The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [3]
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Ehawk shrugged. “The forest—I think it’s dying like that.”
“How do you know?”
“I can smell it.”
“Ah.” The knight seemed to mull that over for a few minutes, and so they rode in silence.
“This Mosslord,” Sir Oneu said at last. “Have you ever heard him called the Briar King?”
“That’s what the Oostish call him, Sir Oneu.”
Sir Oneu sighed, and looked older. “I thought as much.”
“Is that what you’re looking for in the forest, sir? The Briar King?”
“Yes.”
“Then—”
But Martyn cut him off suddenly. “Sir Oneu?” the monk’s face was set in hard lines.
“Yes, Brother?”
“I hear them again.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere. In all directions now. Coming closer.”
“What is it, Martyn? Can you tell me what we face? Minions of the Briar King?”
“I don’t know, Sir Oneu. I only know we are surrounded.”
“Ehawk? Is there aught you can tell us?”
“No, sir. I can’t hear anything yet.”
But soon enough he did. The wood stirred all around them, as if the trees themselves had come alive. Ehawk felt as if the forest was tightening, the trees standing ever closer together, a great trap closing on the company. The horses began to whicker nervously, even Airece, Sir Oneu’s warsteed.
“Ready yourselves, lads,” Sir Oneu muttered.
Ehawk caught glimpses of them now, the figures in the trees. They grunted and growled like beasts, they croaked and mewed, but they looked like men and women, naked or wearing only the uncured skins of beasts.
Sir Oneu increased his pace to a trot, indicating that the others in the party should do the same. He lifted his heavy ashe spear. Ahead, on the trail, Ehawk saw that someone was awaiting them.
His heart was a cricket in his breast as they drew near. There were seven of them, some men, some women, cut and bruised and naked as the day they were born—all save one. He stood in front, a lion-skin thrown over one shoulder like a cloak. From his head grew spreading antlers.
“Etthoroam!” Ehawk gasped. He could no longer feel his knees clasping his horse.
“No,” Martyn said. “It is a man. The antlers are part of a headdress.”
Ehawk, trying to control his growing terror, saw that Martyn was right. But that didn’t mean anything. Etthoroam was a sorcerer. He could take any form.
“You’re certain?” Sir Oneu asked Martyn, perhaps sharing Ehawk’s doubts.
“He has the smell of a man,” Martyn said.
“They’re everywhere,” Gavrel muttered, jerking his head from side to side, peering at the forest. The other three monks, Ehawk noticed, had strung their bows and formed a loose perimeter around the group.
Martyn brought his mount alongside Ehawk’s. “Keep near me,” he said, voice very low.
“Ehawk, m’ lad,” Sir Oneu said. “Could those be the villagers?”
Ehawk studied the faces of those who stood with the antlered man. Their eyes were very strange, unfocused, as if they were drunk or entranced. Their hair was matted and tangled.
“I reckon they might be,” he answered. “It’s hard to say, them lookin’ like that.”
Sir Oneu nodded and drew to a halt ten yards from the strangers. It was suddenly so still, Ehawk could hear the breeze in the highest branches.
“I am Sir Oneu de Loingvele,” the knight called in a clear, carrying voice, “a peer of the church on a holy mission. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
The stag-horned figure grinned and raised his fists so they could see the snakes he held writhing in them.
“Look at their eyes,” Gavrel said, drawing his sword. He sounded grim. “They are mad.”
“Hold your hand,” Sir Oneu said. He rested his palm on his pommel and leaned forward. “That’s a clever reply,” the knight said loudly. “Most would give a name or speak some vapid greeting. You, with your deer-horn cap, you’re too clever for that. Instead, you shake snakes at me. Very cunning, I must say. A most excellent reply. I await your next witticism with utmost eagerness.”
The antlered man merely blinked, as if Sir Oneu’s words were so many raindrops.
“You’re quite senseless, aren’t you?” Sir Oneu asked.
This time the horned man crooked his head back, so his mouth opened to the sky, and he howled.