Steel and Stone

by Ellen Porath

  The owl touched her shoulder gently with his beak, and Kai-lid intertwined the fingers of one hand in the soft feathers of his cream-colored breast. His voice came lightly to her mind. You can adopt a new guise, of course.

  They moved apart, the mage shaking her head. “No. It may not be such a bad idea if they recognize Lida. I’ll think about it. First of all, I must discover where they are and where they’re going.” She turned back toward the cave, but the owl’s movement arrested her.

  “Scrying tires you. Perhaps I can find them,” Xanthar said aloud, switching once more to regular human speech. The owl flexed his wings. Kai-lid closed her eyes against the grit and dust that suddenly swirled around the clearing before her cave. Then the owl settled down again. “Hop aboard,” he invited, spreading low one huge wing.

  “I’ll get my things,” she said.

  Chapter 9

  On the Ettin’s Trail

  “MORNING. TIME FOR BED.”

  “No. Lady soldier follows. Master says so.”

  “Too bad. Res sleep days.”

  “Not now!”

  “Hunger. Food soon?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Soldiers follow?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Good,” Res announced. “Eat them.”

  “No!” The ettin’s left head struggled to recall the word the Master had used. A long word, and so long ago—nearly an hour. The Master had forced the left head to repeat the word, and the warning, many times. “Capture!” Lacua finally crowed now, remembering. “Not eat. Not, not, not.” Its watery eyes, shaped like a pig’s, squinted. The ettin’s left hand brandished a spiked club with each “not.”

  The right head spat. Then Res brightened. “Are four,” he pressed. “Capture one, eat—” he hesitated over the impossible arithmetic—“eat rest?”

  “Capture,” Lacua repeated. “Not eat. Not, not, not.”

  “One? Only?”

  Lacua argued the proposition with himself. The Master, whom he had spoken to through the Talking Stone just before dawn, had said to lure the lady soldier to the appointed mountain in Darken Wood, capture her, and wait. But Janusz had omitted rules about her companions. The lady was for capture, the mage had said. That meant … what? The others weren’t for capture? Or were?

  Lacua pondered. The range of choices gave him a headache. But he finally decided. “Capture girl, eat one not-girl.” The two heads smiled, revealing rotten teeth. The ettin, its four beady eyes open for small game, continued north, careful to leave plenty of footprints as the Master had ordered.

  * * * * *

  Hours later, just as the sun passed its zenith, Tanis and his companions stood on the same spot, staring at the footprints—nearly three fingers deep, the right foot larger than the left—and then at the forbidding environs into which the prints were headed.

  “Darken Wood,” Caven whispered. Tanis nodded, his gaze probing the underbrush.

  There was no gentle transformation from one type of forest to another here. Instead, it was as though the icy finger of an angered god had drawn a line among the trees. Those on one side remained normal in appearance, while the rest withered or twisted. A dank breeze flowed from the woods, prickling the hair at the back of the two men’s necks. Although a light wind moved the tattered leaves in the woods, no sound came to their ears.

  Wode was fidgeting with his horse’s mane. “It’s the silence of the Abyss,” he said softly. Kitiara slugged him on the arm to silence him.

  “Half-elf,” Mackid said, just above a whisper. “I’ll concede you this: I’ve never seen such an evil landscape in all my days on Ansalon.” Tanis nodded again, deep in thought.

  Without another word, the companions dismounted and drew their swords; even Wode carried a small knife, which he seemed to draw some slight comfort from. Suddenly the teen-ager spoke again, his voice cracking. “The trees bleed!” He pointed a quivering hand at one of the pines.

  The other three looked where the squire gestured. A strange look crossed Caven’s features. “By the gods, Wode, this is no time for jokes!” he exploded. He clenched his hands and started toward the teen-ager.

  With one hand, the half-elf pulled Caven back. “You see blood, Wode?” he asked quietly.

  The boy’s voice was shrill. Hands trembling, knife shaking, he pulled himself up on his nag, nearly cutting the reins in the process. “Are you all blind? Don’t you see it?” Wode cried. “Blood, half-scabbed over, oozing down the bark in great gouts.” He yanked at his horse’s reins, but by then Kitiara had reached the youth’s side, pulled the knife from his hand, and held the horse steady.

  Tanis took one more look at the tree in question, which appeared unmarked to him except for a smear of what looked like sap—pinkish, it was true, but definitely sap, not blood. He used the same tone he adopted with a jittery horse. “On that tree only, Wode? Or more than one?”

  The cords stood out in Caven’s neck. “You believe the cowardly—?”

  “He sees something,” Tanis interrupted. “It may be that we can’t count on our senses. Darken Wood may appear different to different eyes.”

  “Darken Wood,” Caven repeated. His temper evaporated as quickly as it had flamed. He worried his lower lip with his teeth. “Perhaps we should wait until morning to enter,” he suggested. “It’s only a few more hours until nightfall. I don’t care if they’re offering ten times fifteen steel for that ettin back in Haven, it’s not worth traipsing through Darken Wood at night. We should be sensible and wait for morning.”

  Tanis said nothing. Indeed, he’d been about to suggest a similar tactic. But Kitiara snorted. She’d been shifting from foot to foot as the two men examined the ettin prints and marked the monster’s progression into the woods. “You three can hide out and waste three-quarters of a day, but I, for one, am not afraid of the unknown!” she cried. “Besides, the spoor is fresh. The beast can’t be that far ahead. We can capture it and be on our way back to Haven by nightfall.”

  She released Wode’s horse, leaped onto Obsidian, and turned the mare’s head toward the woods, not heeding whether anyone followed. Wode began backing his mount away from the forest perimeter.

  The other two men remained where they were. “We can’t let her go in there alone, half-elf,” Caven said almost plaintively.

  “I never intended to,” Tanis said shortly, and he stepped toward the gelding. “You are free to go back, of course.”

  Caven reddened. Then he shouted for Wode to get moving—in the proper direction—mounted Maleficent, and pushed the stallion past Dauntless. Scrambling not to be left behind so close to the fearsome place, Wode followed as they entered Darken Wood.

  The tracking continued to be easy—ridiculously so, the half-elf thought. Either the creature was remarkably stupid to leave such obvious signs or it had great faith in its ability to defeat all comers. Tanis didn’t even have to dismount to see the five-toed prints, each as long as his hand and forearm.

  Broken branches, as well as pine needles scuffed by heavy feet, marked the way. Although the path wended among the bent-trunked pines, the way was occasionally rocky. Pines crowded around them, the trunks just far enough apart at times to admit the horses. It was almost, Tanis thought, as though the trees were reaching for whatever brushed against them. He dispelled the thought with an oath and looked around him warily. Far above their heads, the evergreens expanded into a thick canopy. A haze seemed to hang over the woods—at least to the half-elf’s eyes. The late afternoon air hung yellow-gray and humid, and Tanis found that he could not see more than several yards ahead.

  They rode in silence for a while, with Tanis in the lead, followed by a thoughtful Caven, an elaborately nonchalant Kitiara, and, close upon Obsidian’s hooves, the reluctant Wode. Every so often, the squire would glance at a tree trunk with revulsion and guide his horse in a wide circle around it. Caven looked jumpier by the moment. So far, the half-elf had spied nothing stranger than the clinging haze. Nonetheless, he felt as though eve
ry living thing about him—and he tried not to think about the rumors of dead ones—were glaring at the spot where his pulse throbbed in his throat. He tried unsuccessfully to pierce the haze with his nightvision. “Does night fall earlier in Darken Wood?” he whispered to himself.

  Tanis heard an exclamation as Caven pulled Maleficent to a walk and Obsidian practically collided with the feisty stallion. Maleficent struck out at Kitiara and her horse. Staying solidly in the saddle as Obsidian leaped aside, Kitiara drew up her whip and lashed Caven’s stallion across the flank. With a snort, Maleficent sidestepped away, halting as Caven sawed at the reins. Wode, long tormented by the Mithas stallion, giggled nervously. Blood welled from a jagged cut in the stallion’s glossy hide, and Caven opened his mouth to remonstrate with Kitiara.

  The swordswoman hissed at him, cutting off his protest. “If you travel with me, Mackid, you will keep that horse in line, or I will kill it—with my bare hands, if necessary. Understand, soldier?”

  Mackid shut his mouth, nodding dumbly. Kitiara took a deep breath, no doubt preparing to go on berating the man, but the half-elf interrupted.

  “Until now I thought you were impervious to fear, Kit,” Tanis said. “I can see now that you merely hide it better than the rest of us.”

  “I—” she began, glaring daggers.

  “Temper, temper,” the half-elf muttered. Then, as Kitiara sat astride Obsidian, almost speechless with rage, Tanis turned to Wode. “Are the trees still bleeding, Wode?” The squire bit his lip, looked sidelong at a nearby maple sapling, and nodded. The half-elf persisted, turning to Caven. “And what do you see, Mackid?” When the Kernish mercenary only shook his head, Tanis said, “I’ll tell you what I see. I see a haze, like dusk in the tropics, closing around us.”

  “Like a shroud,” Wode added, the words seeming to jerk from him unwillingly.

  “So Wode sees it. Do either of you?”

  Kitiara snapped something about “traveling with a bunch of superstitious weaklings.” Caven raised an eyebrow at her, then addressed Tanis in a low voice. “I see men lined up at the very farthest distance I can see in these damned woods.”

  “Men?” Tanis looked where Caven indicated, but the half-elf saw nothing but haze.

  “I know these men.” Tanis waited patiently until Caven took a deep breath. “They are men I’ve killed in battle. They are all there, each one represented over and over. Their wounds still bleed. They carry severed limbs, hold their entrails to keep them from spilling out. Their eyes—” he stumbled over the words—“their eyes are scarlet, and they’ve been here waiting for me ever since we ventured into this unholy woods.”

  A groan and a crash sent them all jumping. It was Wode, sprawled in a faint next to his bug-eyed horse.

  Kitiara ribbed Wode ceaselessly once they revived him. Even Tanis began to look annoyed at the swordswoman, and Caven finally assigned Kitiara a new position as rear guard. “The easier to ignore your complaints,” he commented when she protested. Kitiara would have snapped back, but another wave of dizziness and nausea passed over her just then, angering her as much as it sickened her, and she let the others pass ahead without a word.

  Certainly, she thought when the other three were ahead of her, she wasn’t still hung over from last night’s binge. She’d been fighting exhaustion all day, and once she had even found herself sliding from her horse when she fell asleep in the saddle. She’d caught herself with a jerk and shaken back her curls to mask the near fall. But this new wave of queasiness, this sudden vertigo, was harder to hide. That was all she needed now, to mimic Wode’s swoon after all the guff she’d given him.

  She pulled up her mount and let the other three move farther ahead. They were utterly silent, with none of the jovial horseplay that Kitiara remembered from other forays with comrades. There was only the sound of the horses’ hooves, the squeak of Tanis’s saddle when he leaned over to catch sight of the ettin’s prints, and her own forced breathing. When they were far enough away, Kitiara leaned carefully away from the saddle and vomited into a bush at the side of the path. Then, blinking rapidly to clear her vision, she spurred Obsidian into a trot.

  Night was falling. It was as though something, watching them, had decided that it was time to pull the noose tight. They’d resheathed their swords but their hands never drifted far from the hilts.

  “Half-elf,” Kitiara called. “Can you use your nightvision now?”

  “I’ve been trying,” Tanis replied. “I see nothing but the trees. Nothing else—no small game, no birds. Nothing but the haze.”

  Kitiara grunted. She twisted back in the saddle at a sudden noise behind her, unsheathing her sword with the soft sound of metal against tanned leather. “Half-elf,” she repeated. “Look back.”

  Tanis and Caven followed her directive. Caven swore. “The path,” Tanis murmured.

  “Gone!” Caven added needlessly.

  Wode moaned. It was true. The trees had closed behind them like a phalanx of soldiers. Both men drew their swords. Wode clutched his knife nervously.

  At that moment, afternoon turned to night in the space of an eyeblink. One moment they could see each other and the tormented trees, and the next, all they could see was pitch blackness.

  Wode’s voice quavered out of the dark. “Uncle Caven?”

  “Right here.” Mackid had not budged, Kitiara could tell.

  “At least we can hear each other.” It was Tanis’s voice.

  “We’re not alone,” Kitiara said suddenly.

  The air began to glow, and Kitiara saw the faces of her companions in the reflected light. The glowing light coalesced into a pair of eyeballs. Just below the eyes, two skeletal hands formed, edged with green flame. “Tanis,” Kit repeated. Her mouth was dry, but her hand was steady.

  “I see it, Kit.” Tanis dismounted, moving slowly toward her.

  “What is it?” Caven asked.

  Kitiara answered. “A wichtlin.”

  “What’s that?”

  Tanis looked at Kitiara. She’d donned her helm. Although Obsidian was shifting restlessly, nearly at the point of panic, Kitiara sat straight and tall on the mare. She held the reins with one hand and gripped her sword with the other. Her face was pale, but flashes of pink lurked just below the surface, high on her cheekbones. Kitiara was in her element now, Tanis knew.

  The fire-limned wichtlin made no motion toward the swordswoman, but its gaze never wavered from her. Hers was as steady.

  “Wichtlins,” Tanis whispered to Caven, “are elven undead.”

  “By the gods!” Caven exclaimed. “And it’s just the eyes and hands, no more? How do we fight it?”

  “There’s more there—the rest of the decayed skeleton,” Tanis said. “Be thankful you can’t see it.” Wode’s teeth were chattering.

  “And it used to be Qualinesti?”

  “Silvanesti,” Tanis corrected. “Some Silvanesti elves who follow the path of evil during life are claimed by Chemosh when they die.”

  “The lord of the undead!”

  “And they become wichtlins.”

  Caven took a moment to absorb that. “What do these wichtlins do?” he asked at last.

  As Caven spoke, the creature began to move. It edged closer to Kitiara, who calmly backed Obsidian an equal distance away. Kitiara answered Caven’s query. “A wichtlin wanders the world searching for souls to claim for Chemosh. It can kill with its touch.” She moved Obsidian back another pace.

  “Will swords kill it?”

  “We’ll just see,” she answered softly. Even as she spoke, she struck with a lightning-fast movement. Her weapon flashed through the air, slashing between the creature’s hands and its eyes. Obsidian whinnied and leaped back from the trail. The wichtlin, unharmed, swooped toward Kitiara, who continued to flail at it with her sword. “Half-elf!” she cried. “By the gods, tell me how I can kill it!”

  Tanis felt horror clutch at him as the wichtlin feinted again and again at Kitiara Uth Matar, driving her farther off the trail an
d farther from her companions. “Magic, I’ve heard,” he called. “Only magic.”

  “I have no magic, but it’ll be a strong beast that can withstand this!” Caven shouted. He spurred Maleficent forward. The giant horse reared, then charged toward the wichtlin, pebbles spraying behind the huge animal’s hooves.

  The evil creature vanished just before the horse and rider reached it.

  Confused, Caven pulled up the stallion and wheeled about on the trail. “Where—?”

  “Caven! Behind you!” It was Kitiara.

  Caven turned to find himself inches from the wichtlin. Its left hand, green flame visible at each joint of a digit, reached out toward him. “Caven!” Kitiara shouted again. “Don’t let it—”

  But it was too late. The creature grazed Caven’s arm, and the soldier froze, a look of dawning terror etched on his bearded face.

  As soon as the paralysis felled Caven, the wichtlin seemed to lose interest in its victim. It turned toward Tanis, who held his sword ready even though it was clear now that the weapon was as useless as a feather against this monster. The wichtlin fastened its unblinking gaze on the half-elf, moved nearer, and attacked. In moments, Tanis, too, stood immobile. Wode tried to flee, but the being vanished, only to appear directly before the squire, who, with his nag, ran into the creature and froze instantly.

  That left Kitiara alone against the wichtlin. She pulled her dagger and prepared to vault from Obsidian, who now stood hock-deep in a tangle of ground-hugging plants.

  Then the horse screamed, and Kitiara halted her dismount, twisting in midair, only one foot in a stirrup, as she looked down.

  Skeletal hands, dozens of them, were reaching up through the plants, up through the ground. They held the struggling mare, who continued to whinny with fright until Kitiara thought she’d go mad. Her gaze darted around. The wichtlin bore down slowly upon her. The skeletal hands reached out to grab her if she fell from Obsidian’s back. The mare gave a shudder, a paroxysm of death, and Kitiara kept her seat only by dropping the dagger and holding on to the dying mare with both hands.