Once certain the horses were safe, the driver walked behind the wagon to join his companion and, working together, the duo hammered loose several planks to form a ramp.
Slowly, the passengers came down, in pairs: there were at least sixty people inside. They moved to a wide clearing south and west of where the Pragans lay hiding and were soon joined by those from the other carts – more than two hundred men and women – while the other drivers braced their conveyances and pastured their horses.
There was something curious about this group forming in the shadow of the haunted forest. Even from this distance, Hannah thought they didn’t act like people who had been cramped together for ages: there was no general milling about, no stretching of muscles, bending of knees or rubbing of shoulders. Instead, they just stood and stared into the forest. There was no conversation that Hannah could detect either, and no one looked around, not even at the imposing peaks, forbidding cliffs and stark white glaciers of the Pragan Great Range.
Hannah wondered if they were slaves, and somehow protected against the forest’s influence – they didn’t appear afraid.
Then Hannah heard Alen murmuring something over and over again. She hoped it was a spell to make them invisible – there was no place to run, and little chance of getting over the cliff and down into the ravine unobtrusively. All their company could do was wait for darkness and try to slip north into the mountains. She squirmed quietly, trying to get more comfortable as Alen’s voice continued the soft incantation. Keep at it, she thought. A couple more hours and we’ll be able to get out of here.
She wondered about the passage north. It couldn’t be that challenging, not if six horses could pull those wagons all the way from Malakasia. There might be guards, but those rickety carts would never have made it over rough terrain, certainly not loaded down with people – zombies, whatever the hell they are…
‘Of course,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘the zombie things could have been ordered to get out and push the wagons over the highest passes.’ If they steered clear of Malakasian soldiers, travellers on horseback should manage it with ease The horses!
Hannah nearly sat bolt upright, but caught herself just in time. Where had they left the horses and the packs? They had to be right there in plain view, beside the big maple where they had spent the night. They’ll see our stuff. They’ll see the horses. There’s nothing we can do about it. They’ll know we’re here. She craned her neck, inching her way along the ground until she spotted the tree, at the edge of the forest – and there was no one between them and their possessions. The drivers and the zombie workers had moved some two hundred paces away, but not far enough: there was no way they could get to the horses, mount up and escape without someone seeing them. And once the zombies started chopping down the forest of ghosts, they might deploy all along this tree line – this very maple might be felled, stripped of its bark and thrown into the ravine.
Hannah looked into the shadows below the tree – the horses and packs were gone. Now she did move, lifting her head and staring. It’s the wrong one, stupid, she thought. Find the right maple. But she kept coming back to the same tree, a positive flame-red poster tree for New England. There weren’t any others that came close to it in size and colour. She couldn’t be mistaking it.
Hannah searched the tree line for any sign of their belongings: something was strange. Her gaze locked on the base of the maple, right where she had left her pack that morning. Trying not to blink, she watched carefully as something flickered for a moment. A blurry patch caught her eye for a fraction of a second, then disappeared. It was there again, then it wavered and faded away.
Alen’s muttering interrupted Hannah’s thoughts again and finally she realised what was happening. It was magic. The former Larion Senator, the man who had claimed to have lost his confidence over the past one hundred and thirty-five years was casting a web of enchantment that was hiding four horses, several packs and a burning campfire.
Hannah watched transfixed, as rapt as when Alen’s home had come into view properly for the first time. If he could do this, then perhaps he could get her back to Colorado – or at least get her back to Steven.
She grimaced. How the hell had she, a confident, self-sufficient woman, clear about who she was and what she wanted, managed to end up entirely at the mercy of a fallen-from-grace sorcerer with a hangover? Still, at least she had a little hope now, and silently she urged the old man to greatness: You can do it, Alen. Make the whole place disappear. You can do it!
Thunk!
A distant crash resonated from somewhere in the forest. Hannah didn’t need to raise her head to know it was the first of what would doubtless be thousands as the zombies’ axes chopped at the forest of ghosts. The intermittent sounds of isolated trees falling merged periodically into one drawn-out cry of shattering branches.
Finally, darkness fell and Hoyt slithered between Hannah and Alen. ‘Churn and I will go for the horses. Hannah, can you ride?’ He whispered, though Hannah didn’t believe anyone could have heard him even if he had been shouting.
‘I’m cramped, but I think I can.’ She longed to stretch her legs, to twist her lower back until the bones cracked, and to straighten her knees.
‘And you?’ Hoyt asked Alen. ‘You’ve been keeping that spell going all day.’
‘I’m fine,’ Alen said without hesitation. ‘I’m drained, but it’s a good feeling, tired out doing something useful.’
‘Good,’ Hoyt said, ‘get ready. We’ll walk the horses along the bluffs, mount up behind the hill here, and then make our way around to the north without being spotted.’
He had to thump the ground hard twice before Churn turned to look at him. He signed the plan, and with a nod and a quick gesture, Churn agreed. He gave Hannah a crooked smile and sidled carefully out from beneath his cloak. Staying low to the ground, he soon disappeared into the darkness. Hoyt rolled his shoulders back, shrugged off his own cloak and vanished after Churn. Hannah marvelled at how at home he was in the dark.
She stared out at nothing as the forest of ghosts fell beneath the Malakasian axes. She endeavoured to separate the sounds of axes falling, saws gnawing, and horses straining. There was little conversation; the din was only periodically interrupted by the call of one or other of the drivers as horses wrenched stumps from the ground or hauled heavy-limbed trees across the hillside. Once, she thought she had heard one of the workers shout in pain, an unnerving cry, gone almost as quickly as it had arisen. She didn’t think these people – these zombies – would have much compassion for their injured colleagues. She didn’t like to think what might have happened to the one who had been hurt.
She slipped closer to Alen. ‘Who are those people?’
‘I wouldn’t want to say for certain, but from what I could see I would guess they are Seron.’
‘Seron?’
‘Seron warriors.’ Alen’s voice rose slightly. ‘One of Nerak’s little toys: he used to employ them for his most disagreeable tasks. They’re tough, soulless killers he breeds in a sickening ceremony you don’t even want to imagine. He hasn’t used Seron in Twinmoons – rutters, I’d say maybe five or six hundred Twinmoons – but I’m pretty sure that’s what they are.’ He pulled back the hood of his cloak and searched the darkness for Hoyt and Churn.
‘Warriors?’ Hannah said. ‘Why would warriors be here cutting down trees?’
‘I don’t think intimidating people would work for this – no matter how much under Nerak’s control they might be, the ghosts would get them,’ Alen explained. ‘I’m not sure what, but my guess is that he’s collecting the bark and leaves from these trees for something – doubtless something evil.’