Driven by sheer survival instinct, the weary band barreled through the trees. Darji's raven-caw reached Devis's ears from high above. He glanced upward, but could not spot the raven against the moonless, black sky. The bird would no doubt catch up with them in Silatham, unless she beat them to it.
If he had wings, Devis would have been at the back rooms of the Silver Goblet by now. The bird had courage, but no appreciation for the finer things.
Devis knew stories about Silatham, of course. Any bard worth his lute strings knew the legendary local haunts. The village was certainly that. He'd never actually been there, however, and had never really believed Hound-Eye's insistent tales of mysterious rangers hunting halflings for meat. Diir's armor baffled the halfling, who swore the man was dressed like a "damned Silatham ranger." They'd had a difficult time convincing Hound-Eye that Diir wasn't going to betray them, but the quiet elf's obvious confusion about his own recent past persuaded the scruffy halfling to tolerate the ranger, if he was a ranger.
No one agreed on what the place was like—even Hound-Eye said he'd never actually been there, just "followed murderin' rangers until they disappeared, but I know where they disappeared and it's always the same place." According to myth and Hound-Eye's tales, the elves of Silatham were xenophobic in the extreme.
The bard gritted his teeth at the nagging pain in his side, which their limited medicine hadn't healed. Xenophobia he could handle. The elves, he was pretty sure, didn't want to eat him, and that alone would be a welcome change.
"I see a light!" Diir whispered. A dim orange glow resembling campfires ahead in the trees emerged as they crested a hillock. Zalyn picked up speed and passed the bard, leaving Devis trailing.
Devis squinted. He didn't see anything, damn his eyes.
"Don't make sense," Hound-Eye growled. "That's the spot all right, but there's never lights."
The bard marveled that the wolves had not attacked. The grinning, snarling, undead beasts yipped and barked like hyenas and were keeping pace easily. The things were playing with them like barn cats over a nest of mice.
Devis could think of only two reasons the wolves did not attack. Either they were simply trying to tire the prey out to the point where they couldn't fight back, or they were herding the group toward the rest of the pack. If Silatham was lost to the undead, so were he, Mialee, and the rest.
The bard heard a rasping growl behind him and risked a glance over his shoulder. The lead zombie wolf was literally snapping at his heels. Devis pulled his long sword free of its scabbard and slashed awkwardly behind his back as he ran. He felt the blade tip make brief, fleshy contact. The wolf yelped and fell back. The sword was clumsy to hold while running, but he held onto it in case another wolf tried the same trick.
Devis lifted his gaze from his friends' running backsides—how had he been chosen to bring up the rear?—and thought he could finally make out a faint light ahead. Dozens of bloody paws crashed through the brush behind them on the overgrown trail. He hoped the elves were ready for a fight. The bard and his allies were bringing a doozy to their front door. Unless, of course, they were running right into the talons of even more undead creatures.
Devis didn't need the eyes of a full-blooded elf to see the bright flash of blue light ahead of them on the dark forest trail. A lone elf stood in the road about two hundred feet away, facing away from them. The elf was tall, thin, and wore tattered robes that hung from his lanky frame. Atop the elf's head was a pointed, silver helm. Devis could make out no further details. Normally, even his half-human eyes should have been able to see the buttons on the man's coat at this distance, but the moons were down and the only other sources of light were the distant orange glow and the pale light spell Zalyn had asked Mialee to cast on her helm.
Devis heard the wolves snarling and yapping behind them. For whatever reason, the creatures were staying back. The bard hoped that meant they were afraid of the tall man. Maybe he was just an elf.
Mialee gasped. "Favrid?" the elf woman whispered.
"Favrid?" the others responded simultaneously.
"It could be," the elf woman hissed. "Teleportation is no big feat for him."
"Why didn't he teleport himself to safety?" Devis whispered as the group maneuvered to keep watch on the wolves and the shadowy figure. "Why won't he face you? I don't trust it, love."
"Why doesn't he do something?" Zalyn asked.
"Because he's a wizard, that's why," Hound-Eye spat. "He didn't save Tent City, did he?"
Darji circled low over their heads. "Hound-Eye, Favrid did everything he could," the little raven chirped.
"I'll tell that to the dead, when I get a chance to bury them," the halfling retorted darkly.
"Favrid!" Mialee shouted. "Master, I've come to help!"
"What?" Devis said as Mialee ran ahead. "Mialee, wait!"
The solitary figure did not turn. Another wolf howled, and the stinking pack drew closer.
"Planes!" Devis swore and jogged ahead to keep up with her. She was fast.
"Mialee."
The voice that spoke the elf woman's name drifted down the road through the cool night air from the direction of the lanky figure. It reminded Devis of pipe-smoking old Gunnivan. The voice was gravelly and deep, but had the mellifluous quality of a practiced stage performer or epic balladeer.
The party collectively stopped, Mialee far ahead, Devis behind, and the others watching them, the tall man, and the wolves. The wolves howled mournfully and whimpered.
"Favrid," Mialee said breathlessly. "I'm here. We're coming to help."
"My child, I'm injured," the voice intoned paternally, but with a hint of urgency.
Mialee again broke into a run toward the figure, stumbled, recovered. "He needs help!" Mialee yelled over her shoulder.
Devis and the others dashed to follow.
"Mialee, I don't think—" Devis shouted, but broke off to bat at a snapping snout near his heel. A knot gripped his belly. Something about this smelled bad, and it wasn't just zombie wolves and crocodile guts.