by Terry Brooks
So he set off anew, following a trail of matted grasses and vague footprints, doing his best to stay alert for any indication of the danger he was up against. He moved more cautiously than before, stopping often to listen, calling on his vast experience to avoid detection, staying hidden within the mist. He had his favorite knife out—a long slender blade forged of carbon-infused steel rendered hard enough by fire and hammer to penetrate armor. It was the killing weapon he used most frequently, the blade he knew he could depend upon to stop anything.
Whatever he was up against, he assured himself, it wouldn’t be the equal of this blade and his skill at using it.
Even so, he remained uneasy. He still didn’t know what was out there, and he wasn’t used to that. As an assassin, he always made it a point to know his victims before he hunted them, to familiarize himself with their personal habits and to learn what to expect from them. None of that was possible here, and even the terrain in which he found himself was unfamiliar. Everything was working against him. He was seldom required to defend himself, but he thought it entirely probable that he would have to do so here.
Cymrian was crouched in the deep shadows of fog and trees when the mutants shouldered into view, big and menacing and dangerous beyond anything the Elven Hunter had ever encountered. He didn’t know what they were, but he knew at once he was no match for them in a straight-up fight. These were not creatures he could subdue or trick as he might other foes. They would have to be killed and killed quickly. His only hope was to isolate and eliminate them one by one.
He waited as they passed him, moving ahead into the trees, each separated from the others by perhaps ten or twelve feet as they hunted. They had his scent, but they didn’t yet know where he was; he could tell by the way they were hunting. When they were out of sight again, he left his hiding place and went after them. He followed at a safe distance, letting them stay well ahead. They were aggressive predators, but they did not have the look of forest creatures, and this was his country, not theirs.
When one of them fell slightly behind the others, he moved up on it swiftly. He had his short sword out, and he was on top of it before it knew he was there. With both hands locked around the handle, he swung the blade in a quick, hard arc. The creature’s head flew off and the rest of it collapsed in a heap. Cymrian was already moving, darting back into the gloom. But one of the others caught a glimpse of him and howled with rage.
The Elven Hunter fled, leaping and bounding through the scrub and deadwood, and still only barely managed to escape. His hunters were much quicker than they looked, and soon enough he could hear the sound of their ragged breathing. But he darted between the trunks of trees that were grown so close together that his much larger pursuers had to go around to get through. By then Cymrian was lost again in the concealment of the gloom.
He did not slow. The mutants were hunting him, and would track him until they caught him.
He angled away from where he had left Aphen and Arling, working his way through the trees while seeking a place to set an ambush. He had to find something quickly, because he suspected his hunters were much stronger and their endurance greater. He did not think for a moment that anything would turn them aside or draw their attention away from him. They would keep coming until he was dead.
He wondered about the origin of the things. He didn’t give a second thought to the possibility that they were creatures native to the region; the Elves would have encountered something this big and dangerous before now. Most likely they had come from the Federation warship, which suggested strongly they must have been brought along for the express purpose of hunting Aphen and Arling and had only focused on him when he attacked them. But who would want to do this? Who would be desperate enough to go to this much trouble to hunt down a pair of young women? Probably the same people who were behind the earlier attacks in Arborlon. Were they seeking to steal the blue Elfstones, or was there something more involved?
Without slowing, he vaulted into a tree whose branches were sufficiently low hanging that he could swing himself quickly into the cover of the foliage. He climbed from there—a rapid ascent that took him well into the forest canopy—and then he leapt to a second tree and from there to a third, their branches all closely linked. When he reached the third tree, he settled back to wait.
The mutants charged past moments later, still following his scent. But in their efforts to overtake him quickly, they were past his hiding place before they realized they had lost him. By then, he was back on the ground and coming on them from behind, a pair of long knives drawn. He heard them thrashing about just ahead, then suddenly they went silent.
Instantly he froze in place. There was no sound from ahead—or from any other direction.
They were waiting on him, he thought. They had realized what he was about and set an ambush. He hesitated, undecided. Going forward risked becoming trapped between them. Waiting risked losing any advantage he had gained.
He was still debating when he heard fresh sounds at his back—a slow creeping approach by someone coming up from behind.
No longer certain what was happening, he eased backward into the heavy brush, squirmed into a shallow depression amid the grasses, and settled down to wait.
Stoon was almost into the clearing before he sensed the other’s presence. It wasn’t smell or sound or movement that alerted him; it was instinct. He could feel the other—a kind of tingling of his nerve ends, warning him that someone was lying in wait. He stopped where he was and dropped into a crouch, making himself as small as he could manage and going completely still, wondering if it was too late, if he had been seen, if he was already a dead man. In this cat-and-mouse game, had he become the mouse?
But moments passed and nothing happened. So he began the process of discovering where his adversary was hiding. There was no question as to who it was. It was one of those his creatures were hunting—probably the women’s protector, the one with all the hunting and tracking skills, who was hiding just ahead of him. He tried to imagine what sort of cover the other would choose, how he would go about concealing himself, and what he was attempting to accomplish. He wondered, as well, where the remaining two mutants had gone. Surely they weren’t dead. If they were, he should turn around and get out of there as swiftly and silently as he could manage.
He put his senses to work, trying to gain some scrap of information, some clue as to what was happening.
Nothing.
He stayed where he was. Moving ahead now was suicide. If his adversary didn’t already know he was there—something he highly doubted—he would certainly know the moment Stoon moved even a few paces toward the break in the trees. This hunt had become a waiting game, and no one was better at waiting than Stoon. The advantage would go his way so long as he kept still and didn’t panic. If the Elf tried to move at this juncture, Stoon would hear him and know where he was. And that would be the end of this standoff.
But everything remained quiet. Suddenly there was a change in the light just off to his left—a slight drift of darkness in the dim haze light that appeared and faded in less than a second. It might have been the mist, but Stoon didn’t think so. He tightened his grip on his knife, which he held down by his side, ready for use. He shifted his eyes ever so slightly toward the change, holding the rest of his body perfectly still as he did so. There it was again, that small darkening. Its source came from somewhere back in the trees—a slight shading that, once again, might have been nothing more than the movement of the mist.
Stoon tensed for the expected attack, knife ready to slash upward and then cut down, eviscerating whatever came at him. He would have to be quick. He would have to be …
A second movement caught his eye, this one coming from the other side. It wasn’t a change in the light this time, but a movement of the brush that was windless and otherwise still. Something else was back there, and he was caught between them.
He stayed frozen in place a moment longer, trying to judge whether it was best to ease
farther backward or bolt forward toward freedom and fresh cover. He chose the latter, pressing himself even closer to the ground as he scooted slowly, silently back into the trees, eyes shifting left and right, trying to see everywhere at once.
But again, nothing revealed itself, and no sounds broke the stillness. He felt the heat of his anger rising in response to his frustration. He was going to put an end to this nonsense. He was finished with all of them—mutants and Elves alike—and they would all be dead and buried before he was done with this business and on his way back to Arishaig and his old life.
He was almost to the thickest of the shadows that clustered behind him when a sudden hush, a stilling of the air, made him pause.
Something was about to happen.
Cymrian was flattened against the earth, ready to spring up and attack, when everything abruptly went quiet. His hunters had sensed his presence. He waited several minutes to make certain they had quit advancing, and when there were still no further noises or hints of movement, he decided not to wait any longer. Staying low to the ground, he began to inch his way backward into the trees, having already chosen a position that would be difficult for a pursuer to reach without becoming exposed. He assumed this would not be something his hunters would want to risk, so he kept retreating until he was completely layered in shadow, the mist so thick that it hung directly over him in an impenetrable blanket. He could see nothing of what was out there, but was content to rely on his other senses as he waited to see what would happen.
Then something moved off to his other side—a second presence, very likely one of the creatures he had been tracking earlier. The momentary sound of its approach was so faint, he almost missed hearing it—the barest scrape of a passage through dry leaves. He froze, but the sound was lost in the heavy brume, its exact location impossible to pinpoint. The most he could determine was that it was off to his right, while the earlier sound had come from his left. He was caught between two stalkers, and he could not be certain how close either was.
Give her whatever time you can, he told himself, thinking of Aphenglow. At least enough time to save Arling.
He knew he was in trouble. There were at least three of them, two of them mutants, the other an unknown. Good odds if the latter was a normal man, even one possessing skill and experience. Bad odds if he was subhuman or worse. He had to assume the latter, having seen close-up the mutant he had killed. He had been lucky with that one. He had caught it unawares and dispatched it quickly, but he could not expect such luck a second time. With creatures of this sort, all it took was a single mistake and they would have you.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He would have to choose which of the two closing in on him he would try to disable first.
He chose the mutant.
Turning in that direction, he began to creep forward through the haze, pausing every few seconds to listen, waiting for some small movement or sound that would give away his adversary’s position. He had the short sword gripped in his right hand, ready to use. His mind was calm and his heart quiet. He was wary, but not afraid. He believed himself ready to do what was needed, and he did not for a moment believe he was going to die.
He never believed that.
Steady.
Listen.
He heard the sound of breathing almost right in front of him—a rough exhalation as the creature paused in its hunt. He waited only a moment, then launched himself through the haze in a blind attack. Sword lifted, gripped in both hands, he rushed his invisible enemy and went right past him. He caught sight of the creature as he flew by, but it was too late. It had shifted its position just enough so that he was left swinging at empty air. He whipped back around, but by then the mutant was ready for him, armored forearms raised, its huge ax ready to cut him in half.
Cymrian feinted left, drew the swing of the ax toward his head, and rolled right, tumbling past, but leaving the short sword buried in the creature’s exposed side. The beast roared in fury, kicking out at him, then wheeled to follow, the ax still swinging. Cymrian came back to his feet, fresh blades in both hands. He sidestepped the ax and left a second blade buried in the other side of the creature’s thick body.
He was swinging back around for a fresh attack when the second mutant materialized out of the misted tangle of trees, a juggernaut bearing down on him. He threw himself aside as the creature’s arms sought to entangle him, slipping clear just as a flash of steel flew by his head, out of nowhere.
The mutant roared and twisted violently as a blade buried itself deep in its neck, sending it to its knees as if it were a puppet whose strings had been severed.
A second later Cymrian, still confused about what was happening, felt a blow to his back, about shoulder-high, followed by excruciating pain, and he fell to his knees.
Stoon had come out of hiding the moment he heard the struggle begin, charging into the fog without hesitating, seeing a chance to put an end to the hunt. He could hear the sounds of weapons clashing, of grunts and gasps, of bodies thrashing in the woods. It would be the Elf and one or both of the mutants, tearing at each other.
If he moved quickly enough, he realized, he would have an opportunity to see them all dispatched.
The mist had grown thicker and was shifting in a slow clockwise motion, giving the impression that the whole world was fluid and unsteady, but the assassin never slowed, homing in on the struggle. He came on it quickly enough, finding the Elf facing off against one of the mutants, blades in both hands, sidestepping the other’s ax with a combination of speed and agility that spoke of skill and experience Stoon didn’t care to test.
Instead he unsheathed a throwing knife. Weaken the Elf and the mutant would finish him quickly enough. Then he could decide what to do about the mutant. He waited only a moment, searching for an opening, the throwing knife balanced between his fingers. Then the second mutant appeared, rushing in to join the fray. The Elf spun clear as it reached for him—a clear opening for Stoon—and without hesitation the assassin hurled his blade.
But the combatants shifted unexpectedly at the last moment, and his knife struck the mutant instead.
He did not pause. A mistake was a mistake. There was no fixing it now. A second knife was in his hand instantly. This time he was more successful. The blade buried itself in the Elf’s back, causing him to stagger and drop to his knees. When he tried to rise, Stoon sent a second blade to join the first, and the Elf collapsed in a heap.
Stoon moved forward, wanting to get close enough to finish the job. But the mutant he had mistakenly struck with his first blade was back on its feet and lumbering toward him, its huge body jerking and twisting as it sought to regain control of muscles that no longer worked properly. Its eyes were bright with hatred as they fastened on Stoon, and there was no mistaking what it intended. Whatever control he had enjoyed over this monster before, whatever loyalty Edinja had instilled in it, was gone.
He glanced quickly at the Elf. He was back on his knees, he saw, and the second mutant was closing. It was over.
He shifted his attention to the mutant coming for him, drew out a heavy hunting knife, and held his ground. When the mutant was close enough, Stoon feinted and darted inside the creature’s arms and thrust the hunting knife up through the beast’s jaw and into its skull. The mutant collapsed, dead before it struck the ground.
But by taking time to dispatch the creature, he had been forced to shift his attention away from the Elf. Somehow he had risen to his feet. He was every bit as proficient as Stoon with a knife, and his arm was a blur of motion as he flung his blade at the assassin and caught him in the chest. The force of the blow knocked Stoon backward, and he tumbled to the ground.
He had just enough time to realize that the final mutant had shifted its attention back to him—either because of what it had seen him do to its companion or because the blood pouring from its wounds had disoriented it—before it was on him.
Cymrian watched as the man tumbled backward, the blade buried in his ches
t, his eyes wide with shock and pain. The Elven Hunter was on his feet again, fighting to remain conscious, to stave off the effects of his own injuries, knowing he needed to ignore the pain and the ebbing of his strength if he was to have any chance at all. He saw the remaining mutant close on the man, take him by the neck, and shake him. He had a fresh blade out by then, aware that he was down to his last few, and he flung the knife at the mutant with as much force as he could muster. His aim was true, and the blade caught the beast in the neck, severing vital arteries and cords. The beast hunched over and released its grip on the man, who flopped backward like a rag doll.
Cymrian was already attacking, short sword in hand, swinging for the creature’s head. But he was unsteady on his feet, and the mutant blocked his effort and backhanded the Elf with such force that it knocked Cymrian all the way across the little clearing and left him lying dazed and helpless. He watched as the creature tried to rise and then fell back, jerked once, and lay still.
Everything had gone quiet. No one was moving. The clearing was stained with blood and littered with bodies. In the trees, the heavy mists continued to swirl and the shadows to glide.
Then Cymrian saw the man across the clearing roll onto his side, his eyes finding the Elf and fixing on him. A knife appeared in one hand, drawn out from beneath his dark clothing. Cymrian tried to move, but his body would no longer obey him. Whatever damage he had sustained, it had left him helpless.
He watched with grim acceptance as the man began to drag his broken body across the clearing to reach him, the knife gleaming.
28
Aphenglow raced through the forest toward the sounds of the battle, knowing that she would never forgive herself if Cymrian’s efforts on her behalf cost him his life. She shouldn’t have let him go. She should have made him wait until she was finished working on Arling. There would have been time enough then. Their enemies wouldn’t have reached them that quickly.
