The Riddle - Alison Croggon [145]
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Claw biting at her harness, trying to get free. She looked as though she would tear out the throats of any Jussacks who came near. Maerad felt like Claw: she would fight to the death, since death was all that was left her. With her sword she slashed the great dog free of her restraints, and then launched herself off the sled with a wild cry, suddenly glad that she would die.
The Jussacks were almost twice as big as Maerad, but they were not prepared for the ferocity of her attack. As one approached her, she sliced off his arm with a double-handed stroke, jumping back and spinning to counter the other. But he hung back, keeping out of reach of her sword until the other sleds drew close and he was joined by the other Jussacks. The man she had maimed lay twisting on the ground, screaming, blood blossoming from his body and steaming on the snow. Suddenly a huge shape launched from behind Maerad and leaped, growling, onto the injured man. It was Claw, the cut traces still dangling from her harness. The man screamed high, and then stopped, and the second Jussack ran to Claw and hit her on the head with his mace as Maerad ran up to him yelling. Claw turned, menacing, ready to bite, but then, with a dreamlike slowness, tripped and fell into the snow, and did not get up. Maerad launched herself at the Jussack who had killed Claw, freshly enraged, but again he retreated beyond her sword, unwilling to engage her in combat, and at this point the other Jussacks reached them.
One of them, Maerad realized instantly, was a sorcerer, but he was exerting some magery that Maerad had not encountered before. He raised his hands, speaking words she did not recognize, and suddenly Maerad’s mind became vague, tipping over into a darkness like sleep. She stood like one in a daze, and her sword fell to the ground out of her nerveless hand. So, that’s why my magery failed me, she thought, with a kind of wonder. A huge dark smoke seemed to be filling her mind; she struggled against it, trying to bend down to pick up her sword, but her body would not obey her. Is this death? she thought. Dharin was right, there is no pain. . . . And then the darkness overwhelmed her, and she knew nothing more.
MAERAD was lost in a desert of dream. Strange orange dunes rose ahead of her, wave upon wave, like an endless ocean of sand. A golden snake was swimming through the sand before her; it turned and fixed her with a ruby eye. She fell forward into the eye, which grew huge, like a pit of fire, and its flames licked painlessly about her. Her skin curled and blackened and flaked away. She was bones on sand, an endless desert of thirst; she cried out, and her mouth filled with water, or blood. She couldn’t move her arms or her legs, and she burned all over — with cold or heat, she couldn’t tell. She struggled weakly, as if she were drowning, and the blackness rose up out of the ground and reclaimed her.
Maerad was on a sled, bound hand and foot. The white sky passed endlessly above her. She could hear the panting of running dogs, their almost silent padding through the snow, the swish of a sled, hoarse male shouts in a language she did not recognize. She looked to her right: alongside were running white wolves, strong and fast. One looked at her and grinned, its red tongue lolling from its mouth, and then, as she watched, its shoulders swelled and sprouted wings, and it flew up into the sky. She turned away, frightened, and a blond, bearded face looked into hers. Filled with a sudden hatred, the reasons for which she did not know, she tried to spit, but her mouth was parched. Hands raised her and gave her water. She swallowed; it burned her mouth like fire, but she had moisture in her mouth. She spat into the light blue eyes.