Her last ally dead, the tattooed woman flung herself away, limping for the safety of the forest.
A short, heavy sword-already slick with blood-whirled around and chopped deep into her torso. She slumped forward, her body seeming to fold over the blade.
Geth stepped back into the circle of Singe’s light, sliding his weapon free and allowing the woman’s corpse to collapse onto the ground. He raised his eyes and met the wizard’s gaze with a simple, brutal directness.
Abruptly, Singe felt as though he had fallen through time nine years into the past. The backcountry hunter he had confronted on the common of Bull Hollow had barely seemed like the warrior he remembered. That warrior stood before him now. Geth still wore the clothes he had before, but in his left hand, he held his sword, a product of the smoke-belching war forges of Karrnath.
His right hand and arm were covered in an armor sleeve of blackened, magewrought steel. Flat spikes protruded from the knuckles of the great gauntlet and three low, hooked blades swept forward from the back. More spikes lined the ridge of his forearm. Interlocking strips of metal bulged around his upper arm, running all the way up to the plates of the wide, heavy shoulder guard.
Slowly, Singe lifted his rapier once more and braced himself for the shifter’s attack.
“Stop.”
From the direction that Geth had come, another man moved into the light. His only weapon was a spear with a cluster of dried leaves bound to its shaft and his only armor a jerkin of heavy, paint-daubed hide, but he carried himself with authority. A druid, guessed Singe-he had seen men and women with a similar look throughout the Eldeen Reaches. He had never, however, seen one with such a clear confidence and sense of purpose as this man. Under the weight of the nature-priest’s gaze, he let his rapier drop. The druid gave him a measured look as he paced closer.
“You must be Singe,” he said. “My name is Adolan.” He turned and glanced at Dandra. To Singe’s surprise, the kalashtar shrank back slightly and her feet settled to the ground. Adolan knelt to examine one of the fallen warriors. “Human,” he muttered. He looked back up at Dandra. “I have the feeling you know who these people are.”
Tension passed over Dandra’s face, as if she was struggling with her response. Then she drew a breath and met Adolan’s eyes. “They’re the hunters of a clan called Drumasaz,” she said. “In their language, it means ‘the Bonetree.’ They come from deep in the Shadow Marches.”
“The Shadow Marches?” the druid said sharply. His eyes narrowed. “What gods do they follow?” he demanded. “Do you know?”
“No gods,” Dandra whispered so quietly Singe could barely hear her. “They worship the dark powers of Khyber.”
Singe couldn’t hold back a nervous chuckle. “A cult of the Dragon Below? Are you serious?”
Adolan gave him unnerving stare. “The Shadow Marches breed many foul things-degenerate ideas and desperate beliefs among them.” He prodded one of the bodies with the toe of his boot and rose slowly. “What would a Marcher clan be doing-”
Singe felt a prickling across the back of his neck. His eyes darted up into the darkness overhead. Geth must have felt something, too, because he hissed, “In the trees, Ado!”
The druid glanced up, then folded his lower lip under his teeth and gave an ear-splitting whistle.
A hunting bird’s screech cut the night. Branches and leaves crashed above them as something struck from out of the sky-and something else sought to escape. Singe flinched instinctively. Wings cracked through the air, then the hunting bird screeched again.
A moment later, a big eagle with red-gold plumage settled onto the path. Clutched in its talons was a massive black heron. The eagle spread its wings and screeched once more, then waddled awkwardly back as Adolan approached and bent down. “Well done, Breek,” he said. “Singe, your light?”
Stunned, the wizard stepped closer and raised his shining rapier high. Over Adolan’s shoulder, he got a better look at the dead bird. Its long neck had been broken by the eagle’s attack, but it looked almost as if the heron had been on the verge of death already: it was thin and its black feathers seemed strangely oily. The eyes that stared blankly into the night were an eerily bright acid green.
Singe swallowed. “I didn’t know herons perched in trees,” he said awkwardly, trying to fill the silence.
“The tops of trees,” Geth said, “yes. The thick of a forest canopy? No. Ado?”
“It’s tainted. But not enough to have triggered the Bull Hole. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” The druid stood. “We-”
“We need to go,” said Dandra.
Singe, Adolan, and Geth swung around as one to stare at her. The woman’s hands were clenched tight around her spear. There was a terror on her face, Singe saw, that hadn’t been there when they were fighting the hunters.
“They’ll be coming.” She trembled. “They follow the birds.”
Singe darted forward and steadied her. He glanced at Geth and Adolan. “There was a bird watching me before we were attacked.”
“More hunters coming then?” asked Geth.
“Or worse,” said Adolan softly. “Either way, we shouldn’t stay here.” He looked to Geth. The shifter nodded and spun around to lope away along the path, his gaze swinging right to left and back. Scouting the way. Singe felt another twinge of familiarity. Nine years before, the shifter had done the same thing in service to the Frostbrand and House Deneith.
He turned back, however, to find Adolan staring at him. “Put your fight with Geth aside,” the druid said. “You’re in danger.” He looked at Dandra. “Are you going to attack me again?”
She shook her head urgently. Adolan nodded. “Then come with us, both of you. Quickly.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue and the eagle croaked in response, vaulting back into the air and flapping furiously to gain the sky. Adolan gestured with his spear, then turned and ran after Geth with long, confident strides. Dandra pulled out of Singe’s arms and raced off in his wake. Her first few paces were on the ground, then she was floating again, moving as quickly as Adolan-faster even. Abruptly, Singe was all but alone, left to stare at the retreating figures of the druid and the kalashtar and at the bodies lying along the path.
“Twelve moons-” he breathed in confusion.
His voice froze as a weird fluting call pierced the forest. It was unlike anything he had ever heard: shrill, maddening, and haunting all at once. There was another sound underneath it as well, a vague muttering chant. Singe’s teeth snapped together and he sprinted hard after Adolan, the light from his rapier bouncing and sweeping in the darkness.
The fluting call fell silent, but not the muttering chant. If anything, it seemed louder. Even another of the rolling bellows-louder than before and also closer-did nothing but drown it out for a moment. When the echoes of the bellow faded away, the chanting was closer still. Singe cursed under his breath. He glanced at Dandra, but the kalashtar’s eyes were fixed on the path ahead. “Adolan,” he gasped, “what’s happening? Where are we going?”
“We’re going to the Bull Hole,” Adolan said. Even he sounded winded. “We’ll be safe there.”
“What’s the Bull Hole? What’s making that chanting?”
There was light ahead. Moonlight. Singe caught a glimpse of Geth’s hulking form waiting for them. Abruptly, they shot out of the shadows of the forest and into a huge broad clearing. At its center was a jumble of stones.
He remembered seeing this clearing from the rim of the valley as he and Toller looked down on Bull Hollow. He remembered thinking the stones were the ruins of some building. He couldn’t, he realized, have been more wrong.
The stones looked like they predated the hamlet, like they predated any human presence in the Eldeen Reaches. Weathered smooth, they shone and shimmered under the light of the moons and the Ring of Siberys. Many leaned sharply and a good number had fallen entirely, but it was easy to see that they had once stood in a carefully arranged, tightly clustered circle. Yet another bellow rolled through the night and this time Singe felt it rumble in his guts. He could have sworn that even the ground trembled with the sound.