Page 11 of Prize of the Warlord
As I stagger along, I rake the braids and bones out of my hair, mentally cursing the Warlord and his ruffians. Thieves and brigands, the lot of them, rewriting history so they can claim my people’s home. Absurd. I throw the last piece of bone as hard as I can, and it pings against a tree before dropping into the leaves.
Barely any light now. I’ve never spent the night outside, alone, in a forest.
I’ve been riding and running and scrambling, so I didn’t feel the cold until I slowed down. Now it crawls through my leathers and furs, seeping into my skin, eating down to my bones. My fingers sting with it.
I can’t hide anywhere. I can’t stop moving. If I do, I’ll freeze.
I need to go back to the Bloodsalt and try to cross it in the dark.
But the sun is gone, and I don’t know which way is south anymore.
Gods, what have I done? I should have stayed in the camp. Healer or no healer, I’m not strong enough to survive a night without shelter or fire in a northern forest. And I can’t walk all the way across the Bloodsalt alone. Even if I managed it, I doubt I could locate the mountain pass we used to get here.
What was I thinking?
A shrill, faint shriek echoes distantly through the trees. It’s an inhuman sound—a manic, strident cry of rabid craving.
A rush of goosebumps breaks over my skin, and my heart drops into my gut.
Another keening shriek, much closer. And a third.
Something is hunting me—something worse than the Warlord.
Frantically I stumble along the floor of the ravine, nearly blind in the dark. My hands scrabble over some arching roots, thick ones from a great tree. Half-sobbing, I crawl between them, tucking myself behind them so the roots form a cage between me and whatever is coming.
A sharp cry, shrilling up at the end, repeated three times. It’s loud, just steps away from me. I tuck myself into a ball and squeeze back against the earthen wall of the ravine.
Crunch, crunch—soft steps in the dead leaves, prowling closer. Lighter than human feet. These are paws, and whenever they land on rock instead of leaves, there’s a telltale rasp of claws.
The creature makes a chittering sound, a sort of satisfied predatory purr, and four lavender eyes wink into existence in the dark. They are sharp, narrow eyes, with slitted pupils. I can’t see the body they belong to but I can hear the shift of its steps as it prowls, and waits.
Why doesn’t it attack? I’d much rather die quickly than sit here in nerve-wracking suspense. At this rate, the frantic pounding of my heart and the tightening of my lungs will kill me before the monster does.
It shrills again, three times, and two more cries reply from different places in the forest. The creature is waiting for its companions, pinning me here until they arrive. And then they will kill me.
13
The clouds scud away from the moon at that moment, releasing a flood of blue light just in time to show me my doom. A sleek black head with a tusked snout—tusks curving down past the creature’s jaw and another set jutting up, curving inward until they nearly touch its double set of glowing lavender eyes. Antlers sprout from its skull, but they’re not graceful like a buck’s—they’re crooked and cracked, asymmetrical. Coarse black fur sprouts wild from the creature’s neck and shoulders, and its legs bend wrong—they bend in too many places, jointed and quivering, hitching and ratcheting toward me.
I don’t pray, not usually. The chapels in my district are poorly attended, and offerings are few, or so my mother says. She’s one of the faithful. Her two favorite gods areHlín, goddess of protection and consolation, andHœnir, the silent god. I whisper to them while the monster paces on the other side of the scanty net of roots.
The other two beasts scream, and scream again, closer. They’re nearly here, nearly insane with the desire for my flesh.
The moment crystallizes. I’m hyper-aware of everything—my breath frosting the air in ghostly puffs, the raw earthy scent of the roots, their grainy texture. The scatter of leaves, twigs, and muck, rough beneath my palms. My knees, tucked close to my chest, pressing the furs and fabric against my skin. The blue-black fur of the creature, the glint of moon on its antlers and tusks. A twig snaps under its clawed foot.
This is my last memory. I’m so close to Death now I could touch it.
I would have preferred to sink quietly into the emptiness. I would still have existed somewhere then, but now, facing this creature, I have the horrible sense that it will rend not only my body but my soul as well. This is something Other, some monster of magic and curses.
With a flurry of scattered leaves and a rippling growl, the two other monsters skid down into the ravine and come abreast of their companion. They champ and huff, foamy lather spitting from their jaws.
They squeal and garble to each other, and prowl nearer, their misshapen legs bending, crouching, ready to spring.
Then a giant figure leaps into the gully, boots thundering solid on the ground, a deep roar rushing from his chest. He wields a massive sword, a big clumsy weapon with a giant blade designed for one thing—slaughter.
Shock blasts through me, bright and paralyzing.
The Warlord.
