The bite of a fellhound.
The Hunt had been there before him.
He hurled himself backwards, gagging and retching, his empty stomach trying to empty itself still further. His out-thrust hand landed on a hard, icy form with familiar contours . . . Looking around, he saw another face, that of a man this time, whose head had been shorn away from his body. With a shriek, Dael leapt to his feet. All those hummocks scattered across the clearing must be corpses! The snow had obliterated the blood and stench, but here and there he could see that what he had taken, in the shadowy dusk, to be a branch with a cluster of twigs at the end was actually an arm. A thicker bough could only be a leg, though it was not attached to a body. Now that he understood what he was seeing, some of the shadows on the ground resolved themselves into faces that were mauled like that of the child, or twisted with fear and torment.
Snatching up his fallen staff, Dael scrambled to his feet, heart hammering. He looked across at the shelters, but found nothing there but blackened, burned-out wreckage. For an instant he thought he could still see the tenebrous forms of the ghosts - then they too had vanished into the snow and the night.
Before he had time to assimilate what had just happened, Dael heard the sound of snarling behind him. Now that night had fallen, the forest’s predators were coming to feast upon the bodies of the dead. Wolves loped through the trees, running low to the ground, and he caught the moon-like reflection from the jewelled eyes of a lynx. All around him, animals were holding their grisly feast, gnawing, and ravening as they quarrelled over the lumps of frozen meat that they tore loose from the scattered bodies. So far, with so much easy food available, they had ignored the human interloper in their midst - but how long would that last? What if a bear should come? It was doubtful that he’d be able to defend himself against a smaller creature like a wolf or a lynx, but against one of the gigantic forest bears, he would certainly stand no chance. Impelled by terror, Dael scrambled out of the clearing and fled the dreadful scene of carnage as fast as his weak and weary body would take him.
On he went, staggering blindly through the dark woods and the snow. Only his stubborn will kept him going: a flat refusal to surrender his life. He had survived his father’s brutality, his compatriots hadn’t succeeded in killing him when they’d exiled him, and the Phaerie hadn’t accomplished his death, even though they had dropped him out of the skies from their net. He had even survived his own sense of hopelessness. After coming through all that, he was damned if he was just going to lie down and die because he was cold and hungry and snow was falling on him. Somehow, come what may, he would get through this, if only to spite his former captors.
At last the ground began to slope upwards, becoming increasingly steep, and he hesitated for a moment, wondering if it was worth the effort it would cost him to keep going in this direction. Yet maybe, if he could climb above the general level of the forest, he might be able to spot another settlement of feral humans like the one he had already found. At the very least, he might be able to see somewhere to shelter.
Dael did his best to keep moving throughout that night, knowing that if he lay down he would have neither the strength nor the will to get up again. Dawn would soon be breaking, he kept telling himself. With the daylight would come fresh hope. Scarcely aware of his surroundings, he wandered aimlessly beneath the trees in a darkening dream - until abruptly he was shocked back into awareness as his stumbling foot encountered nothing but empty space. He lost his balance and fell forward, rolling and tumbling down a steep, stony slope, bounding and sliding and turning head over heels, faster and faster - until a large boulder came looming out of the night. Helpless to avoid it, he collided with the huge stone, crashing into it and hitting it hard. There was a bright flash of pain, then Dael’s world went dark.
The Cailleach was sitting by the fireside, enjoying the random flickering of the golden flames, the comfort of the warmth washing over her skin, the spicy tang of mulled wine. It was strange to be back in the world again. Strange, but very good. Too good, if truth were told. Sometimes, she wondered if she had been wise to come here. But her vision had shown her the risks of destruction for so many of the wonders she had helped to create, and somehow she just couldn’t sit back as a dispassionate spectator and watch all her hard work pulled down. Such direct intervention was against the Laws of the Cosmos, and if the other Guardians ever found out, the retribution would be grave indeed: she would certainly be banished from this world she loved so much, and her brethren might even take her powers from her. Even so, having located the pivotal time when events might be steered in one direction or another, she had come anyway. Not to interfere, she kept assuring herself. Certainly not. Just to be on hand in case she should be needed. However, though she had been willing to risk the penalties for defying Cosmic Law, she had never for one moment considered the other, more insidious dangers to an Immortal who had long dwelt on a higher, more ethereal plane.
It was a tremendous leap from the changeless tranquillity of the Timeless Lake. Here she could feel the beat of the passing seasons in her blood; the world turning beneath her feet. Here, time flowed like a golden river against her skin. The contrasts of this mundane world were unsettling: day and night, sun and moon, the warmth of her tower room and the chill of the snow outside. She had to get used to an overload of information from her senses: the colours of the sky and the landscape, the joyous sounds of birdsong and the sigh of the wind in the trees, the icy little kisses of snow against her skin and the taste and texture of food. Now that she had come into the world, she must perforce share all the sensations that the beings who dwelt here must suffer and enjoy. She needed to eat and drink; she needed clothing and sleep. Though she used magical means to provide herself with these everyday necessities, it still galled her, on occasion, that she could not do without them.
Her powers, the fundamental, creative force of Gramarye, the High Magic, furnished the Cailleach with most of her requirements, but sleep was more difficult to come by. She was accustomed to being in control of her own awareness, and the idea of falling into unconsciousness for a number of hours filled her with a strange, nameless fear. At night she would keep herself awake, only to find herself drowsing unexpectedly through the day, and losing large chunks of time thereby. Nevertheless, she still paced the high chamber of her tower in the hours of darkness, or sat before her fire as she was doing tonight, trying to think of ways in which she could prevent the world of her creation, that she loved so dearly, from being destroyed through the folly of its inhabitants.
Right now, she could do nothing but wait for the three women of her vision to appear. Her Seeings in this earthly dimension were vague, uncertain and undependable, yet the Cailleach was convinced that these unknown females who would hold the key to the future of the world were not far away, and must surely reveal themselves soon. Or so she hoped. Every day she spent enjoying the sensual wonders of this rich and beautiful world would make it all the more difficult for her ever to return to her own unchanging realm.
The Lady of the Mists walked across to the window of her high tower and looked out. Beyond the dim reflection of her face, with its long white hair and pale moonstone eyes, dawn was breaking over the wintry landscape, and she looked out with pleasure at the valley, the lake and the trees. Here, at least, she could feel as much at home as it was possible for her to be in the mundane world that had been spun out of her dreaming, and the dreams of the other Guardians.