The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [93]
Tarus let out a low whistle. “He's not a terribly pleasant-looking fellow, is he?”
Grace couldn't take her eyes from the crude but expressive figure outlined in stones on the side of the hill. Jagged teeth filled the open maw, and the single eye seemed to stare straight into her heart. It was at least a hundred feet high.
“It's different than when we saw it last,” Durge said, a frown on his face. “Some of the stones have been changed. Do you see? He no longer holds men in his right hand. Instead there are only three large rocks on his palm. And all of the stones that make up the drawing are changed. They used to be white.”
Durge was right. Grace remembered the gigantic figure as being outlined in white stones. However, now most of the stones were a rusty color.
“Blood,” she said, and by their wide eyes the others had come to the same conclusion. “The stones have been painted with blood. Someone must have—”
A distant cry sounded on the air, and Grace's words fell short. At first she thought it to be the call of a hawk again, but the sky was empty, and the sound was different—it was a cry of suffering. Or perhaps of hunger.
“It's just the call of a beast, Your Majesty,” Master Graedin said, giving her a reassuring smile.
“Yes, but what sort of beast?” Durge said, gazing around.
Grace swallowed the lump in her throat. “Let's ride.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Tarus said, “but the sun is close to setting. We need to make camp, and there is a spring in this vale. It seems an ideal place.”
“No,” Grace said, her voice sharp. “We're not staying here. Not in the dark. We have to go—now.”
The army marched on as shadows lengthened across the land. They crested another rise, then descended into a rocky valley. As they did, the sun vanished behind the wall of the ridge, casting the valley into premature gloom. The sigh of the wind through dry grass was the only sound.
“Something is wrong,” Durge said in a low voice to Grace. “Night will fall soon. There should be birds singing, but I hear nothing at all.”
This was one time Grace didn't think the Embarran was being overly gloomy. Something was wrong—she could feel it in the Weirding.
As do we, sister, spoke Senrael's voice in her mind. Grace glanced over her shoulder; not far behind, the old woman rode with Lursa and the other witches. It as if the threads of the Weirding recoil in loathing.
At that moment another cry pierced the air—shrill, trilling. Hateful.
“Did you hear that?” Tarus said as they brought their nervous horses to a halt. “That is no normal beast.”
Master Graedin glanced around. “Then what is it?”
“You mean, what are they,” Aldeth said, casting back his silvery cloak as he stepped from a pool of shadow.
Tarus lowered his sword. “May I suggest you not sneak up on us again—at least not if you don't want a sword in your gut.”
The Spider glared up at him. “Don't sheathe that blade just yet, Knight of Calavan. You may yet need it.”
Grace swallowed the scream rising in her throat. “What's out there, Aldeth?”
“Feydrim, Your Majesty. I'm not sure how many, but they're coming up the ridge behind us.”
Grace could see nothing in the gathering twilight, but another cry sounded, and it was echoed by several more, some farther, some nearer. In the saddle in front of her, Tira let out a whimper.
“Why aren't they attacking?” Grace said, holding on to the girl.
Aldeth shook his head. “I'm not sure. It's almost as if they're waiting for something.”
“But for what?” Master Graedin said, face pale in the gloom.
Even as he spoke, a light crested the ridge behind them, cold as moonlight. Only the moon would not rise for hours, and when it did it would be in the east, not the west.
“Wraithlings,” Grace said.
They gazed at each other for a moment, the whites of their eyes showing in the dimness. Then they were riding.
“We must make for the summit,” Durge shouted over the pounding of hooves. “We cannot let them surround us in this lowland.