CHAPTER TEN

THE Greffaire strike team sent into Verdeau had been given clear, if demanding, orders: Avoid discovery; if possible without detection, examine the battlefield and the last Greffaire camp for clues as to what had transpired; and, most important, capture a Verdeau soldier or two for interrogation. The ten men traveled the Skyway Pass until they neared the foothills. Then they left the trail and picked their way slowly through the wild country, circling east and then south toward the mouth of the pass, hoping to escape the notice of any sentry forces posted along the main route.

The ten men were among the toughest-minded, most seasoned, military professionals remaining in Greffier. Not one of them believed in spook soldiers or any other gutless attempt at an excuse for the Greffaire defeat. Even so, their first shadowed sight of the creature they inadvertently trapped in a blind gully had stunned them. Manlike but no man, hugely powerful, it burst roaring at them from the dark jumble of rock like a nightmare spun from the fevered accounts of the defeated Greffaire soldiers.

Later they were ashamed and never spoke of the wild, clamoring fear that gripped them in that moment—the harrowing visions of ambush and death at the hands of a hideous army. But four spears flew at the creature before they fled, and it did not pursue them.

When they had regrouped and realized there was no “army” but only a solitary foe, some of the men wanted to go back and finish it off. But their captain forbade it.

“This ain’t a huntin’ expedition,” he said curtly. “We’re to bring back soldiers, not trophies. Get movin’.”

DERKH LAID OUT his remaining food: two wedges of old bread, hard now as biscuit, and a handful of dried apple slices. He didn’t need to count the apple slices to know his chances of making it over the mountain were slim.

He had done the best he could with provisions, but opportunities had been few, and he had greatly underestimated the length of the journey. The map he had studied back in Verdeau had shown but a short gap between the Skyway and Otter Lake, which Gabrielle had pointed out as close to the Stonewater settlement. In the open plains of Greffier it would have been less than two days’ march. He had had no idea how slow his progress would be through such dense wilderness.

He guessed he was close to the pass by now. With the trees thinned out and the sun visible, he was confident again of his direction. But neither of his options looked good. He could venture out of the hills into the rural lands on either side of the Skyway Road, and try to beg or steal some food—if he could get there without being challenged by the sentry guard and if he didn’t end up arrested for theft or vagrancy. Or he could head over the mountains with an empty pack and hope to make it home before collapsing from hunger. A man can live a long time without food, his father had told him—many days if he has water. But could he make such a strenuous climb? Already his head ached and buzzed with fatigue and short rations. And if he came under attack...He heard again in his mind the eerie cries that had made his guts do a slow roll just a few hours ago and shivered.

Col’s voice seemed to ring in his mind: What mewling talk is this? You’re a Greffaire soldier, man! You’ll do what you have to do, or you’re no son of mine!

Derkh broke a chunk off one of the pieces of bread and packed away the rest. Then he shouldered his gear and plodded on, gnawing on the dry crust as he walked. His father was right. If he was going back to Greffier, he’d better start acting the part.

The sun was dipping low, and he was starting to watch for a sheltered place to make camp, when he heard a sound that froze him in his tracks. Voices. He must have stumbled into a sentry camp or scouting party. Scrambling for cover, Derkh flung himself over a lip of land that dipped into a shallow ditch, fringed with stringy shrubs, and strained his ears. For a long minute he heard nothing. Then the breeze gusted and with it came the unmistakable sound of men, louder now, voices raised as if in argument. There was a short burst of rough laughter, and the voices died down into silence.

Derkh flattened himself into the dust and stones, wondering what to do. The men were not gone, for though he heard no more talk, other noises came to him on the wind. Clanking—of weapons, or maybe cook pots. The scrape of loose scree underfoot. Caution and curiosity battled within him. Just before the last light failed, he decided to creep away out of earshot while he could still see to do so. He would head north and slightly east, hunker down for the night and in the morning cut above the sentries back to the pass. He stood cautiously and took his bearings.

A thud, a metallic crash, a roar of pain or rage and a hurled oath: “WHORESON BASTARD!”

Greffaire, Derkh thought dazedly. He spoke in Greffaire.

“WE’RE LOSING THE light, Gabrielle.”

For two hours Féolan and Gabrielle had scrambled through the mountain terrain, following the intermittent cries. There had been none for a long time now—but their hope had faded even before that. Acoustics in the mountains were deceptive and straight routes nonexistent; it was like trying to track an echo.

Gabrielle wiped the sweat from her face and glared at the surrounding country, as if willing it to give up its secrets. Then she glared at Féolan, as though this fruitless hunt were his doing. With a groan, she threw herself on the stony ground and concentrated on catching her breath and easing the burning fatigue in her legs.

Féolan hunkered down too and passed her the waterskin. “We’d better find a place to spend the night while we can still see. Even if there was still something to follow, it would be too dangerous to keep going once the sun is down.” The summer sky was bright yet, but the sun hung low over the peaks in the west. Once it fell behind the mountains, night would come swiftly.

Gabrielle raised herself on one elbow. “But what if it’s Derkh?”

“If it is Derkh, we could walk right past him in the dark,” replied Féolan. “And if it’s not, every hour we spend at this search takes us farther from his path.”

He was right. He was right, but it felt wrong. Throat tight, eyes prickling with tears, Gabrielle struggled against her own frustration and fear. Flipping onto her stomach, she lay against the rough grass, letting her heart slow, seeking the stillness that led to wisdom. She felt the strength of the mountain’s great shoulder under her, the quiet thrusting of life in the grass and lichens and insects surrounding her. Yet the alarm in her heart did not fade; it grew clear and insistent as a ringing bell.

She sat up. “Derkh’s in danger,” she said. “I know he is.”

Féolan had no answer. “We will keep looking tomorrow,” he said. Tomorrow, they both knew, might be too late.

TEN MINUTES LATER they were climbing again, heading for a place where a wall of rock was scored and pitted with dark openings. “There should at least be a cave or fissure there where we can get out of the wind,” suggested Féolan. Though the summer sun brought bright warm days, the mountain air was chilly at night. They passed and rejected several possibilities, where the cracks in the rock were too narrow or shallow for comfort. Then came a great break in the cliff-side, several paces wide. They peered into the crevice, already deeply shadowed at the far end.

“It may be sheltered from the wind, but it hardly looks cozy,” offered Féolan doubtfully. “Let’s look a little ways farther. We can return here at need.”

Gabrielle picked her way across the yawning gap. Then, from deep within the passage, she heard a wheezing sigh—wind maybe, whistling through some narrow outlet. But the crunch of rock that accompanied it was no trick of the wind. Something was in there.

Gabrielle swallowed. Her heart raced, as she watched Féolan string his bow and nock in an arrow. Never before had she feared the wild creatures of the woods, but in this stark place, with nightfall on their heels, the danger was palpable. They listened. Nothing. Then—a grunt, breathy and labored. And a keening cry—soft now, soft and strangely tender, but unmistakably the voice they had been following. The hair lifted on Gabrielle’s neck. She had heard men grunt with the pain of injury, heard women grunt with the exertion of childbirth. She had never heard a cry like that.

Féolan looked a question. Eyes wide, Gabrielle nodded. They would go in. Féolan pointed to the sword sheathed at her side. Reluctantly, she drew it. He was right again. In a sudden attack, there would be no time to fumble with weapons. They crept in step by step, allowing their eyes to adjust to the deepening gloom.

The sounds came from the deepest recesses of the crevice, which curved as it penetrated the mountain. Cautiously, they eased around the bend. Gabrielle stiffened in shock.

Two large figures were revealed, indistinct against the rock wall. One lay, knees drawn up. The other crouched beside. The crouching figure rocked back and forth, keening softly. Gabrielle thought at first it was a huge man—but it wasn’t. The creatures before her were furred, and they were larger than any man.

“Seskeesh,” Féolan breathed beside her. He seemed almost transfixed with wonder. “I have heard of them. But never...”

Gabrielle, determined not to be more frightened than Féolan, stood her ground and stared. The prone figure let out a shallow grunting breath. Was it ill? Gabrielle looked at the creature carefully this time, through her healer’s eyes. She noted the uneven heave of its chest, the awkward tilt of the head, the stiff limbs. It was suffering, she was sure of it.

Hardly aware of her actions, Gabrielle stepped forward. The crouching seskeesh’s head snapped up, and in an instant it—she, Gabrielle saw—towered before them, roaring defiance. Eight feet tall at least, powerful beyond man or Elf, savage with fury, she was terrifying; yet Gabrielle was not frightened. Somehow she knew the creature would not leave her fallen companion to attack unless she had to.

“Féolan, don’t shoot,” she shouted. Could he hear in that awful din? Alertness radiated from him, humming like a bowstring. The creature—seskeesh, did he call it?—would have to be fast as lightning to reach her unharmed.

Slowly, deliberately, Gabrielle let her sword slip out of her grasp. She opened her empty hands wide and stepped a little closer. She took a deep breath, wondering if it would be one of her last. Unpracticed as she was, what hope had she really of reaching this alien mind? Yet she would try. She closed her eyes and stretched out her awareness.

It took only seconds. The seskeesh’s emotions blazed at her, fuelled by a fierce intelligence. Fear, grief, rage—they burned unveiled by any pretence, far easier to sense than a human’s. It was her mate that lay dying. She would defend even his body with her last breath. Gabrielle groped for a way to make herself understood. She sent her own sorrow. She sent images of herself treating wounded men—but what would bandages and herbs mean to a wild creature? She imagined herself at the wounded seskeesh’s side, healing light flowing through her hands.

The seskeesh had quieted. Her attention was wholly on Gabrielle, and Gabrielle opened her eyes now and met the searching gaze of a pair of deep-set amber eyes. Let me help, Gabrielle pleaded silently. Trust me. Slowly the great shoulders lowered. Then the eyes snapped behind Gabrielle toward Féolan, still poised to shoot, and the fur seemed to bristle as a low rumbling filled the seskeesh’s throat.

“Féolan,” said Gabrielle quietly. “I have to help her. I think it will be all right if you lay down your bow.”

“She could break your neck with one swipe,” he returned. “I can’t protect you once you’re working on him.”

“I know,” she said tightly. “Let’s hope he doesn’t die under my hands.”

She heard Féolan’s sigh, read into it all his worry, exasperation—and pride. “Healers,” he muttered. She knew he had lowered his bow when the seskeesh settled back on her heels, watchful but no longer threatening. Gabrielle squared her shoulders and approached her new patient.