Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [160]
Darting into the sky, she raced above the moors and forests. She had much to do, and very little time.
Chirping, the bird flitted among the glades of Myrloch Vale, seeking one that she knew would be near, but she could find no trace of her quarry. Her worry grew as she realized that she would soon be forced to abandon this mission, in favor of another, yet more urgent, task.
Still, she felt that she must allow herself more time. Racing as fast as the tiny wings could propel her, the druid frantically sniffed and hunted through the ways of Myrloch Vale. The hours passed, and still she searched.
Finally, she admitted defeat. The little bird darted upward and began winging south and west. But then, as she flew, the faint spoor of the trail she had sought wafted to her senses on a gentle breeze. The source of the spoor was near!
Chirping in excitement, Genna swooped low to the ground. Just a few minutes, she told herself – minutes that might make the difference between life and death.
Soon Genna found him she sought, and she spoke urgently for a few moments. Then she took to the air again, determined now to find the Prince of Corwell.
*****
The great clawed feet pounded the turf with a relentless cadence as Kazgoroth pursued the traitorous minion. The monster dropped to all fours, loping somewhat awkwardly because of its small forelegs.
The long, forked tongue snaked from between bristling rows of teeth, tasting the air. Very faintly, the Beast detected the spoor of the druid, salivating at the stimulus. But within its dark brain, Kazgoroth had begun to worry.
For many months now it had been away from the Darkwell, thriving upon the spreading of evil. But now the forces of evil had suffered a dire reverse, and the power of Kazgoroth was beginning to wane.
The Beast slowed to a trot, and then to a plodding walk. The trail of the Bloodrider beckoned, mocking the Beast’s weakness.
Snarling, the great head lifted high, its gaze fixed with murderous intensity. Once again the powerful rear legs propelled the huge body at a steady lope, this time striding erect.
The forked tongue slipped forward again, tasting the air. No longer did it seek the sweet scent of the druid, nor the fetid spoor of Laric the usurper.
Instead it sought its primary source of nourishment – the power that had brought the Beast into the world.
Kazgoroth had no choice but to return to the Darkwell.
*****
“Everyone stay close,” said Tristan, as the mist closed thickly about them.
“Can you see Canthus?” asked Daryth, nearly invisible only ten feet away.
“Barely,” answered the prince.
Darkness had fallen, and with it had come a mist that threatened to cloak every feature of the terrain from the pursuers.
Avalon and the other horses foamed and lathered from the exertion of the long ride. Canthus loped steadily before them, unfailing in his strength and endurance.
Now, as darkness concealed the blackened trail of Laric’s stallion, the hound kept on the track of the spoor, and no torches were necessary.
For several more hours they pushed forward, talking low to maintain contact with each other. Finally, after they had lost Canthus for the eighth or ninth time, Tristan wearily acknowledged the inevitable.
“We had better break for some rest. We’ll never catch him by wearing ourselves out.”
The others agreed, so they dismounted and stretched on the ground to savor a few hours of sleep before dawn. Keren whistled softly, and Sable glided from the mist to settle onto a tall boulder beside the bard. Unable to sleep, Tristan ate some dried beef and drank wine, but even this could not relax him.
After what seemed an eternity, he noticed that the heavy mist had begun to glow. Dawn was near.
“Let’s go,” he called. Stiff and sore, they climbed onto their white horses once again.
The trail left by Laric’s stallion stood out like a line of ink across a page, and they started at a canter