Then there came a sound impossible to ignore or dismiss: a deep groaning under the earth, followed by a sound like rock shattering, and a repetitive clatter in the passages behind them. As one man, the entire company came to a halt.
“Look to the Princess,” said Camhóinhann sharply from somewhere up ahead. Swords came hissing out of their scabbards as the guards drew their weapons and moved into a tight, protective circle around Winloki.
At another order from the High Priest, everyone began to move, this time at a much swifter pace than before. At first it seemed that they would easily outdistance whatever it was that followed them, particularly when they reached a place where the passage leveled out, enabling them to mount up and ride again. But they had been riding only a short time when they were assailed by a stench so foul it wrenched at the gut and turned the knees to water.
All of the horses erupted into madness at once: squealing and bucking, bending nearly double in their efforts to savage their own riders, rising up on their hind legs and beating at the air.
Winloki was one of those thrown. Stunned by the fall, for a moment she could only lie on the cold stone wondering what had happened, why her head throbbed so, what this commotion of stamping hooves and shrilling horses swirling all around her could be. By some miracle, she was neither trampled nor crushed before she collected enough of her wits to roll over, lever herself off the floor, and scramble to her feet.
Trying to make her way out of the press she stumbled over a body—by his armor one of the guards, though his hair was matted with brains and blood, his face reduced to an unrecognizable ruin. Struggling for balance in that battering confusion, she had it, then almost lost it again, tripping over a fallen acolyte.
Those of the men still mounted fought for control of their panicking horses; those who had managed to regain their feet were engaged in a furious battle with a horde of creatures who seemed to consist mostly of bone and shriveled flesh. Armed only with broken teeth and long hooked nails, they were literally tearing their way through her guards.
It was very dark. All but a few of the torches had been extinguished and those few lay guttering on the ground. She searched for Camhóinhann or Dyonas but could not find them. She knew they had been somewhere near the head of the column when the horses went mad, but she had been so pushed and jolted and turned around ever since, she was no longer certain which way to look.
And the men around her, they were putting up a valiant fight, but even as swords swiped off bony hands, skinless arms, or heads with stringy hair and carious teeth, the separated parts went on snapping, slashing, and crawling. Bones cracked and splintered, tendons snapped, rotten flesh sloughed away, yet still the severed limbs continued to bunch and move with wormlike writhings.
An eyeless head came bouncing toward Winloki with clashing jaws. Despite her efforts at evasion, it attached itself to the hem of her gown—until one of the horses kicked it aside and sent it flying into darkness. All around her there were shrieks and groans. Two of the guards were beaten down trying to defend her. Seeing one of them move, she tried to reach him, but something or someone knocked her aside and spun her around, so that on regaining her balance she could not find him.
Someone tossed her a knife, which she snatched out of the air and used to skewer a crawling hand that was pawing at her boot. Held in place by the point of the knife, the fingers continued to squirm until the hand tore itself apart in its efforts to get loose.
Then there was a flash of crimson, a smell like lightning, and all three Furiádhin broke through the wall of bodies around her, spitting out spells, crushing severed limbs underfoot, causing the horrors to sizzle and burn.
When it was all over, those who had survived rekindled the torches and looked about them, counting up their losses.
Six men had died: two acolytes and four guards, Merrac and Lochdaen among them. In spite of everything, Winloki could not help grieving. They had been so young; they had treated her always with as much kindness as their duty allowed; she was sorry she had been angry with them. Two geldings and her beautiful cream-colored mare had been killed as well, their throats bitten or their bellies slashed. The remaining horses had retreated down the passageway, where they stood shivering and sweating.
“We dare not ride,” said Camhóinhann. “The horses are not to be trusted if the ghouls attack again. And we will leave the bodies of the men behind, for we would be foolish to encumber ourselves. Therefore, let them lie here entombed with the kings.”
No one protested; they simply gathered up weapons and gear from their fallen comrades and stripped the saddlebags from the dead horses. Yet Winloki could feel the fear radiating off every one of them as they reckoned up all the grim possibilities of their situation. They had reason to be afraid. Not only had the journey turned unexpectedly perilous, it was likely to take longer, walking, than anyone had anticipated. And every extra hour adds to our danger. We may all end up lying “entombed with the kings.”
Sometime in the hours that followed she heard two of the Furiádhin talking, their voices echoing faintly in the dark passageway.
“A mistake,” said Goezenou in that gloating voice of his. “One for which Camhóinhann is likely to pay dearly.”
“For which we are all likely to pay dearly,” Dyonas answered coldly. “Or do you really imagine you will escape your share of the blame if anything happens to the Princess?”
She heard Goezenou laugh, but this time she thought she detected a note of uncertainty. “Ironic, surely, when hers was the presence that attracted the ghouls in the first place.”
“It may be so,” said Dyonas, in the same level voice as before. “The ghouls were not here eleven years ago, or if they were they never troubled us. And that much latent power can bring about unexpected effects—especially when it is beginning to unfold.”
22
The road Sindérian and her travelling companions followed was an old one and not well marked—it was more like the memory of a road than a road itself. But they had left the ghosts and haunts of the hill country behind, and if the air was thinner, it was also cleaner. Falcons and eagles nested on the cliffs high overhead; she could hear their far, lonely cries, see them soaring with wings dark against the pale sky.
Wind boomed between the ridges and sang among the pines, but it spoke with its own voice and no other.
Still, it promised to be a difficult ascent. This time of year there was always the danger of snow in the high passes. But it can only delay us, not defeat us, she told herself whenever her spirits began to flag. The worst blizzards are still many weeks off.
She believed the Furiádhin had chosen the underground journey only to avoid weather in the passes up above. Camhóinhann was in no great hurry, that much had already been proven. Beyond the mountains there was all of Lünerion, Alluinn, and Rhuadllyn still to cross before they came to the ocean; surely, over such a distance, it would be possible to overtake them. And then…
Her heartbeat fluttered and her mouth went dry. Better not to dwell too much on journey’s end, on what she had resolved to do no matter the cost. If she thought too much about that she would lose her nerve.
It rained during the night, but they found a hollow place at the base of a cliff and managed to avoid the worst of the storm. In the morning, the sun whitened a cloudbank to the east, then burst forth in glory.
They had not ridden far when Prince Ruan’s quick ears caught sounds he had not expected: a rattle of pebbles, followed by a regular patter like footsteps on one of the ridges above. He scanned the mountainside. “I think there is someone up there following us. Or at least observing us.”
“It is the wind,” said Sindérian. “What else could it be? If anyone was spying on us, Faolein would have spotted them, or the birds would have told him.”