Curse of the Shadowmage - Mark Anthony [70]
"Aye, I did," the woman replied dramatically. It was clear this was not the first time she had told this tale. "They came here at dusk two nights ago, and a strange-looking bunch they were. The red-haired woman, she wore sword at her hip. And the tall one, he had the air of a wizard about him. Had a gaze to freeze your blood, he did. They killed poor Faladar, I'm certain of it." She let out an overwrought sigh. "And now it's up to me to run the Five Rings all by myself."
Something made K'shar think that the woman was not truly sorry to be in charge of the inn. Silent as a wraith, he slipped away. He needed to hear no more. Al'maren and her companions had been here just two nights ago, evidently they had murdered a man. The renegade was sinking low indeed. Quickly, he made his way out of town.
It was full dark, and the moon had not yet risen when K'shar came to the stone bridge over the River Reaching, but his golden eyes required only the faintest of light. He knew it was for abilities such as this that his grand mother's people had been-and still were-persecuted. Some thought that the ability to see in the dark could come only from evil magic. K'shar knew that the darkvision came from generations of his ancestors living in lightless underground caverns. Regardless of its origin, the darkvision was best kept secret, K'shar knew, even from the Harpers. Those who walked the daylight world would not understand his dark heritage.
As he set foot on the bridge, something caught his sharp eyes. He knelt to examine the moist dirt in front of the stone span.
"By all the stars of midnight," he swore softly.
The tracks had been trampled by booted feet and iron shod hooves. But K'shar could see enough to know they were like no tracks he had seen in all his years as a Hunter. They were shaped like the prints of a barefoot man, but the toes were unusually long, and there were only three of them, and these ended in curved talons. No man had left these tracks. Nor had any beast that K'shar was familiar with.
Fascinated, he followed the strange tracks. There had been two of the creatures. They had stood before the bridge for a time before heading southward. The tracks were clearer once they left the heavily traveled road, and after a short way they were joined by the prints of a third, similar creature. K'shar halted. He had come to a place where the tracks of the unknown creatures were superimposed on a different set of prints-prints he recognized.
"Al'maren," he said in amazement. He squatted down and studied the myriad shapes pressed into the ground. Whatever the three creatures they had chased Al'maren and her friends toward the edge of the Reaching Woods. Had Caldorien ventured into the Reaching Woods as well? Or had he continued westward down the Dusk Road? The half-elf mulled over this dilemma. He could not be certain which way Caldorien had gone. On the other hand, he was certain about
Al'maren. He made his decision.
"A Harper in the hand is worth two in the bush," he noted wryly, before plunging soundlessly into the shadowed forest.
Thirteen
The lone traveler had been following the broad swath of the Trade Way for three days now, ever since leaving the strange little town of Triel behind. The traveler did not know his destination, but that did not matter. For he would certainly know it when he arrived there; he dreaded that time, evn as it drew him onward.
Occasionally he passed other travelers on the road- merchants, soldiers, or wanderers on pilgrimage-and these drew away, clutching cloths to their mouths and noses as they hurried by, as though they feared he might have some disease. He knew that he looked strange. That morning he had caught, a glimpse of himself in a pool of water as he bent to drink. His flesh was mushroom-pale, and half-moons of shadow hung beneath his green eyes. Given this, and his midnight