trembling.
“Hush.” He stroked her neck, but she didn’t gentle.
His frown deepened, his gaze shooting left and right. But the plains were quiet. No breeze stirred. The sky was an empty pale blue overhead.
And then, from the corner of his eye, Tomson caught movement.
He spun, startling the horse forward a pace before his hand closed down on the bridle to hold her. But there was nothing there, nothing visible-
Yet something had changed. Twenty paces away, a section of the unplowed grasses had caved in, as if a giant had poked his finger into the ground.
He straightened, patting the horse’s neck again as he shifted forward. His grip tightened on the handle of the knife. Sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes and he scrubbed it away hastily. More sweat slicked his shirt to his back. The mild spring day suddenly seemed too warm.
He halted a step away from the hole. Earth fell from its edge, dangling by strands of grass a moment before breaking free. He hesitated, then knelt, leaning forward, knife held before him protectively.
The hole had no bottom. It descended into darkness, sunlight flaring down one side, exposed roots jutting from the sides of earth like worms. He breathed in deeply, smelled loam and damp grass, and underneath that a heady scent, like that of a wet muskrat.
Movement. Deep down in the earth.
He leaned farther forward, eyes narrowing-
And then his horse shrieked.
He lurched backward, heart thudding in his chest so hard he gasped and clutched at his shirt with the hand holding the knife. Falling to the ground on his side, he shoved hard with his feet, scrambling backward even as he felt the dirt at the edge of the hole give way. He fell onto his back and rolled, his horse shrieking the entire time. She reared, still tethered to the plow, feet kicking as she shook herself in fear. When she landed, her legs sank into the ground as if it were made of mud, all the way up to her knees.
She shrieked again, began kicking and thrashing, the plow jerking behind her as she tried to back up. Mud churned; through the flying grass and dirt Tomson saw blood streaking the animal’s forelegs, splattering high enough to hit her belly. Bile rose to the back of his throat, but terror clamped down hard on his chest. He watched in horror as his horse shrieked a third time, the sound so like a woman’s scream that he cringed as it grated across his shoulders and down his spine. The horse redoubled her effort to free herself from the loose soil, but she merely sank deeper, her legs caught beneath the ground, until her belly rested against the earth.
And then Tomson screamed. From the churned earth on either side of the animal, claws reached up and raked across the horse’s sides, flesh parting and blood spilling into the already softened soil. His horse screamed again, but the sound held no strength, her head already sagging forward as the ground continued to surge around her body. Tomson’s voice shattered the stillness of the rolling plains as completely as his horse’s had a moment before. Beneath his own ragged scream, beneath the low rumble of moving earth, he heard another sound, a soft sound, like the dry scratching of leaves. If he could only stop screaming, he thought he might be able to make out words.
But he didn’t stop. When his horse’s head fell to the ground and the dry hiss of near conversation escalated, he rolled onto his stomach and lurched to his feet. He staggered three steps, intent on reaching the hollowed-out knoll that he’d made his home, but on the fourth step his leg sank into the soil.
The sudden loss of stability cut his screams short as he collapsed to his hands. He clutched at the sodden grass, gasped once-
Then felt claws sink into his calf muscles and tug sharply down.
He hadn’t thought he could scream any louder than before, but he did.
Jerking his leg free, hearing a frustrated hiss from beneath the ground, he scrambled forward on hands and knees, panting, tears streaking his face, sobs escaping in the hitched breath between screams. But twenty paces later the ground gave way completely and he plunged beneath the earth.
His screams lasted another ten minutes, until they were drowned out by the soft hiss of dried leaves. Five minutes later even that faded.
Silence descended on the plains, where the handles of a plow jutted into freshly churned, bloody earth.
“Why are we waiting here?”
Colin didn’t turn toward Siobhaen, although he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized that Eraeth had. He didn’t need to look to know there would be a scowl on Eraeth’s face. The two had squabbled with each other their entire journey from Artillien, across the Rhyssal, Baene, and Ionaen House lands, and onto the edge of the dwarren territory simply called the Lands. No actual confrontations. But plenty of heated glares, half- muttered comments, and the occasional barb.
Colin had considered abandoning them both on multiple occasions, simply slowing time and escaping. The constant bitterness and suspicion was draining.
“We are waiting here on the edge of Alvritshai lands because of the Accord the Alvritshai and humans made with the dwarren,” he said patiently, reaching forward to stroke the neck of his mount. “The Alvritshai agreed to respect the Lands, the Tamaell himself performing the rituals at the Escarpment and offering a formal apology to the dwarren and their gods. The Accord stipulates that no one, human or Alvritshai, may enter the Lands without an accompanying dwarren escort or the express permission of the Cochen.”
He turned to face Siobhaen, the young member of the Flame staring out across the dwarren plains, half standing in her saddle, her face scrunched up with doubt. He suddenly realized that Siobhaen’s journey to the White Wastes had likely been as far from Caercaern and her own House lands as she’d ever been. But this was different.
They were wandering into occupied territory now.
“You are too impatient,” he said. “We haven’t been waiting long.”
“But what are we waiting for?”
“The dwarren.”
Her eyes widened. “But it could take days for them to see us! We aren’t even on a road!”
“There are no roads in the Lands. At least, not what you think of as roads. The dwarren believe permanent roads are destructive to the Lands. And the dwarren have already seen us. An escort is on its way.”
Siobhaen glared out at the plains in clear disbelief. “I see no one.”
But even as she spoke, a group of Riders crested a far ridge and swept down its near side. The group-no more than five in strength-vanished beneath another obstructing fold in the land.
Siobhaen gaped.
“The dwarren have watchers everywhere,” Colin explained. “Even though you may not see them.”
They waited, Siobhaen’s tension rising as the dwarren drew nearer, her mount picking up on her uneasiness, huffing and skittering where it stood. She reached down distractedly to calm it. When the five Riders drew close enough that they could hear the gaezels’ hooves, her hand twitched toward her cattan, but she jerked it back with a tight frown.
The dwarren drew up twenty paces distant. Each rode one of the tawny gaezels, the lithe animals smaller than a horse but with wicked looking horns reaching back from their heads. Their sides were streaked with patches of white-and-yellow coloring. The dwarren sat astride saddles, copied from those introduced by the settlers from Andover, who brought the first horses to Wrath Suvane with them, but they didn’t use reins; they controlled the gaezels using their horns.
The leader of the dwarren glared at them all, then focused his gaze on Colin. A look of uncertainty crossed his face. All five were dressed in the leather armor of a Rider, their long beards threaded with beads and gold trinkets. Gold chains ran from earrings to their pierced noses, the leader with three chains, the others with only one. One of them bore the markings of a shaman.
The leader also wore a gold armband around his right forearm.
“Why do you wish to enter the lands of the Thousand Springs Clan? What business do you and the Alvritshai have with the dwarren?” he demanded in his own guttural language.
Colin nudged his horse forward a step, the dwarren tensing. “My name is Colin Patris Harten, known as Shaeveran. I’ve come, with an escort, to speak to the Cochen.”
