Masques (Sianim #1)(40)

She was turning to go when she heard a whistle from down below, She would have known it anywhere. Talor had always been tone deaf - giving his signals a peculiar flat sound all their own as well as making it unclear exactly what he was signaling. In this case it could have been either "all clear" or "help." Given the circumstance, Aralorn picked the latter.

Without hesitation she urged the horse down the slope. The only excuse that she had for her action was that she was exhausted and reacting from instinct instead of thought. Her borrowed horse was not as sure-footed as Sheen, and stumbled badly on the rocky slope. The horse made a lot of noise, and ended up sliding most of the way down on a small avalanche of his own making.

Well, she thought, so much for the element of surprise. Maybe her grandiose arrival would at least see her immortalized in song; sadly, no bards or troubadours seemed to be present.

The gelding was still sliding uncontrollably when she ran into a small group of Uriah. As they easily pulled down the horse beneath her, Aralorn jumped clear, hoping that the horse would distract most of them and give her a chance to find either Talor or Astrid. Her jump took her clear of the feeding frenzy, and earned her only a scraped shin and modest bruises. By the time she regained her feet there were two Uriah nearly upon her. She used the split-second before they attacked to search for a possible escape, but everywhere she looked there were more of them converging.

Bleakly, she thought of another of Ren's homilies - it only took one stupid move to topple a throne. She used her sword in a useless attempt to defend herself and waited to die.

It seemed like it took forever. She swung and limbs fell, still writhing as if unwilling to accede to death with somber dignity. She swung until her arms were heavy and her tendons burned like slow acid in her shoulders. Her body was covered with myriad scrapes. Surprisingly, none of her wounds was in itself serious; but collectively they sapped her strength and dulled her reflexes. The Uriah just kept coming. The horse's screams had stopped, for which she was profoundly thankful. It had been stupid of her to come running; any human who had been here was beyond anyone's ability to help. She had little talent as a mindspeaker, but she sent a cry to Wolf anyway not being one to give tip. Then she bit her lip and grimly hacked away.

Her arms were numb by the time that it dawned on her what was going on. She timed her strokes to the refrain in her head: stupid, stupid, silly hitch. They could have killed her anytime they wanted to, but they didn't want to. They were trying to capture her to take back to the ae'Magi for questioning. The thought of that redoubled her efforts. If she could win herself enough space, she could draw her knife and eliminate the chance of being questioned by the ae'Magi again. Her sword, although shorter than normal, was still too awkward to kill herself with before they stopped her.

She spun around with a killing stroke when she heard something approach behind her. She caught a quick glimpse of his face and recognized Talor: she'd forgotten about him. Frantically she avoided hitting him by a narrow margin. Then she got a clear view of him - something was wrong. Bile rose in her throat as she brought the sword back up again, but before she could strike she was caught from behind and held helpless.

What happened next was enough to top her worst nightmares. The thing smiled - and it was Talor's smile despite the rotting flesh - and it said in Talor's teasing voice, "I told you to always follow through on your strokes or you would never make a swordmaster."

She thought that she screamed then, but it might have been just the sound of a Uriah, lucky enough to feast on the horse.

Chapter Seven

The wolf leapt neatly over the small stream that hadn't been there the week before and landed in the soft mud on the other side. The moon's light revealed other evidence of the recent storm - branches bent and broken from the weight of a heavy snowfall; long grass lying flattened on the ground. The air smelled sweet and clean, washed free of heavy scents.

Knowing that the camp was near, Wolf increased his speed to a swift lope despite his tiredness. He reached the edge of the valley and found it barren of people. He felt no alarm. Even if the storm hadn't driven them to the caves, the meltwater from the heavy snow that turned most of the valley bottom to marsh would have.

With a snort he started down the valley side nearest where he had made his private camp. He decided to stop there and get his things before going on to the caves. Aralorn's bedroll was gone, but his was neatly folded and dry under its oilcloth cover.

He muttered a few words that he wouldn't have employed had there been anyone to see, and took on his human form. Wearily he stretched, more than half inclined to stay where ho was for the night and join the others in the morning.

He'd always been solitary by nature. As a boy and while an apprentice, he'd spent time alone as often as he could manage. He had become adept at finding places where no one would look. When he left his apprenticeship behind him, he'd taken wolfshape and run into the wilds of the Northlands, escaping from himself more than the ae'Magi. He had avoided contact with people because, after he'd been alone in the woods for a while, they'd made him as uncomfortable as he made them. He hadn't seen a human in months when he had been caught by that stupid trap.

He would have eluded it easily (it hadn't been well hidden), but he'd taken sick the day before and was half delirious from fever. Between fever and pain of the metal jaws, he'd been unable to spring the trap by himself. By the time that Aralorn had found him, he'd been more dead than alive.