Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [157]
“A dead end,” said Sigurd. “Literally.”
Skylan turned to see the older man sitting up, wiping blood from his face. His eyes were back to normal, except that they were dark, shadowed with terror.
“What happened?” Skylan asked. “How can I stop the ghosts?”
Sigurd shook his head. “All I remember is a pale hand touching me and the next thing I knew all I wanted to do was kill those who dared disturbed my rest.”
“If it was a trap, it wasn’t Treia’s doing,” said Aylaen defensively. “She didn’t know!”
“She knew,” said Wulfe. “She was here, watching. She and Raegar.”
“Raegar? Where?” Skylan asked grimly.
“They’re not here now. They both ran off. They left because of the ogres.”
“Ogres . . .” Skylan said, startled. “What about the ogres?”
“They’re coming in ships,” said Wulfe. “Tonight.”
“Keeper, did you hear that!” Skylan said, excited.
Keeper snorted and shook his head.
“You can ask the other woman,” Wulfe said. “She’s still in there.”
“What other woman?”
“The one who is talking to the dead.”
“It might be a Spirit Priestess,” said Aylaen. “Like the one who summoned Garn. Raegar said they have power over the dead. Where is she, Wulfe? Can you see her?”
“She’s hiding in the bushes,” said Wulfe. He sniffed the air. “I can’t see her, but I can smell her.”
“We’ll find her,” said Skylan. “If she has power over the dead, she can stop this attack. Keeper, come with me. Aylaen—”
Searing pain tore through Skylan’s arm. He felt as though someone had torn open his skin and reached inside to rip out the muscles and shatter his bones. His hand went into spasms. He dropped his sword and doubled over, moaning, pressing his burning arm into his stomach. Sigurd was screaming and rolling on the ground. Keeper clutched his arm and bellowed in pain and rage. Only Aylaen, free of the tattoo of Aelon, was unaffected. She hovered near them, helpless.
“What can I do?”
“Go with . . . Wulfe!” Skylan gasped. He had to fight the god for every word. Sweat rolling down his face, he said harshly, “Find the priestess, Wulfe. You know how.”
Wulfe stared at him, then he started to tremble and shook his head violently.
“Find her,” said Skylan, through gritted teeth. “Find her!”
Still Wulfe hesitated. He looked at Skylan, who was in pain, and the boy’s lips parted in a strange, tight-lipped smile. He dropped down on all fours and began to run as Aylaen had seen him run many times before. Except that now, as he ran, the hair on his arms and legs began to grow long. His awkward and ungainly scrabbling on hands and feet changed into a graceful, ground-eating lope. His teeth sharpened to fangs; his mouth expanded, widened; his tongue lolled; his muscles hardened.
The wolf loped down the path. He went only a short distance, stopped, and put his nose to the ground. He ran about, sniffing, then raised his head. Ears pricked. He had found the trail. He bounded off into the darkness.
Aylaen could not move. She could only stand, staring.
“Follow him!” Skylan urged. He gave a ragged cry and sagged to his knees. “Don’t let him . . . kill . . .”
The wolf came back, ran straight at Aylaen. The wolf was young, scrawny. He stopped short of her, growled and jerked his head, then turned and trotted off a short distance. Stopping again, he looked back at her and jerked his head again.
Aylaen understood. He wanted her to follow.
She forced her numb feet to move. Hampered by the tangle of undergrowth, she could not travel as fast as the wolf, or as silently. The wolf led her to the old shrine.
The floor was striped, black and silver, with moonlight and shadows. Aylaen tried to keep out of the light and hugged the shadows, but the woman must have seen something that alarmed her. Aylaen heard the woman’s long skirts swishing through dead leaves.
The wolf lifted his head, growled softly, and dashed off in pursuit. Mindful of Skylan’s warning, Aylaen ran after him. The wolf easily caught up with her. The woman