“Well,” Cort admitted, “they don’t always kill trespassers. Sometimes they don’t even take them captive, just toy with them for a bit, then let them go. They’ve even sent some peasants away with riches. You never can tell with the Fair Folk.”
“Then at least we’ll have a chance on their hill,” Dirk pointed out, “and if dread of it would have kept you away, it might keep the Hawks away, too, at least until morning.”
“And by dawn, our horses will be rested,” Gar agreed. “I say it’s a chance worth taking!”
“What other chance do we have?” Cort sighed, and followed them as they galloped toward the hill.
Halfway there, the baying of the hounds suddenly grew louder. Turning, Cort could see they had come over the horizon and were there on the road behind, a blot in the moonlight. He turned back to the front, calling, “Faster!”
They rode faster indeed. The horses ran flat out with their last spurt of energy, fleeing from the belling and barking behind them, though their breath came hard with exhaustion. The hounds were far fresher—most of their afternoon had been spent at the walk, with their noses to the ground. They ran easily, and the horsemen behind them kept pace. Then they passed the hounds, riding for the trio whom they could see now, fifty men on horses, leaving the dogs to their peasant handlers.
But the hill was close now, so close. Finally the companions’ horses thudded up twenty feet on the hillside, and Gar reined in, leaping off his horse and drawing his sword. “Surrender, gentlemen! It’s for me to die, not you!”
“Sometimes you can be a real pain, you know?” Dirk sprang down and drew his sword, taking his stance back to back with Gar.
Cort felt his death coming upon him, and was only sorry there would be no gleeman to see it and sing his saga to Violet. He dismounted and took station by his companions, sword and dagger drawn. “Let them come down!”
They came up, though, with thundering hooves and yells of triumph, swords flashing in the air, swinging high for the death strokes.
Then the earth groaned and shook. A glare of light split the night, throwing the companions’ shadows long before them, and a vast, cavernous voice echoed all about them:
“Who disturbs the home of the Fair Folk? Who dares come near the Hollow Hill with Cold Iron in hand?”
CHAPTER 14
The Hawks screamed, their horses reared and turned, and the enemy line boiled in confusion for a minute.
Cort ached to turn and see, but held his eyes on the enemy. The Hawks did look, though, and froze. Lances of light sprang out, spearing Hawk soldiers, searing through their ranks like scythes. The Hawks screamed and fled.
“Lasers!” Dirk stared at the carnage.
The light rays pursued the Hawks relentlessly, but the voice called again, echoing with the hollowness of a tomb: “Let some escape, to tell the tale!”
“Amplified,” Dirk said.
Gar nodded. “Digital reverb.”
The rays shifted downward to score the horses’ hooves. In two minutes the whole squadron was gone, leaving half a dozen dead behind. The survivors galloped away, back down the road, as far from the Hollow Hill as they could get. Even the hounds turned tail and ran with fading howls of terror.
Cort went limp. “Thank our lucky stars! Your gamble worked, Gar!”
“Maybe not.” Dirk glanced over his shoulder. “Take a look behind you.”
Slowly, dread rising like a giant in the night, Cort turned, to look, and cried out in terror.
Gar turned, too, and stood staring.
An oblong door in the side of the hill had opened like an eye, filled with glaring light. Tall men stood silhouetted against that glare. They were more than six feet in height, much more, almost as tall as Gar, and the weapons in their hands weren’t swords.
As the three comrades stared, the light dimmed to little more than the moonlight itself. Corn blinked, trying to see through dazzled eyes. He could make out other lights floating in midair, of a gentle brightness and delicate color, some rose, some lavender, some the shade of new straw.
Beneath those lights came the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He gasped, amazed at their slenderness, their tallness, their delicate grace, their perfect straightness—and the equally perfect curvature of their figures. Their hair fell long and wild about their shoulders, some pale as new straw, some rich as red gold, some even perfectly white. Their skin, too, was pale, delicate as the petals of new rose blooms. Their eyes were huge, lustrous in the night; their cheekbones were high, their lips full and wide. They wore the simplest of gowns of gauzy cloth, fabric that shimmered and clung as they moved, more becoming than any confection a boss’s wife might wear—gowns that left rounded, soft arms bare in the moonlight, gowns that swept down to their ankles, revealing slender, graceful feet in gilded sandals, gowns that scooped low from their necks, to hint at voluptuous curves beneath. They were easily as tall as Dirk and Cort, perhaps taller.
Cort caught his breath, feeling himself go weak. The men were much like the women, fair-haired and lean, with high cheekbones, large eyes that seemed to glow in the reflected light of the floating lamps, hollow cheeks, and long, straight-nosed faces. Their hair hung long, below their collars, and they were dressed in doublet and hose with cloaks of rich, heavy fabric. Each wore a baldric holding a rapier and a dagger, but the weapons sheened with the golden tone of bronze. In their hands, though, they held things like crossbow stocks, though strangely elongated, squarish and bulky.
“These also bear weapons!” the sepulchral voice thundered. “Slay them, too!”
But, “Hold!” one of the women cried, raising a hand. Bold and daring, she stepped toward Gar, swaying, and held up a hand to stroke his cheek. “This one is as tall as we, and taller! Could he be a son of the Fair Folk?”
“With that black hair? Come, Maora!” one of the men said with scorn. His voice wasn’t amplified.
“Who knows what a changeling might grow into, Daripon?” Maora smiled languorously, and Cort could see Gar brace himself. “After all,” she went on, “we have given our babes to Milesian women for no better reason than having such hair as his.”
“Or for having such ugliness,” Daripon sneered. “Speak, intruder! Are you of the blood of the Fair Folk?”
“No changeling would know that,” Cort objected. “Silence, small man!”
Blood boiled, and Cort laid a hand on his sword. The crossbow stocks swung toward him, and he froze, having seen what those light lances could do.
Another of the women swung toward him, too, though shorter than the others, no taller than Cort himself. Her eyes were even wilder than those of the other women, and her face was a dream of loveliness, with delicate brows arching over violet eyes, a retrousse nose, and full ruby lips that smiled lazily in a broad invitation. “Hold your fire, Lavere,” she said, and placed a hand on Cort’s sword.
At her touch, he felt himself go weak, but the look in her eyes brought all his strength raging back, making the blood pound through his veins. How could he have ever counted Violet beautiful, when there was a face such as this in the world?
Except, of course, that she wasn’t really of his world …
“I shall keep this one,” she said. “He might prove amusing.”
“Don’t be a fool, Desiree!” Lavere said, reddening, and raised his rifle, sighting along the barrel. Cort yanked at his sword, but the woman’s hand tightened on his, holding it still with amazing strength for one so delicate in appearance.
“Hold!” the sepulchral voice snapped. “We need his blood for our pool!”