The Drowned Woods (54)

Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud. It was coming faster now—a rolling canter giving way to a gallop.

“Renfrew—” Mer began to call.

A creature burst from one of the pools of water.

It had the shape of a horse—one cobbled together of childhood tales and nightmares. Its edges were too sharp, its features too lean. Steam billowed from its nostrils and its eyes were empty.

It pawed the ground, and as it did so, Mer saw that its edges were shifting.

It was a creature not of flesh and bone, but of seawater and magic.





CHAPTER 16


FANE’S FIRST THOUGHT was that he should have known.

He had spent years in the presence of the otherfolk. He knew what drew their attention: the sound of human song, the cries of ravens, a child’s laugh, the smell of ripe blackberries, and the rust-cold poison of iron. The folk were faster, stronger than most humans, and many of them were ageless. Their few weaknesses were carefully guarded—and the presence of iron was among the most dangerous.

It made sense that other magical creatures would sense it, too.

Standing in a cavern full of old bones, discarded clothing, rotted maps, and old tools, Fane realized that this was what must have killed them: the presence of iron. Only humans would carry it. And so, iron would be the perfect trigger for a trap meant to kill any mortal trespassers.

Mer breathed, “What is that?”

“Ceffyl D?r,” he said, voice taut with fear.

The Ceffyl D?r were not as well-known as the afanc or hounds of the wild hunt. But there were still tales, mostly sung during the clapping games played by children. They would sit in a circle, striking one another’s open palms with every chanted syllable.

Old farmer Ilar

Found a mare

White and winged

And oh so fair

No bridle she’d wear

She took to the air

Then she dragged him

Down to the depths

WHERE HE COULD NOT SWIM

The last words of the rhyme were always shouted, and whoever ended the rhyme started the next. Back then, Fane had never given much thought to that old farmer, that man who’d tried to tame a mare of the mists. One glance at those sharp hooves and Fane thought that anyone who tried to ride a Ceffyl D?r rather deserved to be drowned for their foolishness.

The steed was beautiful in that way that all deadly things were—the lantern light shone on the sharp, almost skeletal edges of its form. Those strange eyes had no pupils and were the color of clear water. Its mane and tail were formed of sea mist.

“Move!” Renfrew’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

They ran. They could do little else—the bones of the fallen were proof enough that fighting was in vain.

The water horse charged them, breath snorting and teeth bared.

It had been a long time since Fane had been frightened of anything besides the power that resided within him. But this was a foe he could not do battle with. An immortal horse, ephemeral as mist and deadly as a storm, was not something he could pummel with his fists.

The cave was long and wide, but it narrowed perhaps fifty paces ahead. If they could get that far, perhaps Mer could use her magic to fend it off. Out here, in the wide expanse of the cavern, Fane knew they had little chance of survival.

Because this was the one thing he did know of horses: They rarely traveled alone.

“Faster!” The word burst from Fane. Renfrew was ahead, darting around the bones. Ifanna moved as nimbly as a doe through woods. Gryf and Emrick were somewhere behind Fane.

Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud.

The sound of galloping hooves became louder, until it was all he could hear. Trefor sneezed as he ran, stumbling for a moment. Fane’s heart lurched and he reached down to grab the dog, to carry him.

The pause cost him. Gryf and Emrick rushed by, heedless of Fane and Trefor, and then Fane felt cool mist against his skin. It stung, needle-sharp and cold, and he rolled to the left, dragging Trefor with him. A hoof slammed into the stone, cracking it.

Fane rolled again, pulling Trefor close to his chest. In the dark, he could barely see the water horse. But he felt the impact of its hooves upon the ground, trying to trample him.

His hand hit something hard and cold—and Fane realized that he’d stumbled into one of the fallen. The slickness of rotted cloth and old bones made him want to pull away, but he pushed the instinct back. Instead, he scrabbled about for something, anything.

His fingers found the sharp edge of a knife, and he grasped at it, throwing the blade with all of his strength at the Ceffyl D?r.

In the waning light of Ifanna’s lantern, he saw the horse rearing up, muscles bunching. The knife flew right through it, as if Fane had tossed a pebble through fog.

There was the terrible scream of a wounded horse—and then the creature broke apart into mist. The water scattered upon the stones.

Cold iron. It broke apart the magic, poisoning the water horse’s power.

“Fane!”

That was Mer’s voice, only a short distance away. Fane pushed himself upright, Trefor still under one arm, and turned toward the others.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. Something moved behind the others—and he cried out a wordless warning.

Ifanna whirled, her lantern swinging in one hand. The candlelight fell across the form of another horse rising from the still water. There was a whisper of movement in the darkness, and Fane knew it had to be another water horse. And another, and another, and—