Page 55 of The Crown of Moonlight
Chyr swings his leg over Bramble’s flank and slides to the ground, then he holds his arms up for me.The feel of his hands on my waist, his eyes holding mine, it all makes my heart beat faster.I drag my eyes away.
We tie the horses at the stream to keep them out of the bog, and I spread more of our dwindling ration of cheese and oat bannocks out on a flat rock nearby.Chyr crouches by the water, fingers brushing the surface.
He goes still, listening.Bramble raises her head from the stream, water dripping from her muzzle.I surge up, dagger drawn, but a flicker of movement draws my eye, a twitch of ears, a pale shape hopping.Then Chyr’s dirk flies from his hand, and the rabbit goes still.
I feel its death, a pinch like I felt at the rabbit’s death yesterday.Nothing like the scale of the loss and emptiness I felt when we passed the pyres of Aknacaery and the surrounding homes and fields, but an acknowledgment of something passing.It’s unfamiliar enough to confuse me.
Chyr picks the rabbit up by the ears, smiling until he sees me.“What’s wrong?”
I shake my head.“Nothing.”
“Good, because I’ll take rabbit over oatcakes any day.”He grins at me again, and I realise it’s a smile that’s free of pain, a genuine smile.I can barely remember when life allowed for joy.
Then a sharp bark echoes off the cliffs above us, and we both go still.
The air shivers, a feeling like teeth on skin.The bark is answered by several more.
Chyr’s sword sings as he draws it and turns to look behind us.I unsheathe my dagger, and my magic answers when I call it.The dagger changes, growing and broadening, but there’s none of the effort or pain as the magic moves through my veins.I set that aside to consider later.
The horses snort, their ears pinned back against their heads.They thrash, trying to pull loose from the trees where they’re tied beside the stream.
A low growl sounds somewhere close.Too close.
I turn, and the Ravenhounds are easier to see than those we fought beside the hut.Their eyes are like burning coals, their teeth dripping fire, and their dark bodies gleam like bog water, thick and lightless.They crouch low as they creep towards us through the brush on forepaws the size of milking basins.I count seven of them, working together like a hunting pack.
“Stay behind me,” Chyr says, moving to intercept them.His sword is already whistling as he swings it, and the bold grace of his movement is stunning.
I edge towards the stream and put myself between the hounds and horses.Two of them detach from the group and circle around Chyr to follow me.Then, as if responding to a signal I can’t hear, they spring in unison.
Chyr shifts to cut off the two that are coming towards me, leaving the rest at his back.But I don’t need him to save me.
I run forward and attack the closest one.They’re less solid than they look: bone, shadow, and something that ripples when I strike.My blade catches on bone.I strain to pull it free so I can swing again.
Chyr finishes off the last of the Ravenhounds as mine goes still.He turns, his eyes raking me head to toe, searching every limb for bites, scratches, anything broken.Finding none, he breaks into a swift, wide grin, and our eyes hold long enough to force me to acknowledge the connection between us.My throat tightens as the truth hits me.
It’s a connection I didn’t expect or want.I’ve fought it, but the truth is that Chyr matters to me beyond getting him to Muilean, beyond him bringing back help against Vheara.
I drag my eyes away to check that he’s undamaged.Another bark sounds, and we both turn to look.
Five more Ravenhounds run shoulder to shoulder up the slope, with a second row of four more approaching close behind them.They work as a pack, fanning out, circling us to cut off escape.
Dread drags at my limbs.I raise my sword and prepare for another fight.But nine Ravenhounds are too many at once, and I won’t be much help to Chyr.
Then again, if they hunt like dogs, maybe they’ll chase what runs.
I turn and bolt.My stomach heaves with the stench of blood and the sour, metallic smell of the bog.But the bog is what I know.
I race past the horses, using solid ground while I have it.Then I slow to search for furze and saplings and the darker green patches of moss that grow on solid ground.Bit by bit, I thread my way deeper into the bog.Water splashes, loose moss sucks at my ankles, wanting to pull me down.
Fear keeps me looking straight ahead.I’m afraid the Ravenhounds aren’t coming.And equally afraid they are.
Then I hear splashing nearby, and I push another five feet farther into the bog.
But now I’m trapped.There’s nothing solid in front of me, and no way out.
I turn, and the Ravenhounds are coming, too intent on the chase to note the footing.The bog pulls at their feet.Three of them tumble into deeper water and try to swim, claws scrabbling for purchase.Their heads swivel too far on their necks as if bone and sinew were badly joined.
The fourth is the last to arrive at the edge of the bog, so it has time to realise what’s happening to the others.It slides to a stop with a chilling, distorted howl.
