“And we would no longer exist along with her,” the ghostly man added.
“I have protected her,” Murialis said, stretching out her hand and brushing it gently across the stubble of her growing hair. “I shall live in her and for her. I shall continue to stand between her and the truth that would destroy her and all of us. And each of us must be prepared to do the same.”
“But we are only characters from the stories she has told,” Felicia said, frustration evident in her quiet voice. “We are only dreams.”
“Then we shall be made real through her,” Murialis replied. “We shall stand between her and the truth of the world, and within our circle she will be safe.”
“Will she not feel our pains, too?” the sad elven female asked with concern.
“Yes,” Murialis responded. “And we shall bear them, too.”
“Lyric?” Drakis called carefully. “Uh, Murialis?”
Mala nudged him, then whispered. “Listen!”
Weeping.
They found her lying across a great stone half buried in the plain. A carving of a woman, her face broken and now missing, lay beneath the Lyric’s embrace. The Lyric sobbed, tears running down her cheeks and washing streaks across the blasted stone.
“Tianya!” she cried. “My sister and darling! That your tragic love should have brought this doom upon all your people! Was it not enough to break your heart? Did you have to break the hearts of the mothers and daughters of your ruined kingdom, too! May the woodland spirits curse a passion that should cause such pain!”
Drakis leaned toward the dwarf. “What is she talking about?”
Jugar shook his head. “Lad, I have no idea.”
The sky was dark. Rain clouds had gathered in the afternoon. Lightning flashed to the south, rolling thunder in their direction.
Drakis, his beard thickening along with the ragged hair on his head, stepped wearily toward the chimerian, who squatted on the ridge at the top of a narrow hill. They had left the Hecariat and its terrible pillar five days behind them, and yet still his gaze was drawn to it off to the southeast. He felt sometimes that it was calling him back to his death.
“How much farther do you think we have to go?” he asked.
Ethis didn’t look back, didn’t turn. “We can’t stop and rest, Drakis. We have to continue the march tonight.”
Drakis blinked. “What?”
Chimera were difficult for Drakis to read even in the best of times. Their pliable faces and shape-altering bodies and limbs made it impossible to judge their moods. Still, there was something in the way Ethis spoke-those few times he did speak-that stood the hairs up on the back of Drakis’ neck. Something was different about Ethis, and, as every warrior knew, what a fighter doesn’t understand can kill him.
“We’re within fifteen-perhaps twenty-leagues southeast of the border,” Ethis said casually. “We can pick up the River Galaran to the north and follow it all the way up to the Weeping Pool.”
“Wait,” Drakis said, cocking his head to one side. “How do you know about. .”
“The banks of the river will be our guide in the darkness,” Ethis continued. “It’s the surest way we have of getting there, and we haven’t a moment to spare.”
“That’s not possible,” Drakis felt his anger rising. “Mala was a House slave. She’s in no way prepared or trained for the rigors of a forced march. Besides, we all need rest. We’re nearly there now, why not just. .”
Ethis turned his head toward the human. “We are being followed, Drakis.”
“We’re. . followed?”
“For a week now, perhaps longer,” Ethis replied.
“And you didn’t tell. .”
“There was only one of them then. I could keep track of him. But now there are four, and we are in real danger,” Ethis continued. “Our best hope now is to run-all night and tomorrow-as far and as fast as we can toward Murialis’ realm.”
“What do I tell them?” Drakis asked. “What can I say that will get them moving again?”
“Tell them they are being hunted.”
CHAPTER 24
The grasslands rose steadily before them as they moved northward, making the going more difficult. A growing black belt of trees-the fringes of the Hyperian Forest-split the horizon to the northwest, a dark line growing wider with each step. Yet it was not so much the hope beckoning before them as the fear at their backs that drove Drakis and his companions on.
It was an hour past sunset when they reached the steep banks of the River Galaran that Ethis had promised would guide them. Belag bounded down the ten-foot embankment, reaching the riverbed first, his keen eyes reconnoitering both up and down the length of the dark, murmuring water before him.
“You call this a river?” Drakis said to Ethis, his voice hoarse with exertion as he hurriedly made his way down the precarious slope, struggling to steady both himself and Mala at the same time. He had seen many of the great rivers in his time-including, he suddenly recalled, the majestic Jolnar, which ran through the heart of the Empire-but this shallow bed only twenty to thirty feet in width barely qualified as a stream by those standards. “A child could cross it! What good is it for defense?”
“It isn’t a fortress, Master Drakis-it’s our road,” the Lyric replied, her nose lifted in haughty displeasure as she stepped quickly across the smooth rocks and knelt next to the stream, the long fingers of her left hand scooping up the water and letting it run through her fingers. “This is the lifeblood of our nation that you so casually dismiss. You would be wise to remember that and be grateful for our largesse.”
“How much farther,” RuuKag groaned, rolling his wide head as he rubbed his neck.
“Not far,” Ethis said, “Seven, maybe eight leagues.”
“Eight leagues!” RuuKag bellowed.
Belag hung his head, shaking his growing mane.
Jugar coughed. “May I suggest that we take a different course? We must head north at once! This western track will plunge us into dangerous lands that can only. .”
“We follow the river,” Ethis asserted as though to a child. “That is the plan.”
“You follow the river, chimerian,” RuuKag snarled, his large, furry hand sweeping in a dismissive gesture before him. “It’s all well and good for you grand warriors! You’re no doubt used to walking your feet off crossing the length and breadth of the Empire and all its conquests, but some of us are House slaves! By the gods, look around you; you’re wearing campaign sandals of the Legions and we’ve been crossing open country in these household sandals. Have you even taken time to notice that Mala’s feet are blistered-that she’s had to repair her sandals every day for the last three days and wrap her feet in whatever cloth she can tear from the hem of her wrap? No. . you’ve been too busy looking to the sunset to see what’s at your own feet. Well, that may be your life, warrior, but it isn’t mine, and I’m not taking another step until. .”
Drakis turned from Mala, his short sword ringing slightly as he deftly pulled it from the scabbard at his side. In two quick steps he closed the distance between himself and RuuKag. With his left hand, he reached up and, before RuuKag could react, closed his fingers in an iron grip on the manticore’s right ear.
RuuKag howled in pain, rearing back, but Drakis, jaw set, held fast and twisted the manticore’s ear farther backward. RuuKag’s head moved involuntarily back with it, trying desperately to relieve the pressure and the pain that so suddenly overwhelmed him.
Drakis pressed forward, the sword pointing upward between the two of them, its tip centered on the exposed throat of the lion-man still in his grip. RuuKag staggered backward, falling at last against the wall of the embankment. RuuKag clawed at Drakis, but the warrior responded at once by twisting the ear harder and sliding the tip of his sword up to rest against the manticore’s throat.