The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [178]
The chalky road led them higher into the hills, wandering along ridgetops when it could and reluctantly dipping into valleys when it couldn’t. The hills themselves were slumped and worn, virtually treeless. Gray and white sheep grazed on the slopes, along with the occasional goat or horse. They saw scatterings of houses built mostly of undressed stone with thatched roofs.
“Té, there’s the horsemen, I’ll wager,” Artoré said, after a time.
“How can you tell?” Anne asked. This time she could see the marks of horses, at least.
“One dismounted here. See the scuff of his spurs? The horseshoes have a funny shape, too, and there’re three of them.”
“And Austra?”
“She took a horse from that farm back there,” he replied. “This is her.” He pointed to a slurred sort of track. “Trotting him. She’s in a hurry.”
“How far ahead?”
“She’s about an hour ahead, and they’re more than half a day.”
“Can we speed up?”
“Sure, but if she leaves the road, we might miss it.”
“She can’t track the way you can. She’ll stick to the road, and hope the men who have Cazio do, too.”
“Well, then,” Artoré said. He urged his horse to a trot.
“Come on, Tarry,” Anne said. At first she just matched the trot, but, just to see what he could do, she encouraged the horse to a run and then a hard-out gallop, and for an instant, despite it all, she found herself grinning. She loved riding, and while Tarry wasn’t as quick as her own steed, Faster, he was a good runner, and she hadn’t been on a horse in a long time. She’d almost forgotten what it was like.
She knew she couldn’t push him like that for long, however, so she went back to a trot and they traveled like that, alternating. The leagues between them and Teremené lengthened as their shadows did, until at last night came, with the prints of her stolen horse the only sign of Austra.
They camped on a hill overlooking the road.
“We’ll catch her tomorrow,” Artoré promised. “She’s wearing her horse out, and he’ll be slower. That should put us near the Dunmrogh road, and we can take that west toward Eslen.”
“Dunmrogh,” Anne said. “We’re near Dunmrogh?”
“About five leagues, I’d say. Why?”
“Just curious. I know someone from there.” Roderick. He would help—his family had troops, surely. With his aid, they could go after Cazio and succeed.
But he was more than likely in Eslen. Still, if they were going to be so close, it wouldn’t hurt to find out, would it?
But on the heels of that thought came Cazio’s suspicions. What if her enemies were going to Dunmrogh? What if he really was in league with them?
She put speculation from her mind.
Tomorrow she would know.
The hills sloped gently down into a plain Artoré named Magh y Herth, the “Plain of Barrows.” Anne didn’t see any barrows, only leagues of yellowed grass and the occasional line of trees marking a stream. Geese streamed overhead and occasional herds of cattle cropped by the side of the road. Now and then side roads led off to small villages, made visible by their bell towers.
Around midday, a line of green appeared on the horizon, eventually resolving into a forest. The road led them beneath the huge, arching branches of ironoak, ash, everic, and hickory. The hoofbeats of their horses were muffled here by falling leaves. The forest felt old and clingy, like a decrepit man trying to hug her.
“Prethsorucaldh,” Artoré said, gesturing at the trees. “You would call it ‘Little Worm Wood.’ ”
“That’s an odd name,” Anne said. “Why is it called that?”
“I’ve heard some tale about a monster of some sort that lived in the ground, but I don’t recall any details. They say it used to be a part of the King’s Forest, but during the Warlock Wars an army of fire marched on either side of the Saint Sefodh and cut it off. Since then it’s been shrinking. Now it’s the Lord of Dunmrogh’s hunting preserve.”
“An army of fire what?”