Gazing at Nidu, I remembered her harassment of Guret, her mockery of me, her cruelty to Elys—but the memory that gave me the strength to take that first step toward the Shaman was that of her sneering voice calling Joisan “whey-blooded.”
I had moved three steps toward the Shaman, toward That Which Runs the Ridges, when Jervon and Joisan both moved to front me. “No!” Jervon shouted over the sound of the drumming—no longer a tapping, it had become a thunderous booming rivaling that of the worst storms I had faced. “You cannot!”
I brought my sword up, motioning him to step out of my path. “I have no taste for killing in cold blood, either, Jervon, but it must be done before she looses that thing!”
Joisan shook her head. “No, Kerovan. We must let her finish!”
“Why?” I stared at both of them, wondering if the sight of the thing had unhinged their wits.
“Because otherwise we will never see Elys again!” Jervon shouted. The drumming resounded through our bodies now, shaking the rock beneath our feet. Rum-dum-dah-dum… It seemed to fill the world.
I lowered my sword, realizing he was right, then crouched with them behind the archway. In spite of my resolve, it was torture to watch the whirling of that thing, knowing that whatever form it took when released from the spell completely would be even deadlier.
With a final turn, it exploded outward until it nearly filled the open area—then, in complete silence, the yellow miasma vanished, and the Shadowed hunt stood in its place.
There were perhaps a score of beings in the center of the Guardians’ oval. Many were beautiful. All of them, I knew instinctively, were deadly. As they milled, confused, I scanned them from the concealment of the archway, seeking Elys.
Four mounted forms looked to be as nearly of humankind as I, though their skins shone golden beneath their helms. Their armor glimmered blue in the moonlight, seeming to shed a faint phosphorescence. These were the huntsmen, armed with long-lashed whips that trailed sparks. Their white hounds bore some resemblance to those from which the warriors of Alizon take their name, but these creatures were much the larger, moving with a sinuous, reptilian grace, red-fanged jaws lolling open, while their eyes seemed to drink in all light, reflecting back nothing but pitted darkness.
Several insubstantial, wavering forms appeared to be those of humankind, men and women alike, their eyes holding both pain and a terrible purpose. One of these in the forefront, a youth, wore the distinctive embroidered linen of the Kioga. Looking upon him, I remembered Obred’s words about young Jerwin: “… I am haunted by the thought that he met a death that is not yet finished… an unclean death…” So the Kioga leader had the right of it—all those who had been killed by That Which Huns the Ridges during the centuries had gone to be part of it. Sickened, I tore my gaze from those pitiful wraiths—
It was then that I saw their leader. Maleron sat atop a tall white steed, like unto the ones the huntsmen bestrode. The animal (for it resembled a horse in the same way the “hounds” resembled dogs) arched a scaled, sinuous neck, pawing at the ground with a clawed forefoot. Its master Hazed around him almost casually, but even from the many spans separating us I could feel the Power emanating from him. A scarlet cloak billowed off his shoulders, his features were regular, even handsome—a typical man of the Old Ones. We could have been brothers.
With a final drumroll, the Shaman stepped from her spot of concealment. “Adept! I am she who released you from your long confinement!”
Jervon moved suddenly beside me, his breath hot against my cheek as he whispered, “Kerovan! Can you see aught of Elys?”
“No,” I made answer.
“I do not see Sylvya, either,” Joisan said worriedly. “I can feel her, though—she is somewhere among those who front us. Elys must be using illusion to conceal them.”
For long moments Maleron sat unmoving, then his unhelmed dark head turned to regard Nidu as if she were the lowliest of servants. Finally he inclined his head in the briefest of nods. “My thanks, Shaman.”
“You can best tender your gratitude”—the black-robed woman straightened, her fingers resting on her drum as though she drew strength from it—“by ridding me of my enemies. They are your enemies, also, Adept.”
Maleron lifted his brows skeptically. “I have been free tor less than a hundred heartbeats,” he said. “I find it difficult to believe I could have made enemies in this time and place with so little effort.”
The Shaman’s voice shook. “They are cowards, hiding behind the Light! They have gathered to destroy you here and now, before you can even taste of your new-won freedom! Kill them!” She waved a sticklike arm in our direction, as though she could see us in spite of the concealment of the archway.
Maleron shook his head, frowning. “Judge me not so summarily, Shaman. You may tread the Left-Hand Path, but I do not. I am but a seeker after knowledge and Power.”
Nidu began to laugh wildly. “If you truly believe that, then you are a greater fool than you are a sorcerer! Within your menie are all those who were killed by even the most passing of brushes with you and your hunt—fell death results from your most casual touch. Is that the mark of the Light?”
The Adept’s features hardened as he raised a hand toward her. But before he could move or speak, something rippled before my vision and there came a shrill scream!
“Elys!” Jervon lunged forward. I had only a second to see the two women huddled together and, confronting them, two shadows of such dire black that they seemed naught but holes ripped in the fabric of the night. Reddish sparks awakened and died within those twisted Shadow-creatures, and even looking at them made my stomach knot painfully.
The Dalesman was out and running toward the two women, who, unseen by all before this moment, must have been crawling toward us until the Shadow-creatures had sniffed them out. I heard Maleron’s shout over all—“Sylvya!” Hate trembled through the air in palpable waves. In response to his signal, the huntsmen urged their mounts toward the Dales warrior.
My sword was in my hand and I, too, was running. I reached Sylvya and Elys, who was standing with steel drawn, only a few strides behind Jervon, Joisan at my side.
We had only time to back each other, forming a rough circle of drawn steel, before the four riders were upon us.
Their only weapons were those hunting lashes, but those, I speedily discovered, sparked and flamed as they were wielded. I took a glancing sear across my thigh before I was able to parry. As my steel crossed his weapon, sliding down until we were wrist to wrist, I saw his teeth flash as if the touch of iron pained him. Remembering the evil well on the plain, I raised my wristband. His white mount screamed and reared as the runes on the talisman flamed. The rider reined it back toward me, still in such deadly silence that I wondered if his race were mutes.
Once more the lash curled fire toward me, but this time I was able to duck beneath it and, daring greatly, stepped forward, under his guard. It was a chance, breaking the circle, but if I could—
There! The point of the sword slipped inward, grazed his breast.
A thin shriek broke from him as violet flame licked outward from even so small a point of contact. As I stepped backward, closing the circle, he wavered, then fell, wreathed now in lines of light, to lie jerking. As I watched, his flesh—if flesh it was—began to shrivel, as though it were being consumed from within. I turned away just in time to see Joisan use the glow from her cat’s-head ring to bewilder and panic the mount on my left.