Moffe stepped out of the stable, extended an arm, and released a low whistle into the chilly night air. A red-shouldered hawk descended out of the starless black to land on his arm. The bird hopped sideways to Moffe’s shoulder, and the warden returned to the stable.
In the minimal radiance of the candle lantern, Moffe sat on a rusty bucket and fed grains from his hand to Clement. “Why do I have the feeling I’m suffering some sort of judgment? My friends are held captive, and I have been saddled with this upstart freeblade group who had the misfortune of accidental success. Two of their members are dead, and it’s no wonder. They’re the most incompetent set of wanderers I’ve ever seen. And Cora…don’t get me started.”
Clement pecked at the seeds in his palm, then squawked into Moffe’s ear.
“Exactly my point,” Moffe replied with a nod. “I didn’t trust Jangles from the moment I saw him, but Cora wants to give him grace. Those villagers were near death, and my guess is the three undead we encountered on the road were from this village—possibly some of Jangles’ people. But I don’t understand how they fell into unlife.”
He sat in silence until the seeds were gone.
“I wish I knew who the archers were in the forest. I’ve never seen someone who could hide like—what?”
Clement repeated his words.
“Animithe?” Moffe’s eyes darted about. “You saw them?”
The bird nodded.
“But that would mean the wild Vashanti tribes have come down from the mountains, which hasn’t happened in over a century. Are they being chased out or led out, I wonder? They’re surprisingly good at hiding in plain sight; finding them will be impossible.” He stroked the hawk’s back. “I’ll need you to show them to me.”
Clement shook his head and ruffled his feathers.
When the candle finally sputtered and died, Moffe put the lantern back on the shelf and ducked back into the wintry night of the elder’s yard. Clement launched from his shoulder and disappeared into the sky. Voices, muted by the falling snow, sounded from the front porch, and Moffe quickened his pace.
Cora and Cuauhtérroc stood on the portico, conversing with the elder standing in the doorway.
The elder’s eyes darted back and forth, then he lowered his head as if that helped lower his voice. “There’s one other thing you should know—Equine Hill is a small rise northwest of here. Legend says there’s a dragon buried there…with his treasure. I reckon that’s what ol’ Jangles is really after. But them wild Vashanti wanna keep all the—urck!”
The man’s words stopped in a spray of blood as a sheaf arrow sped across the porch and plunged into his chest. Rivulets of deep red pumped from the hole with each heartbeat. His eyes froze in a lifeless gaze and he slid down the doorjamb.
“Nature’s blight!” Moffe exclaimed. He slung his shortbow around and nocked an arrow, scanning the darkness as best he could with only faint candlelight streaming from the windows.
Cuauhtérroc pulled his longsword and stepped in front of Cora, who remained frozen, staring slack jawed at the dead man by her feet.
“There!” Moffe shouted. In the dim shadows, a figure dashed across his view from behind a small clapboard building, a longbow slung over his back.
“Shoot him!” Cora screeched, suddenly snapping free of her stupor.
But Moffe lowered his bow and released the tension. “He’s gone, and I can’t see in this blackened night. But I can hunt with Clement’s aid. Red-shouldered hawks are particularly good at—”
“Where’s Kiyla?” Cora said with rising panic in her green eyes.
Moffe sighed. “She left to fetch Elric.”
Cora jolted. “What!”
“I know,” Moffe said. “I was torn about that.”
“Torn!” Cora cried. “Torn is what you feel when you have to decide between studying history or law. Torn is what you feel when your grandfather dies on the same day as your daughter’s wedding. This is not something you feel torn about.”
“She made up her mind, Cora.”
“Well, you should have unmade it!”
Moffe started to ask if she intended him to seek specific permission every time a decision need to be made, but wisdom led him to swallow it. “I’m sorry. I tried, but I didn’t want to fight her. She stole a horse, too, but I think its owner is now dead.”
Cora fumed and tossed her arms into the air. “I can’t believe it!”
Moffe couldn’t believe a number of things, including why an Animithe would have murdered a man in his own house. They could be next. “We should get inside before the attacker returns. Cuauhtérroc, grab the elder and pull him indoors.”
Once safely ensconced inside the elder’s home, Moffe locked the doors and pulled the curtains closed—those he could reach over the mounds of worthless collections. He wadded some stale clothing and tossed the rags onto the fire, along with the broken remnants of a dining chair. With the fire stoked, he turned to face the freeblades. “So, what did the elder say?”
Cora scrunched her forehead. “Not so fast, warden. Kiyla’s out there by herself with invisible archers and walking dead on the loose. We have an empty forest, a deranged songsage, a town of emaciated people, and a dead elder. And now, because you…let her go, we’re stuck here for days.” She kicked a pile of parchments, exposing tiny scraps leading to a rat’s nest. “We’re completely rinked, thanks to you.”
“Who let her out of the house?” Moffe said with folded arms.
Cora blinked hard. “That’s not the same—look, I didn’t—she’s not an animal, Moffe. She has a free will.”
“I agree.”
“But…” Cora growled then plopped down in the Dareni chair and exhaled a tired breath.
The room crackled with the warmth of fire. Cora closed her eyes, and after a while Moffe thought she might have fallen asleep. Cuauhtérroc remained silent, exchanging occasional glances with the warden.
Moffe cleared his throat. “So, would you like to share with me what the elder said?”
Cora sighed and looked up with a sluggish weariness that suggested she might have been dragged by a horse for miles.
Cuauhtérroc regarded Cora through narrowed eyes as he wagged his head at her. “Dees elder say dees town was a good place before Jangles come here. He sing dees songs and make all dees people come to him and stop dees work. Dees elder do not want to be like one of dees people. He…how you say…” The savage paused, searching the room for the next words. “…heet dees plan?”
“Struck a deal,” Cora muttered from within her withered cocoon.
Cuauhtérroc clasped his hands with a loud pop. “Yes, he struck dees deal weeth Jangles so he can steel be dees elder. All dees people are slaves for Jangles, and dees elder take all dees theengs from dem and become very reech.”
“He sold the town into slavery?” Moffe turned to the dead man lying inside the front door. Every fiber of his being wanted to kill him again. “Then he should have died. But why did he confess this?”
“Guilt.” Cora uncurled herself and rose from the chair. She looked no better than before, but as she neared the savage, she stood taller, as if she drew confidence and courage from him. “It colored every word, oozed through every pore, swirled with every movement. The man loathed what he had done. He thought he was protecting his town, but it was destroyed, and he was left to witness the fruits of his cowardly self-preservation.”
Moffe cast another spiteful glance at the elder’s body.
Cora continued. “He spoke often of the Animithe, which I presume are our unseen archers. They routinely tried to kill Jangles, but the elder said their arrows never seemed to bother him. Like he had special protection or something.” She eyed the ring on her left pinky finger. “Maybe he’s wearing something like this?”
Moffe squinted thoughtfully at the ring. “Possibly.”
“Then he said the Animithe have resorted to killing the villagers who wander from town, which made me think of the ones we met.”
“Those were undead,” Moffe said. “It was right to end their horror.”
Cora sighed and shuffled closer to the fireplace.
“Is that all?” Moffe asked.
“The last thing he mentioned was some place called Equine Hill. He thought Jangles might be after a dragon’s hoard buried there.”
“I had heard Equine Hill was the burial ground for an entire calvary, not a dragon’s treasure.” Moffe paused in thought as he stared at the cluttered floor. She’s not going to like what comes next. “I’m going to find the wild Vashanti, the Animithe, as they’re called. I know these people, and there has to be—”
“Alone?” Cora’s voice wavered.
Moffe shucked his pack and raised the hood of his coat. “They’re not dragon-bloods, if that’s your concern. They’re no less human than the civilized Vashanti; they just have a different way.”
Cora frowned at the fire. “They murdered the elder. I didn’t even know his name.”
He set his bow and quiver against a pile of wooden chairs. She’s too emotional. “There’s a number of tangles to this story that won’t unravel in my head. I believe the wild Vashanti may hold the answers, but I have to find them first, and that could take all night.”
“We weel help you,” Cuauhtérroc offered.
“No, you two should stay here. The Animithe have some—let’s call them unique—customs that you won’t know, and which could go badly for you if not followed. This is my task. Keep the doors locked. I’ll be back soon.”
Cora pointed at his quiver. “You don’t need your weapons?”
The wintry night air rushed in as Moffe opened the door. “It’s one of those customs. I have my dagger and a knife, but I can’t look like a threat to them. You saw what they did to the undead.”
Cora’s eyes widened. “Do be careful.”
Moffe grinned briefly. “Don’t wait up for me.” He closed the door behind him.
*******************
Cora gawked at the front door long after Cuauhtérroc had locked it. Her mind whirled from their rapid descent into chaos. A simple commission from the duke turned nightmarish with Elric’s gruesome death. The hope of his return came at the cost of exhuming Ordin’s bones. Kiyla ran off on a girlish fantasy of love—the only thing that made sense of her sudden departure. A town sold into slavery to an old and powerful songsage turned evil.
A loud crack arrested her attention. Cuauhtérroc broke apart a rocking chair and threw the pieces onto the fire. In a little more than a week, everything had changed. Only her savage remained constant. And now we’re burning furniture to stay alive.
How the Audric savage stayed calm through this puzzled her. His people were infamous for wanton destruction, yet he knelt before the fire with a level of serenity Cora could only dream of. Her nerves were frayed, her mind whirled with emotions, and fear gripped her heart. Literally everything she had done, every decision she had made, had meant hardship and death for someone. Doubtless, Moffe would be next. Maybe he was right about her. Maybe I’m not the actual leader here.
“Cuauhtie?”
The savage looked up from the fire. “Yes?”
“Am I a good leader?” Surely, Cuauhtérroc will set everything straight for me.
The savage remained silent for a time, his dark eyes reflecting the fire with flashes of orange.
Cora hated his silence even more. “Look, I know you lead the Dragonslayers when it comes to battles, because you’re good at it. But I have always been the voice and liaison for the group. We would have splintered by now if not for my delicate and sagacious handling of things. I’ve stood between your ignorance, Celindria’s sauciness, Elric’s inanity, Ordin’s petulance, Selorian’s horror and practically every dignitary and noble in three nations…and a mystic enclave! Tell me that’s not leadership.”
“Dat is not leadership.” He threw another chair leg on the fire.
Cora wilted like a picked flower left lying on a dusty road. “What do you mean? What am I doing wrong? Am I really just a tinkling bell, only a song and dance with a pretty face?”
Cuauhtérroc stood and dusted off his hands. “You are dees voice for us. We weel all be in dees preeson if you do not speak to dees men in Westmeade. Dees duke weel be dead if you do not speak to dees theef. Elric weel not come back to us if you do not speak to dees meestics. You say dees theengs and you sing dees songs, and dees people leesten. You geeve me strength in dees song, and…you make dees men on dees boat mad at you.”
The sparkle in Cuauhtérroc’s eye was not from the fire. A grin twitched at the corner of his mouth. Cora’s heart swelled with hope. “Oh, Cuauhtie, that was perfect. Thank you.”
“But you are not dees good leader.”
Cora slinked away, jarred by his words. His eyes were kind, but his jaw set firm.
“You have dees fear and worry. You geeve me dees strength, but you do not have dees strength inside you. You—”
“My spellsongs don’t affect me,” Cora protested.
“You have dees meeny reasons why you cannot do what you need to do.”
“Ouch.” Cora sighed and collapsed in the chair.
“And you do not stand up when things are hard.”
The prick of that precise barb stunned her. He was right—entirely and absolutely right. She had to stop wishing for ease; she had to accept the dangers inherent in freeblading, or she had to quit. Here, in this hopeless and uncontrollable situation, she had to decide. She stood up to face him.
A stern glare met her, with thick arms crossed over a broad chest. She wanted to crumple beneath the flickering shadows of his silhouette. But that was what needed to change.
“Be strong, Cora O’Banion,” Cuauhtérroc said, “den you weel be dees good leader.”
Cora raised up to full height, forcing back fear and doubt. If Cuauhtérroc believed in her, she could believe in herself. “All right. Strength.” She exhaled sharply. “That’s hard for me.”
“A leader weel do dees hard right theeng.”
********************
Wind whistled past Kiyla’s ears as she rode through the empty forest, her ash blonde braid whipping behind her in sequence with the gelding’s black tail. She had lost all feeling in her ears long ago, followed by a stiff numbness in her hands that clutched the reins. When she reached the open countryside, the air jabbed like nettles throughout her skin. Her nose began to run, and tears welled in her eyes. Still, she rode hard through the frigid night. Even after all sight of the empty forest was behind her, Kiyla hardly slowed her pace. A steady warmth rose up from beneath her as the gelding galloped along. At least the horse would not freeze.
Urgency drove her. The plan when she started had been simple: fetch Elric. Leaving him behind had never set well with her, and the events in Elinwyche had only underscored the folly of that decision. But as she pushed through the night, Kiyla wondered whether there were other motivations driving her. Some had suggested she was fond of him, but the suggestion was a silly one.
Her life had thus far consisted of fending for herself; the only reliable fact was she couldn’t rely on anyone. Yet, here was a young man, despite all his silliness, who died for his friends…for her. In her experience, friends were those who didn’t beat her too harshly. Men liked her because she won fights, but Elric was a man who liked her. And for the first time in her hard-scrabble life, she felt wanted for more than her bare-knuckle, scrappy pugilism.
He was her partner and her friend, the first in her long and lonely life. But as Kiyla rode hard into the early morning, with her extremities absent of all feeling, she wondered if there was something more in him.
She reached Edgewood by mid-morning. Numbness pervaded her body, leaving her stiff and frozen to the shape of the saddle. Visions of a warm fire enticed her to rest, but resolve pushed her onward. If she stayed here, she would squander daylight. But there was no way her horse was going to make the journey alive if she pressed on. As it was, the gelding frothed and snorted from exertion, and a thick cloud of vapor blasted from its wide nostrils.
“I need a new horse!” she called out as she skidded to a halt in the market square. She was alone in the street, but many windows radiated the warm light of fires inside.
Kiyla winced as she pried her fingers from the reins and swung a frozen leg around the horse to dismount. Stiffness in her steps gradually loosened as blood flowed through her legs. She left the horse standing in the street, its back and haunches steaming with hot sweat.
A haberdasher was nearest, and Kiyla pushed in the door with haste. Warmth from a pot-bellied stove melted away layers of frozen skin and muscle.
“G’mornin’, miss….” The haberdasher stopped in the midst of folding a batch of towels for display. His voice lowered as he approached her, concern etching his brow. “You in trouble, lass?”
“You got a horse?”
The haberdasher’s eyes narrowed. “Is ever’thang all right?”
Kiyla stamped her foot to force feeling back into her toes. If it also showed impatience, so be it. “I need a horse. Right now. I’m in a hurry.”
The man folded another towel, clearly not in a hurry himself. “Who’s chasin’ ya?”
“Ain’t your business. You got a horse or not?”
He set the towel aside, working his jaw as he eyed Kiyla from head to toe. “Yeah, I got a horse. She’ll cost ye thirty gold stallions.”
She tossed him a small leather bag. “There’s fifty. The extra’s for stabling mine. The black one in the street. I’ll be back for him.”
The merchant weighed the bag in his hand and raised an eyebrow at Kiyla.
She whipped her head to one side, cracking several vertebrae in her neck. “So…get my horse.”
“Keep your britches on; I’ll get ‘er.”
Several minutes later, the haberdasher led out a russet mare outfitted with blanket, saddle, bridle, and saddlebags. “Now, she ain’t as spry as—”
Kiyla leapt into the saddle and kicked the mare’s flanks. With a steamy snort, the horse reared and launched into a full gallop.
*****************
Cora awoke to a crick in her neck and an ache in her hip. The Dareni chair, even when fully extended and reclined, was not a good bed. She yawned and stretched, then rubbed the ache beneath her skull. Cuauhtérroc lay near the fireplace, his bed an assortment of cast-off clothing.
The handle on the front door rattled, and Cora realized it was this sound that had awoken her. She collapsed the chair and sprang to her feet. The faint glow of early morning brightened the windows with the glimmer of fresh snow.
Cuauhtérroc grabbed his longsword and jumped up into a low crouch.
Cora peered past the curtain. “It’s Moffe.” She unlocked the door and pulled it open, and the warden dropped to his knees inside. Her breath caught. Bloody stains laced his torn clothing, splotched his skin, and matted his face. One eye would not open, and the swollen bridge of his nose bent to one side.
Cuauhtérroc grabbed the warden under his arms and pulled the wounded and weary man to the fireplace. “Do you have dees healing dreenks?”
Cora snapped free of her wandering thoughts. “Yes…yes, I do.” She dug through her pack and handed an analeptic to Cuauhtérroc.
“What happened?” she asked.
Moffe drank the analeptic, and his surface wounds healed. But instead of providing her an answer, the warden collapsed into a long-overdue sleep.
Cuauhtérroc laid him across his make-shift bedding, and they waited.
Three hours later, Moffe awoke as Cuauhtérroc added wood to the fire. “Burning the furniture?” He sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“We’re not freezing,” Cora said. “How are you doing?”
“Not too bad,” Moffe replied with a yawn. “It went about as I expected.”
Cora wrinkled her nose. “You came in beaten to a pulp. You expected that?”
Moffe nodded. “The Animithe attacked me…but I knew they would.”
“Why?” The idea of willingly walking into an attack strained belief. “You could have died, and where would that leave us?”
“No, I was in no mortal danger. I know the Animithe; they don’t kill indiscriminately…even the wild tribes have honor. With Clement’s help, I was close to finding their encampment, but they had spotted me long before that, probably the moment I stepped beyond the perimeter of Elinwyche. So, they beat me soundly and dragged me blindfolded the rest of the way.”
“That’s bizarre,” Cora said.
“It’s their custom, and I knew that. Only by taking the beating would I gain entrance to their number.”
Cora shook her head. “I hope it was worth it.” What a stupid custom.
Moffe nodded. “It was. I learned…a lot.”
“Such as?” Cora sat forward with eager anticipation.
“The forest is literally empty, as we suspected. No animals live within several miles of Elinwyche, a steady occurrence that started several months ago. Naturally, when the fauna begins to disappear, the Animithe take interest and investigate. And what did they find? Undead…piled up at Equine Hill.”
Cora and Cuauhtérroc exchanged glances. “Equine Hill?”
“Birds, rabbits, deer, raccoons, foxes, squirrels…people…every living thing warped into a mockery of life.”
Dead silence filled the house.
Cora held out her hands. “How? I mean, that’s not even physically possible.”
Moffe chuckled. “That’s a familiar phrase. But I would agree, it shouldn’t be possible. Not without exceptionally high magic and a malevolent heart.”
“Jangles?” The name slipped past Cora’s lips with no conviction. She frowned in thought. “But he’s…that can’t be right. He’s a songsage.”
“I know,” Moffe replied. “I’m not sure what to make of him, either. The Animithe have spent a great deal of time trying to kill him, though. They seem to think he’s responsible. But their arrows either swerve away or pass right through him. He is clearly in the middle of all this, and roams the area with complete freedom. But what his role is no one seems to know.”
“Dey keel dees elder,” Cuauhtérroc said, “and dees dead people.”
“Yes, they’ve been actively hunting down all the undead that leave town. Meaning, so far, the folks still in town are alive, technically. But they executed the elder because, according to them, he was working with Jangles.”
“Which he said he was doing.” Cora stared into the fire. “So…now what?”
“We can’t leave,” Moffe stated matter-of-factly.
“Of course,” Cora agreed. “We have to wait for Kiyla.”
“While true, there’s more to it than that. We have to undo the corruption surrounding this town. I don’t know exactly what Jangles has done or is planning to do, but if he has caused an entire swath of forest life to turn undead, then he must answer for this abomination. I think we should go see what’s happening on Equine Hill.”
Cora tossed a scrap piece of wood onto the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. Strength. Do the hard right thing. “I hate this place, and I want nothing to do with it. But I believe you’re right. We have to help these people. First…we have to bury the elder.”
Moffe tilted his head at her, then nodded. “Yes, of course.”
After providing the elder with a proper burial, the trio traveled northward into the arboreal graveyard. Cold winds surged unfettered through vacant branches that creaked and groaned as they swayed. The absence of life bothered Cora more than anything else. With no birdcalls or scampering of small creatures, with no tracks of any kind in the thin snowy layer, creeping through the forest was like venturing through an abandoned city. A single jaybird would have delighted her.
Moffe guided them through the emptiness, his head on a rapid swivel. Their feet left the only tracks, a muted crunch with every step. Cora wondered what they’d find, whether there truly were undead creatures “piled up” on the hill, and what she would do if they found them.
Through the scraggly, barren branches, Moffe pointed to a clearing, a treeless knoll that rose gently from the forest floor. He held up a hand, and Cora and Cuauhtérroc stopped behind him. “That should be it,” he whispered.
Near the center of the hillock stood a collection of rough-hewn granite pillars, irregular and weathered. Some supported lintel stones while others stood alone as sentries. The arrangement bore a resemblance to the menhirs in the Cerion Forest.
Moffe rubbed his chin. “This looks like a mystic circle, but the arrangement of stones is off. Everything seems wrong, in fact. I need to get closer.” He pushed a branch aside. “Be wary. We may encounter some unpleasantries.”
Cora raised an eyebrow at him. Unpleasantries? You mean undead forest creatures? A shudder coursed through her spine.
“Stay close,” Moffe said. He crept out from the cover of trees and into the tall dormant grass.
Despite her skin crawling with the feet of a thousand unseen beetles, Cora stayed close to the warden’s heels.
A few steps from the tree line, Moffe stopped. “By the Maker…”
Overhead, the air, gray with low clouds, reeked with the choking odor of decay. Underfoot, the snow-lined grasses revealed a macabre scene. Cora nearly stepped on the desiccated flesh of a dead bird. Iridescent worms slithered throughout its body cavity and into the ground. She yelped and spun around despite every effort to remain calm. Only Cuauhtérroc’s strong hand on her shoulder prevented her from running headlong back to the village.
“Be strong,” he reminded, tapping her coat at the sternum.
She nodded. He’s right. I have to keep it together. I have to—I have to not look at the horrible, disgusting, undead birds lying on the ground. Cripe!
With a muttered curse, Moffe pressed upward to the stones, gingerly stepping between the corpses of forest creatures littering the ground, each one half-buried in the snow and slithering with malevolent maggots. As they neared the summit, ordinary carcasses became twisted disfigurements; the odor of normal carrion overlayed by a baleful stench; natural decay exchanged for signs of undeath. A few pitiful creatures still moved, and Moffe, leading several yards ahead, mercifully crushed them beneath his boot.
Every sickening crunch of every hideous thing Moffe stepped on sent jolts through Cora’s spine. She steeled herself, forcibly placing one foot in front of the other. Staying within Moffe’s footprints meant stepping on things he’d crushed, but taking a new path meant finding her own writhing creatures. Stories she’d read played through her memory—tales of people animated by the vile power of unlife. More corrupted than dragon-bloods, the undead were evil incarnate, hatred personified, twisted perversion made flesh. Souls rotted from within, dark and depraved, and given over to every detestable thing.
And the hillock was covered with them. How can I possibly remain strong in the midst of this?
Inside the arrangement of stones, the carnage increased both in quantity and size. Moffe lashed out with his sword as he stood beside the nearest menhir, calling down curses with each pass of his blade. Still, he pressed onward, drawing near to a stone table atop four short pillars, its surface jagged and stained a dark crimson as if by countless sacrifices.
Here Moffe stopped. “I don’t feel well.”
“Me neither,” Cora said. “Let’s go.”
“This is a wicked place.” Moffe’s knees buckled, and he caught himself from falling with a hand on the bloody table. Instantly, his body trembled and convulsed, and his eyes shot wide with panic. Color drained from his face, and he lurched and retched. Instead of turning out his breakfast, a torrid stream of blood poured from his throat.
Cora blanched, and Cuauhtérroc cursed.
Moffe looked up with pupils dilated so wide the blue-gray of his irises was gone. A trail of blood oozed from each tear duct. “Help…”
Cora looked to Cuauhtérroc. Blood trickled from the savage’s nose.
“Cuauhtie!” Cora screeched. “Get out of here! This place is cur—” She choked as bile dribbled from her mouth.
With an animalistic growl, Moffe forced himself to stand. He sounded more feral than angry with an intense glare that seemed fueled by unnatural evil.
“Moffe?” Cora trembled at the change in his visage. The warden’s skin, now a pale gray, was drying out and stretching tight against his frame. “What’s happening to you? To all of us?” Her stomach flipped as another mixture of putrid acid oozed past her lips.
“Run,” Moffe growled, his face pulling thin as the skin cracked around his mouth. “Run! Now!”
Cuauhtérroc grabbed Cora’s arm and sprinted down the hill, dragging her tripping and stumbling over every frantic step. Moffe raced after them, but whether he was joining in the escape or chasing them Cora could not determine. There was no time to figure it out.
Back in the empty woods, Cuauhtérroc slowed their pace. He spun around with his longsword raised. Moffe approached, clutching his throat and coughing up a foul mixture of blood and larvae. At the wooded perimeter, he fell to his knees. “Maker, take me!”
Cora’s lungs burned as she gasped in the wintry air. Mustering all her strength, she pulled Lysanthir’s Lute around, her fingers ready to stroke the first chord of mental domination. The idea of controlling a man’s mind was abhorrent, but right now it might be her salvation. And his. She didn’t want to blast him with sound. Not yet. “Don’t kill him,” she said to Cuauhtérroc. “We need him.”
Moffe looked up, his eyes begging for mercy. Lines of blood dripped from his mouth. “Please…” A single hand reached for them, fingers straining and clawing at nothing. Veins bulged on his forehead and neck, then he vomited streams of putrescence. When at last he had purged everything, he rocked on his feet and collapsed on his back in the snow.
Cora shot a hand to her mouth. “Oh no.”
Cuauhtérroc shuffled forward and knelt by the warden. He placed a finger against the man’s neck and nodded. “He is alive.”
Cora closed her eyes and breathed again.
Moments later, Moffe sat up with a groan. “Where am I?” His complexion had darkened to its natural hue, and layers of dead skin flaked off as if he were molting. The warden’s eyes gradually restored to their normal grayish-blue. His lips remained cracked as if chapped by the cold, but the rest of him had reverted to his former visage. “I saw fire, dark and unquenchable, rising from the deepest pits. Creatures of every vile imagination poured from the depths—faces of men but twisted and perverted, desiring only evil, laughing at the endless slaughter of souls falling into the fires…” His voice tapered off to a whisper, and he looked to Cora. “I saw the Nine Hells. I think I went to the Nine Hells.”
Cora swallowed hard, stricken by a wave of pity. She changed the chording for a different spellsong. “You’re back with us, Moffe. Back in the woods outside Elinwyche.” He needed rest, and she could give it. Deep, peaceful slumber. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, but he gave no response.
“Am I not the Maker’s servant?” Moffe’s voice warbled with grief. “Why would I see the world of the damned?”
“It was only a vision,” Cora said. “It wasn’t real.”
“I remember now,” Moffe said as he struggled to his feet. “I touched raw evil.” He turned to face the grassy hill. “Those stones resemble the menhir of a sacred circle, but they harness a powerful abomination. You only got close, but I touched them. That table is a place of tremendous wickedness.”
Despite needing to remain strong, the warden’s descriptions and the stony stare of his distressed face sent shivers through Cora’s spine. She glanced at the savage, seeking comfort and reassurance. His nose no longer bled; that was something. She smacked her lips; the taste of bile was gone. “I think we’re going to be all right. At least, here in the forest, we’re safe.”
Moffe nodded. “I do feel better. You may be right about the tree line. There is an aura of undeath in that glade.”
“Perhaps this is why the Animithe have not been able to stop this. They can’t get close enough. I suppose they can only kill the undead creatures that wander too far, but they can’t destroy these stones. What are we supposed to do?”
“We keel dees Jangles,” Cuauhtérroc offered.
“Maybe,” Moffe said. “I mean, maybe we should…but also, maybe we shouldn’t. I don’t know what he’s done, exactly.” He gestured toward the top of Equine Hill. “This is not the sort of thing a songsage does. Right, Cora?”
Cora shook her head. “Songsages don’t create or control undead things, not that I’ve ever heard. Someone else is doing this. Maybe Jangles has a partner?”
“I’m going to have another look,” Moffe announced.
Cuauhtérroc and Cora responded as one. “No!”
The warden smiled and pointed to a large oak. “From up there.” He clambered over sixty feet to the highest branches and peered across the grassy dell. “Well, that’s interesting,” he called down.
“What is it?” Cora hollered back.
“Do you have something to write on?”
“I have my escritoire.”
“No, I mean like a single sheet of parchment.”
“Yes.”
“If I sent Clement down to you, could you roll it up for him to bring?”
While Cora pondered the logistics of interacting with the warden’s hawk, Moffe whistled shrilly and was greeted by the flutter of wings. He spoke to the bird and sent it off.
Cora rummaged through her pack to retrieve a sheet of parchment as Clement glided from the treetop to a nearby branch. He turned his head sideways and regarded Cora with a single yellow eye. After she rolled the parchment and tied it with string, Clement launched from his perch and swooped over Cora’s shoulder to snatch the roll from her hand.
“What do you think Moffe is doing?” Cora asked the savage.
“He write on dees paper you geeve heem.”
Cora rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Cuauht.”
Minutes later, Moffe climbed down and gave the parchment to Cora. “Do you recognize this?”
Her throat tightened as she stared wide-eyed at the warden’s sketch. Miniature ovals scattered across the sheet formed the image of a triangle within a circle. “Moffe…” She looked up at the warden with dread. Be strong. Pull yourself together and do the hard right thing.
He waited, his face expressionless, as if accepting his fate.
“You’ve drawn the unholy symbol of Vaeroloth.” Despite steeling herself, saying the words sapped Cora of strength, and she teetered.
Cuauhtérroc steadied her.
“I tried to be strong,” Cora moaned into the savage’s arms. “But this is just too much.”
Moffe lowered the parchment and gazed with ashen face at the nearby hill. “It’s not a mystic circle, then, not even a corrupted one. It’s a giant monument to the Great Dragon.”
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