The centaur’s ears twitched wildly. “We should run.”
“No,” Arvin said. “That’s what they want.” He glanced once more at the vine-trussed satyrs then turned to Karrell. “Speak to the wolves. Tell them we’ve brought their meat: the satyrs. The moment your spell wears off, the wolves can rush them. Then they’ll have all the meat they like.”
Karrell nodded then rapidly barked this out to White Muzzle. The wolf growled something at her pack then yipped a question back at Karrell, who answered it.
“I told her I broke the satyrs’ bows, but she is still fearful,” Karrell translated. “The satyrs are fierce fighters, even without weapons.”
Arvin chuckled in reply. “Not when they’re asleep.” He spoke his glove’s command word, and the pan pipes he’d vanished into it reappeared. “Plug your ears,” he instructed. Tanglemane and Karrell did as instructed. Arvin, praying the pipes wouldn’t affect the person playing them, lifted them to his lips and blew.
A shrill noise squealed from the pipes, but nothing happened. Neither the satyrs nor the wolves fell asleep. The nearest satyr, however, did twist around in the brambles, earning himself several scratches, to say something to his fellows. His voice sounded worried.
Arvin lowered the pipes. Only a satyr could evoke their magic, it seemed. But if that was the case, why did the satyrs sound concerned? He glanced closely at the pipes, noting for the first time that they were made from individual reeds, bound together with twine in a series of intricate knots.
Magical knots?
Grinning, Arvin slid the point of his dagger under one of the knots. He held the pan pipes out where the satyrs could see them. “Do as I say!” he shouted. “Or I’ll destroy them.”
A babble of voices broke out as the satyrs conversed in their own tongue. Then one of them shouted. “What want you?”
White Muzzle had begun to slink forward again, the rest of the pack following.
Arvin spoke quickly to Karrell. “Can you loosen just a few of the brambles?” he asked. “Enough to let one of the satyrs go?”
She nodded.
“Translate what I say for the wolves,” Arvin told her. Then he turned his attention back to the satyrs. “We’re going to release one of you,” he shouted. “That one will go back to the clearing and fetch Theyron’s body, and bring it to me.”
Karrell translated, and White Muzzle gave a satisfied growl. The satyrs, however, seemed reluctant. Arvin held the pan pipes a little higher, and started to saw with his blade.
“Stop!” one cried. “We shall bring him.”
Arvin smiled. He tipped his head in the direction of the satyr who had spoken. “That one,” he told Karrell in a low voice. Loosen the brambles around him.”
As the vines untwined themselves from him, the satyr leaped to his feet. He gave Arvin a fierce glare, then trotted back in the direction of the satyr camp. While he was gone, the brambles around the other satyrs began to loosen. Karrell recast her spell.
The satyr returned a short while later, dragging Theyron’s body. He paused just before leaving the brambles, catching his breath, then readjusted his grip on the body and continued dragging it toward Arvin. The wound in the dead satyr’s neck was still leaking blood; it left a trail of red. The wolves moved forward, licking their lips in anticipation. Then, at a yip from White Muzzle, they moved forward in a rush. The satyr bleated and scurried back into the brambles. The wolves converged on the corpse, growling at one another as they tore bloody chunks from it.
“Let’s get moving,” Arvin said in a low voice, eyeing the wolves. “Before they finish eating and decide they’re still hungry.”
Tanglemane nodded and knelt, motioning for Arvin and Karrell to get on his back. Arvin started to climb on then heard the creak of a bow being drawn. He turned his head just in time to see one of the satyrs—the one who had dragged Theyron’s body back—standing inside the brambles with a bow held at full draw. Arvin ducked as the satyr let his arrow fly.
The satyr wasn’t aiming at Arvin however, but at the wolves. One of them yelped as the arrow struck it.
“Let’s go,” Arvin shouted, boosting Karrell onto Tanglemane’s back.
Tanglemane, however, crumpled to his knees, spilling her to the ground. The centaur staggered to his feet a moment later, clutching his chest. A thin line of blood trickled out from beneath his hands.
“Tanglemane,” Karrell said, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
Even as she asked the question, Arvin realized the answer. The arrow had struck White Muzzle, and the fate link had caused Tanglemane to suffer an identical wound.
The satyr shot another arrow. This one struck another wolf in the head, instantly killing it.
The pack bolted, White Muzzle in the rear, limping.
Arvin silently cursed his stupidity; he should have guessed that the satyr would pick up another bow when he returned to the camp.
The satyr nocked another arrow. This time, he turned toward Arvin as he drew his bow.
“Wait!” Arvin shouted. “If you shoot me, you’ll never get these back.” He flourished the pan pipes then vanished them into his glove.
“The pipes are inside my glove,” he told the satyr, splaying his fingers wide to show that they had truly vanished. “And I’m the only one who can work the glove’s magic. Kill me, and you’ll lose the pipes forever.” He paused to let that sink in then added, “Let us leave the forest, and I’ll give the pipes back to you. They’re useless to me—I have no interest in keeping them. I’ll leave them at the forest’s edge for you. Do we have an agreement?”
The satyr lowered his bow a fraction and turned to speak to his fellows. Low murmuring followed. As the satyrs conferred, Arvin glanced at Tanglemane. The centaur’s face was pale; his legs trembled. Only a trickle of blood seeped from the wound; the arrow must have still been buried in White Muzzle’s flesh. Given her limited, animal intelligence, she would probably flee from the pain until she dropped, until she died.
“Agreed!” the satyr shouted back. “You may leave.”
Cautiously, Arvin and Karrell backed away from the brambles, leading the injured Tanglemane. The satyr held his fire.
Tanglemane was able to walk, but he gasped with each breath.
Arvin touched the crystal at his throat. “Nine lives,” he pleaded.
Tanglemane was going to need them. Even if the satyrs kept their end of the bargain, the centaur was unlikely to make it out of the woods.
13
Arvin squatted beside Tanglemane, gently repositioning the blood-soaked bandage he’d made earlier from pieces torn from his shirt. The centaur had proved stronger than Arvin expected; he’d walked for some distance through the forest before crumpling to his knees. Karrell had cast a healing spell on him just after they’d left the satyr camp, but it had only helped a little bit. The wound in the side of his chest was still open, still seeping blood. It was a hollow hole that, on White Muzzle, would have been filled with an arrow shaft. It was a wonder the wolf had survived this long, with an arrow still in her. Every now and then the flesh around the puckered hole quivered; Arvin realized that White Muzzle must have been licking her wound, jostling the arrow around.
He hoped that meant she had found somewhere safe to hole up—somewhere predators wouldn’t find her.
“Hang on, Tanglemane,” Arvin urged, one hand on the centaur’s shoulder. “It’s almost sunset. The fate link will end soon.” For the hundredth time, he wished he could dispel the power, but once manifested, a fate link endured for its full duration.
The centaur’s breathing was labored now. He sat with head bowed and eyes screwed shut, as if trying to block out the pain. Had he been human, Arvin and Karrell might have carried him, but the centaur must have weighed three times their combined weight.
Karrell beckoned Arvin to her and nodded at the darkening forest. “The satyrs are still following us.”