Shadow War - Deborah Chester [42]
After a moment he forced himself to ride on, but he kept his senses attuned to the sky as well as to the shadows around him. Even so, he nearly missed the small trail branching off from the road. It led down the hillside that was rough with boulders and thickets of stunted trees.
Caelan hesitated a moment, then turned his mount that way. His horse’s ears pricked forward alertly. The animal seemed more nervous and reluctant than ever, and he had to force it to take the trail. Step by step, the horse picked its way along, while Caelan’s unease grew.
He had the same eerie feeling of being watched as he had earlier that evening when he’d ridden with the prince and his friends. Yet though Caelan’s eyes were never still, he saw nothing.
The glimmer of light he’d spied before now reappeared in a brief wink, then was gone as though a door had been opened and closed. It was not far ahead.
But the land itself grew increasingly desolate. The trees were either stunted and deformed, or they stood as burned skeletons leaning over the progressively steeper trail. The air had grown strangely warm and oppressive, smelling strongly of cinders, ash, and smoke. Yet he saw no fire. Sweating, Caelan loosened the throat of his tunic and slicked back a strand of hair from his eyes. His horse pranced and minced along as though walking on eggs, snorting with every uncertain step.
Caelan realized he had come to the forbidden mountain of Sidraigh-hal, once sacred ground of the shadow gods. Across the narrow valley, it rose above him, black and forbidding, its fiery top wreathed in yellow, sulfur-laden mists.
Drawing rein in dismay, Caelan knew he should turn back before he found himself in worse trouble. This was no place for him. Even the simple awareness of where he was sent goosebumps crawling up his spine.
Breathing an old childhood prayer, he edged forward.
Here and there, frozen tongues of black lava scored the hillside. Lava canyons fell away sharply, their razor precipices offering death without warning.
The trail crossed a tiny stream, and the horse balked at first, refusing to cross it. Glancing around warily, Caelan dismounted and knelt at the edge. He was thirsty, and he wanted to wash off the creature’s blood that still stank loathsomely. But when he put his hand into the water, he found it strangely warm as though it had been heated.
Caelan cupped water in his palm and tasted it. It was foul. He spat, shuddering, and splashed some of the water quickly onto his arm and shoulder.
A faint rumble passed through the earth.
Uneasily Caelan scrambled to his feet. His horse broke away and ran off. Caelan swore silently, but he did not go after it. The panicky animal could elude him easily, and he dared not waste time chasing it.
Feeling isolated and more vulnerable than before, he stepped over the stream and continued, keeping to cover as best he could. The farther he went, the hotter it became. The air smelled of ashes, and the ground grew unpleasantly warm beneath his feet. Here and there, the earth broke open to let steaming mud bubble out.
Something screamed in the distance, and Caelan jerked himself up tight against a tree. He stood there, tense and listening, his mouth open to gulp air, his heart pounding out of control. The outcry had been too brief for him to guess whether it belonged to a man or wild animal. But something out there in the darkness was hunting.
Hunting ... him.
His hand grew sweaty and tight on the sword hilt. Again, he cursed himself for having come to this godless place. But he could not retreat now. Caelan pushed himself forward, his breath coming short and fast.
Ahead, past a stand of charred trees and new saplings, a hut loomed in the shadows. Its windows were shuttered tight, permitting no light to escape. Yet Caelan could hear the restless snorts and shifting about of horses, as though the animals were inside. His keen ears picked up low murmurs of voices, punctuated occasionally by a sharper