Alon turned, sword across his back, then waved to summon Steel Talon. “Be my guide, winged warrior!” he shouted, then began trotting downslope as the bird circled overhead.
Monso, left behind, arched his neck and crab-stepped. Taking a deep breath, the songsmith loosened the reins a notch… then another. The Keplian paced forward, then he was trotting after his master, his strides lengthening.
Eydryth stood in her stirrups, her fingers working the reins, and through them the bit in the Keplian’s mouth… squeeze, relax, squeeze, relax…
Cautiously, she loosened rein another notch; then Monso was cantering downhill, passing Alon in two strides. As they reached the spot where they had left the road, Eydryth’s fingers tightened on the left rein as the muscles of her right leg squeezed her mount’s barrel. The Keplian obediently bore left, turning back onto the road.
She glanced up, once, just before a screen of brush blocked her view, to see Alon waving farewell as he reached the last of the downslope. Then the green branches eclipsed the Adept, and there was only the road, bare and red in the light of sunset, beckoning her east.
Still standing in her stirrups to keep her weight balanced over Monso’s shoulders, Eydryth let out another bit of rein, and then the stallion was galloping.
Galloping… galloping…
The surface beneath them was perfect for a running horse— not so hard-packed that it would cause splints or sole bruises, nor dry enough yet to raise a choking dust. Seeing the empty road before him, Monso tugged hopefully at the bit, but obeyed Eydryth’s hands when she held him back. The songsmith felt a sense of exultation fill her. To be in command of such speed, such power! It was a heady sensation as they glided along.
Twilight darkened around them, and still they encountered no one. Monso seemed content to gallop along at a speed most mortal steeds would have been hard-pressed to match.
Before long, Eydryth must needs summon her night vision, letting a thread of melody run through her mind. She hummed aloud, watching the landscape sharpen around her, saw one black ear turn back to catch her voice. She hummed louder, then found herself singing to the Keplian—a tune that, under the circumstances, seemed only too fitting:
She continued through all of “Lord Faral’s Race,” while Monso kept one ear pricked back, as though enjoying the song.
Time passed… On a moonless night, such as this one was, it was hard to guess just how much, but Eydryth could now see farmlands and an occasional house as they flashed by. They had galloped into the more populated lands of Arvon.
Once they raced through a town. Monso’s shoes struck sparks from a cobbled street, and the sound of rapid hoofbeats doubled and redoubled as they echoed off the stone and timbered houses and shops. Hanging above the door of the town-hall was a clan mantle; the songsmith’s enhanced vision saw that it was blue.
“We’re in Bluemantle lands, Monso,” she sang, ignoring the tavern door that was flung open behind her, the shouts of inquiry from startled villagers that quickly faded and were gone. “We’ve come at least ten leagues already. If we stay on this road, we’ll be crossing Redmantle lands soon. Are you wearied?”
The black half-bred snorted, almost as if in disdain at the idea. Eydryth laughed aloud, and they galloped on.
Farmlands stretched again to each side of them. A stone bridge flashed by beneath Monso’s hooves. Eydryth heard the chuckling lap of the water as it splashed the pilings, and ran a dry tongue across wind-chapped lips. For a moment she thought of halting, taking a breather, sipping some of the water from Neave’s spring, but she decided she could hold out a little longer.
Once we’re on Redmantle lands, she promised herself. The ford at the Deepwater. We’ll rest a few minutes there…
By now her legs were aching from standing in the stirrups. Eydryth eased herself down into the saddle, though still she leaned forward, trying to rest lightly on the Keplian’s back. They were galloping now toward what appeared to be a dark blot crouching over the road like some gigantic beast, ready to engulf them within its maw.
Eydryth strained her night vision, made out trees. Of course, she remembered. The forest. We’ve reached the Bluemantle forest. We’re almost to the border of Redmantle lands…
As the Keplian galloped into the forest, they plunged into a dark so complete that even Eydryth’s night vision could scarcely pierce it. Monso snorted uneasily, slowing abruptly to an uncertain canter. Knowing that her mount’s eyes must be adjusting to the increased darkness within the forest, the songsmith did not urge him faster.
The darkness beneath the trees was cavelike, nearly complete. Eydryth concentrated harder, humming loudly, and made out the road stretching before them like a black satin ribbon laid across a black velvet gown. Monso’s strides steadied as the Keplian’s eyes also adjusted to the absence of light beneath the trees. They cantered on, not daring to go faster.
Eydryth crouched over Monso’s withers, shivering as a chill wind brushed the back of her neck like a long-dead finger. The breeze came again, harder, colder, pushing at her back, tossing her hair.
The songsmith stiffened, her nostrils flaring. That wind bore with it an odor… a rank, yet familiar, odor. Eydryth grimaced at the smell. Where had she scented its like before? She turned her head to glance behind her, seeking its source. A dank gust of wind struck her face like a foul breath.
Glowing spectrally with their own ghastly light, more than a score of web-riders were being borne along on that wind, heading straight for her and Monso!
The poisonous creatures were already so close that Eydryth could see their pincers. Their jaws dripped venom, spattering the surface of the barely seen road; gobs of sickly greenish light marked their path. Another blast of wind sent the web-riders hurtling toward the songsmith and her mount. In a moment they would be upon them!
Eydryth leaned forward with a terrified gasp, feeling that unnatural wind push again at her back. “Go, boy!” she cried, slamming her heels into Monso’s sides. “Go!” She glanced back, glimpsed pincers only an arm’s length from her eyes. “Run!” she screamed, lashing the Keplian’s neck with the reins.
By that time Monso, too, had caught wind of their pursuers. The Keplian needed no further urging. Springing forward as though shot from a dart gun, he raced through the dark woods.
Darkness blurred in Eydryth’s sight. She struggled to keep her night vision, every moment fearing that her brains would be dashed out against some low-hanging limb. But she feared the fell creatures behind them more than she feared a clean death, so she made no effort to slow Monso, only flattened herself as best she could along the Keplian’s neck, clinging to his mane with both hands.
There were occasional gaps in the tree cover overhead now, and she could see a little better. Greatly daring, the songsmith glanced back, saw that they had gained on the web-riders. Still that unnatural gale assaulted her back.
Sorcery, she realized. That wind was sent, as were these creatures. By whom? Yachne? The Adepts at Garth Howell? There was no way to know. We are not racing the web-riders, she realized, we are racing the wind! And if that wind grows stronger…
By now they were passing trees so rapidly that their trunks blurred, seeming as close together as fence posts, so fast was Monso running.
Without warning, they were out of the forest, plunging steeply downhill toward the starlit gleam of a river. The Deepwater! Eydryth realized. She struggled to keep her balance as the Keplian hurtled down the road. If he catches a foot and falls at this speed, I’ll be crushed beneath him, she thought.