Each morning Lyrralt woke wet and miserable. He searched the distant mountainside for new landslides. There was always at least one, an ugly scar marring the green slopes, a clay-colored wound where the earth had simply given up and let go. With each slide, he rode more nervously, wondering if the next one would be the one to come down on his head.
The path forked, narrowed to a ledge, and disappeared around a bare cliff face toward a roaring waterfall. To the northeast, the path went around the same cliff, wide and smooth as it meandered toward Thordyn Pass.
They climbed down and gathered around a map, which Jyrbian hunched over and held as tightly against his body as possible to shield it from the rain. It was old, probably inaccurate, but was all they had. This part of the mountains was all bare cliff faces and rocky outcroppings. No one would need a map of it, except thieves and criminals.
Lyrralt peered over his brother’s shoulder. The path to the east was nearly twice as long and wound through a narrow valley that would make an excellent spot for ambush, if the tree cover was good.
“J think we should take the west path.” Jyrbian folded the map and put it away in his saddlebag.
Lyrralt quickly remounted, his heart beating as loudly as the rain thrummed on the leaves overhead. By the time he was settled, Butyr and Everlyn were arguing for the easier path.
“Jyrbian, it’s still raining. That path will be dangerous.”
“And least likely to hold an ambush, besides being half the distance,” Jyrbian said firmly.
Lyrralt let out his breath, relieved that Jyrbian had the presence of mind to resist Everlyn. He edged his horse toward the narrow path.
The rain had eased to a trickle, coating the trail with a layer of moisture. The rocky path was bare and slick, so narrow that their legs would brush the granite wall. They would be forced to ride single file. And it would be easy for a horse to slip, for the slick hooves to skid, for a rider to tumble down the cliff’s side…
“What do you think?”
Lyrralt turned to find Igraine beside him. The Ogre was watching him with a solemn, penetrating gaze. Looking at him, not the trail, as if he could see deep into his heart.
The hieroglyphs woke on his arm, writhed and itched. “It’s very narrow. Slippery and treacherous. But it is shorter, and-”
“Still you favor it?”
“Yes,” Lyrralt said, looking away, suddenly sure that Igraine knew what he was planning, knew he was thinking how easy it would be, once they were on the narrow ridge, for Igraine’s horse to plunge accidentally over the edge.
“I’m glad you agree, Brother,” Jyrbian said as he pushed past, his horse nudging Lyrralt’s aside.
Lyrralt looked back and saw Everlyn, Khallayne and Tenaj, and behind them, two of the newcomers, Bakrell and Kaede. Butyr was farther back, scowling, talking with large gestures to one of his cousins.
Two of the Ogres who always loudly supported Jyrbian, who had established themselves as sword-masters, pushed past before Lyrralt could close the gap. “After you, Lord,” Lyrralt said when the two were past and motioned courteously for Igraine to precede him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They rode out onto the ledge.
The fear they all felt was like the gray mist, thick enough to see, to taste. Lyrralt forced himself to concentrate on Igraine’s broad back, to watch for an opportunity.
The ledge on which they rode was so narrow that they loosened grit and pebbles from the cliff face with each step of their horses.
No going back.
Lyrralt tore his gaze from Igraine and settled on the immense gulf of open air between him and the ground below.
No going back. The words beat a refrain in his mind.
The roar of the river, the rushing of the waterfall, the pounding of his own heart, made a song to Hid-dukel. In tempo to it, he whispered a chant aimed at Igraine and the horse he rode. He urged his horse forward, as close to Igraine’s as he dared.
Igraine’s horse shied, indication that Lyrralt’s chant was working. It whipped its glossy mane back and forth, then stopped, lowering its rump preparatory to rearing. Igraine stiffened, fought against the fear that enveloped him. Somehow, he kept his head, restrained the horse.
Lyrralt chanced releasing his reins and touched his shoulder, drawing on the magic of the runes. He could feel the power flowing through him, out of him, streaming toward the Ogre and beast ahead.
A scream! Lyrralt started, then froze, every muscle in his body seizing up. The magic of the runes died, cut off abruptly.
“Don’t stop! Keep moving!” The words echoed, came from somewhere far away, perhaps originating from ahead, perhaps from behind. Perhaps it was Jyrbian’s voice. Perhaps his own.
More screams broke through, more than one voice. There was a crack, like a whip striking the cliff face, and pebbles rained down on his back. More screams were followed by a horrible sound of a rider and horse falling, somewhere behind him. The screaming died away and ended abruptly with the sickening, bone-cracking thud of bodies slamming into rock.
Lyrralt’s horse, responding to the terror of the other animal, tried to bolt. Its hooves scrabbled for purchase on the path. The rider behind him cried out.
Lyrralt grabbed for the cliff face with one hand, yanked at the reins with the other, tightened his grip on his mount, and prayed for the animal to regain its footing.
The rider behind him cried out again as Lyrralt’s horse stumbled backward.
Lyrralt nails tore as he grabbed for an outcropping of rock, a crevice, anything. He kicked out. His fingers found only slick stone. Then he was free, hanging by his fingertips in the air.
His body slammed back into the wall. As breath whooshed out of his lungs, his grip on the sharp rock broke, and he knew momentum was going to carry him over the cliff.
Something-someone-caught him. Strong hands encircled his wrist and yanked him forward. He danced for firm footing, found it, and looked up into Igraine’s eyes. His face taut, Igraine held his wrist firmly, held his arm stretched at a painful angle across the backside of his horse, as he tried to control the animal, tried to keep his own precarious balance.
“Don’t let go!” Lyrralt gasped.
Igraine gave a single shake of his head and pulled harder, righting himself and steadying the horse with a mighty effort.
Muscles stretched to the breaking point, Lyrralt lowered himself until his feet found the path. He would have fainted but for the pain coursing through his body, but for the steely gray eyes locked with his, holding both of them upright almost by sheer will.
“Slowly…” Igraine said tensely, looking back down the trail. “Slowly. Climb up behind me. Now! Climb up!” Igraine pulled on his wounded arm.
Lyrralt gasped as pain shot through his joints.
Behind him, someone screamed. Something slapped against the cliff above him. Pebbles rained down on his back. It was starting all over again!
More screams, more pebbles. A fist-sized rock struck his shoulder. Something hit Igraine, and he let go.
Lyrralt fell back and flattened himself against the granite cliff. Tentacles, ghastly yellow and banded with brown, fleshy rings, were reaching up from beneath the ledge, slithering along the path, searching, tapping the space between riders. When they didn’t find anything, first one tentacle, then another, reared back and hammered the wall, sending a shower of pebbles and rocks exploding outward.
As the tentacles returned to their searching, Lyrralt realized he could hear a slavering, gurgling hiss. He reached for his arm, closing his fingers over the runes for strength. He closed his eyes and whispered to Hiddukel, asking for a shield, something to disguise his body from the slithering arms.