The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(81)
“The woods will provide cover for us as well,” Maia suggested. She wanted a fire to warm her hands and feet. She was still shivering in spite of her many layers. But she had to agree with Jon Tayt—the trees would be an excellent place for their enemies to conceal themselves.
Jon Tayt shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Best to double back and take another pass down.” They started back up the slope, climbing away from the thinning snow. Maia despaired ever being warm again. They had not gone far when Argus began to growl and whine, sniffing and roaming around their trail. His ears went up as he stared up the trail.
“Black luck,” the hunter said. “Trap is closing.” He sniffed the air. “Must be more men following our trail. Better run for the woods then. We must forge our own trail rather than taking this one. It will be easier to hide in the woods. Caught on this slope, we are dead.”
Maia’s heart began to warm. “All right.”
They started back down the trail again and diverted from the already plowed path, heading into fresh snow. The way was steep, but the depth of the bank made it easy to sink their boots into it and slog down. Little bricks of ice came loose from their steps and tumbled down the fleecy slope. Argus followed in their wake, a low threatening growl in his throat.
The sound of a hunting horn filled the air from higher up. Maia looked back and saw men in the gap. The horn blasted again and the noise was joined by the sound of a horn from the woods below.
“Keep going!” Jon Tayt barked, crashing through the snow to carve a trail. The men were still a way up the mountain behind them, but they were running down the trail they had made, closing the distance quickly.
“How many!” he asked her.
Maia looked over her shoulder and saw at least a dozen. She could not see a uniform or insignia. Each was heavily bundled in a fur cloak and hat.
“Too many,” Maia answered frantically. “Keep running!”
The snow bucked and heaved as they went down. From the line of trees lower down, she could see men emerging as well. Yet another horn blared, answering the other calls. Dark shapes flitted through the snow farther down, snapping and barking, tethered by leashes. Hunting dogs!
“Ach,” Jon Tayt swore. He cut a steep path, trying to close the distance to the woods, but Maia could see they were not going to make it. Their pursuers from behind were covering ground faster than she and Tayt could make it, because the snow was already trampled, providing easier footing. Voices could be heard above and below, mixed with the barks of the dogs. Argus growled and began snapping in return, but he was only one and they were many. Horsemen appeared from the trees below them, streaming into the drift to close off their escape. The woods were teeming with men!
“A fine kettle of fish!” Jon Tayt shouted, wiping his face. His voice was rising nervously. He looked back and hissed his breath. He sheathed his throwing axe and brought his bow out, already strung, and adjusted the quiver bag so it was within easy reach.
Maia stared up at the mountain, watching crumbles of ice and snow come barreling down as the soldiers from above raced downward at them. Small clods of snow tumbled against her legs. She turned her gaze to the soldiers below. It was like a hunting party, complete with hounds, and they were the prey.
She reached down and took a hunk of snow in her frozen palm. She stared at it, taking in the way the sunlight winked off the crystal edges. The approaching soldiers were speaking in a guttural language, full of coughing sounds and unfamiliar inflections. She had never learned the Hautlander tongue, though she recognized its rough speech. The snow crystals in her hand triggered a realization. Snow melted. Snow became water. Water was from storms. Storms were under the control of her power. She was the master of storms.
She felt the kystrel’s magic flare. Even though it was not touching her skin, her chest burned with heat. Her mind went black with implacable power and vengeful triumph. She would not be hunted. Not her, not by these petulant mongrels. The look of fear in Jon Tayt’s eyes told her that her own eyes were glowing silver.
“No, Maia! No! Fight it off!”
He grabbed her arm to pull her after him, but the power flamed to life inside her like a thousand candles, burning away the chill and the frost. She was warm again. She was fire itself. She could feel Jon Tayt’s panic bubbling inside him like a kettle, so she snatched away his fear, crushing it like a tinder flame.
Already she could feel the web of the Dochte Mandar. They were responding to her use of the magic and they were rushing at her to tamp and bind her. When they got close enough, they would knit their wills together to forge a cage to block her access to the Medium’s power. Maia smiled deliciously. She turned back to the mountain and raised her arms to the sky, her fingers hooked and quivering with strain. Then she brought her elbows in, pumped her fists down and hunched over.
A rippling shock shook the mountain.
The jolt sent everyone except for her crashing to the ground. There was a sound, a sloughing sound, a breath puffed from a giant’s mouth. And then the snow began to tumble from the mountain, breaking loose in huge boulders of ice and slush. It came as a wave, a massive slide of tumbling snow that barreled down at them.
She and Jon Tayt and Argus started down the mountainside at a run.
Cries of terror sounded from the men below as well as the men above. The rumble of the avalanche was deafening. Her gray skirts were thick with snow and wet and heavy around her legs, but power and strength flooded her, banishing her weariness. She was plowing the way now, and Jon Tayt and the dog were following in her path. Strange—the snow was parting for her. Fissures of ice crackled and split, shearing away and carving a path down the mountain. They were rushing as fast as they could, a monstrous wave of ice coming hard behind them. The soldiers in pursuit from above were trampled by it, buried alive by the crushing weight of snow.