Elvenborn

said. You know.' He half-smiled at Cheynar, hoping that Cheynar would warm a little further, and see himself in the same position as Kyrtian. 'When we're useful, we're equals at the feast-table, but once they don't need us anymore ...'

Cheynar took the bait. 'Probably he just thought that the man was half-crazed, if he even took time for a thought at all,' Cheynar said, and with some sympathy. 'But I can tell you this—'

He paused significantly.

'If you are going Wizard-hunting in those caves, you'll be walking in the steps of your father. Because the last time any­one saw him—that was where he was going, too.'

27

One set of items in their packs was immediately useful the moment they entered the forest: rain gear. Kyrtian had never seen so much rain in his life; he was glad that he'd checked on the climate when arranging for the sup­plies. And oh, the advantage of being on equal terms with one's females in an elven household! He had not realized that silk could be made so completely waterproof. Evidently that oft-derided 'women's magic' used for flower-sculpting had a great many other purposes that the women themselves knew but sel­dom shared. He certainly didn't blame them, the 'lords of cre­ation' that Elvenlords considered themselves to be would probably greet such innovations as trivial and women kept pent up in their bowers, disregarded and discarded as toys them­ selves could hardly be expected to share such knowledge vol-

untarily. He could well imagine several disgruntled ladies sit­ting around in their bower, contemplating their dripping men­folk, and saying to each other with glee, 'Well, why don't they just stop the rain?'

Rain-capes, with hoods snugged in around their faces, coats with an outer water-proofed surface beneath that, meant that what could have been a miserable situation was merely interest­ing. Provided that one could manage somehow to see past the gloom, this was a truly unique forest.

More waterproofed sheets—which would later serve as shel­ters for their three tents—covered the seven packs carried by the pack mules. This meant that their supplies and belongings were dry and would stay dry; no small consideration when, at the end of the day, they were going to be able to camp dry.

Too much water was, in the long run, better than too little. This could have been a hunt in the desert, and even Kyrtian was not entirely sure that magic would be enough to ensure water for everyone. Grels were the only option in the desert for trans­portation, but neither he nor anyone on his estate knew any­thing about grels. Their main problem here—and to some extent, in the caves—would be to prevent getting wet and cold with no way to get warm and dry again.

Game was certainly available, if not precisely plentiful. One would expect large game here, and yet the only animals that made an appearance were small game. Well, the advantage of traveling with foresters was that they didn't scorn small game in a futile search for something larger. The four foresters quickly traded their heavier bows and arrows for hand cross-bows, and took careful shots without ever seeming to aim. One by one, plump little bodies accumulated, tied to the cantles and pom­mels of saddles.

The rain never stopped. It let up, from time to time, decreas­ing to a mere drizzle, which percolated down through the trees and dripped from every limb, every needle. Then, when the rain resumed, it obscured everything in the distance, far or near, re­ducing visibility to a few horse-lengths ahead of the lead rider.

Which was not Kyrtian.

He knew very well that he was not a forester. That was why

he rode in the dead middle of the string, with Lynder in front of him and Hobie behind, two of the young foresters ahead and two behind. It surprised him, a little, that an entire train of four­teen animals could make so little noise, but the track that they followed, which led in the general direction of a purported cave-entrance, was ankle-deep in a layer of pine needles. They proceeded at an ambling walk, and not just to save the horses.

Up at the head of the string, Noet rode with his head slightly cocked, listening. Behind him, Shalvan concentrated on peer­ing through the mist and rain. At the rear of the train, Halean and Resso shared the same duties.

Beyond the omnipresent sounds of rain plopping onto their capes, into the needle-bed, trickling down trunks, and dripping onto leaves, there were other sounds of life that Kyrtian took to be good signs that nothing else was stalking them. Once the crows got used to their presence, the birds stopped making alarm-calls and went back to their crow-business with only an occasional appearance as if to take note of their progress. Un­expected showers of droplets heralded the passage of small birds through the branches, and little rustles betrayed the pas­sage of those plump little squirrels and rabbits.

By mid-afternoon, Kyrtian knew his men were looking for a place to stop and make camp for the night. Already there was a change in the quality of light under these trees, and his nerves were just a trifle on edge. He didn't know why, just that there was something ... odd....

Noet held up a hand, and the entire cavalcade stopped. Now Kyrtian knew what had him on edge—the absolute absence of any sound other than the dripping of water. Even the crows were gone.

'I don't like this,' Noet said, in a low voice, but one that car­ried easily in the silence. 'The horses and mules haven't no­ticed anything, but—'

'But maybe that's the point, if this is a hunter,' Resso replied. 'If it works by ambush and stealth.'

'Should we turn back?' Kyrtian asked.

'Yes—but slowly and carefully. Just turn your horses and mules in place, people. Shalvan and I will become rear-guard.

We'll stop back at that stream we crossed, and try following it for a while.'

'With any luck, it'll lead us to the caves anyway,' Hobie opined.

One by one, they turned their horses and drew the mules be­hind them, the rearmost first. Shalvan and Noet already had their heavy bows out with arrows nocked to the strings. And as for Kyrtian—

His fingers tingled with power. At any moment, he could, and would, launch a levin-bolt into whatever might emerge.

'It's out there, all right,' Shalvan said grimly, as Noet turned his horse and mule. 'It's up the trail—off to one side, in the bushes. Every so often the bush shakes, and from the move­ment, I'd say that it's about the size of a haywain. It's not mov­ing much, though. I don't know if that's because it's not certain of us, or if it's territorial.'

He turned his horse as Noet stood guard and they moved at the same leisurely pace they'd maintained all along, back up the way they had come. The back of Kyrtian's neck prickled. What would—whatever it was—think of its prey moving away from it?

'Uh-oh—' That was Resso, now in the lead, and the hair on Kyrtian's head literally stood straight up. Pacing deliberately towards them was—not one—an entire herd of alicorns. Their red eyes flashed, and the black stallion in the lead tossed his head with its wicked, slightly curved, spiral horn.

'Don't move,' Halean said in a strangled voice.

Kyrtian had no intention of moving. One alicorn was danger­ous; what was a herd? They were trapped, between a very visi­ble menace an invisible one.

The alicorn stallion snorted and moved towards them. Kyrt­ian wondered what was going on in those narrow