Poisonwell
Page 51
The maze of trees went on in every direction.
From his perch, he saw no movement, heard no sound except for the rustling of the branches as the breeze fluttered overhead. This was no forest like he had seen. The hush was palpable, the dim, vague shapes of trees and shadows playing tricks on his mind. He studied the ground, searching both ways as well as up into the trees. He motioned for the others to start climbing.
Hettie came first, bounding up the rocks with agility, reaching the base of his tree in moments. The others were more cautious as Baylen brought up the rear with two huge broadswords clutched in his meaty hands. He faced the woods they had already crossed, forming a wall to defend the others as they climbed.
“It’s so dark,” Hettie murmured. “What do you see from up there?”
“Not much more than you can. This place is . . . I’m not even sure I have the right word. Loathing comes close. Dreadful.”
“It is ancient,” Hettie said, rubbing her gloved hand along the craggy bark of the oak. “The trees all feel like they are watching us. We are intruders here.”
Paedrin did not want to be distracted by their conversation and kept staring down at the other side, crouching even lower and leaning over to grab a tree branch to steady himself. As soon as he did, an overwhelming impulse to jump seized him, jolting him with the suddenness of the emotion. Not to float down, but to let himself crash to the ground, face first, and die. The emotions were powerful, and he felt the urge to obey grow stronger.
“Don’t touch the trees,” Paedrin warned, releasing the branch and floating down to avoid the impulse to kill himself.
Hettie’s eyes widened. “Are you okay?”
He reached her side, grateful that the terrible urge subsided. “That was awful,” he confessed.
“What?”
“Touching the tree with my bare skin made me want to kill myself. I nearly did.” He looked at her hands and saw her wearing her bracers and gloves. The same impulse had not come to her at all.
“Be careful,” Paedrin warned to the others. “Don’t touch the trees.”
Khiara and the Prince joined them at the summit, and together the four of them ventured down the other side while the others finished climbing the stones. Something flickered on the edge of Paedrin’s awareness and he shot a look to his left. Nothing. He ground his teeth, hating the exposed feeling that enveloped him. He saw the look on Hettie’s face as she stared into the deep woods, a drawn, anxious look on her mouth. He wanted to hold her tightly so much, whisper reassurances into her ear. But those words would be lies. He was anxious himself, the dread pall of the Scourgelands settling across his shoulders and burrowing into his soul.
Kiranrao appeared off to the right, a swirl of shadow magic that made him substanceless one moment to the next. The Romani stared at the woods with contempt.
“Let’s go,” he said. “No traps here. Nothing defies us.”
“A good omen,” Tyrus said from the top of the mound. “But I have no doubt that the denizens of this place know we are here now.”
The baying came from the woods behind them. They had passed into the lair of the Scourgelands unharmed so far, which Paedrin ascribed to Tyrus’s brilliance of moving in following the dust storm. But the hounds had discovered their scent at last.
He looked at Tyrus and saw his jaw tighten. “They can communicate with each other at great distances. They’ll surround us before attacking, so we have time still. Faster.”
“Will you use the Tay al-Ard?” Prince Aran asked.
“Not yet. Only if the situation is dire. Stay together and move fast. We’ll change directions often and see how they react. This way.”
Paedrin’s heart was hammering with anticipation. He was ready to fight, ready to kill. If Aboujaoude could master his squeamishness about death, then so could Paedrin. Strange, hulking boulders covered in moss stood in various points along the way, some sheared as if struck by lightning. The companions walked faster, trying to get away from the sound of the baying. Before much time had passed, the sound came again, also from behind them. It was answered by a call from another direction, ahead of them.
“That way,” Tyrus said, changing direction suddenly, bringing the others into step with him. They plunged through the trees, heedless of the noise they made. Some of the oak trees had branches so low that they had to hurdle them to pass. The pungent air grew thicker, not with the smell of renewing loam but with the fetid stink of dying flesh.
Another chorus of bays started from another side, joined by the other two from different points around them. The beasts were responding to their movements fluidly and the sound took on an eerily human sound, like the cry of a child. It made Paedrin shudder to his bones.
From his perch, he saw no movement, heard no sound except for the rustling of the branches as the breeze fluttered overhead. This was no forest like he had seen. The hush was palpable, the dim, vague shapes of trees and shadows playing tricks on his mind. He studied the ground, searching both ways as well as up into the trees. He motioned for the others to start climbing.
Hettie came first, bounding up the rocks with agility, reaching the base of his tree in moments. The others were more cautious as Baylen brought up the rear with two huge broadswords clutched in his meaty hands. He faced the woods they had already crossed, forming a wall to defend the others as they climbed.
“It’s so dark,” Hettie murmured. “What do you see from up there?”
“Not much more than you can. This place is . . . I’m not even sure I have the right word. Loathing comes close. Dreadful.”
“It is ancient,” Hettie said, rubbing her gloved hand along the craggy bark of the oak. “The trees all feel like they are watching us. We are intruders here.”
Paedrin did not want to be distracted by their conversation and kept staring down at the other side, crouching even lower and leaning over to grab a tree branch to steady himself. As soon as he did, an overwhelming impulse to jump seized him, jolting him with the suddenness of the emotion. Not to float down, but to let himself crash to the ground, face first, and die. The emotions were powerful, and he felt the urge to obey grow stronger.
“Don’t touch the trees,” Paedrin warned, releasing the branch and floating down to avoid the impulse to kill himself.
Hettie’s eyes widened. “Are you okay?”
He reached her side, grateful that the terrible urge subsided. “That was awful,” he confessed.
“What?”
“Touching the tree with my bare skin made me want to kill myself. I nearly did.” He looked at her hands and saw her wearing her bracers and gloves. The same impulse had not come to her at all.
“Be careful,” Paedrin warned to the others. “Don’t touch the trees.”
Khiara and the Prince joined them at the summit, and together the four of them ventured down the other side while the others finished climbing the stones. Something flickered on the edge of Paedrin’s awareness and he shot a look to his left. Nothing. He ground his teeth, hating the exposed feeling that enveloped him. He saw the look on Hettie’s face as she stared into the deep woods, a drawn, anxious look on her mouth. He wanted to hold her tightly so much, whisper reassurances into her ear. But those words would be lies. He was anxious himself, the dread pall of the Scourgelands settling across his shoulders and burrowing into his soul.
Kiranrao appeared off to the right, a swirl of shadow magic that made him substanceless one moment to the next. The Romani stared at the woods with contempt.
“Let’s go,” he said. “No traps here. Nothing defies us.”
“A good omen,” Tyrus said from the top of the mound. “But I have no doubt that the denizens of this place know we are here now.”
The baying came from the woods behind them. They had passed into the lair of the Scourgelands unharmed so far, which Paedrin ascribed to Tyrus’s brilliance of moving in following the dust storm. But the hounds had discovered their scent at last.
He looked at Tyrus and saw his jaw tighten. “They can communicate with each other at great distances. They’ll surround us before attacking, so we have time still. Faster.”
“Will you use the Tay al-Ard?” Prince Aran asked.
“Not yet. Only if the situation is dire. Stay together and move fast. We’ll change directions often and see how they react. This way.”
Paedrin’s heart was hammering with anticipation. He was ready to fight, ready to kill. If Aboujaoude could master his squeamishness about death, then so could Paedrin. Strange, hulking boulders covered in moss stood in various points along the way, some sheared as if struck by lightning. The companions walked faster, trying to get away from the sound of the baying. Before much time had passed, the sound came again, also from behind them. It was answered by a call from another direction, ahead of them.
“That way,” Tyrus said, changing direction suddenly, bringing the others into step with him. They plunged through the trees, heedless of the noise they made. Some of the oak trees had branches so low that they had to hurdle them to pass. The pungent air grew thicker, not with the smell of renewing loam but with the fetid stink of dying flesh.
Another chorus of bays started from another side, joined by the other two from different points around them. The beasts were responding to their movements fluidly and the sound took on an eerily human sound, like the cry of a child. It made Paedrin shudder to his bones.
