The cold must have had a greater effect on their speed than she thought it would, because—much to her surprise—Aralorn made it to the ice-edged river while the Uriah were still sluggish. Sheen protested the cold water with a grunt when he hit, but struck out strongly for the other side. Aralorn took a good grip on Sheen’s mane and lay flat on the fast-running surface, letting the water take most of her weight.
The river was deep and swift, but narrow. The horse towed Aralorn to the far bank without mishap. The current had swept them far enough downstream that the Uriah were no longer in sight, but she thought that she could hear them above the rush of the water. When she turned back to mount again, she noticed that the arm she’d severed from the Uriah still held fast to her stirrup.
There was a story about a man who kept a finger from a Uriah’s hand for a trophy of war. Ten years later the Uriah who owned the finger showed up on the man’s doorstep. Aralorn didn’t believe that story, she told herself. Not really. She just wasn’t enthusiastic about riding around with a hand attached to her saddle.
Aralorn pried at it with grim haste. The thing was strangely stubborn, so she finally used an arrow as a lever to pull it away. As she worked she noticed that it wore a ring of heavy gold on a raggedly clawed finger—stolen from some poor victim, she supposed. Ren would be fascinated—Uriah were not generally looters; their primary interest was food.
She threw the arm and its ring in the river and watched in some satisfaction as it disappeared in the depths. She reloaded the crossbow from habit; it obviously wasn’t much good against Uriah. Mounting Sheen, she headed in the general direction of camp, hoping that there would be a good ford over the river between here and there.
Uriah, normal Uriah, never came where it was cold. Never. But the ae’Magi had Uriah who were—how had Wolf phrased it?—pets. A hundred of them? Ren was fond of saying that it was futile to argue with your own eyes. A hundred of them, then.
The only thing that Uriah who were the ae’Magi’s pets could be after was Myr—assuming that Wolf was correct in labeling them servants of the ae’Magi. They had obviously been caught by the storm and incapacitated by the sudden cold. Given when the storm had hit, if the snow hadn’t stopped them, they would have reached the camp early this past morning. The storm gave her a chance to bring warning.
Shaking with cold, she urged the stallion to a trot that he could maintain until they made it back to camp. As they went, she sawed at the girth and dumped the heavy saddle and bags to the ground—staying on Sheen while she did so with a trick her old troop’s first scout had taught her. The less he had to carry, the better time he could make. She retained her grip on the loaded crossbow.
The Uriah’s ring nagged at her more as she rode. That, and how to turn whatever time they had before the Uriah came into a way to survive.
The river was between the Uriah and Aralorn, but it stood between her and the camp as well. She rode as far as she could, looking for a shallow place to ford across, but there was none. The only choice was to swim again. When they came out of the water the second time, Aralorn was blue with cold, and Sheen stumbled twice before he resumed trotting. Warming was one of the easier magics she knew, but, cold and exhausted, it took her three times to get it right.
She rode right into the camp, scattering people as she went. She stopped finally in front of Myr’s tent. Drawn by the sound of horse’s hooves, Myr ducked outside just as Aralorn slipped off the stallion’s back.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, taking in her appearance.
“Uriah . . . about a hundred of them. They’re coming.” Aralorn panted heavily, her voice hoarse with what was turning into the grandfather of all colds. Winter river crossings will do that. “Caves. We can defend the entrance. Leave the tents behind, but take all the food, blankets, and weapons that you can.”
He was acting before she finished speaking. The children, under the leadership of Stanis, were sent ahead with such things as they could carry. Myr had the majority of the camp packed and on the trail to the caves before anyone had time to panic.
Aralorn and Myr brought up the rear of the procession. Aralorn, listening for the Uriah behind them, chafed at the slow pace they were forced to take because most people were on foot—but then again, even a dead run would have been too slow. She walked beside her exhausted horse and hoped that Sheen wasn’t so tired that he wouldn’t give warning if the Uriah got too close.
By the time they arrived at the caves, Aralorn found herself mildly surprised that they had beaten the Uriah there. Light wasn’t a problem—light, like fire, was easy magic. Even the children could form the small balls of light that mages used in place of torches.
Myr followed Aralorn as she led Sheen into a solitary cave a hundred feet from the entrance—one big enough to hold the animals they had. “I’ve been told they can track a man as well as a hunting dog and travel faster than a man on horseback.” Myr spoke in a soft voice designed not to carry to anyone but Aralorn. “I don’t have much experience with Uriah. All that I know is that they are very hard to kill and are almost as immune to magic as I am.”
Aralorn nodded. “They don’t like fire, so make sure that there are torches ready. This lot”—she swung a hand in the general direction of the others in the cavern—“will fight better with torches than swords.”
Myr gave her a tired smile. “And no worries about how to light the torches either, with this assortment of amateur magic-users. I think that the only one who can’t light a torch with magic is I. Haris!” He caught the attention of the smith, who was organizing the storage of supplies. “I want a bonfire laid in the entrance and someone who can light it from a distance stationed somewhere safe to watch for the Uriah.”
Haris waved an acknowledgment, and Myr returned his attention to Aralorn. “There are three or four here who should be able to light the fire from a good distance. I’ll station them in relays.”
Aralorn shivered in her still-damp clothes. “We could be lucky. There is some kind of warding near the entrance. You can see the markings if you want to look. I suspect that the warding was the reason that Edom wouldn’t enter the caves. Do you remember? When he lost Astrid?” She’d given it a lot of thought and decided they’d have to plan as if the warding wasn’t there. But still, a little hope couldn’t hurt.
Myr nodded.
Aralorn continued, “If it works like the shapechangers’ spells do, the Uriah won’t even see the caves unless we are lighting fires and running in and out to attract their attention. The trail that we took up here is virtually a stream from the melting snow, so in a little while there will be no sign that we came this way. With luck, we’ll have that time. The cold makes them slower than usual. That’s the reason Sheen and I beat them here.”
“I’ll see that everyone stays inside.” Myr started to go—someone was calling his name—then turned around. “Aralorn?”
She pulled off Sheen’s bridle and vainly patted her clothing in search of something she could use to dry him off. But he was dryer than her clothing. “Yes?”
“I’ll send a couple of the older children in with toweling to dry your horse. You change your clothes, before you catch lung fever. My packs are marked over against the far wall; find something in them.”
It made sense. “Thanks.”
She made her way to his packs, unmistakable because of the embroidered dragon that glared at her as she riffled through his belongings. A true shapeshifter could probably alter the clothes that she was wearing, but Aralorn had no idea how to go about it. She pulled out a pair of plain trousers and a tunic of a dark hue and, best of all, a pair of dry cotton stockings. With clothes in hand she hunted down an unoccupied cranny and exchanged the wet clothes for the dry ones.