She hastened onward, running now, the pumping of her heart and blood a dull pounding in her ears. Anger, fear, and determination all mingled as one and drove her forward. The moor rose before her gently, and she scrambled to the center of a small rise thick with long grasses and scrub. Slowing, she glanced about in disbelief.
The shadows were everywhere.
Then a tall, lean figure appeared from out of the mist before her, wrapped in a highlander’s cloak and bearing a giant broadsword strapped across its back. Brin stiffened in surprise. It was Rone! Arms lifted from out of the robes, reaching for her, beckoning her close. Willingly she started toward the highlander, her hand stretching to take his.
And then something stopped her.
She blinked. Rone? No!
A red veil fell across her vision, rage sweeping through her as she recognized the deception. It was not Rone Leah she saw. It was again the Werebeast that tracked her.
It came forward, a shimmering and fluid apparition. Robes and sword fell away, bits of the mist through which it passed. Nothing of the highlander was there now, but only a shadow, huge and changing. Swiftly it drew together, a massive body crouched on thick, clawed hindlegs, great forearms crooked and bristling with shaggy hair, and a head wrinkled and twisted about jaws that split to reveal whitened teeth.
It rose up through the mist, twice her size, swathed in the moor’s haze. Soundless, it bent its head and snapped at her, a mass of hair and scales, muscle, spiked bone, teeth, and slitted eyes. It was a thing born of darkest nightmares, one Brin might have dreamed in the anguish of her own despair.
Was it real? Or was it simply born out of the mist and the wanderings of her imagination?
It made no difference. Forsaking the oath she had taken only minutes earlier, she used the wishsong. Hardened with purpose, maddened by what she saw, she called it forth. She was not meant to die here within Olden Moor at the hands of this monster. This one further time she would use the magic—on a thing whose destruction did not matter.
She sang, and the wishsong froze in her throat.
It was her father who stood before her now.
The Werebeast slouched toward her, form shifting and changing in the haze, jaws slavering in anticipation of how the Valegirl’s life would sate its needs. Brin staggered back, seeing now her mother’s dark and gentle face. She called out in desperation, a wild, anguished cy that seemed locked in the silence of her mind.
Back came an answering cry, calling her name. Brin! Confusion swept through her; the cry seemed real, but who… ?
“Brin!”
The monster loomed over her, and she could smell the evil of it. But the wishsong stayed locked in her throat, imprisoned by the image she retained of its power tearing into her mother’s slim form, leaving it broken and lifeless.
“Brin!”
Then a frightening roar shattered the stillness of the night. A sleek shadow flew out of the mist, and five hundred pounds of enraged moor cat crashed into the Werebeast, flinging it back from Brin. Teeth and claws slashing, the cat tore into the monstrous apparition and both went tumbling headlong through the deep grasses.
“Brin! Where are you?”
Brin stumbled back, barely able to hear the voices over the sounds of the battle. Frantic, she called back to them. An instant later Kimber appeared, darting through the haze, her long hair streaming out behind her. Cogline followed, shouting wildly, his crooked body struggling to keep pace with the girl.
Whisper and the Werebeast surged back into view, lunging and feinting. The moor cat was the stronger of the two; although the mist thing sought to break past, it was blocked at every turn. But now other shadows were gathering in the darkness beyond, huge and shapeless, ringing them all close about. Too many shadows!
“Leah! Leah!”
And then Rone was there, his slim form bolting through the mass of shadows, sword lifted. Eerie, green incandescence swirled about the ebony blade. The Werebeast cornered by Whisper whirled instantly, sensing the greater danger of the sword’s magic. Thrusting away from the moor cat, the monster leaped at Rone. But the Prince of Leah was ready. His sword arced down, knifing through the mist into the Werebeast. Green fire flared sharply through the night, and the mist thing exploded in a shower of flames.
Then the light died away, and the night and the mist returned. The shadows that had gathered in the darkness beyond melted back into the void.
The highlander turned, the sword dropping forgotten at his side. He came quickly to Brin, his face stricken.
“I’m sorry, sorry”, he whispered. “The magic…” He shook his head helplessly. “When I found the sword again, when I touched it… I couldn’t seem to think of anything else. I picked it up and I ran with it. I forgot everything—even you. It was the magic, Brin…
He faltered, and she nodded into his chest, hugging him close. “I know.”
“I won’t leave you like that again”, he promised. “I won’t.”
“I know that, too”, she replied softly.
But she said nothing of her decision to leave him.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was the third day after leaving the prisons at Dun Fee Aran before Jair and the little company from Culhaven reached the towering mountain range they called the Ravenshorn. Unable to use the open roadways than ran close to the banks of the Silver River as it wound south out of the mountains for fear of being seen, they were forced to traverse the deep forests above, picking their way at a slower pace through the tangled wilderness. The rains finally ceased on the second day out, slowed to a drizzle by midmorning, and turned to mist by noon. The air warmed as the skies cleared, and the clouds drifted east. When darkness slipped across the land, the moon and stars became visible through the trees. Their pace was slow, even after the rains had subsided, for the saturated earth could not absorb all of the surface water that had gathered, and the ground was muddied and slick with it. Stopping only for short periods of time to rest and eat, the company did its best to ignore the poor travel conditions and resolutely pressed ahead.
The sun appeared on the third day, brilliant and warm, filtering down in friendly streamers through the forest shadows, returning bits and pieces of color to the sodden land. The dark mass of the Ravenshorn came into view, barren rock rising up above the treeline. All morning they worked their way toward it, then on through the noonday, and by midafternoon they had reached the lower slopes and were starting up.
It was then that Slanter brought them to a halt.
“We have a problem,” he announced matter-of-factly. “If we try to cross through these mountains, it will take us days—weeks, maybe. Only other way in is by following the Silver River upstream to its source at Heaven’s Well. We can do that—if we’re careful—but sooner or later we will have to pass right under Graymark. Walkers will see us coming for sure.”
Foraker frowned. “There must be some way we can slip past them.”
“There isn’t,” Slanter grunted. “I ought to know.”
“Can we follow the river until we’re close to Graymark and then cross into the mountains?” Helt asked, his big frame lowering onto a boulder. “Can we come at it from another direction?”
The Gnome shook his head. “Not from where we are. Graymark sits on a cliff shelf that overlooks the whole of the land about it—the Ravenshorn, the Silver River, everything. Rock is barren and open—no cover at all.” He glanced at Stythys, who sat sullenly to one side. “That’s why the lizards like it there so well. Nothing could ever creep up on them.”
“Then we’ll have to go in at night,” Garet Jax said softly.
Again Slanter shook his head. “Break your neck if you try it. Cliffs are sheer drops all the way in and the paths are narrow and guarded. You’ll never make it.”