Bloodwalk - James P. Davis [46]
He put such thoughts out of his mind and focused on the task at hand, locating an easier passage so the group might search in a more stealthy manner. The only saving grace of the heavy rain was that it covered the sound of their movement. Their noisy approach echoed in his ears.
Better to get in, discover the source of the region's troubles, and get out, he thought. Easier said than done.
The hunters were growing nervous. The improvised path they'd left behind them would soon begin to close itself as the forest's predatory foliage reset its traps and vicious intentions. Rhaeme stopped and waved the man behind him ahead to take point. He needed a moment to rest his weary arm and take stock of the situation.
Direction was a problem inside the Qurth. Landmarks were few, and, when found, were well hidden. He'd hoped to find a small clearing, some overgrown ruin or sign of intrusion, perhaps even the sound or sight of an enemy encampment. His prayers to Savras had so far yielded only confirmations of his own fears. The Hunters of the Hidden Circle were not as receptive as the oracles to visions and prognostication, but they were gifted with a sense of insight, usually manifesting as flashes or images.
Each time he'd attempted to focus his awareness on this ability, he'd smelled blood, stronger and stronger as they moved inward. He closed his eyes and again raised the small ring of dried fethra to his lips. The scent came again, this time accompanied by a warmth that covered his skin like a wave of fever. Sucking in a quick breath, he opened his eyes and looked past the men ahead of him. He sensed that they were being watched. The feeling of distant eyes on him was chilling. The darkness of the forest revealed nothing, but he was innately aware of something getting closer.
The three men at the rear recognized his alarm and froze. The four ahead continued moving. A young man called Laen, a hunter for barely a year, whispered, "What do you see?"
Rhaeme did not answer right away. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that whatever they sought had found them first.
As he prepared to alert those in the front, the point man who had replaced him moments ago lurched to a stop and groaned. The man's sword fell from his hand and he turned around, wide-eyed and clawing at his stomach furiously. The groan became a gurgling scream as blood streamed from beneath his leather breastplate. Then it was pushed outward violently, torn apart from the inside.
* * * * *
Though she had ridden Morningstar hard, Eli knew she might not reach Littlewater by morning. A frantic urgency had infected her since parting with Rhaeme several miles back. She had other means of travel, but she was always distrustful of magic, even when used for great benefit. She also knew that sitting in the rain, sinking in the mud, and cursing the road ahead would do nothing for her dilemma.
Magic it would be then, she thought.
She took a small pouch from her belt. Shielding it from the rain, Eli untied the leather thong to sniff the mixture of herbs and other unknown ingredients.
She'd obtained the dry potion from the druidic shamans who lived around Brookhollow, in the wilder parts of the Shandolphyn. Practitioners of the wizardly arts, they were a natural sort, loyal to the old traditions of the Shaaryan tribes. This appealed to Eli's love of the open grassland. Her father had introduced her to them when she was young. Many nights she had camped with the Ghedia, as they were known, a name meaning "grass witch" in the old Shaaran tongue. One of their number, Lesani, had been like a second mother to her ever since. She missed Lesani's stories, songs, and practical wisdom and wished she were with