by Jeff Wheeler
“They’re not two-headed as well, are they?” Baylen asked blandly, chewing on a heel of dried bread.
Tyrus shook his head. “No. But their claws are like daggers and poisoned.”
“Wonderful,” the Cruithne said. “Will we sleep?”
“No,” Tyrus said. “Not unless we absolutely need to and never for long. Staying still is death. We must keep moving. Come.” He rose and started off again, somehow knowing the way to go.
At least, Phae thought he did.
Not farther down the unmarked path, they encountered an unending row of boulders forming a low wall. It looked exactly like the row of boulders they had passed over while entering the Scourgelands earlier. She stared at it in shock. Had they come all this way only to be turned around and reach the beginning again?
Tyrus stiffened when the wall appeared in the shadow of the trees ahead. He stared at it, dumbfounded. “That’s impossible,” he muttered.
“We’re back where we started?” Phae asked, her heart sinking.
He stared at it, his face suddenly turning pale. His jaw clenched, his fingers tightening into hooked talons again. She saw the tremor on his lips, the memories spilling into his mind with a thousand fears. She gripped his arm, stroking it.
“Father?”
He stared at the wall, as if it were some perplexing mystery that baffled him. The look on his face was fearful, almost like a child’s.
“It’s all right,” she soothed. “You warned us this would happen. The woods are like a maze. They turn us around.” She did not want the others to see her father like this. He was always so certain and determined. “It’s all right, Father.”
His breathing was quickening, but he closed his eyes. He nodded to her, reaching out and squeezing her hand with such intensity that it hurt.
“I’ll be all right,” he whispered. He swallowed and took a deep breath. He turned to face the others.
“We’re back where we began?” Kiranrao said darkly. “I thought if you didn’t look at the trees, you would find our way through?”
Tyrus held up his hand in a placating gesture. “I did. Bear in mind that these woods constantly shift and change. It is easy to lose your bearings without the stars or sun to guide. There is no horizon to fix on. I think we have veered eastward and circled back. This isn’t the same place where we started, but we’ve run into the perimeter again. That means we need to head back away and try to do better at maintaining our bearings.”
Kiranrao shook his head with contempt.
Phae saw the looks in the others as well. Their confidence in Tyrus was starting to weaken. It was easy to second-guess someone else’s decision without carrying the brunt of the trouble oneself.
She put on a brave face, looking at the others and trying to smile confidently. But perhaps they, too, were seeing the fear in his eyes.
It wasn’t the stone wall that had unmanned Tyrus. He had not expected to see it so soon, but he did not believe in his own infallibility so much to think that they wouldn’t get turned around occasionally. As he had walked firmly toward the wall of stones, something caught his peripheral vision. Movement in the trees to the left. He glanced toward it, seeing nothing, and when he looked back he spied her.
Merinda Druidecht.
She was smiling at him, beckoning him to follow her up into the maze of stones blocking their path. She was not spattered in blood with a crooked arm. She looked as she had in the prime of her strength, her reddish-brown hair and expression so reminiscent of Hettie that his heart seized with unquenched pain. There was something . . . otherworldly about her. As he stood stock-still and stared at her, it was immediately clear that no one else could see her.
The fireblood.
Had he used too much of it during the attack of the Shade of Aunwynn and its hounds? Had he crossed the boundary of proper use and entered the boundary of madness? How many times had he suffered the hallucinations of his sister when she went mad? Or Merinda herself when she was afflicted?
No. Not yet. It’s too soon.
He felt his daughter’s grip on his arm, pulling him momentarily back from the brink of utter despair. But he realized with growing sickness that it was already too late.
The madness and hallucinations would only get worse.
“The night has already fallen and the city bells of Kenatos are still ringing. There is word that an army of Boeotians has emerged from the hinterlands northward and is hastening to invade our shores. It is the biggest army they have mustered against us in all the recorded years since the founding of this city. What purpose could they have to throw away their lives against our defenses? What incomprehensible motive drives them? There are even rumors, which I can scarcely give credit to, that the Empress herself leads this force. The gates are shut and the fleet is drawing in to the quays. We are quite safe.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XVII
There was an unsettled look on Tyrus’s face that caused worry to fester inside Annon. Dusk settled over the massive depths of the Scourgelands, thickening the shadows and making every startling sound into a threat. He watched Tyrus from the corner of his eye, feeling his own sense of dread increase. The Weir had found their trail and begun the hunt.
“Why didn’t you use the Tay al-Ard when we faced the hounds?” Kiranrao demanded suddenly, his voice full of enmity.
“I use it as a last resort, Kiranrao. Don’t question my judgment.”
“Your judgment has brought us around in circles so far,” the Romani said coldly.
“If you know a better trail, by all means declare it. Otherwise be silent. They are getting closer.”
Tyrus was normally more patient with Kiranrao. There was a marked change in his tone to what he had used before. With night drawing closer, their troubles would only increase against beings that could see in the dark—or did not require eyes at all.
Do you hear them yet? Annon asked Nizeera in his mind.
Yes.
Annon felt a sensation of coldness enter his limbs. He tried to check his fear, but it was not possible. Tyrus’s story from his last foray into the Scourgelands conjured thoughts that were horrible to ponder.
How far away?
They are coming behind us on three sides, trying to converge their attack. They are fierce hunters, Druidecht. Stand ready.
He swallowed, glancing over at Tyrus and trying to meet his eye, but their leader was steadfastly focusing on the way ahead, dodging over crooked tree limbs and crossing the rugged terrain. The mesh of branches overhead would blot out the moon.
What kind of creatures are the Weir? Annon asked.
Nizeera was quiet.
Nizeera?
They are much larger than the hounds of Aunwynn, the Vecses. They are powerful and subtle, able to blend their coats with glass-like magic that can render them nearly invisible. They are strong and swift, natural predators. The dust from their pelt is poisonous to mortals, making wounds difficult to heal. They will often disable their prey and then drag them to their lair to feed.
Annon stumbled over a tree root, his mind filling with terror. Truly, Nizeera?
It is better to die quickly than be dragged off to their lair. I will protect you, Druidecht. I will protect you as well as I can. I sense your fear.
A loud wail came from the distance in the dark, discernible to all.
“They come,” Tyrus whispered hoarsely. He stopped, straining to listen. The echoing sounds of their adversaries started up in a chorus as other Weir began to yowl and moan. “They were waiting for daylight to fail,” he added angrily.
The sound of a cracking branch startled them. A huge limb crashed to the ground behind the group, as if some heavy animal had climbed into the trees. The sound of the crash was so near that they all started.
Mirrowen save us, Annon thought bleakly.
“Run,” Tyrus ordered and plunged into the darkness ahead.
The sound of their pursuers rose up in a cacophony of yowling, mewling sounds, the cracked leaves crunching and hissing. Shapes loped into the shadows, gone in an instant. Annon was unable to see them fully, but he could sense them closing in from behind, and he stumbled after Tyrus in the darkness, dreading to face the creatures hunting their steps.
There was a sound of warning, a shout of surprise, and then splashing.
Annon’s boots plunged into brackish waters. They had reached the edge of a pond, the surface covered with so many dead leaves that it hid the expanse of waters like an illusion of ground. Tyrus had stumbled into it first and warned the others, but Annon was quickly behind him and had plunged in next unwittingly.
“Hold!” Tyrus bellowed, his face dripping. “It’s a swamp. They’re herding us right into it.”
“And we have played into their intentions,” Kiranrao snarled. He wheeled back to face the pursuers. “They can’t come at us from behind. Are we going to hold our ground here or use the Tay al-Ard?”
Annon felt something brush against his boots under the water. He took a wary step backward and used the Vaettir words to summon fire. His fingers glowed, spreading a cone of blue light over the dark waters. The pond was full of ugly black fish, their mouths puckering as their faces emerged from the waters, sucking the air. Little appendages of flesh stuck out from the mouths, and he saw many of them coiling around his legs, the faces coming out of the water to gasp on the air. The sight revolted him.
“There’s some sort of fish in the wat—” he said as a huge, catlike beast landed on his back, shoving him face-first into the muck. He felt the claws digging into his muscles and he screamed soundlessly in the water in pain and shock.
“The trees!” Paedrin shouted, sucking in his breath and vaulting upward with the Sword of Winds. He could not see the Weir with his natural eyes, but he could see them with his blind vision and stabbed the first one he encountered right in the heart. The blade sliced through fur, skin, muscle, and bone, impaling the monstrous cat. He felt the shuddering weight of the creature as it slid backward off the branch and fell with a crash onto the ground.
Many more were slinking in the trees, maneuvering through the twisted limbs with grace and agility. One launched itself at him and Paedrin used the blade to go higher so that it fell short and also landed on the ground. But it was not disabled and struck at Baylen with a vicious scream.
Paedrin felt his blood respond to the noise and he wanted to fight. He wanted to avenge the death of Aboujaoude. He heard the ping of arrows and watched Hettie stick several into a single Weir, but the arrows did nothing to injure them. The creature vaulted at her and she managed to duck low so that it sailed over her head. Instantly fire streamed from her fingers, ripping into the creature’s hide and turning it into ash.
The commotion of the battle stretched all along the edge of the pond. Snarls and ripping claws came in a rockslide of fury, the Weir bounding into the fray with supple grace and fluid motions. Paedrin dropped down from above, stopping one with his sword, but another ripped into his side with its claws, opening up ribbons of flesh that stung and burned with heat.
He yanked the blade free from the carcass and whirled around, catching its throat before it could sink its teeth into his arm.
One landed on Hettie and she blasted it in the face with the fireblood, engulfing its entire head. He saw her face wrinkle in pain as its hind legs clawed her legs. Paedrin sliced it open just before the magic of her fire consumed it into ash.
He reached down and pulled her to her feet, seeing her pants stained with blood.
“Hettie!” he gasped in concern.
“Behind you!” she cried.
Paedrin whirled as two confronted him, their yellowish eyes locked in a feral rage. Baylen severed one of them in half with his huge broadsword. Then he went down on one knee and upthrust with the other sword, catching the second Weir in the middle and lifting it up off the ground before slamming its body back down. The look of rage in the Cruithne’s eyes was more terrifying than the Weirs.
Everyone was fighting, struggling to keep from being shoved into the pond. Paedrin used his blind vision to search out everyone quickly, trying to sort through the gyrations and movements. The attackers came at them relentlessly. How many? He could see them mounting like waves, coming in ring after ring.
Where was Tyrus?
Annon was drowning in the brackish water. His back seized up with pain as he felt the claws raking him over. Desperately, he lifted his head to breathe air but could only inhale another gulp of swamp water. His panic reflexes were working and he thrashed, drenched to the bone, as he shoved himself up on his knees, heaving the heavy beast upward. His ears were ringing from the water-muffled screams and he realized Nizeera was fighting the Weir savagely. He had the weight of both cats on him and felt his muscles give. He splashed down in the pond again. The strange gasping fish were all around him and he felt burning pain as their suction-like mouths attacked his face.
The Weir toppled and fell over, and Annon was able to rise at last. He sat up in the water, grabbing the slimy bodies and yanking them off. Little teeth had attached to his skin, which he felt shred as he wrenched the fish away. His lungs were still full of water and he coughed and hacked, trying to expel it all. He doubled over and vomited violently.
Nizeera screamed, standing behind him, facing off against two Weirs who stalked him. He turned and saw them, their glassy pelts shimmering in and out of sight.
Pyricanthas. Sericanthas.
He was wracked with coughs again, still unable to breathe. He felt himself blacking out, his vision suddenly narrowing. The queer fish were all around him, faces emerging from the waters, puckered mouths gasping, hungry for his skin. The flesh of his back was in tatters. Nizeera screamed in challenge and launched at the nearest Weir, who caught her midleap with its massive claws and tossed her away like a doll.
Annon blinked, feeling himself starting to totter over. He was going to land in the water. He was going to die.
He saw Nizeera strike a tree and slump to the ground. Already she was twisting to come up and attack. The whole world moved slowly, like some terrible seizure had wrapped everything in mud. A Weir loomed over Nizeera, its fangs sinking into the ruff of her neck. He could feel her panic and her pain.
Annon planted one hand into the muck, steadying himself, willing his eyes not to droop. He saw Nizeera’s gold eyes blink once, connecting with him.
My master—
The Weir jerked its mighty neck, snapping Nizeera’s. He felt the connection with her vanish. The Weir tossed her aside.
Thas.
Blue flames irrupted from Annon’s hands. One of his hands was still underwater, causing a gush of steam and livid bubbles to rise up from the murky pond. Annon leaned forward, bringing both hands together, and sent a wreath of fire exploding out in front of him, consuming the two Weir instantly and ripping bark from the oaks. He rose in terrible fury, unable to remember the pain in his back or his lungs—unable to bear the pain in his heart at Nizeera’s death. Another Weir hurtled at him in the darkness, nothing but two glowing eyes, and Annon snuffed it out with a savage yell. His lungs and brain were clearing from the sensation of drowning and he involved the torc around his neck, summoning life into the blue stones.
He had always dreaded using it because of what it did to Nizeera. He couldn’t feel any black terror coming from her now. Nothing came from her now. Grief ravaged his heart. First Reeder. Then Neodesha. Now Nizeera. A blackness welled inside his soul, deep as a bottomless pit.
Annon could see the effect of the torc’s magic on the Weir. Several snarled and hissed at him, but they dared not come closer, their ears turning back in defiance as they snarled and raged at him. Annon walked forward purposefully, sending blast after blast of fire i
nto their ranks, walking away from the deadly pond and toward the rest, causing a ripple from the ranks of the Weir as they struggled to get outside the range of his twin magics. He blasted them apart, reveling in their destruction. Some part of his mind was aware that the torc’s magic was burning his skin. He felt it like twin shards of pain, but he was beyond pain—he was beyond caring. He staggered forward and the Weir flinched back, some fleeing into the night, gone like smoke.
He sensed a creature of magic in the dark waters of the pond. He could sense it approaching, could feel its thoughts reaching out to his mind hungrily. It was aware of him. It was lurking beneath the waters, all tentacles and sludge and iron sinews. Its thoughts were enormous, like some giant toad the size of a boulder. He could feel it creeping toward the group.
Hettie grabbed his shoulder, shaking him. He could not hear her words. The look in her eyes was desperate. She was trying to say something, pleading with him. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Why was she crying?
Annon turned and saw the others. They were illuminated by the fire raging in his hands, most gathered around Tyrus, each one clutching his outstretched arm. In Tyrus’s fist was the Tay al-Ard. Paedrin stared at Annon in shock, his eyes wide with desperation. He was nearby but he had not grabbed Tyrus’s arm yet. There was Prince Aran and Khiara looking at Annon with concern as well. Kiranrao’s expression was one of deep respect, but he also gripped Tyrus’s arm. So did Baylen. Why were they gathered around Tyrus?
He saw Phae. She pushed away from Shion and her father and approached him, shaking her head no.
Then he understood.
Tyrus had uttered the command to gather, that he was going to use the Tay al-Ard to flee that place and the approaching danger. Annon had not heard it. The others had gathered but Annon had not, lost in his revenge and his inability to hear through the water in his ears.
Annon let the fireblood go, taming its magic instantly, and he grabbed Hettie around the waist and pulled her with him toward Tyrus. Phae reached for Annon’s hand and all three rushed to join the others. Annon saw a spark of hope in Tyrus’s eyes. Together, they gathered around Tyrus, each one clinging to another. With Hettie included, Paedrin joined his hand too.
