Young Ghieste set spurs to his mount and galloped off, returning shortly with the halfling guide seated on his horse behind him.
“You summoned me, my lord?” asked Futhark.
Michael nodded and pointed to the ridge. “Look there,” he said. “See that dark form on the ridge?”
The halfling looked, then paled, and his eyes grew wide as he beheld the shadowy form. “May all the gods protect us!” he said.
“What is it, Futhark?” asked Sylvanna.
“Doom, my lady,” the halfling guide replied fearfully. He swallowed hard. “It is what I feared the most each time we came this way.” He turned to Michael. “We must flee, my lord! We must leave this place at once!”
“Flee?” Lord Korven said. “From what? What is that thing?”
“That which has driven my people from this once sunlit world to yours,” said Futhark. “It is the Cold Rider.”
2
“What manner of creature is this Cold Rider?” Michael asked, curious at Futhark’s reaction. In all the battles they had seen, with either humans or demihumans, the halfling had always displayed crafty survival instincts, but he had never shown any fear. Until now. The dark form on the ridge had not moved since he—or it—had stopped to watch them. Yet there appeared to be movement within the form. Watching from a distance, they could not make out any facial features or other details, if indeed there was a face, but like a reflection cast upon a pond that rippled when a stone was tossed into the water, the outline of the dark figure on the ridge appeared to shift, as if unable to retain solid form for more than a moment or two.
“He is the Usurper,” Futhark said, averting his gaze from the dark form on the ridge. “Many years ago, he first appeared in our world, no one knew from where, and wherever he rode, the green plants withered, the animals died for lack of forage, the numbing cold spread and the gray mist followed. Hence the appellation he was given, the Cold Rider. As to what manner of creature he may be, I cannot say. I know only that where he passed, our world was blighted until it became the dismal place you see about you now.”
“Is he dangerous to us?” asked Aedan. “However powerful a creature he may be, surely he would not attack an army.”
“The Cold Rider has never been known to attack directly,” replied Futhark. “It is enough merely to see him. Those who have the misfortune to lay eyes upon that evil apparition soon experience some awful tragedy, and many do not live to tell the tale. He is a harbinger of doom, a manifestation of evil itself. We must make haste to get away from here, my lord, before some evil fate befalls us.”
“It all sounds like a lot of superstitious nonsense to me,” Lord Korven said scornfully. “Such things as weather and the climate change purely of their own accord, and not because some ghost decrees it so. For all we know, that shape upon the ridge is nothing more than swamp gas or some strange trick of the light.”
“With respect, my lord, there is much about the Shadow World that you have yet to learn, despite your travels here,” said Futhark. His voice had a hollow ring to it. He was clearly frightened. “Before the Cold Rider came, this was a world of sunlight and bountiful beauty. Brightly colored birds sang in the trees; the meadows bloomed vividly with wildflowers in profusion; faeries flitted in the forest clearings like playful fireflies; and there was game aplenty. Now look about you and tell me what you see.
“And there is much here that, thankfully, we have not yet seen or experienced. Wherever that ghastly apparition rides, the undead are sure to follow. Monsters such as your world has never seen are presaged by his appearance. Whether he commands them or they simply follow in his wake, no one can say, but it is not for nothing that my people have fled this world for yours and only return here for brief periods, and often at great risk.”
“Why come at all then, if this Cold Rider poses such a danger?” asked Lord Korven, still skeptical of the halfling’s claims.
“Why have you come?” Futhark countered. “Sometimes necessity entails acceptance of great risk. Shadow-walking is something only we halflings can do, and in the case of my scouts and myself, we are being well paid for the risks we take. This world is wide, and there is only one Cold Rider. The odds against encountering him are great, but this time, they have turned against us. If we do not leave this place as soon as possible, there is no telling what may happen, but I fear we may not even live to regret it.”
Michael shook his head. “If you were to create a portal back into our own world now, it would bring us out well within the borders of the Spiderfell. We could easily get lost there, and I have no wish to make my weary troops do battle with the Spider’s minions. We must go on, at least until we can emerge in Diemed.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Futhark agreed reluctantly. “But I would strongly advise that we make all haste and do not camp for the night. I know the troops are tired, but they can rest far better and more safely once we have reached Diemed than they shall here.”
Michael pursed his lips, considering the halfling’s suggestion. “I am loath to push the men more than necessary. They have already marched a long way after a failed campaign in which they lost many of their comrades.” He fell silent for a moment, and Aedan could tell that those losses weighed heavily upon the emperor. “But if you feel strongly about the matter, we shall press on.”
“I do, my lord,” the halfling guide replied. “The appearance of the Cold Rider bodes us ill, very ill, indeed, and I shall not rest easy until we are well quit of this place.”
Michael nodded. “So be it, then. We shall press on. Inform the men. Tell them we shall march tonight and make camp in Diemed tomorrow, where they shall have two days to take their ease. I am anxious to reach home, but that is the very least that I can do for them. Haelyn knows, they all deserve a rest.”
“Look,” Sylvanna said, glancing back at the ridge. “He’s gone.”
They turned back to the ridge. The shadowy horseman had disappeared, as if he were never there.
“An ill omen,” Futhark grumbled. “An ill omen, indeed.”
Night within the Shadow World was not much different from night in the world of daylight, at least insofar as appearances were concerned. It was the days that were different. During the day, the sun never showed itself in the world of shadow. It was like a heavily overcast and foggy day back in the world of light, with gray skies and mist perpetually floating just above the ground. At night, however, with the twisted trees and scrubby undergrowth camouflaged by darkness, one could almost think that it was any other place in Cerilia, save for the ghostly silence, occasionally broken by the cry of some … thing … out in the darkness. And despite having journeyed through the Shadow World on previous occasions, Aedan could never quite grow accustomed to those sounds. Or to the deathly silence when they ceased. No crickets, no night birds … nothing. He did not know which was worse.
On previous expeditions through the Shadow World, they had always made camp at night, for the curious suspension of time in this unearthly place meant that there was no reason to conduct forced marches through the night. They could remain within the Shadow World for days or even weeks, and when they came back out into the world of light, only minutes or hours would have passed. However, that was no reason to tarry. There were too many dangers in the Shadow World for that, and the longer they remained there, the more they risked.
When they made camp in the Shadow World, they kept bright fires burning and posted sentries around the perimeter of the camp, more than they would have in their world. And in the Shadow World, there was never any temptation for sentries to sleep on the watch. While the others warriors slept—always very lightly—the sentries on duty would remain wide awake, eyes always scanning the darkness just beyond the camp perimeter. These were lessons they had learned the hard way.