. Lydryth strained her night vision, made out trees. Of course, she remembered. The forest. We’ve reached the Bluemantle forest. We’re almost to the border of Redmantle lands. . . .
As the Keplian galloped into the forest, they plunged into a dark so complete that even Lydryth’s night vision could scarcely pierce it. Monso snorted uneasily, slowing abruptly to an uncertain canter. Knowing that her mount’s eyes must be adjusting to the increased darkness within the forest, the songsmith did not urge him faster.
The darkness beneath the trees was cavelike, nearly com- plete. Lydryth concentrated harder, humming loudly, and made out the road stretching before them like a black satin ribbon laid across a black velvet gown. Monso’s strides steadied as the Keplian’s eyes also adjusted to the absence of light beneath the trees. They cantered on, not daring to go faster.
Lydryth crouched over Monso’s withers, shivering as a chill wind brushed the back other neck like a long-dead finger. The breeze came again, harder, colder, pushing at her back, tossing her hair.
The songsmith stiffened, her nostrils flaring. That wind bore with it an odor … a rank, yet familiar, odor. Lydryth grimaced at the smell. Where had she scented its like before? She turned her head to glance behind her, seeking its source. A dank gust of wind struck her face like a foul breath.
Glowing spectrally with their own ghastly light, more than a score of web-riders were being borne along on that wind, heading straight for her and Monso!
The poisonous creatures were already so close that Lydryth could see their pincers. Their jaws dripped venom, spattering the surface of the barely seen road; gobs of sickly greenish light marked their path. Another blast of wind sent the webriders hurtling toward the songsmith and her mount. In a moment they would be upon them!
Lydryth leaned forward with a terrified gasp, feeling that unnatural wind push again at her back. “Go, boy!” she cried, slamming her heels into Monso’s sides. “Go!” She glanced back, glimpsed pincers only an arm’s length from her eyes. “Run!” she screamed, lashing the Keplian’s neck with the reins.
By that time Monso, too, had caught wind of their pursuers. The Keplian needed no further urging. Springing forward as though shot from a dart gun, he raced through the dark woods.
Darkness blurred in Lydryth’s sight. She struggled to keep her night vision, every moment fearing that her brains would be dashed out against some low-hanging limb. But she feared the fell creatures behind them more than she feared a clean death, so she made no effort to slow Monso, only flattened herself as best she could along the Keplian’s neck, clinging to his mane with both hands.
There were occasional gaps in the tree cover overhead now, and she could see a little better. Greatly daring, the songsmith glanced back, saw that they had gained on the web-riders. Still that unnatural gale assaulted her back.
Sorcery, she realized. That wind was sent, as were these creatures. By whom? Yachne? The Adepts at Garth Howell? There was no way to know. We are not racing the web-riders, she realized, we are racing the wind! And if that wind grows stronger …
By now they were passing trees so rapidly that their trunks blurred, seeming as close together as fence posts, so fast was Monso running.
Without warning, they were out of the forest, plunging steeply downhill toward the starlit gleam of a river. The Deepwater! Lydryth realized. She struggled to keep her balance as the Keplian hurtled down the road. If he catches afoot and falls at this speed, I’ll be crushed beneath him, she thought.
Glancing back, she saw that the web-riders had scattered after leaving the narrow confines of the forest road. They were outdistancing the Shadow-creatures rapidly now.
Lydryth took hold of the Keplian’s mouth. “Monso . . . easy, son … we can slow a bit, now. …”
Her pull on the stallion’s mouth went unanswered. The half-bred raced down the hillside toward the river with the rush of a stooping falcon. Lydryth begged, sang, pulled until her arms seemed to loosen in their sockets-to no avail.
She was still trying to slow the Keplian when Monso, running blindly, plunged full-force into the spring-swollen waters of the ford. The Keplian half-reared, trying to leap through the water. His struggles sent him plunging sideways, away from the stone-paved bottom of the ford, into deeper water. The river now rose belly-high on him. He staggered, trying to keep his footing on the slick, muddy bottom. Water washed up over his shoulders.
Lydryth felt the stallion’s hind feet slip out from under him; then Monso was falling. The black water rose up and engulfed horse and rider.
The songsmith kicked her feet loose from the stirrups as her mount rolled over, terrified lest she be dragged down beneath his body to drown. Her head went under as she flailed desperately. Choking and gasping, she swallowed and gagged on the cold water, but managed to fight her way back to the surface, then forced her arms to move, her legs to kick. Coughing, she trod water for a moment while she caught her breath, then she swam, feeling the current drag at her like a live thing. Lydryth blinked, vainly trying to shake the water from her eyes. Her night vision was gone, fled with her concentration on the melody.
Beside her, something large moved, snorted loudly. Monso! The Keplian had recovered himself and was striking out strongly for the opposite shore. Lydryth lunged toward him, felt something brush her hand, grabbed it, then realized that she had grasped one of the trailing reins.
Swiftly she pulled herself back to the stallion, hand over hand; then she was able to grasp the pommel of the saddle. Monso surged through the water, breasting the flood, towing the woman alongside him.
Lydryth knew that she would have only moments when the stallion struck solid footing to prevent him from breaking free and racing away from her into the night. Turning to glance back over her shoulder, she saw that the web-riders were no longer following. Their phosphorescent forms glimmered as they drifted aimlessly along the far bank of the Deepwater.
Of course, she thought. Like most creatures of the Shadow, they cannot cross running water.
Monso’s steadily stroking forefeet suddenly struck land, then the Keplian was surging forward, snorting, water cascading off his powerful body. Lydryth swung herself forward, both hands closing on the horse’s headstall and bit. “Monso, ho!” she commanded, leaning her full weight back, digging her heels into the mucky, reed-grown riverbank. “Ho, son!”
The half-bred shook his head, but after a moment he obeyed. Lydryth stumbled beside him as he struggled up, out of the water. The minstrel collapsed for a second on shore, pushing her soaked hair out of her eyes; then, wavering to her feet, she summoned up her night vision again, seeing with
-249 relief that her harp was still tied firmly in place. It would have to be dried carefully lest it warp. Then she scanned her surroundings for a place from which to mount.
The night wind cut through her sopping clothes like a sword blade as she stumbled along, making her shiver. Finding a small boulder with a flat top, Lydryth halted the trembling, sweating horse beside it. She stroked Monso, soothing him for a moment; then her foot found the stirrup and she swung back up, settling into the soaked saddle with an audible squish.
As she turned her mount and walked him up the bank, Lydryth felt exhaustion drag at her with a pull every bit as insistent as the Deepwater’s current. She patted her pocket, feeling the hard lump that was Dahaun’s box. Did the makeshift seal I placed on it hold? she wondered frantically. Or is Jervon’s cure now mingling with the mud on the bottom of the river? She was afraid to look, and could not have spared the time anyway. Biting her lip, the minstrel urged the Keplian forward.
For the next few minutes she trotted until she was sure of her path, then, cautiously, eased her mount into a canter again. The time they had lost at the ford gnawed at her. … What if, even now, Yachne was setting her trap for Kerovan?
Lydryth let the soaked reins out a notch, until they were galloping again.
Redmantle lands. She knew the road well now, having accompanied her family to town many times as a girl. Only a league or so down this road, she would take a branching trail, then cut cross-country over Kioga territory.
Monso no longer needed to be held in, which worried Lydryth. She knew that swimming the Deepwater had taken a heavy toll of the stallion’s endurance, if her own weariness was any indication. She wondered whether they would make it the rest of the way to Kar Garudwyn.
At least the web-riders were well and truly gone. She risked a final glance behind, seeing only darkness. Would those who had set them on their trail send another menace? She had no way of knowing.