Swinging the blade sideways, more like a paddle than a blade, the creature swatted the nearest man onto his back. The prisoner raised his arms to ward off the next strike, but the creature threw the blade aside—with such strength that one of the Nar acolytes standing on the rim had to jump out of the way—and leaped on the man. It reminded Guric of the time he’d seen one of the local tundra tigers take down a swiftstag.
Guric looked away, but he could still hear the man screaming as if he were being flayed.
“Forgive me, my lord,” said Argalath, “but you should see this.”
Guric clamped his jaw shut, took a deep breath through his nose, and looked up. The man was quite dead, his head hanging limply from the remains of his savaged neck. The creature standing over him—still chewing, Guric noticed with a grimace—was black with blood from his face down to his waist. But even as Guric watched, the creature’s grievous wound closed. A stunned silence had filled the room so that Guric was able to hear the broken bone snap back into place.
“You see,” said Argalath, “the spirits inside are able to keep their bodies alive by feeding on living flesh. They can heal from the most savage wounds—though the greater the wound the more … um …”
“Food?”
“Very good, my lord. The more food required to repair the damage.”
The four remaining prisoners—one of them now weaponless—were not fools. They saw the hopelessness of their cause. All it took was one to make the first move—turning and charging the rim in hopes of escape—and his fellows followed. Each chose a different spot to try to escape, but each met with the same fate. One of Argalath’s monsters simply grabbed the man and tossed him back into the bowl.
Guric did not need to see the rest. He turned his back on his counselor and walked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE SUN WOULD BE DOWN SOON. KADRIGUL CURSED his luck. After the fight with the tundra tigers and whatever those little monsters were—a fight in which he’d lost almost half his Nar—it had taken the survivors most of the day to regroup and find their mounts. He supposed it was a small blessing that those Creel who survived the fight had fled the scene. Had they seen what Soran had done in order to heal his wounds, Kadrigul never would have been able to rally them again. As it was, they’d crept back like beaten dogs, skittish and uncertain.
They’d followed Hweilan’s trail yesterday, deeper and deeper into the mountains, until it was too dark to see. They made a cold camp where they stopped. Back at it at first light, and now with the day dying around them, they still hadn’t found her.
Not long after finding the trail yesterday, the two sets of tracks they’d been following had been overtaken by many others—tundra tigers, and the smaller, stranger tracks that even the Creel could not identify. It was obvious that Hweilan and whoever was with her had been captured. It went a long way to explaining why Soran could no longer sense the girl. If she had been killed …
But by whom?
The Creel were frightened to the point of breaking. They held these hills in a superstitious dread, and fighting the tigers and those little hunters had pushed their loyalty to its bounds. The only thing keeping them here now was that they were still more afraid of Soran and Kadrigul than whatever might be lurking in the hills.
If the girl had been killed, whoever had done it had left no trace of a body. Tigers might have eaten most of a dead body. They might even have broken the bones to get at the marrow, but they would have left the bones. There would have been signs. And Soran and Kadrigul had found none.
The sun slipped behind the mountains as their company left the treeline. They were in a high, rocky country now, walking in mountain twilight, sometimes passing beside deep ravines or under high cliffs. The thick snowfall made following their quarry easy, but it also hid rocks and cracks in the ground. They could not run the horses for fear of breaking a leg.
Their company skirted the edge of a bare, snow-covered hill, the heights of the Giantspires looming beyond. The Creel snaked out in a long line behind him, every man leading his horse. Soran was just ahead, dragging his mount behind him. He’d taken the lead early that morning, and Kadrigul let him have it. The Creel seemed more than eager to put as much distance between themselves and Soran as Kadrigul would allow.
There was a silent sharpness to the air that raised Kadrigul’s hackles. He took his scabbard from where it hung off his saddle, slid it under his belt, then loosened the knot on his cloak so that he could throw it off quickly if need be.
They continued on, rounding the shoulder of the hill. Below them, in a round hollow between the hill and the next, were a jumble of shapes that at first glance Kadrigul thought was some sort of building, long fallen to ruin. The trail they followed headed in that direction.
As they grew closer, he saw it wasn’t a ruin at all, but a series of standing stones, some fallen at haphazard angles.
When they closed to within a hundred feet or so, he saw that he’d been wrong yet again. If the shapes were standing stones, they were like none he’d ever seen before. They looked more like broken shards of ice thrust up from the ground. Some almost straight up, but most at varying angles, no two seemingly alike, and in no discernible pattern that he could see. The bases of most were far enough apart that three men could have walked between them, side by side, but the way many leaned past one another formed odd pathways, some open to the sky, and some covered by leaning pillars of ice.
Soran stopped in front of the nearest, its pinnacle leaning over him.
Kadrigul stopped behind him. “What is it?”
“I do not know,” said Soran, no emotion in his voice whatsoever. His gaze seemed to strain at the deep blue shadows between the great shards, and his nostrils flared as he took in a great lungful of air. But Kadrigul could see it was an effort for him to do so. It wouldn’t be long now.
“Anything?” said Kadrigul.
“She was here.”
“But no longer?”
Soran gave a strong wrench on his mount’s reins and began pacing around the structure, circling it.
Shifting his own horse’s reins from one hand to the other, Kadrigul turned to the Creel, who had stopped several feet away. They were staring at the strange structure, and Kadrigul saw one of them clutching some sort of talisman.
“You men,” he called in their own tongue, “do you know this place?”
“No, lord,” said one of them.
One of the Creel in the back of the group called out, “We must leave this unclean place!”
The first said, “It is getting dark, lord. Should we not find a place to camp for the night? Some place else?”
Kadrigul looked up. The eastern sky, mantling the arm of the mountains as it stretched out onto the steppe, was already a muted purple, and the first stars peeked out. The western sky, where the mountains piled up against the sky, still held a blue glow of evening. Even if they left now, they wouldn’t get far before full night fell, and the breeze off the mountains was getting colder by the moment.
“We’ll camp here,” Kadrigul told the Creel. “Get the tents up and sort out the last of the fuel. We’ll need a fire tonight. Picket the horses nearby. They’ll need the warmth as well.”
None of the Creel moved, other than to exchange nervous glances.
“We can’t sleep here, my lord,” one said.
Kadrigul walked over to them, leading his horse behind. He walked up to the Creel who had been doing most of the talking. He didn’t get too close. Kadrigul wasn’t one of those blustering fools who counted on intimidation to win his fights. He acted or didn’t. If he did, better let it come as a surprise.
“And why is that?” he asked. He pitched his voice for all to hear, but he kept his gaze on the nearest man.
“L-look at this place, my lord.” The man pointed at the structure. “That … not right. Not natural. We’ve come too close as it is. The girl isn’t here, lord! This place is lakhôt!”
Kadrigul wasn’t sur
e of the exact meaning there. Unholy perhaps, though not in the way most thought of it. Many of the Creel had returned to their ancestors’ devil worship and demon binding, so the concept of holy was not really in their thinking. Lakhôt meant something older, some other than mortal men—and best left alone.
He pulled his left glove off with his teeth and was about to reach for his sword—perhaps killing this mouthy one would put the rest back in line—when he heard hoofbeats. They all turned to see Soran coming around from the opposite side of the structure from which he’d departed. He was riding his horse now, the great beast billowing out clouds of steam in the cold. Soran had a tight hold on the reins, but he rode hunched over, as if wounded or sick. Kadrigul knew it wouldn’t be long now. Better to leave all the Creel alive in case they were needed for other purposes.
“You’ve found something?” Kadrigul called.
Soran pulled up beside the Creel and stopped his mount just in time. He looked down at Kadrigul and said, “Their trail leads into that structure. It doesn’t come out again. Whoever took the girl took her in there and didn’t come out again.”
“Then in we go,” said Kadrigul.
“My lord, please!” said the Creel. “At least wait for the sun. Please, I beg you.”
“We look now,” said Kadrigul. “She’s in there, or she isn’t. Either way, our hunt ends here tonight. If she isn’t there, we head home with the sun.”
“You swear?”
Kadrigul ground his teeth.
“Come,” he said. “It shouldn’t take long. But we’ll need light”
Weaving through the leaning shards of ice, the horses would have been more hindrance than help, so Kadrigul chose two of the Creel to stay behind with their horses and supplies. The other five, three holding torches, gathered with Kadrigul and Soran at the edge of the structure.
Soran led the way, plunging in without a torch. Kadrigul drew his sword and motioned the Creel after him.
The boldest of them licked his lips and said, “After you, my lord.”
“You men get in there now,” said Kadrigul, “or I’ll have Soran come back and hold two of you by the neck. Which two will it be?”
The men exchanged nervous glances, and every one of them either looked at Kadrigul’s naked blade—or pointedly did not look. One of the torch bearers said, “Sooner in, sooner out,” and plunged in after Soran. The others followed, and Kadrigul came after.
He prodded the rearmost man with the point of his sword and said loud for all of them, “Catch up with Soran.”
The trail was easy enough to follow. Most places inside the structure were still open to the sky, and snow lay thick on the ground.
“Ai, lakhôt!” one of the men ahead said. The others stopped and stood in a tight group. The path was just wide enough for all of them to gather. Kadrigul saw why. The light from their torches hit the great shards of ice and refracted back in dozens of colors. In the thicker parts of the ice—and this close, Kadrigul was no longer certain it even was ice—the light seemed to catch, spark, and glimmer in tiny motes at times very deep within the shards, and at other times just below the surface.
“What is it?” said another.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Kadrigul. “Move along. Quickly!”
The men looked at one another. The one who had called out was trembling with fear. He placed a hand on the hilt of his knife.
“Soran!” Kadrigul called.
That got them moving again, though all of them had hands on weapons now.
Paths veered off in every direction between the shards. Three times out of four, they veered left at one of these branches. The trail remained clear, but they still hadn’t caught up to Soran.
Night fell outside, and as darkness pressed in, the glow from their three torches seemed all the brighter, refracting off snow and shards in a dozen shades of blue, green, and red. Gold, silver, and bright white flared in the depths of the shards. At least two of the men muttered frightened prayers.
The Creel with the torch leading the way stopped again. He turned to look past his companions to Kadrigul. There was no insolence or rebellion in his face. Just fear. “Shouldn’t we have come to the other side by now?”
Kadrigul remembered seeing the structure from the hillside above and how Soran had circled it on horseback in a short time. The man was right. They should have come out by now. Even the few forks in the path had not bent them around enough to walk in a circle. Something was wrong.
“Keep going,” he told them.
The man who had spoken looked to the other Creel. The others all seemed to look to the man nearest Kadrigul, the one holding the other torch. He swallowed and stood straight. “No, my lord. We go no further. This is madness.”
Kadrigul swept his sword out and forward in an arc aimed for the man’s belly, but he was ready for it and jumped back. Kadrigul’s blade glanced off the wall in a small shower of blue sparks.
All the Creel had swords drawn now. They fanned across the path three across, with the two torchbearers behind.
“Please lord!” their leader called out. “Not this! I beg you. We mean no disrespect. But this … this is madness. This is no place for men. Can you not feel it?”
The wind had picked up. Not strong, but a good steady breeze. As it cut its way through the shards, the entire structure whistled, and damned if Kadrigul couldn’t hear a music in it—a soft, sad song, almost a lament, that sang of cold and ice and the darkness between the stars.
“We go on,” Kadrigul said.
“Please, lord …”
The man in front of him, the only one holding his sword with a steady hand, dropped his eyes and said, “Please.”
Kadrigul heard a swiiisht, like someone swinging a green twig through the air, then one of the torchbearers fell backward screaming. His torch went down fire first into the snow and snuffed out in a small cloud of hissing steam.
The other Creel screamed and leaped away. Kadrigul saw something long, thin, and dark wrapped around him, snaking across one shoulder near his neck then under the opposite arm. Curved thorns, some half as long as a man’s finger, sprouted from it, shredding the Creel’s thick clothes and biting into the flesh beneath.
Kadrigul’s gaze followed the line of the vine through the snow beyond. Just where the light from the last torch and glowing shards ended, Kadrigul saw a small figure, no taller than a halfling, but scantily dressed in strips of fur and leather. One of the hunters that had attacked them in the hills. It held the vine in gloved fists and watched them through eyes that glowed with a feral light. A long cap festooned with bones and feathers dangled from one shoulder. The creature saw Kadrigul watching him, then hissed, dropped the vine, and fled back into the dark. But rather than going slack, the vine tightened.
The Creel screamed in agony, his cries drowning out those of his terrified companions, as he was dragged away into the dark, leaving a trail of bloody snow behind him. There was no way such a little creature as that hunter could pull away a full-grown man. Something else was in the dark.
The roar of a tiger hit them, so loud that Kadrigul felt his teeth rattle.
Still screaming, the Creel scattered, two heading off together down a side path, one going down another, and the remaining torchbearer bounding past Kadrigul. He let him go. The more distractions the better.
But the man had taken the light with him.
Kadrigul was alone in the dark.
Kadrigul had lived most of his life in the far north, in lands where summer came colder than most winters in southern lands. In winter, night could last for months. To stay alive, to thrive in lands that would kill even the hardiest of Nar, his people had learned to survive the cold and hunt the dark.
Once his eyes adjusted, he found that he could see quite well. In this high country, the stars seemed very close, and their stark light reflected off the snow and the great shards that thrust up from the ground like fallen watchtowers. It was the shadows between that gave him pause.
Kadrigul rounded a corner and saw that the snow in front of him was scattered all the way across the path and stained dark. Steam rose from it. Blood. He could smell it. Pushed up against the bottom of one of the shards was a wet, grayish pile that, by the smell, Kadrigul knew were entrails. But no body.
One set of tracks continued beyond. Two other pathways led off to either side, but there were no tracks. The snow was pure and untouched.
Kadrigul heard a skittering overhead and looked up. He saw a dark shape against the sky, a quick glimpse of two glowing eyes, and then they shot out of sight.
He leaped over the blood—no sense in picking up its scent—and took the left path, his feet trudging through the unbroken snow.
He took the first path to the left he found, then two more to the right, hoping to throw off pursuit but still moving away from where the first Creel had been taken.
Kadrigul sheathed his sword and went to the shard leaning at the greatest angle. He went to the back of it and tried to climb. No luck. It was dry as bone, but slick. He could make it no more than a few feet off the ground before sliding back down.
A tiger roared. Kadrigul froze. It was some distance away, but still loud enough that he could feel the shard vibrating under his hands. It was the deep, bone-rattling roar that tigers used to stun their enemies. It roared again, but this time the roar ended in a fierce growl. The tiger had caught whatever it was after. Time to move.
Kadrigul forsook the path and began to weave through the shards themselves, but he soon regretted his decision. In places, the bases of the shards ran together at odd angles, making it hard to find proper footing. In open ground between them, the snow was often knee deep. Either way, he’d be at a disadvantage if it came to a fight.
Chosen of Nendawen Book 001 - The Fall of Highwatch Page 19
