of the men who’d sworn allegiance to him—for nothing.

  No, he had to wait until the threat was real, and the fact was, Eidon still hadn’t given him enough information to act upon. Unless he could figure out how to be in two places at once, he would just have to wait until something more developed. And in the meantime keep his focus on the one confrontation he did know was coming: the meeting with his brother.

  Praying wouldn’t hurt, either.

  CHAPTER

  36

  Carissa awoke to a pounding pain behind her eyes. At first it was so intense she thought she must have fallen on something and impaled herself. That horror swiftly gave way to the certainty that the morwhol really had ripped off half her face, as it had promised, for the pain spread from her eyes down through her left cheekbone and jaw. There were other pains, as well— her shoulder, her wrist, a terrible burning in her side.

  She could hear the beast rustling in the forest nearby, its breath coming in short staccato bursts, as if it were digging, or scratching, or . . . talking to itself? The strange breathy whispers waxed and waned in volume—definitely talking, though she’d never known it to sound like this before. It reminded her of Rhiad. If she concentrated, would she be able to make out words? Trying made her head feel as if it would split, and she gave up at once. Then, before she could stop herself, a moan slid from her throat. The breathy whispering silenced. She went rigid with dismay and rising panic.

  Something rustled through the foliage toward her, and she felt again its presence, looming over her.

  “My lady, you must keep silent.” That was a woman’s voice, nearly inaudible. “She’s alive, then.” Not a woman’s whisper—a man’s! A familiar one.


  She cracked her eyelids, but all she saw was darkness. Nearby new whispering began, not the monster now, but a person. “Lord Eidon, deliver us. Enfold us in the walls of your Light and hide us from this evil thing that seeks us. You are our rock of refuge, Lord. . . .”

  Suddenly Carissa could see again, just barely. A woman knelt to one side of her, a man to the other, their faces limned by a light so weak it almost wasn’t there. Three others crouched beyond them, and arching around them all was what appeared to be a dome of ice crystals, shimmering with a pale, ethereal light so delicate that, were it not for the dark, she’d never have seen it. Even now she had to look at it just right to see it.

  At first she worried the morwhol would see it, as well, but it seemed not to, crashing through the forest around them with little whines, which faded as the crashing moved off. . . . Then it roared, the sound deeper and heavier than anything she’d heard it make before. It roared again, frustration evident, and they held their breaths, listening as it ranged around them—slowing, sniffing, moving more carefully, coming closer then moving away . . . she struggled to track it.

  It roared again, a deafening blast that echoed off the trees and raised gooseflesh all across Carissa’s back and arms. The man’s hand slid over hers and gripped it, drawing her eyes to his face, clearer now in what seemed a brighter light. She could make out his short gray hair, the crow’s-feet that framed his dark eyes, the once-hated Thilosian goatee that had grown endearing over time. Cooper!

  An incredulous joy flashed through her, and she squeezed his hand, drawing a quick warning flick of his eyes before he went back to watching the darkness beyond the gauzy barrier of Light. Her gaze switched to the woman—yes, it was Elayne!—whose eyes were closed, face set in concentration.

  The beast roared again and again, the volume diminished somewhat by distance, while the cracking of branches came more frequently, accompanied by the loud and vigorous rustling of dead leaves, as though the morwhol were taking out its frustrations on the foliage. The next roar was even more distant. But just as they were beginning to relax, it came back, thrashing wildly through the forest around them, keening and yowling and roaring again, circling and circling around the glittering dome and sniffing both ground and air as if it couldn’t figure out what had happened. Then its circles widened and the roars receded until again it would break off and return to the spot where the scent was strongest.

  If only it would rain! Carissa thought. Rain washes away scent. Then it would get confused and— Her thought stopped as her ears picked up on a soft irregular pattering erupting in the forest all around them. She listened more intently, hardly believing what her ears were telling her. Yet as the drops slid through their ethereal dome and plopped upon her head and face, she could not deny the truth: it was raining. And not only would that wash away her scent, it would drive the morwhol to ground!

  Eidon has made us a way!

  Out in the forest the creature’s roar had never been more powerful. It could not seem to keep silent as it traveled, marking its rapid movement away from them. The last roar was so far away they could barely hear it. And still they waited. The sprinkling turned to a light but steady rain, and before long they were drenched. Yet they did not move.

  Finally, after an exceeding long time of silence, Elayne opened her eyes and turned to Carissa. Before she could speak, Carissa exclaimed, “You found my rings and coins!”

  Elayne smiled. “We did. And the spoon and hoof pick, as well. That was very clever of you, my lady.”

  “I just wish we’d gotten you away sooner,” Cooper added gruffly. “I think he must’ve conjured some sort of cloaking illusion over you while you slept, because even when we found where you’d left the road, we could never find you. We almost had you at Old Woman’s Well, but then those hooligans showed up and we barely got away from them. Tonight was all Eidon’s doing, for old Heron, bless her heart, ran straight for us, and when she fell, you practically flew into our arms.”

  A chill crept up Carissa’s spine as Elayne said, “I just wonder why he waited so long.”

  “Maybe because we were all safer while I was with him,” Carissa said. “We never could have escaped the beast at night anyway. Or—” She broke off, glancing at the gossamer dome around them. “This wouldn’t have kept it out if it had known we were here, would it?”

  “No, my lady,” said Elayne. “But it didn’t need to.” She turned to Cooper. “Now, Felmen, we’re getting wet, and the lady has taken a nasty hit to the head. We must bring her someplace dry and safe—”

  “No,” Carissa interrupted. “I must go to the Valley of the Seven Peaks. To warn Abramm. He’s there, you know. Right now. Waiting to do battle with Gillard.”

  No one looked surprised by her revelations, and Cooper said, “I’m sure the king is already aware of that beast. The panic has spread far and wide, after all. And as you say, he’s got Gillard to worry about—”

  “That beast was made to find and kill him, Coop. And if he’s up at Seven Peaks, it can reach him in a day. Easily.”

  Cooper frowned at her. “Then I don’t see how we can warn him, lass, since the beast would arrive long before we could.”

  “It hates the rain. It always finds a place to hole up until it stops. That’s surely why it gave up looking for us just now. It doesn’t like daylight, either. So between that and the rain, we have a window of opportunity.”

  Cooper frowned down at her, and she knew him well enough to guess the paths his thoughts were taking. He would want to go alone, claiming he could travel faster without them and that it would be better for Carissa to stay safe in the nearest village under Elayne’s care. Yet he would be loathe to leave either of them with the beast still out there.

  “It wants me, too,” Carissa said softly, heading him off. “Likely you, as well. When it wakes it will come for me. Even if we are protected, the village will suffer. Plus, if you spend your time getting me safe, you will not get far enough yourself to elude it. And we have no idea on whose side the weather will be tomorrow.” She hesitated. “The beast doesn’t like pure daylight or rain, as I said, but if the rain stops and the clouds stay . . . the overcast will shield it enough to travel. And I think the closer it gets to Abramm, the more compelled it becomes.”

  Cooper continued to frown, Elayne regarding him soberly.

  “Besides,” Carissa added, averting her eyes to stare at her interlaced fingers, “Eidon has told me I have something Abramm needs.” And he has something I want.

  “Something Abramm needs? What?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps my knowledge of the ways of this morwhol. I have lived with it for almost two weeks now, listened to its conversations with Rhiad. . . .” She paused, struck by that last horrible memory of the pair of them. “It absorbed him, Coop. Sucked him into its body as if he were nothing more than water. I think that’s made it stronger still. We don’t have time to waste.”

  Cooper glowered at her for a moment, but finally he relented. “Very well. I don’t like it, but your arguments are persuasive. Unfortunately, Heron’s gone lame. You’ll have to ride double with me. It will be a miserable time for you, my lady.”

  “And you think misery is an unfamiliar companion to me?” Carissa asked wryly. “Whatever happens, it will be far better than what I’ve been through these last weeks, believe me.”

  Simon sat his horse at Abramm’s side in the middle of the Valley of the Seven Peaks, the rain drumming on their oiled canvas slickers as they watched for the first sign of movement in the mist-cloaked mouth of the Eberline Gap. Scouts had come at the noon meal with the news that the first of Gillard’s forces would arrive within two hours, so Abramm had mustered his men and ridden out to meet them.

  He now sat atop Warbanner on a small rise, nothing but the horse and the coat of arms draped over the animal’s rump to reveal him as the king. Even Warbanner stood quietly, subdued by the rain. Abramm’s lords and generals ranged around him—Simon, Foxton, Whitethorne, Laramor, and
even Everitt Kesrin—while below and before them stood a long front of archers. The rest of his soldiers were spread out in ranks at their backs. At first there’d been great excitement at the prospect of doing battle. If Gillard refused Abramm’s challenge, Abramm meant to attack him then and there, while his forces were yet strung out and his men exhausted from their long march. But time and boredom and the steady, gray rain had transformed the wait into a dreary restless vigil. Many sat huddled now beneath their woolen cloaks, uncomfortable, to be sure, but warmed by their own inner tension.

  Simon thought the not-knowing was worse than merely waiting for the inevitable, and thus in his own mind had nerved himself for fighting. Though the scouts and harassment parties were confident Abramm’s plan to wear down the enemy had worked, no one could predict Gillard’s actions when he was challenged. In fact, Abramm’s lords were evenly divided as to whether he’d accept it or refuse.

  At Simon’s side, Abramm shifted in the saddle. “Here they come,” he murmured, pulling his telescope from under the slicker and putting it to his eye. Below him, the commander of the bowmen called out his own alert. Up and down the line voices echoed the call as a great rustling stirred in the multitude behind them all.

  In the gap ahead, across the puddled, ruin-dotted field, forms emerged from the mist. Simon brought up his own scope and fixed it on the men straggling into view. They walked wearily, their faces downcast, their clothing wet and mud-stained. The singles became clusters, and the clusters, bands as more and more of them arrived, devoid of all semblance of military order. They stopped along the field’s margin where the slope flattened and the ever- greens gave way to grassland, and there formed into groups, presumably the squadrons they belonged to. Gradually a frontline took shape and began to advance across the field toward Abramm’s waiting army. Behind them several lopsided wagons trundled into view, their wheels mismatched and many of the spokes splinted and bound or missing altogether. Though the sight of the enemy before them and the shouts of their commanders roused some of the men to new vigor, straightening their shoulders, putting new energy in their strides, most looked grim and flat-eyed.