“But—if you’re hurt—” Garris looked worried.
“Garris, if need comes, I will tell you. But for now, if you will come with me, you will ride into uncertainty.”
“We will come,” said Esceriel, looking around at the others. All nodded. “We trust you.”
“Trust the gods, rather,” said Paks. “You follow Falk; I honor him.” She looked at the lightening day. “Now,” she said, “the Webspinner is a creature of darkness; she toils in secret to plot the downfall of good. I think we will not have much trouble with her as long as we keep close watch by night, and travel swiftly. She does not much like forests, especially not these, where the elves and rangers have sung the taig so often. It is another I worry about more. How many of you know of Liart, the Master of Torments?”
“I do,” said Garris, shuddering. “In Aarenis—” Paks looked at each in turn.
“We were told, in the knight’s training,” said Lieth, “that he was evil, but not much more. No one follows him in Lyonya; I didn’t pay much mind.”
“I thought he came only where there was slavery,” said Suriya.
“No,” said Paks. “His followers may be anywhere. Liart sometimes allies with Achrya, in large plots. He’s hastier. More active. I fear that we have attracted notice in that direction. Liart’s followers practice torture as a ceremony; he delights in the fear of those victims. I say this not to frighten you, but to warn. If through some mischance we are separated and any of you is taken, your only shield is prayer. Do not despair; the High Lord will protect your soul, if only you can keep your mind on him.”
Their faces were set; none of them asked how she knew. Paks looked at them for a moment. Then she stretched, feeling the return of strength with the morning sun.
“In the meantime,” she said more cheerfully, “we have a clear day and far to ride. Gods grant they miss us after all—it’s likely enough. And together—well, they’d have a hard fight. Ride for an hour, companions—then it will be warm enough to stop for a meal.” And she legged the red horse into a spurt of speed, the snow flying up in cakes and lumps from his feet. Behind her she heard the other horses whinny and run. In a few minutes they slowed again, but everyone was in a lighter mood. The horses jogged on, snorting. Paks started humming “Cedars of the Valley,” and Suriya broke in, singing the words.
The others came in on the chorus:
Paks sang the second verse.
Again the chorus. Garris went next.
“That’s almost as bad as the lo-pipe, Garris,” commented Esceriel, grinning.
“You made me lose my place,” said Garris. He started again, where he’d left off, and finished the verse:
Paks listened with one ear to the singing, as the song wound on through its many verses (for it had been a marching song a long time), and with the other to whatever set the red horse’s left ear twitching sideways. Finally she held up her hand, and Lieth stopped in the middle of a word. Nothing now but the crunching of snow, the jingle of harness and breathing of the animals. They halted. Paks could still hear nothing, but the red horse stared at the woods to their left as if he could do better. He blew, rattling his breath; Paks felt the tension beneath her. Esceriel raised his brows.
“I don’t know.” Paks answered the look. “But with such a horse, I don’t ignore the warning, either.” She drew the elf-blade; its blue flash was a warning in daylight. She heard the scrape of scabbards as the squires drew their own weapons. The red horse snorted. Paks looked around. They were in a wide glade, with a frozen stream to their left and forest beyond it, and on their right. They moved on again, more slowly, the pack horses on short reins.
If the red horse had not kept watching to the left, Paks might have decided that nothing menaced them, for they rode a good distance without any sign of trouble. Then the forest closed in on their right, and the streambed plunged into a rocky hollow. Paks slowed, looking for a safe way down through the drifted snow. Ahead and below seemed rougher country, with the tops of boulders showing above piles of snow. She peered into the forest on their right. It was thick here, heavy with undergrowth even in winter, and she could see little but a tangle of leafless stalks and stems. Still, it looked like the way down was gentler off to the right. She reined the red horse toward the forest edge.
“Paks!” Garris’s shout brought her head around. Three huge white wolf-like creatures hurtled across the frozen stream, roaring. They were pony-high at the shoulder, with pale green eyes. The pack horses plunged wildly, and Suriya fought to control them. Lieth charged between the creatures and Suriya, striking at one. Garris and Esceriel too were trying to attack, but the creatures were as fast as they were big.
The red horse wheeled; Paks leaned low from the saddle and plunged the elf-blade into one of them. Its howl turned to a scream; she had severed its spine. Another had hamstrung a pack horse, and was fastened to its throat. The third raced in and out, slashing at the horses with its long teeth. Esceriel forced his horse close to the dying pack animal, and stabbed that one. It turned, with a terrifying howl, and flung itself upward against the sword. Lieth buried her sword in its back, just as the third creature attacked her mount. Her horse bucked wildly, and Lieth flew off, landing in a shower of snow.
Paks legged the red horse into a standing leap; they came down beside Lieth, who was just scrambling up. She caught Paks’s hand and swung up behind the saddle. Garris had finished the one that attacked Esceriel, but the third was racing after Lieth’s horse. Lieth whistled, but her mount kept going.
“Get down, Lieth—get up with Suriya. I’ll try to catch—” As she spoke, Paks sheathed the sword, and pulled her longbow from its case to string it.
“Not alone, Lady,” said Garris. “That may be what they want.”
“But we need the horse—” said Paks. She closed her legs; the red horse surged forward, back down their trail. Garris and Esceriel followed her. She could see the loose horse running flat-out beside the stream; the beast was hardly a length behind. Paks slid an arrow from its case, sparing a thought of thanks to the gods that she’d brought her bow along. Despite her weight, the red horse gained on the other, racing over the snow as if it were a smooth track. Paks drew and released. Her arrow sank into the beast’s hindquarters; she saw it flinch and slow. As she set another arrow to the string, the red horse gained still more. Her next shot was easier; they were nearly abreast of it, and she placed her arrow in its ribs. The beast howled, slowed more, running partly sideways now. Blood spattered the snow. She heard Garris and Esceriel yelling, and looked back.
Cutting her off from them were four riders, all in gray armor, with the spiked helms she remembered from Aarenis. One of the riders faced her, a leashed beast at his side; the others attacked her squires. Paks sent a last arrow at the beast she’d been chasing, and tossed her bow aside into a tree. The elf-blade flashed as she drew it again; she leaned from her saddle to behead the wounded beast, then sent the red horse charging at the gray riders.
The one facing her sent a piercing cry across the distance. It meant nothing to Paks, but she saw her squires wince and stagger. That rider unleashed his beast, and the white wolf-like thing flew toward her. But Paks had expected that; she had already gathered her horse, and when the wolf was a length away, they leaped high over it. By the time the beast reversed to follow them, Paks had attacked the first rider.