So, hoping his pursuers would think he'd fled, Gaborn veered back toward the main force of the army, directly into danger. For he still had not been able to learn the number and types of their forces.
When the starlight suddenly came bright, he heard the sounds of the army in the woods below—branches snapping, iron-shod feet tramping in the night. His horse rested near the crest of a ridge, in a sheltered grotto that let him look down over a long bed of ferns.
Dogs began baying in the distance behind him. They'd discovered his ruse.
Gaborn sat tall in his saddle, looking down into the dark. He'd veered in front of the army. A mile ahead he could see a break in the woods—a wide swale that would have been a frozen lake in the winter. But the waters had receded over the summer, leaving only tall grasses.
There, in the grasses, Gaborn saw a sudden light as Raj Ahten's flame-weavers stepped from beneath the shelter of the pines—five people, naked but for the red flames that licked their hairless skins, strode boldly across the swale. Behind and around them Gaborn saw something else—creatures that loped over the grass, black shadows darker than those thrown by the pines. They were roughly man-shaped, but often seemed to fall to all fours, running on their knuckles.
Apes? Gaborn wondered. He'd seen such creatures brought north as curiosities. Raj Ahten had Frowth giants and flameweavers in his retinue, along with Invincibles and war dogs. Gaborn thought it might be possible to grant endowments to apes, turn them into warriors.
But instinctively Gaborn knew that these creatures were nothing he'd ever seen. Larger than apes. Nomen, perhaps—creatures recalled only in ancient tales. Or maybe some new horror in the earth. Thousands of them issued from the woods, a dark tide of bodies.
Frowth giants waded among them, and Raj Ahten's Invincibles rode behind in armor that flashed in the starlight.
Far below to the west, war dogs howled and snarled, following Gaborn's blood scent. Gaborn glimpsed a dog on the trail in the starlight—a huge mastiff with an iron collar and a leather mask to protect its face and eyes. The pack leader. It would be branded with runes of power, to let it run faster and farther than its brothers, smell Gaborn more easily, and plot with the supernatural cunning of its kind.
Gaborn couldn't escape the pack, not with that dog alive.
He nocked an arrow, the last in his quiver. The grizzled mastiff raced up the path at incredible speed, its back and head showing from time to time as it leapt through low ferns. With endowments of strength and metabolism, such dogs could cover miles in minutes.
Gaborn watched its progress, gauged where it would exit the ferns below him. The mastiff burst from the ferns a hundred yards down, snarling in rage, its mask making it look skeletal in the starlight.
The beast was only fifty yards away when Gaborn loosed his arrow. It flew to its mark, striking the dog's leather mask, then ricocheted over its head.
The mastiff raced forward.
Gaborn didn't have time to clear his saber from its scabbard.
The mastiff leapt. Gaborn saw its jaws gaping, the huge nick in its forehead where the arrow had pierced the leather, scraped away flesh.
Gaborn threw himself back in the saddle. The mastiff jumped and brushed past Gaborn's chest, the spikes on its collar slashing Gaborn's robe, drawing blood on his chest.
The stallion whinnied in terror and leapt over the crest of the hill, raced through the pines as Gaborn struggled to dodge low branches and remain a horse.
Then his steed was racing down a steep, rocky hill. Gaborn managed to draw his sword clear, though his bow had been swept away in the branches.
I don't need it, Gaborn tried to reassure himself. I'm ahead of Raj Ahten's army now. I only need to race him.
He put heels to horse flesh, let the beast run its heart out, and raised his sword flashing in the night.
Here in the mountains, the trees had begun to thin, so that for the first time in hours he could test this horse's speed.
It leapt an outcropping of rocks, and Gaborn heard a snarl at his left elbow.
The mastiff had caught up with him again, was running under the horse's hoofs.
“Clear!” Gaborn shouted. His steed leapt and kicked—a maneuver all his father's hunting horses were taught. It was meant to clear wolves or charging boars from beneath the horse's hooves.
Now the war dog took an iron shoe full in the muzzle, yelped as its neck snapped.
But on the ridge above him, Gaborn heard yammers and growls of another dozen dogs. He looked up. Riders in dark mantles thundered behind the dogs, and one man raised a horn to his lips and blew, calling his fellows to the hunt.
Too close, I'm too close to the army, he realized.
But Raj Ahten was only skirting the edge of the Dunnwood, afraid to get too far under the older trees. For good reason.
Last fall, when Gaborn had hunted here with his father and King Sylvarresta, a hundred men had ringed themselves with campfires, feasting on roasted chestnuts, fresh venison, mushrooms, and mulled wine.
Sir Borenson and Captain Derrow had practiced their swordplay, each man mesmerizing the crowd with his tactics. Borenson was a master of the Dancing Arms style of battle, could swing a sword or axe in dizzying patterns so quickly that one seldom saw when he would deal his deadly blow. Captain Derrow was a more thoughtful fighter, who could choose his moment, then lunge in with a spear and slash a man into morsels with fascinating precision.
Gabon's father and King Sylvarresta had been playing chess on the ground, beside a lamp, ignoring the mock combats, when a moaning floated through the trees, a sound so distinctly odd and eerie that goose pimples rose, cold as ice, on Gaborn's back.
Borenson, Derrow, and a hundred retainers had all stopped instantly at that sound, and someone called, “Hold! Hold! No one move!” for everyone knew it was deadly dangerous to attract a wight's attention.
Gaborn recalled clearly how Borenson had smiled, his teeth flashing in that deadly way of his, as he stood sweating, looking up the hillside of the narrow gully outside camp.
A pale figure rode there, a lone man on a horse, moaning like some strange wind that whipped through lonely crags. A gray light shone from him.
Gaborn only glimpsed the wight, yet his heart had pounded in terror at the sight. His mouth went dry, and he could not catch his breath.
He'd looked over at his father to see his reaction. Both his father and King Sylvarresta remained playing at their board, neither bothering to glance up toward the wight.
Yet Gaborn's father moved his wizard on the board, taking a pawn, then caught Gaborn's eye. Gaborn's face must have been pale as death, for his father smiled wryly and said, “Gaborn, calm yourself. No prince of Mystarria need fear the wights of the Dunnwood. We are permitted here.”
King Sylvarresta had laughed mirthlessly and turned to give Gaborn a sly, secretive look, as if the men shared a private joke.
Yet Gaborn had felt it was true, felt he was somehow protected from the wights. It was said that in days of old, the King of Heredon had commanded this forest, and all the creatures in the wood had obeyed him. The kings of Heredon had fallen in stature. Still, Gaborn wondered if Sylvarresta really did command the wights of Dunnwood.
Now, as the war dogs and the hunters trailed him, Gaborn gambled that it was true. He spurred his horse west, deeper into the forest, shouting, “Spirits of the wood, I am Gaborn Val Orden, Prince of Mystarria. I beg you, protect me!”
Even as he called for aid, he knew it would do no good. The spirits of the dead care nothing for the concerns of mortal men. If Gaborn attracted their attention, they'd only seek to make sure he joined them in the afterlife.