Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [75]
In places, the path switchbacked down to the river, allowing Larajin a chance to splash ice-cold water onto her face while her horse drank. The pools offered darting silver fish and freshwater crabs, some of which Larajin had caught and cooked over a fire the night before.
As she rode, she kept watching for the flash of color that would announce Goldheart's return, but there was
no sign of the tressym. Did that mean Leifander was traveling still? Had he veered north, already flown all the way back to the Tangled Trees? Or had he flown off in some other direction? There was no way of knowing.
Larajin was starting to wonder if doubling back to follow the River Arkhen had been the right decision. It might have been more sensible to have continued with Master Ferrick's company to Ordulin, then ridden the Dawnpost trail west. She would have reached Archen-bridge-the town where the trail she did take ended-in about the same amount of time.
Instead she'd been on the river trail for six days with no sign of Leifander and no reports from Goldheart to let her know if she was still headed in the right direction. Tal and his company would have ridden as far as Feather-dale. Just three more days riding would put them at the southern edge of the forest of Cormanthor.
Larajin gasped as her horse stumbled on a loose rock at the cliffs edge, sending her rocking backward in the saddle. For several agonizing moments her heart hammered in her chest as the horse's hind foot scrabbled for purchase, sending a scatter of rocks and dirt into the river below. Clinging to the pommel of her saddle, she prayed for deliverance, then the horse found its footing. With a second lurch it was upright and walking again.
Glancing back over her shoulder, Larajin stared at the spot where the horse had faltered. Far below the scuffed trail, the River Arkhen dashed itself against jagged rocks in its haste to reach the sea. Larajin and her horse had nearly joined it. Breathing a prayer of thanks to the goddesses for protecting her, she vowed to pay more attention to the trail.
Ahead the path leveled and widened, turning away from the edge of the canyon, into the trees. Larajin at last relaxed, lowering the reins and letting the horse find its own way. In the distance ahead she could hear the thunder of a waterfall. Archendale must be closer than she thought.
Then she realized that the noise was coming from the east, away from the river. The waterfall at Archendale would be more to the north…
Suddenly a running figure-a woman, with a strangely hunched back-appeared on the trail ahead. She was clad in dusty trousers and a shirt several times too large for her slender frame. She had a narrow face, hair so blonde it was almost white, and an elf s ears and eyes. She stumbled as she ran, wincing with each step of her bare feet. Her arms were thrown out ahead of her, as if she expected to fall at any moment, and her mouth was open wide, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath.
Startled, Larajin reined her horse to a stop. In the same moment the running woman saw her. The woman skidded to a halt several paces away and stared, wide-eyed. She glanced back over her shoulder in the direction of the rumbling sound, at Larajin again, then she darted off into the woods at the side of the trail.
A moment later, three riders burst into view. Seeing Larajin, they halted their horses. One of them-a man who looked like a half-ore, with hair that was receding above a bulging forehead and a muscular neck as thick as a tree trunk-glared at her, while the other two turned this way and that, peering into the woods. All three were clad in chain mail and carried shields emblazoned