I guessed that the pain must have made her delirious. The Six were probably no more than warhounds — even so they would be dangerous, for Cataplas had imprinted upon their minds the image of Mace. The talk of souls and auras was, I was sure, a lie to fool only the uninitiated.
Mace arrived within the hour, Piercollo and Eye-patch with him. The hunchback had been left at their camp some two hours’ march to the west. Piercollo lifted the sleeping Megan and cradled her to his chest, her head upon his massive shoulder. She did not wake and none of us spoke as we walked out into the morning.
Mace took the lead, moving smoothly across the forest floor. He was wearing a black sleeveless jerkin of well-oiled leather and a green woollen shirt, with puffed sleeves and cuffs of black leather that doubled as wristguards. As usual he wore his high riding-boots and trews of green. He had no cap today, and the sun glinted on blond highlights in his auburn hair. Wide-shouldered and slim of hip, he looked every inch the hero that he ought to have been — the warrior of legend, the Forest Lord.
I looked away and thought of Cataplas. I had been surprised when I saw him in the service of Azrek and yet, upon consideration, I should not have been. He was an amiable man, yet remote. Polite and courteous, but without feeling, lacking understanding of human emotions. His skills had always been awesome and his search for knowledge carried out with endless dedication. I can remember many pleasant evenings in his company, enjoying his wit and his intelligence, his skills as a storyteller and his incomparable talent. But I cannot remember a single act of simple kindness.
We entered the outskirts of the town of Ocrey, located the home of Osian — a slender old man, toothless and near blind — and laid Megan carefully upon a narrow pallet bed. Osian said nothing when we arrived but waited, silent and unmoving, for our departure. We slipped away into the gathering darkness, crossing several hills and streams before Mace chose a camp-site in a sheltered hollow.
Piercollo built a small fire and we settled around it.
I was saddened by what had happened to Megan, but also irritated by the lack of reaction in Mace. This was his friend and I had rescued her; yet not a word of praise was forthcoming. His head pillowed on his arm, he slept by the fire. Piercollo nodded off, his back to a wide oak tree, and I sat miserably in the company of Eye-patch, who had said not one word on this long day.
‘Where are you from?’ I asked him suddenly, as he leaned forward to add a dry stick to the fire.
His single eye glanced up and he stared at me for a long moment. ‘What is it to you?’ he responded.
It was not said in a challenging way and I shrugged. ‘I am just making conversation. I am not tired.’
‘What happened to the old woman? Mace said she was unhurt by the Burning.’
‘She was, but a sorcerer cast a spell of Fire.’
He accepted that without comment, then hawked and spat. ‘You can’t deal with magickers,’ he said at last. ‘Not one of them has a soul. Their hearts are shrivelled and black.’
‘A generalization, I think.’
‘A what?’
‘You are putting all magickers together, saying they are all the same. That is not so.’
‘An expert, are you?’ he hissed.
‘I would not say so. But there are men who learn the art of Healing, spending their lives in the service of others. They are magickers.’
He thought for a moment. ‘They are doctors,’ he announced, as if that ended the discussion. ‘Sorcerers are different.’
‘Indeed they are,’ I agreed. He seemed pleased.
‘My name is Gamail, though most call me Patch.’
‘You shoot well. How can you judge distance with but one eye?’
He chuckled and removed the patch, tossing it to me. ‘Put it on,’ he ordered. Holding it up to my eye, I saw that it was virtually transparent. Then I looked at his face, to see two good eyes staring back at me.
‘Why do you wear it?’
‘Three years ago I was fighting in the Oversea War and the eye was infected. After that it would take no strong light, but would weep and blur. I met a doctor who made that for me; it dulls the light.’
An eerie howl echoed through the night, followed almost instantly by a high-pitched scream.
Mace awoke. ‘What in Hell’s name was that?’ he enquired. I shook my head.
‘I never heard nothing like it in my life,’ whispered Patch.
‘How close was it?’ asked Jarek Mace.
‘Difficult to say up here,’ Patch told him. ‘Maybe a mile, maybe two.’
‘Have you heard of the Shadows of Satan?’ I asked softly.
‘Tell me a story on another night,’ grunted Mace, settling down once more.
‘I do not believe it is a story. Megan used her powers to overhear a sorcerer talking to Count Azrek. The Count ordered the release of the Six, and they were to hunt you down. I asked Megan about the Six; she said they were the Shadows.’
Jarek Mace rolled to his feet. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before this?’ he stormed.
‘I thought she was delirious. What are these beasts?’
‘How should I know? But would you want creatures called Shadows of Satan hunting you in the night?’
‘No.’
The howls came again, closer this time. ‘Wolves?’ I whispered.
‘No wolf I’ve ever heard made a sound like that,’ muttered Patch, rising.
Swiftly we woke Piercollo and set off into the darkness.
The moon was high and three-quarters full, moon-shadows lacing the track at our feet as we moved on into the night. Mace and Patch notched arrows to their bows and carried them ready for use. We travelled at speed, stopping often to listen for sounds of pursuit.
At first we heard nothing, then came the eerie howling from left and right. Jarek Mace swore and pushed on, down a long slope to a stream that rushed over white rocks and pebbles. Mace splashed into it, running swiftly towards the west, the water spraying up around his boots like molten silver. I followed him, Piercollo behind me and Patch bringing up the rear.
We ran in the stream for several hundred yards until it curved north, then Mace scrambled up the opposite bank, taking hold of a jutting and exposed tree-root and hauling himself clear. Reaching out his hand, he pulled me up after him. Piercollo jumped for the root, his huge fingers snaking round it, but the wood snapped with a loud crack that echoed in the night. The big man slid backwards, cannoning into Patch, and both men tumbled into the stream.
A dark shadow moved on the opposite bank. I blinked and stared at the spot. At first I saw nothing, then a massive, horned snout pushed clear of the undergrowth.
How can I describe it without chilling your blood? It was both the most loathsome and the most terrifying sight my eyes had yet beheld. The face — if face it could be called — was pale and hairless, the nose distended and flattened. Long, curved tusks extended up from the lower lip. But it had fangs also, like a wolf. In weight and girth it was the size of a great bull, but there were no hooves, the legs being thick and heavily muscled above great paws similar to those of a lion. In all it was a grotesque deformity, a meld of many creatures.
Yet it was the eyes that sent ice into my soul. For, without doubt, they were human and they gleamed with malevolent intelligence.
‘Behind you!’ I yelled at the struggling men. Piercollo was hauling himself from the stream, but Patch swung, his bow still in his hand, the arrow lost in the swirling water. He saw the beast and reached instantly for his quiver.
With a terrible cry the creature charged, uprooting bushes and snapping a young sapling in its way. An arrow from the bow of Jarek Mace flashed across the water, burying itself in the left eye of the monster, causing it to rear up on its colossal hind legs. Seizing his opportunity, Patch sent a shaft thudding into its exposed black belly and the creature came down on all fours. It was covered in matted black fur and had a massive hump upon its neck. The hump writhed and two long arms unfolded from it, the fingers long and pale, curved claws clicking together. Charging once more, it bore down on Patch.