Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [182]
‘How do we get past them?’ Clay whispered.
‘We wait.’ When the two women moved off, he grabbed Clay’s arm and led the way out into the sunrise. ‘See,’ he said. ‘Eyes open. Rosette must be nearby.’ Shane scanned the woods but the smile he had ready disappeared along with the sun. The warm glow of the woodland went cold as clouds swept over the canopy. Thunder rumbled and large drops of rain began splattering down, hitting hard. A wolf howled in the distance. Another answered, and then another. Shane pointed towards the creek. ‘Under the bridge. Hurry.’
He ran down the steps; the moss was turning slick, water flowing over the stones. The creek roared, whitecaps cresting. He ducked under the high arch of the bridge, staying as far back from the water as he could. Clay followed.
‘Ouch! Get off my foot, you big ox!’
Shane leapt to the side and smacked into Clay. ‘Did you say that?’
‘Say what?’ He shoved him forward. ‘Move! It’s sheeting down out here.’
‘Listen. Someone’s there.’ He pointed at the ground.
‘You’re bats. There’s no one there, but we ought to be. I’ve glimpsed more than trees in the woods. Let me by.’
There was a flash of lightning and before them stood a witch, sword drawn, cloak snapping in the wind, red hair streaming behind her.
Shane backed away. ‘La Makee?’ His words hung on the air long enough for him to see her smile, then everything went dark.
‘Why’d you do that?’ Shaea asked Makee. She kicked Shane’s boot as he lay face down in the mud. ‘Do you know what a fine musician he was? The other one too. Now they’re dead.’
‘I’ve hardly killed ‘em. They’re just having a little rest. Stay put, Shaea. Stay alert. I’ll be back.’
Shaea had a retort ready but La Makee was gone before she could get it out. ‘Stay put?’ She looked at the comatose bards; their faces were obscured and their limbs were at odd angles. ‘It’s an unnatural sleep you put them in,’ she called out. ‘Can’t be good for their health.’
Her only reply was laughter in the distance.
Shaea’s old life in the streets of Corsanon was looking better by the moment. ‘How’d I get into this?’ She bit her lower lip. The sight of the bards in the mud was too strong a reminder of Xane. She couldn’t stand seeing them like that. ‘Come on. Let’s get your faces out of it at least. Can’t see how you’d be breathing like that.’
She dragged them up from the water’s edge and turned them on their backs. Their chests were rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. It became hypnotic watching them until a crack of thunder made her jump. It pealed across the treetops, then lightning revealed the clearing. She wrapped her cloak tight. ‘How long am I meant to stay here?’
Not long, girl. The battle is getting closer. Be ready.
‘Great.’ She slumped down next to the bards, folding her hands in her lap. ‘I can’t wait.’
An’ Lawrence tore up the valley, the palomino’s hooves churning out clods of dirt behind him. His second-in-command was there to meet him. They conversed before he rolled the horse back on its haunches, his sword pointing straight towards the camp. ‘Charge!’
Like a damburst, the sword riders from Temple Los Loma stormed the valley, galloping down the slopes and straight into the thick of the Corsanons. The warriors that met them were ill prepared, unhorsed and clumsy. An’ Lawrence led his riders, cutting tent ropes and trapping the enemy under their shelters. He kept his eyes open for temple witches, but none appeared. They’re idiots for not keeping a High Priestess or two about.
They probably thought the death dogs would be adequate, Rowan.
He stood up in his stirrups, scanning ahead. Good point. Where are they?
Coming around the corner, full pelt. Heads up!
An’ Lawrence saw them before Scylla had finished her thought. Three had broken loose from their chains and were barrelling straight for him, or so he thought. Their jaws were open, lips pulled back over long fangs, strands of saliva, red with blood, hanging from their mouths and sticking to their tan chests. They shot past him, their eyes set on Scylla. ‘To me!’ he screamed, his blade