“I’ll kill ya’, ya’ damn shit,” Darb was muttering, almost to himself, breathing hard with eyes wide and locked on Declan’s face. “I’ll cut ya’ limb from fuckin’ limb, then do it all over again!”

  Declan ignored the taunts. Darb was clearly in shock, which he could use to his advantage. It meant the man wasn’t thinking straight, and was prone to wild, unpredictable attacks. Declan held his ground, watching the blade-tip in front of him as it swayed slightly. With no weapon to his name there would be little opportunity to make the first move. He had to wait, had to bide out his opponent’s delirium.

  “I’ll kill ya’,” Darb was still grumbling through his bloody smile, continuing to stare as he approached one step at a time. “I’ll kill ya’. I’ll cut ya’ up and leave ya’ with the bitch. I’ll chop ya’ ta’ pieces and let ‘im make soup outta ya.”

  With every move the man made to approach, Declan retreated. It might not have seemed brave or honorable, but survival was more important than pride in a fight to the death.

  Just then, with a furious yell, Darb finally leapt forward, thrusting the blade ahead as he did.

  His triumph was short-lived.

  Declan sidestepped, avoiding the direct attack. In the same motion he looped the madman’s elbow in the crook of his aching left arm, right hand taking firm hold of the sword’s hilt over Darb’s own grip. The kidnapper’s eyes broadened even further, registering surprise when his steel met nothing but air. Unfortunately for him, he only had time to gasp before Declan broke the stiffness of his thrust, forcibly bending Darb’s arm under the lunge’s own momentum, shoving the razored edge of the blade up and back. This time Declan made sure the blow was true, feeling the metal slip through the muscle and tendon of its master’s neck before scraping against the rounded bone of the spine. He didn’t fight to hold onto the weapon once the damage was done, releasing the sword’s hilt and darting sideways, out of reach of any last, panicked flail. Darb fell to his knees, choking and clutching desperately at his neck as blood spurted through his grimy fingers. Soon it began to spill from his mouth, and he hacked and coughed, bending double to spray the grass with red, the very sword which had slain him tumbling uselessly at his side. Declan watched from several paces away, breathing harder than he would have liked, gripping the leaking gash above his elbow tightly.

  Then Darb keeled over, twitched for several seconds, and stilled, becoming just one more body among the strewn, putrid corpses.

  Finally, Declan allowed himself to feel the pain.

  “Shit!” he half-keened, half-groaned, briefly doubling over himself as he grit his teeth against the burning wash that consumed his left arm. He stayed like that for several long seconds, hissing out more curses and shutting his eyes tight until his body adjusted, coming to terms with the bone-deep ache. When he could stand up straight again, he examined the wound through watering eyes. It was a deep cut, a jagged slash about five inches long along the outside of his upper arm, and would require cleaning and stitching. Trouble was that all their herbs, wraps, and poultices were back at the camp, safe in Ryn’s saddlebags. Settling for tearing a strip off the sleeve of his ruined shirt, Declan bandaged the injury for the moment, at least managing to staunch the flow of blood. Satisfied that he wasn’t about to lose the limb, he moved to retrieve his own sword from where it lay in the half-trampled flowers behind Darb, cleaning it on the man’s trousers before getting back to his feet.

  Picking through the carnage was a distasteful affair. Declan set his eyes resolutely above the ground whenever possible, studying the woman as he approached the post where she still stood bound between the dead lashed to their own columns. She wore a simple cotton-and-leather tunic, not so different from his own, and the empty knife sheath at her hip made him think she must have been another hunter or trapper. Her head hung slack against her chest, ever hidden by the bag, and Declan feared the worst before reaching her and seeing the gentle, uneven rise of her shoulders as she breathed.

  Still unconscious, he realized in concern, taking the ridge of the rough-spun sack and pulling it free of her face. Sure enough, she didn’t so much as flinch at his touch, but this realization was only one of several Declan made as he registered everything about the woman in untethered astonishment.

  Her shoulder-length hair fell in a shifting sheet before her face, hiding her features from view, but the color of it was what had Declan do a double-take. It looked almost blonde in the glow of the low-burning torches behind him, but in the light of day he thought it might have been a cooler shade, more silver than yellow. She had a slender figure that hung heavily against the ropes around her waist and chest, and the shirt beneath her leather tunic had torn at some point in her struggles, revealing more than she would probably have deemed appropriate had she been in any shape to voice her opinion. Averting his gaze, Declan fixed her clothes as best he could without looking before he reached up to lift her chin, hoping to wake her before cutting her lose.

  He almost swore again, taking her in. He’d had his suspicions after the hair, but gaping at her face, he knew for sure, now.

  Definitely a half-elf.

  The woman had been gagged, as he’d suspected, but the loop of damp cloth between her teeth did little to mar the fragile features of a breathtaking face. Her skin was pale and smooth over high cheekbones that framed a delicate chin, her nose small and straight. Her ears were rounded, lacking the distinctly pointed tips some of her breed bore to their pride or shame, and her eyes were closed. Declan found himself wondering what they looked like, almost hoping that they might blink and flutter open, meeting his. As it was, he couldn’t help but take a slow, steadying breath at the sight of her.

  He regretted it the moment the stench of the dead and the iron reek of blood filled his nostrils.

  Brought roughly back to the present with a retching cough, when his stomach stopped heaving Declan reached up to shake the woman lightly by the shoulder, still holding her head up with his other hand. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Wake up. Wake up.”

  Nothing. He tried again, louder this time, but the woman was all but dead to the world. Suddenly fearing his earlier assumption, Declan felt for a pulse, and was relieved to find one along the side of her throat, feeble but present. Pulling his hand away, however, he frowned as his fingers came back bloody. Peering closer, the frown deepened when he found a thin trickle of crimson running down her neck, and he followed it up to the back of her head. Moving aside a bloody mass of matted hair, he whistled at a long, spattered gash that adorned the base of her skull.

  Abruptly, Declan wished he hadn't made Rolan’s death so quick…

  “Let’s get you some help, shall we?” he muttered to the incoherent woman, reaching for his sword again.

  The oversized blade, coupled with his injury, made cutting her loose and heaving her up into both arms a more difficult—and painful—affair than it might otherwise have been. After several slips and further curses directed at everything from the ground to the ropes to the Mother and Her Graces, Declan managed it, carrying the still form of the half-elf clear of the carnage and back towards the trees. He’d intended to make straight into the woods, having no interest in lingering another second amid the horror of the scene, but as he passed out of the light of the still-flickering torches, something stopped him.

  Over the crackling of the flames, Declan thought he could make out the subtle sound of quiet breathing.

  He whirled, facing the direction the noise had come from. He found himself staring into the darkness that was the mouth of the strange, boulder-wrought cave, which he’d utterly forgotten about in the aftermath of the fight. For several seconds he paused, waiting, straining to hear the sound again.

  Eventually, when nothing reached his ears, Declan took a tentative step forward, curiosity getting the better of him.

  Don’t. Stay back.

  Declan stiffened and looked over his shoulder at Ryn’s sudden voice, finding the form of the great wolf trotting towards him like a shadow against the firelight from the east, the direction he’d vanished in.

  “Where’d you run off to?” Declan asked, a little annoyed, as his friend settled in beside him.

  Ryn’s eyes didn’t leave the cave as he answered. I thought I sensed… something. I had to make sure.

  “What was it?”

  Ryn grimaced. I don’t know. It was gone before I could track it down, if it was ever there at all.

  Declan hefted the woman up more carefully in his arms, still unsure what to make of this sudden change in his perception of the wolf’s abilities. “Did it have anything to do with that?” he asked, indicating the cave with a jerk of his chin. “What’s down there?”

  Nothing, as far as I can tell, Ryn answered, eyes narrowing at the shadowed entrance. But that doesn’t make me feel any better right n—

  He stopped abruptly, sniffing at the air, his head turning slowly until his snout was practically pressed against the leg of the half-elf Declan was carrying in his arms. Abruptly, the wolf jerked back, gilded eyes wide in the light, taking in the woman with very obvious surprise.

  “What?” Declan asked, alarmed, looking between the pair of them. “Do you know her?”

  For what must have been the tenth time that night, it took a moment for Ryn to answer. He still stared at the woman, and Declan didn’t know what to make of the very clear shock painted across the beast’s wolfish features.

  Not her, no… he finally managed cryptically, bringing his head forward again to sniff at her once more.

  “Then what is it?” Declan demanded, definitely getting irritated with the lack of answers the evening’s events were offering for all the questions they had produced.

  It’s nothing. Ryn was quicker in responding this time, stepping away from them. Probably just a mistake. She smells like someone I knew, once. There was a blur of shifting shape, and the wolf was replaced by the towering form of the great black horse. You’re both injured. Let’s get back to the camp and gather our things. You need stitches, and she needs a proper healer, by the looks of it.

  Declan grit his teeth, less than pleased by the empty answer, but he knew Ryn was right. With a dissatisfied grumble he hefted the woman up over the horse’s back, then said he’d be right back. Jogging off into the woods, it took him a minute or so to find the cooling form of Gravin in the dark, the kidnapper’s body collapsed facedown upon the forest floor, Declan’s knife buried to the hilt in his back. Retrieving the weapon with a wrenching jerk, Declan flicked the blade clean of blood and sheathed it before returning to the clearing.

  When he passed near the mouth of the cave once more, he forced himself not to look, fearing what his imagination might form from the shadows of the jutting entrance. Reaching Ryn and the unconscious half-elf again, he clambered up onto the stallion’s back without pause.

  Only once Ryn had taken off at a full gallop—fearless despite the dark in the rugged and uneven undergrowth—did Declan brave glancing back one last time.

  As the black outline of the trees swallowed the ghastly clearing, he wondered if the glint of eyes following their departure from the cave mouth was a trick of the dying fires.

  From the shadows of its den, the drey watched the intruders leave, taking with them its promised meal. The creature had been woken from its slumber by the shouts of man, crawling out of its hole to investigate. It had watched, intrigued, as a single figure had cut a swath through its caretakers, bringing them down in quick, skillful succession.

  The smell of blood had been so enticing, the drey had wanted nothing more than to join in the fight.

  Now, watching the strangers go, the urge to follow them, to hunt them, to rip them part from part was so strong that it began to salivate, slaver dripping from its fanged maw to splatter the bone-riddled ground about its taloned feet. The need had grown with every passing moment, shivering through the thing’s powerful limbs especially when the second figure had revealed itself, masquerading in a skin that was not its own. Despite the charade, the drey had recognized its nemesis, sensed the truth of its being. The desire to kill, then, to streak from the dark shelter of its cavern and strike, had been nearly overpowering.

  But no. It wouldn’t. It couldn’t. The need was strong, true.

  But not as strong as the compulsion to follow its master’s command to stay hidden, to stay away.

  Minutes ticked by, though the drey had no real sense of time. It crouched, hunched at the mouth of the stone archway, careful to stay within the shadows. Patiently it waited, occasionally reaching out with its simple mind to test the imperceptible restraints that held it in place.

  Then, abruptly, the bindings fell away.

  “They've gone. You can come out now.”

  While the words themselves meant nothing to the drey’s broad ears, the intent of them rang clear within its mind. Quietly it stole forward, out into the night, tucking its wings tight to its back as the cool air shivered across their leathery membranes. Before it, the scattered remnants of its past meals glowed in the faint light of a pair of torches that had been stuck into the ground. Around these, the warm bodies of its caretakers were left where they’d fallen, so fresh they still smelled of life.

  And between them, fur-lined cloak shifting in the shadows of the dancing fire, its master waited, watching it come with calm patience.

  The drey hurried towards the smaller figure eagerly. The man stood hardly half its height and not a fraction its weight, but the pull was there regardless, drawing it forward like some great, dragging gravity. When it reached the man, the force led it down, onto all fours, so that he could raise a wrinkled hand up to stroke its muzzle lovingly. Long grey hair spilled in waves from its master’s raised hood, and the drey met pale green eyes as he spoke.

  “Brave child,” the man said, the words little more than empty sound. “That was difficult, wasn’t it? But you did well. So, so well. Patience. Your time will come. I had to hide, too, as much as it pains me. That thing… For such a creature to come here, of all places…” The man paused, fingers halting in the drey’s coarse hair. “It matters not. Look.” He stepped aside, sweeping his hands to indicate the scattered bodies of the men who had been its feeders. “They’ve left you more than enough to last. Go. You will be called on soon. For now… feast.”

  The last word rang as a command in the drey’s mind, and one whose design it readily reveled in. With one massive hand it grasped the body of the largest man, sniffing at the gruesome wound in its neck before opening its wide maw to latch its teeth around the corpse. The warm, wet taste of iron flooded into its mouth, and with a snarl of delight the drey picked up another body in each hand, then turned to retreat once more for the darkness of its cave.

  When it looked back, its master had gone, vanishing between the dancing flickers of the flames.

  Within the huddled safety of the cavern, the drey sat among the broken bones and rotting flesh of older suppers, ripping mouthfuls of meat from the corpses even as it thought. In its mind’s eye a picture played itself over and over again, flitting across its consciousness in endless repetition.

  Golden eyes, split by pale white pupils, unchanged even as the beast shifted from form to form.

  While it dwelled on this, its master reached out once more, his brushing touch against its mind gentle and amused.

  Soon, he promised. Very soon.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “It is not often that mankind pauses to take stock of the repercussions which often come with the passage of time. Age, certainly, our kind is familiar with more so than any other race, but senility and death pale in consideration of the greater consequences the passage of years, decades, and centuries may have. There is a reason the elves frequently refer to their longevity as the ‘curse’ of immortality. Even for them—some of whom have lived long enough to witness the world change in ways we humans cannot fathom—time distorts. Time warps. Who is to say if the histories are true? Who is to say if the records are valid? Can we honestly—any of us—truthfully attest that the history of our world is as we believe it?”

  -private journals of Mathaleus Kenus al’Dyor, King of Viridian

  “Ryn, what in the Mother’s name was that all about?!”

  It was the third time Declan was attempting to broach the subject of the previous night’s events, voicing the question again as the first light of dawn made itself known over the treetops to the east. He had tried twice already as they’d ridden through the night after collecting their things, the half-elf held carefully to his chest in the same manner she was now, but Ryn had claimed both times he needed to focus, to stay intent on the uneven ground that made footing precarious in the dark. Now, however, morning was upon them, breaking grey and dismal, a steady rain had started up even as they’d left the woodlands behind in favor of the north-running thoroughfare. Rivulets streamed along the sides of the hard-packed road, sweeping away dead leaves and loose earth, and before long Ryn’s hooves were sloshing through puddles and mud while he ran.

  With the light returned and the day’s mood bleak, the horse must have sensed Declan was out of patience.

  I don’t know, he answered this time, adjusting his gait slightly to avoid a particular impressive pool that had formed in the center of the path. Nothing good, to say the least…

  “No shit,” Declan muttered, reaching up to pull the hood of his traveler’s cloak a little higher over his face, clearing his vision. “Have you ever seen anything like that? What were they doing?!”

  I don’t know, Ryn answered more firmly this time. Whatever it was, I don’t think it’s anything to dwell on. We’ve got our coin for the job, we’ll find a healer for the girl, and we’ll move on. There are sick people in this world, Declan. You and I know that all too well already.