by Jacobs Delle
“Close your eyes and open your mind. See what is in your heart.”
What had the old woman meant? He had closed off his heart for so many years he hardly knew he had one.
With a heavy sigh, he dismounted at a rapidly rushing river and let his horse drink while he scooped up water for himself. He stood to survey the area, looking for signs. She could not have easily crossed the river, which had narrowed and was mercilessly swift and jagged with boulders. But it flowed east toward the sea, in the direction of Alnwick. He let his mind wander for a while, drifting away from his concentration on the search back to the strange things Rufus had told him.
What was she, then? Did Rufus mean there was a race of men apart from common folk? Or were they not human at all? Could they be demons, and Rufus was wrong about their intent? For a truth, he knew demons existed. And he knew for himself of evil sorcerers.
But he also knew in his heart Leonie was not evil.
Where are you, Leonie? Do not hide from me.
He hungered for her. But he could get no real sense of her. It was as if the sense, or essence, that had been leading him had become blocked. As if she blocked it. He could not blame her. He was the one who had chased her into danger. He barely cared about Rufus’s great fear for the kingdom, and even less for his own life, if only he might find her and bring her back safely.
The one thing that was sure was what Rufus would do. Rufus was not a man for torture—most of the time. Likely the ending would be swift.
And so he waited. Waited for the sense. He sat, leaning against the rough bark of a pine, his eyes closed, waiting. His bones ached with weariness, for he had slept very little for weeks. But no matter how much his body begged for sleep, he could not let it. His mind would not let it.
Leonie, where are you? his heart begged.
“Help! Someone help me!”
Philippe jerked out of his reverie and jumped to his feet, homing in on the sound. Nay—not a sound. It was the sense again, but so strong in his head he thought he’d heard it. With a sharp whistle, he called Tonerre while he tossed aside the last crust of his bread. He launched himself into the saddle and spurred the horse to action.
East. Downstream, into the thick of the forest. But there was no path, and the undergrowth quickly became too dense for the horse. He dismounted and left Tonerre, drawing his sword to slash at the brush in his way. He could hear the sounds of a skirmish now, as he forced himself over shrubs and rough ground, around thick trees, up the steep sides of the river’s valley.
At the top of the ravine, trees and undergrowth gave way to broad, undulating ground dotted with scrubby heather and gorse. A shrill scream cut through the air, sending fear slashing into his spine. It was that inhuman sound he’d heard in the forest near Brodin. His heart racing, he sped across the rocky ground toward the clashing and shouting.
Leonie’s voice carried over the others, harsh and fierce, and he ran even faster down the far slope. Beyond a stand of alders, he saw thrashing movement. On he ran, his thoughts shouting in his head.
“Hang on, Leonie! I’m coming!”
“Find my bow!”
“Where?”
“The big beech tree. On the hill!”
He spotted the tree ahead of him, to the right. He scrambled over the rocks, jumped a narrow streamlet, and climbed to where the lone beech stood. The ivorywood bow lay on the ground, still strung. The quiver dangled upside down on a low, scrubby bush, the arrows tossed and scattered. He grabbed what he could as he ran, his eyes focused on the brutal sounds coming from beyond the stand of alders.
“Shoot!”
“Shoot where?”
“At me.”
“Where? I can’t see you.”
“Shoot!”
“I might hit you!”
“Do as I say!”
God and the saints help him. His own words. Philippe gulped down fear for her and let that unknown sense guide him. He aimed the bow upward, aimed at what he did not know beyond the top of the hill, and loosed it to fly to where he could only pray was not her heart.
Was this the way she would die at his hand? He kept running and topped the rise.
Something—it was not human—dropped Leonie from its grasp and toppled to the ground as the arrow struck. For a brief instant, it lay on the ground, then crumbled to dust. Tall, skeleton-like creatures, more bone than flesh, their garments like faded flags tattered in a storm. Were they the creatures de Mowbray had called bone demons? One of the hideous things lunged for her as she bent to grasp the sword of the one that had fallen. She slashed behind her, turning in the action to catch the creature across the bare bones it used for legs.
He caught the flash of her eyes as she spotted him, but she fought like a battle-hardened knight, swinging a huge sword far too heavy for such a slight maiden.
“Shoot!”
“Duck!”
“Aim at me! Do as I say!”
He uttered prayers to every saint he knew as he shot the arrow to the sky, then immediately started running again.
His heart trembled as the arrow flew toward her. Then it veered away and curved back again, then thunked into the bony skull of one of the things just as it snatched her around the chest from behind.
He stopped. Wishing he had taken the time to learn her trick of shooting many arrows quickly, he launched one after another into the air toward the monsters. It seemed not to matter where he aimed, for each one found its enemy in either chest or head. The last arrow gone, he drew his sword and ran again, his battle cry of fury scorching the air.
Leonie broke free of the fiends and ran toward him. He pointed toward the ravine behind him. She sped past him, snatching her bow and thrusting it over her arm onto her shoulder. As she ran, she lifted her open hand in the air, and the arrows and quiver came to her. He raced behind her, keeping an eye on the regathering creatures behind them. He estimated they had killed nearly a dozen of the things, but at least that many followed them now.
She was breathing hard but didn’t slow as she followed the trail he had blazed through the underbrush. So did the things coming up behind them.
“That’s what attacked me in Brodin wood,” she gasped out over her shoulder to him.
“You’ve remembered?”
“I think—everything. They must be the gholins.” She paused at the precipice, searching for the path down.
“Over there,” he said, pointing to the way he had come up. “My horse should be down there.”
“Not anymore. They have him.”
They came to a halt at the edge of a rocky bluff above the raging river. Below and upstream near the narrow bank, the bony creatures surrounded his magnificent steed as it reared and bucked against them. More of the fiends descended the hill behind them. Philippe blew an earsplitting whistle. Tonerre reared, screaming, bucking viciously and trampling any creature unlucky enough to be too close. He broke loose and ran. But in the wrong direction.
“Well, at least they won’t get him,” Leonie said, still gasping for breath.
“Can you swim?” he asked. The cliff wasn’t all that high, and the water looked to be deep and clear of dangerous rocks.
“Admirably. But are you daft? You’re wearing mail.”
“Trust me. I’ve done it.”
She frowned suspiciously but looked back at the advancing horde. “It can’t be done.”
“If I say I’ve done it, then I’ve done it,” he shouted. “Jump!”
With a hearty yell, Leonie flung herself over the cliff. Philippe sheathed his sword and followed.
He hit the icy water immediately after her. The weight of his mail carried him deep into the darkest water, to touch bottom before he could begin to fight toward the surface. The current pulled him down, away, everything but up. He forced all his strength into his arms to pull against the weighty iron as he struggled toward the light above.
Something touched him. A hand. She was pulling on him. She must have dived back under for him. Fierce
ly he stroked against the raging water. His lungs felt like they were going to burst. The cool blue light appeared above. He fought his way up and broke the surface. The weight of the mail pulled him downward while his arms pushed to keep his head above the rush of water.
She popped up into the air beside him. “I thought you said you could swim with it.”
He coughed and sucked in the precious air. “I can. It’s going in that’s hard.”
“Rocks!” she shouted, grabbing his mail at the sleeve and pulling him. “Watch out!”
Too late, he banged against a huge, dark boulder, knocking out his breath. Close by, the water turned milk white, frothing as it raged through a narrow channel, a strid between the boulders, so constricted it forced the water through it faster than an arrow shot. If it dragged him into its power, it would tear him apart.
“Get out of the water, Leonie! Don’t let it suck you into that!” He braced himself with his feet and arms against the rock, struggling against the mighty flow.
“Not without you!”
“Do as I say!”
“Some other time!” She climbed upward. Then something pulled on him, a force counter to the powerful current. She could barely hold on to him, but the effort gave him just enough purchase to push himself higher out of the water and drag himself out of the torrent’s power onto dry rock. His chest heaved as if he’d been in a battle with death for hours. Every corner of his body felt bruised.
Leonie collapsed on the massive boulder beside him.
“The mail has to go,” she said.
“We don’t have time. They’ll be down on us before we can get it off. Where are they?”
“Across the river. We were carried to the other side, and they don’t seem to want to try the water.”
“That sounds intelligent of them.”
“Trust me, they aren’t. There is some sort of creature who commands them, but they aren’t all that hard to fight. It’s the thing that commands them I’d worry about.” She pointed. Philippe shook his dripping hair out of his eyes and trained them on the far bank.
It looked like a man. It was the right size. But it sat upon its horse, completely clothed in a black cloak with a large, concealing black hood.
“What is it?”
She shook her head. “I only know it has no face.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A THICK KNOT formed in Leonie’s throat. The black cloak swirled around the thing as it dismounted from its restless black horse and strode toward the jumble of rocks on the far side of the strid. It had no eyes, yet she could feel its vile gaze fixed on her.
The entire flow of the river was forced into the very narrow channel. There were rumors about men who dared to jump the strid but missed and were torn apart by the fierce current. But she had no idea what this creature might be able to do.
Instinctively, Philippe jumped to his feet, his hand reaching for his side but finding only empty air. “My sword. It’s gone.”
“Which makes running a good thought,” she replied.
“We need it. I can’t defend us without it.”
“Too late. You probably lost it when we jumped in the water.”
“Nay, I felt it moments ago. It’s close by.” Urgently, he tried to peer into the frothing water near the strid.
“Come on, run!”
“You run. I have to find it!”
“In the water? You’re daft!” But he was also right. Well, there was little sense in pretending she was just a human now. Leonie stretched her arm out over the water and let her senses call the sword, hoping it would respond. She turned her hand palm up. Would it come? She begged for it in her mind.
Out in the deep water, something stirred. With the force of an arrow, the sword shot up, point first, and came to rest on the fast-flowing surface, floating—nay, moving faster than the current!—in their direction with the current.
“God be merciful,” he said. “Swords can’t float.”
She blinked. Her concentration failed her. The sword sank. Leonie slapped her hands against her temples. “Oh, do pardon me, adoring husband,” she sneered. “I forgot.”
“Leonie, stop that!”
“Make up your mind, brave spouse. This is hard.” Turning her palms toward the sky, she tried again, and the sword, still riding with the current, resurfaced. Her fingers beckoned, and it sped toward her.
Philippe stepped into the water and snatched it up, broken belt, scabbard, and all. The fiend in black was starting across the rocks with an assurance that told her it could make the jump over the strid.
“Run, Leonie!” Philippe shouted. “Get up there to that cave.”
Frowning, she looked at the cliff behind them, which had probably been the cause of the jumble of rocks that stretched across the river. “What cave?”
“The cave in the cliff. Go!” He had his sword drawn and his feet planted wide, which said he stood for a fight, guarding her while she ran.
He really was daft! “There’s no cave! We’d just get trapped in one anyway.”
“Up at the top of that rockfall. There’s light coming through, so there has to be a way out. Go!”
The thing picked its footing, moving from one rock to another, sidling around larger boulders. Getting closer.
But if she could call Philippe’s sword...and the arrows...
“Haps I’ll just steal his sword,” she suggested. Well, why not try? She held out her hand as she had done before and called to the sheathed sword at the fiend’s side.
The black-clad creature stopped. Whatever it was, it focused on her. She wavered, stepping back. It drew the sword and pointed the weapon at her. Blue and red lightning streaks streamed through midair and slammed into her chest. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Not even the muscles of her face could release a scream. Its earthquake-like evil laugh convulsed through her.
“It’s a sorcerer! Run, Leonie.”
She couldn’t even move. Her lungs were burning, fierily demanding breath she couldn’t draw.
Philippe leaped in front of her, his huge body like a giant shield, braced and ready for battle.
The power that had imprisoned her broke abruptly. Blocked. Philippe’s enormous body stopped it. But it would kill him!
The long streams of blue and red light bounced off him like sunlight reflecting from highly polished steel, back to the creature, knocking it backward. It stumbled, barely saving itself from tumbling into the swift water.
“Run, Leonie!”
She was so glad to move she would have willingly jumped over the cliff into the river again. She scrambled up the scree slope with Philippe at her back, goading her onward. But she still couldn’t see a cave. Did he see some shadow and think it was a cave? They were heading into a trap. Every time she slowed down or looked back, he prodded her on.
“Go! Go!” he shouted.
At the top of the scree slope, she put her hands against a solid, nearly vertical rock face. She could climb no farther and the top of the cliff was still beyond their reach.
“What are you waiting for? Get in there!”
“There’s nothing here but solid rock!”
With an impatient glower, Philippe stepped past her. Into the rock. She couldn’t even gasp before his hand shot out from the rock, grabbed her arm, and pulled her through it. Her Faerie vision began to glow, but there was no space around them. They were inside rock!
Merciful saints, if I am Faerie, what is he?
“Shh.” Philippe propped the scabbard against a rock that was there yet was not, its broken belt dangling, drawn sword in his hand, waiting. He seemed to think they were safely hidden against a cave wall. But they weren’t.
Haps it might be better if she thought of things his way. Although being one with a rock wasn’t that appealing to her, he didn’t seem to mind.
But she could see outside the rock, or cave, or whatever, to the creature working its way up the scree of fallen rock. Could it also go through rock?
P
hilippe reached behind him to touch her, a reassuring touch that also commanded her to stay back against the so-called wall. Best to let him manage things here, since she had no notion what was going on.
With its feet placed broadly on the jagged rock, the creature in the black cloak turned its empty face at them. It knew where they were. Once again drawing its sword, it tested the outer surface, clanging the blade lightly against it, and it rang like a bell.
The beast tipped its hooded head back, showing only black emptiness where a face should be. A roar meant to shake the earth split the air. The beast pounded the hilt’s pommel against the rock, up, down, around in circles, but the rock only echoed back its solidity.
With a growl, the creature grasped the sword’s hilt and sheathed the weapon, for the first time baring the hilt to view.
A silver snake wound around the black leather, terminating at the pommel in a menacing head with tiny ruby eyes. She’d seen it before.
“Fulk!” she whispered.
The being turned as if it heard. Philippe touched fingers to her lips. She understood she’d made a mistake.
The fiend grasped the sword at the hilt, baring the grip. The silver snake uncoiled from the grip, growing as it moved through the air, toward the rock face. The spoon-shaped head blackened, and eyes like burning embers in a hot fire searched as the head wove back and forth before the rock, seeking its prey. It fixed on Leonie, and its enormous maw gaped, baring sharp fangs as it hissed.
The snake struck faster than lightning. Leonie leaped back. But it hit the stone wall of the cliff. It retreated, shrank, and recoiled about the hilt.
Enraged, the faceless being pounded its black-gloved fist on the cliff wall. But the rock face held firm. Nothing seemed to be working for the malevolent creature. Fulk—or the fiend that had Fulk’s sword—could not reach them.
At last it slammed the sword into its scabbard and climbed down the cliff in the direction of the river.
