knife cut across the surface of the lava rock, all shadows and
shifting haze. Wren knew it was dangerous, almost called them
back, but saw, too, that it sliced directly across their pathway
out, that it was the only way they could go. She descended into
the gloom, the Ruhk Staff gripped before her like a shield. Faun
chittered wildly on her shoulder, another sound to blend with
the others, the unseen voices that buzzed and raged and filled
her subconscious with a growing need to scream. She saw Triss
a step ahead, with Stresa a faint dark spot beyond. She heard
footsteps behind, someone following, the others .
And then the hands had her, abrupt, startling, as hard as
iron. They reached up from nowhere, materializing from out of
the mist, closed about her legs and ankles, and yanked her from
the pathway. She yelled in fury and struck downward with the
butt of the Ruhk Staff. White fire burst from the earth, flaring
out in all directions, the magic of the talisman responding. It
shocked her, stunned her that the magic should come so easily.
There were shouts from the others, cries of warning. Wren
wheeled about wildly, and the hands that had fastened on her
fell away. Something moved in the mist-things, dozens of them,
faceless, formless, yet there. The Drakuls, she realized, awake
Somehow when they should not have been. Perhaps it was dark
enough here in this cut, black enough to pass for night. She
cried out to the others, summoned them to her, and led them
toward the ravine’s far slope. The figures swirled all about,
grasping, touching, nonsubstantive, yet somehow real. She saw
faces drained of life, pale images of her own, eyes empty and
unseeing, teeth that looked like the fangs of animals, sunken
cheeks and temples, and bodies wasted away to nothing. She
fought through them, for they seemed centered on her, drawn
to her as if she were the one who mattered most to them. It was
the magic, she realized. Like all the Shadowen, it was the magic
that drew them first.
Drakul wraiths materialized in front of her and Garth
bounded past, short sword hacking. The images dissipated and
reformed, unharmed. Wren wheeled about as she reached the
floor of the ravine. One, two . . . She counted frantically. All six
were there. Stresa was already scrambling ahead, and she turned
to follow him They went up the slope in a tangle, clawing their
way over the rain-slick lava rock, past the scrub and fallen trees.
The images followed, the voices, the phantoms come from sleep,
undead monsters trailing after. Wren fought them off with anger
and repulsion, with the fury of her movement, conscious of
Faun clinging to her neck as if become a part of her, of the heat
of the Ruhk Staff in her hands as its magic sought to break free
again. Magic that could do anything, she lamented, that could
create anything-even monsters like these. She recoiled in-
wardly at the prospect, at the horror of a truth she wished had
never been, a truth she feared would rise up to haunt her if she
were to keep the promise she had made to her grandmother to
save the Elves.
Over the top of the ravine the members of the little com-
pany stumbled and began to run. The gloom was thick and
shifted like layers of gauze before them, but they did not slow,
racing ahead heedlessly, calling words of encouragement to each
other, fighting back against their pursuers. The Drakuls hissed
and spit like cats, the venom of their thoughts a fire that burned
inside. Yet it was only voices and images now and no longer
real, for the Drakuls could not leave the darkness of their shelter
to venture into the Harrow while it was yet daylight. Slowly
their presence faded, drawing away like the receding waters of
some vast ocean, gone back with the tide. The company began
to slow, their breathing heavy in the sudden stillness, their boots
scraping as they came to a ragged halt.
Wren looked back into the haze. There was nothing there
but the mist and the faint shadow of the scrub land and tree