Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [101]
“Will there be more traps?” asked Keraal.
“There might be,” Chetiin admitted. “But I think it’s more likely this was set as a warning, to deter pursuers or at least make them wary and slow them down. We should be fine.”
“Should be?” Keraal said.
Chetiin shrugged.
“Keep alert,” ordered Dagii. “Marrow, show us the way.”
The elves must not have anticipated the presence of a scent-tracker—the worg was able to follow their trail with ease, even when there was absolutely no visible sign of their passage. Once or twice, false trails appeared, seemingly accidental traces indicating that the elves had turned this way or that, but Marrow led them right past. Just as Chetiin had suggested, there were no more traps. Accounting for variations forced by the landscape, it seemed to Ekhaas that they were heading consistently to the east.
The realization brought a chill to her flesh. She leaned close to Dagii. “We’re heading for the Mournland.”
“I know.” His voice was taut. “They must make their camp close to the border. No one would be likely to wander this close.”
The guess was proved wrong as they came around the shoulder of a hill. Across a broad, very shallow valley the dead-gray mists of the Mournland’s border rose into the sky. Ekhaas had been close to the mists before, close enough to hear the screams and roars of the unseen monsters that made the cursed land beyond their home. Tonight, in this place, the mists were quiet, hanging like a drifting, billowing curtain. The valley, marked by the small, dry riverbed, lay empty but for a few withered trees under the moonlight. There was no elf camp.
They all stopped and stared. Ekhaas looked away to the north and the south. “Maybe they turned aside here,” she said.
Marrow’s hackles rose and she growled. “They didn’t,” Chetiin translated.
“Who would want to make camp in the Mournland?” asked Keraal with a grimace.
“Someone who wanted to hide from prying eyes or magics,” said Dagii. “Someone desperate or frightened enough might flee there to throw off pursuit.”
“Do you think the Valaes Tairn were that frightened of us?”
“No,” Dagii said. “All the more reason to believe they’ve camped there.” He slipped off down the gentle slope into the valley, moving from stunted tree to stunted tree.
“He is mad, isn’t he?” muttered Chetiin, but he moved down after the young warlord.
One by one, they followed Dagii in to the valley. Only Marrow didn’t stick to the dubious cover of the trees, instead flowing like a sleek black shadow along the faint rise and fall of the valley floor. Nose to the ground, she trotted all the way to the very edge of the mists before returning to join them in the shadow of the crumbling riverbed. She snarled and whimpered, and Chetiin said, “That’s the way they went, but the mists smell”—he paused, searching for the right word to translate the worg’s language—“wrong. Unnatural.”
Ekhaas searched her memory for anything she’d heard of the Mournland. “They say that laws of life and death are suspended there—that wounds don’t heal and dead flesh doesn’t decay. Water, plants, and animal life are tainted.”
“It’s true,” said Chetiin, his scarred voice unexpectedly soft. “I’ve been there. Don’t count on your healing songs, Ekhaas. Don’t count on anything—nothing is as it seems. We’ll need to be careful. If the Valenar raiders have made camp inside the border, they’ll be extra vigilant because of the Mournland’s dangers.” His face tightened. “The mists may be a problem. They’re disorienting.”
“Won’t Marrow be able to track through them?” asked Dagii.
Chetiin gave him a curt nod, “Yes, but they confuse more than just your sense of direction. If you feel anything … odd, if you feel like you just want to lie down and sleep, fight it.”
“We’re going in and out,” Dagii said. “We won’t stay long and we won’t fight unless we have to. We see what we need to of the Valenar camp and then we leave.” He looked around at each of them, then nodded to Marrow. The worg loped up the bank, Dagii