Elyn awoke when a droplet fell upon her resting cheek. She turned to waken Thork, for the skies were black, and wind stirred the trees; but a stab of lightning and a crash of thunder brought the Dwarf to his feet, his hands groping for his axe.
Elyn ran to the steeds, untethering each and leading them back to the campsite through the blowing flaw. Hastily the two broke camp, for evening was upon them. And they donned their oiled-leather rain-cloaks just in time, for the skies split open and water poured down in a blinding torrent.
Long they rode through the tempest, among the writhing wind-tossed trees, hard-driven icy rain hammering down. And all about them lightning smashed and thunder roared, and the steeds skitted and started with each rending crash.
At last Elyn urged her grey up beside Thork, and called out above the storm. “Shelter, Thork. We need shelter. The mounts cannot take this cold pounding any longer.”
And in the shattering illumination of lightning, Thork followed an uphill bent, coming to a shelter of sorts: an overhang in a hillside, the recess behind a small stand of pines. They crowded in under the lip above, and at last were out of the direct rain, though water blew inward with the gusting wind, wetting them still.
Lightning crashed down nearby, thunder slapping immediately; and the icy rain redoubled its hammering, the wind whipping the pines before their shelter. And Elyn and Thork, shivering, huddled together for warmth, wrapped about by a light tarpaulin taken from ’round Thork’s roll. And above the sound of the wind and the blinding rain came a crashing from the forest, and a rending of trees.
“The thing?” Elyn shed the tarp and leapt to her feet, swiftly drawing her saber from saddle scabbard upon Wind’s flank.
Thork, too, was afoot, axe near at hand, working the articulated lever ’tween string and stock of his crossbow, cocking it, then loading a red quarrel.
They peered out into the blackness, rain thundering down, an occasional flash of lightning starkly illuminating the dark woods. Elyn could see nought, but Thork pointed, yet at what, she could not at first say. Then came another flash, and a horrid great being stood among the trees: fourteen feet tall, like a giant Rutch, it seemed, but massive and brutish, and scaled with a greenish skin. Yet no Rutch was this; instead it was an Ogru, and it was snuffling the air, as if to catch the scent of a quarry.
The flash died, yet Elyn saw it in her mind’s eye still, recoiling from its image. Then Thork pointed again, and lo! the next flare revealed yet another Ogru, identical to the first. . hunting, snuffling, as well.
Thork drew Elyn back, and muttered in her ear: “Trolls. They seek us. Yet this storm thwarts them, for they cannot catch our scent or those of our steeds. May Elwydd send more rain hammering down. Make no noise, for they are a foe we cannot slay without the help of many. Muzzle your horse so it whinnies not, else we are lost.”
Elyn stepped to Wind and placed a calming hand upon the mare’s soft nose, cooing gentle words. Thork, too, held Digger’s muzzle, but if he spoke to the pony Elyn heard him not. And they listened to the crashing of timber above the driving tempest, as the questing Ogrus shouldered among the forest trees, snuffling yet finding nought but the scent of a drenched woodland, cupping a hand behind batwing ear but hearing only the deluge, staring with red glaring eyes but seeing only wind-whipped limbs lashing about in the blow.
Lightning flashed and thunder boomed and the storm redoubled its fury again, and now the twain could hear nought but the whelming downpour. Whether the Ogrus drew near or far, they could not tell. And in the blackness Elyn had visions of one of those creatures rending aside the pines and an ugly face leering in upon their hiding place.
All night the rain hammered down, and morning found it falling still, though more gently. And even as the pair peered out from their hideaway in the blear light, the sky-fall softened yet again as clouds blew easterly.
Leaving the shelter, east they headed, travelling through the woods. And as they rode, the rain finally stopped, though all around them water dripped from the leaves.
Once again evil had come upon them, and once again they had avoided its clutch, though this time it was by mere happenstance. Much would they give to resolve who was the target of this malevolent pursuit, and why; yet even should they know, still would they travel together.
They came at last to another hillside where stood a better shelter, one with a deep overhang. Here they stopped for the day, for they needed rest.
A week later, Elyn and Thork splashed across a river into the forest named Wolfwood, a place where it is said that evil shuns. Here legend had it that beasts of the elden days once dwelled: High Eagles, Silver Wolves, Bears that once were Men, horned horses named Unicorn, and other things of ancient fable. Too, it is told that upon a time here dwelled a Mage. His name? It is not now known.
Regardless, these legends did not enter the minds of Elyn and Thork as they crossed the river, for they did not know the name of the wood they entered; and even if they had, still it would not have mattered, for behind them they could hear howls of another foe. . Whom? They did not know or care. All that mattered is that once again the hunt harried their track.
For the past seven nights running, they had been relentlessly pursued by the Foul Folk: Rutcha and Drōkha and Trolls, as well as some they could not name, came at them from the protection of the darkness, loosing arrows, hurling spears, closing in to do battle with club and cudgel, scimitar and tulwar, hammer and mallet, crushing weapons of spikes and chain, claws and teeth, and other means. The Woman and Dwarf at times had fought, at other times fled, seeking ways to escape the assaults; but always these or other Wrg managed to locate them, if not this night, then the next, and combat would eventually ensue.
More than once had Thork come to Elyn’s rescue, and more than once had she saved him. Both had been wounded, and Thork no longer could use his left arm, for Rutch arrow had pierced his shoulder through. Elyn’s broken ribs stole her breath, and she could not swing a saber as needed. And yet they struggled on.
Wind, too, had been scathed: pierced by arrow and bruised by cudgel; and Digger was slashed upon both flanks. Yet they bore their riders eastward, running when called upon though they were weary, going without food and water and rest as required, loyal to the end if need be.
And now they all splashed across the water, once more running for their very lives.
And into the Wolfwood they fled, dashing among the trees. Five miles or more they ran within the forest, coming at last to a small clearing, the center of which was a low knoll. And as they started across, a juddering howl came from behind them, long and drawn out, answered by a score or more.
Thork rode to the crown of the glade and stopped, dismounting, taking his hammer from the pony, slapping Digger upon the flank, crying, “Hai, Digger, run, boy, run!”
Elyn rode up behind, hauling Wind to a stop. “Thork?”
The Dwarf looked up at her, his eyes shining, his left arm useless. “Did you not hear, Elyn?” As if his words were a signal, again a juddering howl wrauled through the trees. “They are Vulgs, a foe we both cannot hope to escape. Yet you ride on, I will delay them, and perhaps you can evade them until the dawn. Now go!”
Instead, Elyn dismounted, grimacing from the pain of it. She took up her saber and sent Wind scaddling off after Digger. “Mayhap our steeds will survive, Thork.”
“Fool Woman.” Thork’s voice was strangely choked.