He glanced back at Baylen, chuffing along next to him.
“Do you want to stop and eat? Rest a while?” Paedrin offered.
“Right now, I’m wishing we had that device Tyrus carries. I’d be tempted to vanish back to Kenatos for fresh bakery bread. Apple butter is very good too. I’d lather it on right now.”
“Stop,” Paedrin complained, his stomach growling. “Don’t talk about food right now. I’m almost tempted to eat the mushrooms.”
“Not worth the disease. I’m sure they taste like bark.”
“Well, you’d better get thoughts of Kenatos out of your head, Baylen. Neither of us will ever go there again. I’d still like to purge the Shatalin temple, but if the Arch-Rike cannot be killed, I may need to change my plans.” He sighed. “We do our best. It’s probably better not to assume too much.”
They continued on the long hike, wending through the trees at a brisk pace despite the fatigue of having walked all night. He wondered where Kiranrao had ended up. Had he made it free of the Scourgelands yet? Paedrin had the sinking feeling that their paths would cross again. A frown creased his mouth at the thought.
Before midday, when the sun was beating down on the woods from directly overhead, Baylen and Paedrin emerged from the tangled thicket. Great trees had been uprooted and toppled, the tangle of roots exposed. A small clearing had been made, the earth freshly churned. Past the clearing, another stretch of woods led up to the mound of stone that rose over the Scourgelands like the shell of a tower. Great stone clefts stood proudly in the noon sky. Nestled on the clefts were the bones of an ancient fortress. A few saw-toothed walls still remained, but most had crumbled into dust. Several black shapes swirled in the sky above the mammoth hill, vultures or something even worse. A grayish-brown mist, like a dust cloud, hung in the air above the woods.
Baylen and Paedrin stood still, watching the ominous mound, feeling a silent whisper of dread. The broken trees were strewn about haphazardly. Paedrin was about to step onto the turf when Baylen held him back with a stiff arm.
The dull clop of a horse became evident. They waited, passively, as a single rider emerged into view in the midst of the churned ground. The steed was dark brown, thick and heavy as if carrying a weighty burden. On the horse sat a solitary rider, garbed in earth-colored tones, hood shielding his head from the sun. The rider was half-bent over the steed, one arm bunched crookedly, the reins nearly slack.
A chill went through Paedrin’s heart. The horse trudged across the turf, picking its way slowly. The hunchbacked rider was quiet, the strange crooked arm drawing Paedrin’s eyes. Something felt . . . unnatural about it. An eerie call, like the early morning cry of a heron, sounded. It made Paedrin start with dread and fear.
“It came from the ruins,” Baylen muttered.
Paedrin swallowed.
The horse stopped sharply, stamping its front hoof, kicking up a plume of dust. The brown-garbed rider turned on the saddle and faced them.
Phae’s skull was pounding. She blinked her eyes open and saw nothing but a sheath of white silk. A swaying sensation made her stomach uneasy and she realized with a throb of panic that she was upside down, suspended by her feet. Her side hurt, as did her throbbing head. She swallowed, trying to control the spasms of fear that wracked her.
Her arms were bound to her sides so tightly it was difficult to breathe. The strands covered her face, her neck, her entire body with their stickiness. As she tried to twist her neck, she saw small gaps in the strands, revealing more of her surroundings.
See how he struggles still.
The voice was feminine and struck her mind like ink blotting a page. She shivered at the metallic edge to the thought-whisper.
Struggles, yes. Save them, he mustn’t. It was a different voice, slightly deeper, but still a woman’s.
He has no blood to sip. Useless.
Phae wanted to see what the creatures looked like, but she could not from the angle. She struggled to twist and sway her cocoon.
He will stay until the Master comes.
The Master will slay him.
The Master will.
Phae tried to stretch against the cords. When she was wrapped up, she had been bent over, and so she was nearly like a spindle ball. Trying to flex her legs, she felt the strands flex, but they did not break. The exertion made her side burn with pain from where the stinger had stabbed her.
The Master will slay them all.
A little drink of blood. The others will be sweet. I long to taste it.
Wait until the Master comes.
Phae tried pushing her arms apart and felt the wrap strain, but not burst. The effort made her sac begin to sway.
“Do you want to stop and eat? Rest a while?” Paedrin offered.
“Right now, I’m wishing we had that device Tyrus carries. I’d be tempted to vanish back to Kenatos for fresh bakery bread. Apple butter is very good too. I’d lather it on right now.”
“Stop,” Paedrin complained, his stomach growling. “Don’t talk about food right now. I’m almost tempted to eat the mushrooms.”
“Not worth the disease. I’m sure they taste like bark.”
“Well, you’d better get thoughts of Kenatos out of your head, Baylen. Neither of us will ever go there again. I’d still like to purge the Shatalin temple, but if the Arch-Rike cannot be killed, I may need to change my plans.” He sighed. “We do our best. It’s probably better not to assume too much.”
They continued on the long hike, wending through the trees at a brisk pace despite the fatigue of having walked all night. He wondered where Kiranrao had ended up. Had he made it free of the Scourgelands yet? Paedrin had the sinking feeling that their paths would cross again. A frown creased his mouth at the thought.
Before midday, when the sun was beating down on the woods from directly overhead, Baylen and Paedrin emerged from the tangled thicket. Great trees had been uprooted and toppled, the tangle of roots exposed. A small clearing had been made, the earth freshly churned. Past the clearing, another stretch of woods led up to the mound of stone that rose over the Scourgelands like the shell of a tower. Great stone clefts stood proudly in the noon sky. Nestled on the clefts were the bones of an ancient fortress. A few saw-toothed walls still remained, but most had crumbled into dust. Several black shapes swirled in the sky above the mammoth hill, vultures or something even worse. A grayish-brown mist, like a dust cloud, hung in the air above the woods.
Baylen and Paedrin stood still, watching the ominous mound, feeling a silent whisper of dread. The broken trees were strewn about haphazardly. Paedrin was about to step onto the turf when Baylen held him back with a stiff arm.
The dull clop of a horse became evident. They waited, passively, as a single rider emerged into view in the midst of the churned ground. The steed was dark brown, thick and heavy as if carrying a weighty burden. On the horse sat a solitary rider, garbed in earth-colored tones, hood shielding his head from the sun. The rider was half-bent over the steed, one arm bunched crookedly, the reins nearly slack.
A chill went through Paedrin’s heart. The horse trudged across the turf, picking its way slowly. The hunchbacked rider was quiet, the strange crooked arm drawing Paedrin’s eyes. Something felt . . . unnatural about it. An eerie call, like the early morning cry of a heron, sounded. It made Paedrin start with dread and fear.
“It came from the ruins,” Baylen muttered.
Paedrin swallowed.
The horse stopped sharply, stamping its front hoof, kicking up a plume of dust. The brown-garbed rider turned on the saddle and faced them.
Phae’s skull was pounding. She blinked her eyes open and saw nothing but a sheath of white silk. A swaying sensation made her stomach uneasy and she realized with a throb of panic that she was upside down, suspended by her feet. Her side hurt, as did her throbbing head. She swallowed, trying to control the spasms of fear that wracked her.
Her arms were bound to her sides so tightly it was difficult to breathe. The strands covered her face, her neck, her entire body with their stickiness. As she tried to twist her neck, she saw small gaps in the strands, revealing more of her surroundings.
See how he struggles still.
The voice was feminine and struck her mind like ink blotting a page. She shivered at the metallic edge to the thought-whisper.
Struggles, yes. Save them, he mustn’t. It was a different voice, slightly deeper, but still a woman’s.
He has no blood to sip. Useless.
Phae wanted to see what the creatures looked like, but she could not from the angle. She struggled to twist and sway her cocoon.
He will stay until the Master comes.
The Master will slay him.
The Master will.
Phae tried to stretch against the cords. When she was wrapped up, she had been bent over, and so she was nearly like a spindle ball. Trying to flex her legs, she felt the strands flex, but they did not break. The exertion made her side burn with pain from where the stinger had stabbed her.
The Master will slay them all.
A little drink of blood. The others will be sweet. I long to taste it.
Wait until the Master comes.
Phae tried pushing her arms apart and felt the wrap strain, but not burst. The effort made her sac begin to sway.
