But darkness rose from among the trees of the forest as they worked. The stones in the pile were large and heavy, and awkward to lift or move. Twice they shifted suddenly under Giron’s feet. He and Tamar both came near being crushed by the stones they tried to move. Ansuli came and tried to help; Paks heard the pain in his grunts of effort. Finally Giron stopped them.
“We cannot work this pile in the dark; we could all be crippled by a misstep here. We must make a light, or use other means, or—Tamar, do you think Paksenarrion can last the night?”
Hearing that question, Paks wanted to cry out. She could not—could not—stay under that tree, motionless, another night. She clenched her jaw. She could not make them do anything: if they decided to leave her there, there she would stay.
“Giron, she has withstood more than I would expect of any human. But another night, in this cold—with no way to ease her limbs—no. We must keep working somehow.”
“We agreed we would not use the elfane hier before her—”
“She is one of us now. We owe that to our own.”
“I think so too,” said Ansuli. “She has seen the elfane taig, she has been in the hands of the daskdusky cousins—and were we not told that the Lord Ardhiel blew that elfhorn, of which it is said that the High Prince of the Lord’s Inner Court will hear the call, and bring aid. She has seen as much elfane hier as many elves, already.”
Paks tried to make sense of this. The elfane taig she knew—but what was the elfane hier? The blowing of the elfhorn—she could never forget that, and the beauty of the winged steed that bore an unearthly warrior. Before she could think further, she saw a soft white light, as if all the stars’ lights were mingled together in one place. She could not see where it came from; it seemed to spread, like sunlight in mist, without shadows.
“Have you the strength for the lifting?” asked Ansuli.
“More than you,” said Giron. “Maintain the light, if you would. Tamar?”
“I am ready.”
Again Paks heard the rasp and scrape of stone on stone, then distant thuds as stones were dropped. She could not see, past Phaer’s shoulder, the size of the pile remaining. Cold edged into her, from the ground and the stones she touched. She tried to stay calm, and save her strength; at last she slept, exhausted.
Sharp pain woke her. Her right arm, her back, her legs: all were afire. Someone was pulling at her, dragging her, and she had no skin left—She opened her mouth to scream, and saw Tamar’s face before her.
“Paksenarrion. Be still. You are free. You feel the blood returning, that’s all. By some miracle of the gods, you have not even a single broken bone.”
Paks could not have told that from the feel. Everything ached, stabbed, throbbed. She tried to take a deep breath, and found herself coughing convulsively. Tamar held her, offered a flask of water. Paks managed to swallow some between coughs, and the spasms eased. Gradually the pains settled down to recognizable bruises and scrapes. Cramped muscles relaxed, fibre by fibre. She looked around. Giron had kindled a small fire; she could feel the warmth along one side. She did not know where they were. She could see a lump of blankets beyond the fire: Ansuli, resting at last.
“Phaer’s body is laid straight in the forest,” said Tamar, as if answering a question. “Tomorrow we will lay the boughs upon him; for tonight, Giron has set a warding spell to guard. Clevis, who was killed when the forward end of the monster came upon us, has been laid straight as well. You and Ansuli will mend, though you will be weak some days, I expect.” She moved her arms out from under Paks’s head. “I’ll get you something hot from the fire; you’re still chilled.”
The hot drink began to ease the rest of Paks’s pains. She tried to move her feet, and felt them drag slowly against the ground. Her right arm still seemed numb and unresponsive. Tamar began to move it for her, bending and straightening the elbow and wrist. At last the feeling seeped back. She had been able to move all her limbs on her own, and was thinking of sleep again, when she noticed the first lifting of dawnlight in the sky. Giron, who had been standing guard outside the firelight, came back to cook a hot meal. Tamar went for water. Ansuli rolled partway over, groaned, and pushed himself up on one elbow.
“How is she?”
“I’m fine,” said Paks. She still felt heavy and stiff, but knew that would pass.
“Well,” said Giron, looking from Ansuli to Paks and back, “if she’s not fine, she’s better than we would have expected.” He stirred the cookpot again. “Tamar says you don’t know what that was. Is that so, Paksenarrion?”
“Yes, I had never heard the name.”
“Daskdraudigs. Rockterror. Some call it rockserpent, though it is not a serpent. It has only a similar form, being long with a writhing body and coils. Some say, too, that the dasksinyi, the dwarves, breed such creatures to guard their treasure vaults. I think that is a lie: dwarves and elves seldom agree, but dwarves are not evil. Most of them, anyway. As you saw, it seems rock until it is aroused: most often a ledge, but sometimes in the form of ruined walls or buildings.” Paks thought of all the ruins she and Macenion had ventured near—what if one had been such a creature? “Even when it rouses,” Giron went on, “it has the strength and weight of rock. Ordinary weapons blunt or break against its scales. The daskin arrows, dwarfwrought, will pierce its substance and fix the stone in place. Their virtue passes but slowly along its length, though—so the daskdraudigs has time to avenge itself. And worse, in after times it can renew itself and regain its mobility.”
“But why did it attack my mind?”
“I know not, Paksenarrion, why you were so sensitive to it. The revulsion you felt is what all who can sense the taig feel, when they come within range. The creature terrifies and confuses. Those who cannot sense a taig may wander near enough to be consumed. We do not understand why a creature of stone would desire kyth-blood, but so it seems. Certainly it is an evil thing, and the gods of light designed the races of the kyth for good. Perhaps that is enough.”
Hot food restored a sense of solidity, but Paksenarrion was still stiff and weak. She looked along her arms; dark bruises mottled them, and she was sure the rest of her body looked as bad. Ansuli had been hit by flying stones; he had a couple of broken ribs and a bad gash on his leg. Tamar had only a scrape across her forehead—from the tree limbs, she explained—and Giron limped slightly from a bruised foot. They all rested around the fire after breakfast. Then Giron sighed and stood.
“We must see to the bodies of our friends,” he said. “Ansuli, can you walk if I help you?”
“For that, of course.” Ansuli pushed himself up, grunting with the effort, and Giron steadied him.
“Paksenarrion, I doubt you can stand—but if you would try, Tamar will help.” Paks felt as stiff as stone herself, but with Tamar’s aid she was able to stand at last. She tried to take a step and nearly fell. Giron shook his head. “You can’t go so far. Lie down again—”
“No.” Paks shook her head, waking the pain in her skull. “I don’t want to stay here alone—”
Giron raised his brows. “You would face a daskdraudigs and fear this peaceful site? But perhaps you sense something again?”
“No. I meant—Phaer was with me. He—we—we fell together, and if he had not pushed me ahead, I too—”
“Ah. You wish to join us in honoring him.”
“Yes. With Tamar’s help, I can walk.” She took another step to prove this, and stayed upright, though with difficulty.
“Very well. We will go slowly.” They had spent the night, Paks saw, on the edge of the band of trees splintered and torn by the falling daskdraudigs. She wondered again how she had escaped being crushed by either tree or stone. Giron led them downslope, back to the trail they had been on and beyond. In a small glade surrounded by silver poplars, Phaer and Clevis were laid side by side, their bows beside them.