In her sewn buckskin leathers and oiled cloak, she made little noise as she climbed, bounding up the uneven trail with supple ease. As the mouth of the cave neared, she loosened the knife in its sheath at her side, and one sun-browned hand snaked over her shoulder to draw an arrow with a wicked curve-bladed head and nock it to her bow. From afar, she had seen the riders depart the cave and enter the forest this morning, but precautions were justified given the dangerous nature of her quarry coupled with the other foul creatures crawling about the countryside.
She darted into the cave and dropped into a crouch just inside. The sunlight did not penetrate far, and she gave her eyes time to adjust to the gloom. Once the darkness yielded its secrets to her, she rose and padded further inside. The cave was deep but empty, an ideal location to camp in hostile country. She wondered if they would revisit it on the return trip-if they returned at all. She slid the arrow back into her quiver, and knelt by the remnants of the campfire, sifting through it with the point of her knife. She crept to the back of the cave where horse dung had been swept to its farthest recesses. At last she returned to the mouth of the cave, verifying that her black mare still waited in place below, and she surveyed the broad vista that could be seen from this vantage point.
She frowned. This was not as good a location for an ambush as she had hoped. One could see far from here, and there was little concealment on the spare hillside for a huntress and her horse. It would be difficult to approach unseen from without if they kept any kind of watch. She and Shien could hide here in the cave, striking before they were aware of her presence, but there was no guarantee that her target would be first into the cave, or even that she would have a reasonable shot before she was discovered. The cave was deep, but one could see the full extent of it once one’s eyes adjusted, or with the aid of even modest light. She could hope for them to return during the day and be sun-blinded at the mouth of the cave for precious moments, but they were unlikely to make camp until after nightfall.
Her prey was formidable enough, but she was forced to admit that his companions appeared capable as well. They would not give her more than a few seconds of opportunity. She could nock and fire two arrows in the time it took for a man to make one running stride; it was conceivable she could slay them all, with only a touch of luck. Luck favored the prepared, however. She needed one perfect shot before they overwhelmed her.
The huntress reached over her shoulder, and her expert fingers found the fletching of a different type of arrow in her quiver. She drew it forth and studied it, as she had done so many times. Shaft, fletching and tapered head were all obsidian black; the head itself was comprised of an ingenious mechanism ensuring that the four swept-back blades would unfold upon impact to cause additional damage upon entry and untold trauma upon extraction. This was almost incidental, however, to the primary killing power housed within the missiles, and for which she had paid a king’s ransom. She rolled the black arrow between her fingertips and the razor edges of the blades spun ravenous fire from the sunlight, as if the arrows themselves were eager to fulfill their grim mission. With an effortless twirl she slid the arrow home into the quiver once more. She had only three of that kind, and she could not afford to waste them. Anything less devastating would not be sufficient for the task.
Pressing her lips into a tight, bloodless line, she started down the trail toward Shien, skipping feather light between rock and hard-packed earth to leave no sign of her passage. She doubtless had some time before they would emerge from the forest, after whatever task they were about, and in that time she would continue to search for the perfect place from which to strike down a fearsome foe. If nowhere else provided a greater advantage, she would return to this cave and lie in wait. She unstrung and sheathed her powerful bow, then stepped into the saddle. With one hand she stroked the mare’s glossy neck, and with the other pulled her hood up and refastened the dark veil across her face. Her eyes flashed like emeralds beneath the cowl as she scanned her surroundings once more, and then she swung her mare about and rode toward the forest’s edge.
Amric held up one hand, bringing the small column of riders to a halt. He remained thus, unmoving, as the seconds gathered into a minute, then two. His vision strained to pierce the screen of vegetation framing the sinuous trail ahead, and his hearing grasped for the incongruous sounds that had alerted him. He was about to lead his companions into the undergrowth to give a wide berth to whatever was before them, as they had done several times already this day, when he realized that something was different this time. On this occasion, even his keen senses may not have given warning early enough, as whatever it was, it had gone silent and was listening for them in return.
The warrior closed his raised hand into a fist, and the riders behind him guided their mounts into quiet turns, taking slow steps back the way they had come. Once out of hearing, they could seek a way to circumvent the obstacle and be on their way once more. Amric pulled back on the reins, having his bay gelding back-step a few paces before he would turn it, and he whispered soothing words in the tense animal’s ear. Just then, a mischievous gust of wind blew toward them, rustling the foliage and carrying the forward scent to the horse’s flaring nostrils. The bay shuddered and gave an anxious toss of its head accompanied by a soft snort, and the undergrowth before them exploded.
Dark, wiry forms hurtled through the brush, clawing for him. Amric muttered an oath and one of his swords sang free into his hand while he jerked on the reins with the other fist. Even had the bay been a war horse, inured to the clash of battle and a fearsome weapon in its own right, he was not an expert enough rider to manage the animal with only his knees such that he could wield both blades. And it was evident the gelding was no war horse, as it bleated a shriek and its eyes rolled in terror at the sudden assault. Amric had time to count roughly half a dozen figures of varying sizes, all somewhat humanoid in shape, and he had an impression of rags hanging in tatters over jet-black frames. Then, with blinding speed, they were upon him.
He sent vicious cuts into them, and he felt the force jar back through his shoulder as his blade bit into that black hide, much tougher than bare flesh. They swarmed against his horse, crooked hands clutching at its neck and mane, pulling at its flanks, clawing at the saddle and his flexing leg in its stirrup. His sword described an arcing blur, and a grasping hand spun away from its wrist. He followed with a murderous backhand slash, and the hairless black skull lolled back, attached only by the barest scrap of corrupt hide. Their very flesh seemed to catch at his weapon, and it was an effort to pull it free and to retain his grip at each stroke. He lunged forward and, his thrust propelled by thick cords of muscle, slammed his blade into the chest of a creature with such force that a foot of cold steel burst from its back. To his astonishment, the creature wrapped its hands around the blade skewering it and gave a savage twist of its torso, trying to wrench it from his grasp. Kicking his foot free of its stirrup, he placed his boot against the thing’s chest and launched it away even as he pulled savagely back on the hilt of his sword, clearing it.