Leeb! Think of Leeb! Whoever you are, my darling, I am coming back to you.
How far would she have to go? The great peaks glimmered against the sky, unchanging. Surely the Defile could not take her right through the range, whatever range it was, because then she would be Outside, and pixies never went Outside, where the demons lurked.
She had argued with the Keeper! Talking back like an impudent child . . . She paused at another blind corner, where the Way angled around a wall of rock. Hugging that wall, she peered cautiously, first one eye, then both. She saw rocks and dirt and a few patches of snow and the gravel path. Nothing more.
As she moved away from the wall, her shadow moved upon it. Out of the corner of her eye—
Two shadows!
She screamed and was running before she knew it.
She had not looked back! She had heeded the Keeper’s warning! But out of the corner of her eye she had seen the second shadow right behind her own. It had been a trick of the light, hadn’t it? Just dark streaks in the stone? Sticks . . . the shadow of a tree maybe! But there were no trees.
She hurtled along the path with her hair flying and the air cold in her throat.
Cru-unch. Cru-unch. Something had changed in her footsteps. They did not sound the same. They seemed to echo off something right behind her.
At her heels.
Keeping pace. Cru-unch, cru-unch, cru-unch . . . It was staying with her, at her back. Twigs. Weathered branches. Just a freak of moonlight—not truly bones! Do not look behind you!
She ran until a stitch stabbed her side and she could run no more. Staggering with exhaustion, she slowed to a walk. Nothing ran into her, nothing grabbed her. Over the thunder of her heart she heard those steps still there, keeping time, stepping where she had stepped, following right at her back.
There was nothing there, she told herself firmly, and knew that she lied. It was right behind her, close enough to breathe on her neck, if it breathed. Close enough to touch her, if it could touch.
Everyone in the College had done this, had walked the Defile. They had not been eaten by monsters! It was a trick to frighten her, an illusion.
“Who are you?” she shrilled, not daring to look around again.
There was no reply, no wind. Only her leaping heart, and those wrongly repeating footsteps.
“Tell me who you are!” she cried, louder. “In the name of the Keeper, tell me!”
This time there was an answer, but whether it was a sigh on the night air or only a thought in her head, she could not tell.
I am your guide.
“I don’t need a guide! Go away!”
There was no reply, but she sensed that the wraith or whatever it was had not gone away. It still paced right behind her, matching stride for stride. She walked faster. She slowed down. Unseen, it clung like a shadow. She stopped completely, cringing lest something dry and hard should blunder into her. Nothing did. It was standing still as she was, waiting for her to move again.
It was nothing! She should spin around and she would see only the empty path behind her.
“You cannot hurt me!” But others can.
She still could not tell if that was a voice or only a thought in her own head.
“And I don’t believe that, either!” Raising her chin, Thafle began to march, swinging her arms vigorously. “Mistress Mearn said she had come this way. Mist came this way. I expect Jain ca—” She stopped.
A shadowy shape stood in the distance, athwart her path. It was so vague that she could hardly make it out, a hint of moonlight and shadow against the rocks, the image of a man. It was illusion, a trick of vision like shapes seen in nighttime embers or in clouds by day. Yet the more she squinted and strained her eyes, the more definite it seemed to be. Sudden anger replaced her fear—tricks and illusions! The Keeper herself had commented on her courage. She would not let such foolery frighten her. Big, soft Mist, yes. Mist might have panicked at hints of shadow, but she was not going to. She was doing this for love, for Leeb.
She took two, or three steps more and the shape was clearer. She stopped again.
“Who is that?” she demanded.
It is a jotunn, one of the white-haired demons.
Her teeth chattered on their own for a moment, refusing to obey her. “Is it alive?” Maybe she did need a guide. It died in the War of the Five Warlocks. The voice—if it was a voice—was utterly devoid of emotion. No amusement, or anger, or sadness. Just answers.
A thousand years dead? “Then it cannot hurt me!” Thaile insisted, as much to herself as to the unseen presence at her back. She lurched forward shakily and continued along the path toward the thing . . . the illusion.
If it was a trick of the light, it should fade as she drew nearer. It did not. It grew more solid, although it was still only a silver patch of brightness against shadows, a man in moonlight among the rocks. Against her will, she began to make out detail, a man so huge that her head would barely reach his chest. He wore a shiny helmet, and breeches, and boots. His flowing beard and mustache were the brightest part of him, except for his eyes. His eyes were watching her come. He knew she was there. He was waiting for her, starting to smile.
Moonlight glinted on his helmet, his eyes, his sword. She stopped again, reluctant to draw near.
Now she knew why there was a wraith at her back. There could be no retreat; she must go on.
“What does he want?” she demanded. He wants to kill you.
“Then he will be disappointed.” She eased forward on absurdly shaky legs.
The white-haired demon grew ever more solid. Moonlight shone on the long blade, and the silver beard, and the heavy, hairy limbs. Teeth gleamed.
Thaile stopped.
The demon began to walk, and now he was openly grinning at her and hefting his sword in anticipation. She could see his chest move as he breathed.
She almost backed up a step, and then remembered that what was behind her might be a great deal worse than what was in front.
“Go away!” she shouted. “In the name of the Keeper!” The demon laughed, as if he had heard that. He was striding toward her and now she heard gravel crunch under his great boots.
“What’s he going to do?” she wailed. He is going to kill you.
“No!”
“Yes. You are Stheam. You die now.”
She smelled a strange salty tang in the air.
Stheam was only sixteen, a herder of sheep, and no one had ever shown him how to use a sword, but jotnar had come ashore at Wild Cape, and Grandsire had called in all the young men from the hills and issued swords and shields. Stheam had been told to stand watch here by the moorings in case more longships came.
He couldn’t fight a giant!
Dropping the awkward, cumbersome shield, Stheam bolted off into the rocks. There was no path there. He scrambled up as fast as he could, but in a moment he knew he was cornered. Boots rasped on stone behind him.
He spun around. “Please! I don’t want to die!”
The monster loomed over him, grinning, flaxen-haired, with a sheen of sweat on his shoulders and wind-reddened face, a joyous gleam of hatred in inhuman blue eyes. He probably did not understand the words. He would not heed them if he did.
He poked playfully with his sword. Stheam threw up his own blade instinctively and it was smashed aside like a twig, sending spasms of pain up his arm. With a snort of disgust the giant thrust his sword into Stheam’s belly, pushing it deep and twisting until the point grated on the rock behind.
The pain was beyond imagining. He fell to the ground, clutching the bloody mess falling out of him. He tried to scream, and that hurt even more.
Oh, Gods! The pain! He whimpered animal noises, feeling blood rush hot through his fingers.
The warrior kicked him a few times to roll him over, then leered down in triumph and contempt. He spat, and even through the awful torment in his gut, Stheam felt the spittle splash cold on his cheek. The jotunn walked away, leaving his victim writhing in death agony.
It was not quick, and nobody came.
Thaile lay facedown on the path, the gravel hard and cold on her face. She was shaking violently and felt sick. She must not be dead, then. She was a woman again, Thaile.