The eldest and strongest of the greatfangs suddenly prevailed, clawing its way up the surging body of the rival it was wedged against. Kicking off from its rival's head, it took wing in a great bound up the shaft.
Wings clapped wind in their wake, a blast of air that made a great roaring bellow of exultation ring deafeningly around the shuddering shaft as the greatfangs tasted freedom, climbing fast into the sky.
The second greatfangs raced up the shaft after it, and then the third, as Narmarkoun's undead watched.
Not knowing what to do, with the Master absent and sending no commands, they stood mute and helpless, doing nothing more than staring, as every last greatfang soared up out of Closecandle and flew away.
All in the same direction, long necks stretched out in raging haste.
Chapter Thirty-One
Amteira drifted for a long time in dreams laced with the ever-present gentle rustle and earthy smells of the Raurklor. They were cold dreams, full of shivering, and frantic dreams, too, often bursting into desperate running. Barefoot, through the woods, sometimes as a doe, betimes human, and from time to time as stranger things… but always female, always bare-skinned, and always fearful.
Abruptly she came awake, huddled on her side on a bed of blackened stone shards. Lifting her head, she found it to be part of the great boulder she'd prayed on. The rest of it, riven into chunks great and small, lay all around her. She was cold.
Yet even as she stood, shivering, she cared nothing for that discomfort. The Raurklor was all around her, vast and wonderful, and she stared at it in awe, seeing it keenly for the first time.
Many, many smells cradled her and nigh overwhelmed her. The normal smells of a forest, it seemed, but she'd never before really noticed them all. Always, before, one scent-the smoke of a fire, or the sharp tang of bruised piney needles, the rotting-leaf mud of the rain-drenched Raurklor or the simmering growing smell of a hot forest day-had dashed aside all others and been all she really recognized. Now, though…
Abruptly Amteira became aware that her bare skin was now adorned with many patches of moss, and they felt a part of her, not something distasteful she should claw off as swiftly as she could.
More than that; she could feel the air around her through them. Feel it moving far more sensitively than before, every eddy and gust, subtle shifts in warmth and moments of chill.
She stood up, and abruptly knew something else. Turning her head, she nodded, certain of it. There was running water over there, though she couldn't see it-and yonder, too, though much farther off.
She felt part of the woods, now, rather than an intruder in the endless green vastnesses.
What had happened to her? This moss, her smelling and feeling… could this be the Forestmother, answering her prayer?
Amteira, will you serve me, or die?
The great, boomingly-soft voice in her head seemed as dark, tall, and terrible of power as a Stormar wave, about to crash over her and carry her away.
"F-forestmother?" she blurted out, more than a little afraid.
I am more than that, and less, but you may call me that.
"Call you-? Uh, I… I will serve you. If you'll have me."
Good. Welcome. Your first service will be to slay the traitor Cauldreth Jaklar for me. I demand his blood.
Relief flooded through her. "I'll slay him right gladly. Where is he?"
Gone back to Ironthorn. Having called on me to slay you with the wolves of the forest.
"The wolves?"
Abruptly a smoky-gray shadow loomed up over the scattered shards of the rock to regard her with blood-red, unblinking eyes. Its fangs were long, sharp, and many. There was a second shadow, moving sleekly behind it, and a third.
The wolves you shall lead into Hammerhold to rend Jaklar-and bid Hammerhold farewell. Ironthorn is your world no longer. You belong to me now.
Amteira Hammerhand drew in a deep, shuddering breath, bade her dead father a silent farewell, and replied, "Y-yes. Yes, I do. Command me."
Hunt now, and hunt well. Slay for Burrim Hammerhand-and for yourself.
Before Amteira could reply, the snout of a wolf was nuzzling her, its tongue rasping on her hand and thigh.
She looked down into its eyes, and smiled.
They smiled back, turning-just for an instant-leaf-green before they faded again to blood-red. She turned, naked and weaponless, and started running through the forest, heading for where she thought Ironthorn was.
The wolves howled once, eerily, then ran with her, one of them edging ahead to turn her firmly.
She followed, then as a test turned back in the direction she'd first headed, still running hard. All the wolves pressed close in around her, bounding along to nudge her with their noses and flanks, all of them working to turn her this time.
She ran where they led her, barehanded and bareskinned, hunger for the blood of Cauldreth Jaklor growing in her again.
For some reason, she felt very happy.
Rusty Carroll was gasping for breath. When had so many God damned steps been added, between the gleaming glass ground floor of Holdoncorp headquarters and Rear Second, where the Security Office was?
It sure as blazes hadn't felt like this many the last time he'd run up them.
Huh, and when exactly had that been?
Long ago, was all he could recall just now, with a freaking sword in his hand, twenty-some frightened secretaries and managers hurrying up the stairs at his heels-and six lunatic murderers on the loose in the building!
Dark Helms, mind you, who'd come striding in here with a lorn flying backup for them!
He didn't know what he'd do about them, but he did know he had to get back to the office before they went up the stairs-or, bejesus, took the elevators! — and got there first.
To where they could watch every corner of the building, turn off the lights and heat and air in any zone with the flick of switch and a spin of a dial-and lock or unlock any doors they pleased, too.
And Pete Sollars would be sitting there with his coffee cold and forgotten in his hand, staring at the forest of monitors and flickering alarm telltales and doing effing nothing. Except maybe shifting from camera to camera to watch them better, as they came to kill him.
Sollars was a nice guy, but he'd never had a swift and original thought in his life. Thinking on his feet was something he just didn't do. He was the other sort of security guy; the stolid, too dull-to-get-bored watcher at his post.
Rusty topped the last step-at last! — stabbed his fingers at the codepad, and flung the heavy metal door open. "Pete! Where are they?"
Sollars swung around in the high-backed swivel chair-the Chief's chair, Rusty's chair-and stared at his boss, looking guilty. "Uh, I-ah-No!"
Rusty saw where Pete's stare was aimed, and flung himself at the floor and toward whatever Sollars was staring at.
Which meant the head of the fire axe came crashing down not through Rusty's skull, but over his diving body-to chip the concrete floor, right through the No-Slip tread coating. Secretaries screamed, and Hank staggered back, face going pale.
"M-mister Carroll?"
"I'm fine. No harm done, Hank!"