His brother's gaze was fixed on the rustling trees that were shedding their leaves furiously in spite of the season. "There's something wrong with this place," he decided. "If we hang around much longer, those trees will tear up their roots and attack us. We're leaving."
"What about Gorйn and the others?" objected Tungdil. "Don't you think we should-"
"What about them? They're dead," Boпndil said breezily.
"Elves, elf lovers, and orcs." Boлndal set off at a march. "They needn't concern us."
As far as the twins were concerned, the matter was settled, so Tungdil fell in behind them, hurrying through the ruined village in the direction from which they had come.
Before they reached the path, he glanced round to bid the wizard and his mistress a silent farewell and apologize for leaving them without a proper burial. It was then that he saw something strange.
An easel, he thought to himself in surprise. In spite of the surrounding wreckage, it was standing upright, as though the painter would be back at any moment. Tungdil felt sadder than ever at the thought of the elf maiden or one of her companions abandoning their work in terror. The unfinished painting was a silent testimony to the moment in which the invaders had arrived.
I wonder what she was painting. "Back in a minute!" he told the others as he clambered over the charred timber, curious to see the elven artwork.
Boлndal sighed resignedly, setting his beard aquiver. "We've got our work cut out with this one."
"You can say that again," Boпndil said testily, wiping his sweaty brow with the end of his plait. Muttering under their breath, the secondlings hurried after their charge.
They caught up with him in front of the easel. There was something very obviously wrong with the picture: It showed the settlement in the aftermath of the attack.
There was no denying that the artist was incredibly gifted. The scene had been painted entirely in shades of red, every detail of the destruction reproduced with chilling precision on the smooth white canvas: corpses, the burned-out shells of buildings, scorched trees.
Tungdil peered at the work more closely. There's something funny about that canvas. He walked to the back of the easel and paled. The reverse of the painting was a damp, shiny red. He reached out gingerly to touch it, then whipped his hand away. Skin! The scene had been painted on skin so flawless that it could only belong to the mistress of the glade. Tungdil had a nasty feeling that the paint was far from conventional too. He showed his grisly discovery to the twins.
Two smaller pictures had been propped up nearby. The first showed the tortured face of the elf, her eyes dull with pain and fear. The second depicted her crucified body in all its gory detail. Tungdil knocked them over in disgust.
"It's still wet," said Boлndal, peering at the easel. "The freak who painted these pictures could be back at any time."
"So much the better," growled Boпndil. "We'll see how he likes to be flayed alive."
"I've never seen anything so monstrous," said Tungdil. Any admiration he still felt for the artist's talent was overshadowed by his revulsion at the foulness of the work. He shouldered the easel and hurled it into the burning embers of the fire. The two smaller pictures met the same fate.
Silently they turned to leave the village, but were halted by an aggressive snort. It was followed by angry neighing and a furious whinny.
A black steed left the forest and stepped into the clearing twenty paces to their right. Its eyes gleamed red, and white sparks danced around its fetlocks as its hooves clipped the ground.
Mounted on the shadow mare was a female дlf, tall and slim with long brown hair. She was clad in mail of stiff black leather with polished tionium trimmings.
"What do we have here?" The hilt of her sword was visible above her head and in her right hand she held a curved bow. A clutch of unusually long arrows of the kind favored by дlfar protruded from a saddlebag. Tungdil needed no reminder of their murderous force.
"The stinking groundlings have ruined my pictures, have they? In that case, I'll need some fresh paint." She sat up in the saddle to get a better look at the dwarves. With her delicate features and fine countenance she could have passed for a creature of Palandiell, save for the gaping eye sockets that proved she was no elf.
"I hope your blood doesn't clot too fast," she said, reaching with her free hand for an arrow. "I won't be able to paint the finer details unless it's nice and fluid."
"I was beginning to think we'd been cheated of our battle." Boпndil grinned. "Quick," he instructed in dwarfish, "make for the ruins or she'll shoot us down like rabbits."
The first arrow came singing toward them just as they were ducking behind a timber wall. It passed through the wood as if it were parchment and struck Boлndal's mail with a ping. The black tionium cut a gouge in the metal, causing the dwarf to curse.
Keeping low, they scurried deeper into the smoldering village, hoping to throw off the дlf, then attack her from behind.
Tungdil peered around the next corner and spotted the slender nose of the mare. There was something feline about the way it slunk through the ruins, branding the ground with its hooves. The earth gave a low hiss as the false unicorn passed over it, nostrils flaring as it tracked its prey.
Suddenly the dwarf had a terrifying thought. The mare's saddle was empty. Where's the rider? The дlf was at large in the village. He closed his eyes, trying to forget everything he knew about her race.
When he opened them again, Boлndal and Boпndil were gone. He wasn't afraid anymore; he was panicked.
"Psst," he hissed, "where are you?" He tightened his grip on his ax, cursing the twins for abandoning him in the ruins. First they tell me I'm no warrior; then they leave me at the mercy of a shadow mare and an дlf!
Someone touched his arm. Tungdil started and lashed out with his ax. The blade buried itself just below the man's rib cage. The dwarf stared at him in horror. "Gorйn? I thought you were dead."
The wizard looked at the wound distractedly and ran his fingers across the gaping flesh. He fixed his gaze on Tungdil. "Nothing," he moaned softly. "I feel nothing." He plucked an orcish arrow from his body. "Nothing," he said again, this time more desperately. He reached for a wooden beam, locking the dwarf in his empty stare. "All I can feel is hate…"
"Hang on, Gorйn, I…" Tungdil leaped aside as the wizard brought the beam crashing toward him. It smashed into a wall.
The din was enough to alert everyone to their presence. There was a clatter of hooves and the shadow mare whinnied.
Tungdil made his escape by crawling under a sunken ceiling. Anything would be better than being discovered by the mare.
"Nothing…" Gorйn straightened up and swayed drunkenly out of the ruined building, dragging the beam behind him.
The shadow mare leaped toward him, trampling him to the ground. Tungdil watched as its forelegs crushed the wizard's abdomen in an explosion of sparks. To the dwarf's horror, Gorйn rolled over and picked himself up.
The truth hit him in a flash: Greenglade had fallen to the Perished Land. Any who die here will rise again as revenants! The forest wasn't grieving for the elf maiden; the canker had spread into the soil, poisoning the tree roots and filling the trunks and branches with malice.
But that's impossible! Unless…Tungdil realized with horrible certainty that the girdle had failed. I can't go to Ogre's Death without warning Lot-Ionan that the shield has been breached. If the Perished Land has encroached this far, it might be advancing on other fronts as well.
But first he faced the immediate problem of leaving the glade alive, and the odds were stacked against him.
The shadow mare had picked up his scent and was heading his way. Its hooves struck Tungdil's hiding place and the timber erupted, crackling with light. The steed was intent on driving the dwarf into the open.