The Drowned Woods (55)
It was a herd of them—coming awake all at once. Perhaps it was one of their own being struck by iron that had summoned them. Or perhaps it was the scrape Fane felt running along one knee. He was bleeding.
“Iron!” he bellowed. “It can hurt them!”
Ifanna pulled a small crossbow out from under her cloak, took aim with her free hand, and fired a bolt through the eye of the nearest horse.
The creature screamed and shattered into water droplets.
Ifanna loaded another bolt and fired again. Fane reached Ifanna and Mer, his breath sawing hard in and out of his lungs.
Renfrew and Gryf had not waited; they were halfway to the end of the cavern, toward that narrow passage that might provide cover. Emrick was cursing, trailing after them. His own passage was hindered by the heavy pack swinging from one shoulder. “Leave it,” snapped Mer. “It’s slowing you down!”
“No,” said Emrick, knuckles tight on the strap. “It’s all of my books on the otherfolk—”
“Which aren’t a great help unless you think you can fend them off by reading to them,” said Mer.
Ifanna raised her crossbow a third time, snapping off another shot. This one hissed past Fane’s temple, so close he felt it stir his hair. The horse that had been moving up behind him let out a terrible sound and broke apart.
Together, they sprinted for the far cavern wall. Fane was aware of every passing moment; it felt like they were moving through thick mud, every step too slow. Hoofbeats thundered all around them. Ifanna’s mouth was tight and smiling as she fired bolt after bolt.
Mer let out a furious snarl. “I can’t control them,” she said, her voice wavering with panic. “I—they’re beyond my power.”
“Keep moving,” said Fane. “Just—keep moving.”
One of the horses appeared from the darkness, lunging for Mer. A small knife appeared between her fingers and she flicked it hard. It arced through the air, sailing through the horse’s throat.
Fane was looking at her—so he didn’t see the horse coming up on his left.
There was a terrible, pained cry.
Emrick.
One of the horses seized his cloak with its teeth, yanking him off his feet. He fell backward, fingers fumbling at his cloak, trying to pull it off. His pack full of books fell across his legs and he kicked out, but he was tangled in the pack’s strap.
Mer rushed toward him, her face stark white and hand extended. It was Ifanna who caught her around the middle, hauling her back toward the narrow exit of the cavern. “No,” Ifanna snarled, loud enough that Fane heard her over the sound of the hooves and Emrick’s panicked shouts. “I’m out of bolts.”
Fane froze, torn between Emrick and the promise of safety. But before he could choose, the decision was made for him.
The horses descended on Emrick like carrion on a fresh carcass. Hooves slammed into unprotected flesh; teeth snapped; water splattered against the rocks.
And then those rocks turned crimson.
Fane heard the drumbeat of Emrick’s heartbeat. And then he heard it stop.
Mer made a choked sound, but Ifanna was still heaving her away, and Fane followed after.
The end of the cavern was ten paces away—then five. Renfrew and Gryf were waiting, and Renfrew gestured them past, his expression like granite. Ifanna and Mer hastened by, and then Fane. He heard the hooves, the thud-thud of a gallop, and he turned to see another wave of water horses charging them.
It was Gryf who stepped forward, holding something in his tight, gloved fist. He flung what looked to be a handful of silver dust at the nearest horses. But Fane sensed the iron the moment it was scattered into the air.
Iron filings. Gryf had brought tiny iron filings with him.
The horses broke apart into mist and fog, swirling into the air.
Trefor barked and Fane realized he was still clutching at the dog. He set Trefor down, and the corgi sprinted, tail firmly tucked between his legs, into the waiting dark. Fane knew how he felt; all he wanted was to be free of the cave. They set off at a quick pace, breaths churning the moist air, the only light from Ifanna’s shaky lantern. Gryf took up the rear, and Fane saw him scattering more iron behind them, blocking off the entrance to the tunnel.
And none of the Ceffyl D?r followed them.
No one slowed their pace, nor spoke a word until perhaps a quarter of an hour had passed. The cavern twisted and turned, Mer taking the lead as she used her magic to find the right path. They crawled up a steep incline, Fane’s bare fingers scrabbling at slick rock, and then around a wider passage half-filled with water.
“Stop for a moment,” said Renfrew. His voice was hoarse. He moved to the far edge of the cavern, and Gryf went with him. The two spoke quietly together, but for once, Fane did not speculate on their words. He felt as though he’d left his curiosity back in that last cavern—with the bloodstained stones and sounds of pounding hooves. He leaned on his own knees, trying to draw himself together. He had seen much worse tragedies in his time; losing one scholar—and a rather unpleasant one, at that—should not have fazed him so. But he could not forget the wild fear in Emrick’s eyes as he’d been dragged back.
No one deserved to die like that.
Ifanna leaned against the wall. Her damp hair clung to her forehead and her nose ran. She scrubbed a sleeve across her face. “Well,” she said. “Is anyone else going to mention how utterly useless our arcane expert turned out to be?” Her words were deceptively light, but her hard gaze sat upon Renfrew. He turned away from his conversation with Gryf and his expression was frosty.