Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [162]
A smell of death and foulness seemed to surround her, rising from the bodies of the horse and Rider.
Every so often, Laric would lean close and say something unintelligible to her, and then his rank, polluted breath would make her head spin with nausea.
Even more revolting than his breath were his cold and skeletal fingers. Occasionally, he would encircle Robyn’s waist with those hands, or run a long, leisurely caress down her back or across her shoulders.
Each time he did this, Robyn shuddered in revulsion. She wished for death to release her from this nightmare but death did not come, and the nightmare stayed the same.
All during the long day, the fog hung thick and low across the moor, as if the goddess could not bear to open the curtain upon the play enacted there. Yet the fog would provide no protection for the actors.
The long day of riding ended with dusk, when a patch of light rose against the clouds to the east, and Robyn knew that the moon was full. Laric reined in the black horse and dismounted. Roughly, he pulled his prisoner to the ground and pushed her across the grass. For a moment, Robyn allowed herself to hope that they had stopped for rest.
Something in the Bloodrider’s fiery eyes told her otherwise.
Laric pulled her off the horse onto a broad, flat stone, cuffing her shoulder so that she fell, stunned, upon the rock.
Then the mist parted very briefly, and the rays of the full moon spilled unfiltered into the clearing.
Robyn saw Laric draw his stained, blackened sword. Even through the tarnish the weapon seemed to burn with a deep corruption, which hurt her eyes as she looked upon the blade.
The Bloodrider turned to her, weapon upraised, his face distorted in a horrible leer. She tugged frantically on the bonds restraining her wrists, but she was held too securely.
Sensing his purpose, she could do nothing to save herself. She resolved that the creature would not know of her terror, and she lifted her proud face toward Laric in an expression of disdain.
As he reached for her, a deathly chuckle bubbling from his chest, she spat in his face.
*****
Newt’s tiny claws gripped the horn of the unicorn, holding on for dear life as Kamerynn raced through the tangled ways of the forest. Always the little dragon maintained the flow of illusory magic, reproducing the world so that the blind creature could once again proudly inhabit his domain.
Newt had not understood the message that the Great Druid brought to Kamerynn, but her words filled the unicorn with fanatical energy. Shivering, the faerie dragon struggled to retain his perch and still work his magic.
Never before had Newt performed such sustained illusion, and the effort now brought a throbbing ache to his little scaled head. Normally, some errant butterfly, or toothsome frog, would have long since diverted Newt’s attention. Instead, he rode diligently and attentively, ignoring the pain in his head in order to bring sight to the blinded unicorn.
For a long night, and an even longer day, the pair raced over the mist-wreathed moor The encloaking mist surrounded and assailed them, and even Newt found his bearings difficult to maintain. Finally night – the night of the full moon – fell again, and at last fatigue forced the unicorn to slow his resolute pace.
Around them, the fog seemed to press heavily. The mist felt very cool, and exuded a sense of danger.
XXIII
THE SONG OF KEREN
THE BAT DARTED through the mist purposefully, soaring above the blackened track that marred and tore the ground. Night fell with frightening suddenness, surrounding her with tendrils of fog. Menacing shadows moved the boundaries of her vision.
The Bloodrider had ridden impossibly fast – she could not understand how or why. The full moon, rising above the fog, did little to penetrate the mist, or to remind the druid of the benign presence of the goddess. Genna Moonsinger, Great Druid though she was, felt frightened and alone on this night of foreboding.
From somewhere in the mists before her, a shrill female voice, laden