Darkwell - Douglas Niles [37]
Softly she cursed her lack of foresight. Then she took up her staff and scrolls, which had made the shift with her, and looked around. She had tumbled nearly to the foot of the mountain during the course of the fight. The path before her, to the north, now curved gently along a sloping ridge. She started walking, and the movement swiftly drove the stiffness from her muscles.
In an hour, she had entered the low country, following the vestiges of a trail that had once been pastoral. Now it twisted toward the blackened trunks of dead, rotting trees. A fetid odor of decay arose from the land itself, and Robyn pulled her apron across her face. Even this could not dampen the pervasive stink.
She paused at the edge of the forest, but she knew that this was the path through Myrloch Vale, to the grove of the Great Druid. She took several deep breaths, as if sensing she breathed the cleanest air she would taste for many days.
Then, shouldering her staff, she spoke a quiet prayer to her goddess. Like the others, the prayer went unanswered. Nevertheless, she stepped forward resolutely and entered the dead forest.
* * * * *
A padded foot, as broad as a bear's, fell softly on a pile of dried, dead moss, yet no sound emerged. Another paw, identical to the first, reached forward to pull the sleek body along. The rear feet, when they moved in turn, fell exactly in the soundless prints of the forefeet.
Above, all was blackness, except for the yellow slits in the creature's eyes. Should any moonlight have broken through the midnight clouds, an observer could have seen the long, curving teeth exposed by the widespread jaws. One could have marveled at the liquid muscle rippling below the sleek black hide, or shuddered at the ghastly tentacles protruding from the creature's shoulders.
Shantu, the displacer beast, moved to the hunt.
Shantu did not hunt from hunger – at least, not from the desire to fill its belly. Shantu's hunger was of another kind. It was the lust for fresh blood to cool its tongue, for the soothing death-cry of a victim to ring musically in its ears. It was spiritual, for Shantu longed for the feel of a warm body growing cold in its mouth, to drive the breath of life from a living creature.
Shantu was not hungry for food but for death. And now, patiently, with complete silence and stealth, the displacer beast moved through the deadness of Myrloch Vale. It sought anything alive, anything that held that spark that would give the beast sustenance in its extinguishing.
And so the displacer beast crept through the night, looking for something to kill.
* * * * *
"We'll stop at the first good camping place," Tristan announced. The party had drawn together as darkness closed in, and now Tavish and Pawldo stood beside him as they rested. Daryth stood, almost invisible in the dusk, a few feet away, ostensibly observing the trail behind them.
"I wish you guys could see in the dark! I'm not tired yet!" Newt declared his disappointment loudly.
"Be quiet!" hissed the High King, looking into the dead woods around them. They had left the rocky highlands behind, but this forest of rotted trunks seemed even more barren. "Start looking for a place to camp. And another thing – there'll be no fire tonight!"
"This is still high country!" argued Pawldo. "We'll freeze without a fire!" The halfling huddled on his pony, a picture of discomfort and misery.
Tristan ignored him, turning back to the trail. He was riding Avalon now – they had all remounted beyond the high valleys – but he realized the futility of blundering on in the utter darkness that would soon descend.
"There's a grove of sorts," announced Tavish, pointing to a stand of dead pines as her gelding skittered nervously to the side. The towering skeletal trees offered better shelter, and softer bedding, than the rocky ground, so they entered the grove and prepared to make camp.
Unsaddling Avalon and watching the darkness close upon their camp, Tristan felt a sense of aloneness around him. The nearest community, he knew, lay beyond the rocky highlands,