“Celia. She’s why I’m here. I need to find her and bring her home.”
Gan-Rowe turned his sightless eyes to Solomon. “I think there is more to your story than that.”
“There is.” He told the elder Mar-trollid about his relationship with Celia, not leaving out any of the messier details. “I failed,” he said when he finished. “Failed in my duty to my own House, failed in my promise to Florian, and failed to protect her.”
“And now?”
“Now, I’ll do what I can to atone.”
“That’s all it is?”
Solomon laughed. “You’re too perceptive. No, that’s not all. I love her. More than I’ve ever loved anything.”
Gan-Rowe nodded. “She was here, as we told you. She stayed with us for a couple of days, and then moved onward when we told her of the gate.”
“Gate?”
“The way back to the Greenweald, or to anywhere else, from this world.”
“Ah, so she was trying to get home herself.” Solomon felt a flash of pride at that. When he first met Celia she was young, headstrong and silly. Very much the pampered daughter of a wealthy House. As their relationship grew, so did she. Now, when she was literally cast into an unfamiliar world, she took the initiative and didn’t wait around for rescue.
“Indeed. She asked us for advice on how to go about it. We told her of the gate, in the town of Dunfield, and she journeyed there, or at least that way. I’m afraid I have no way to tell you if she arrived there safely or not. The Mar-trollid do not visit that town any longer.”
“Why is that?”
Gan-Rowe shifted his bulk. “It has changed over the last few years. What was once a vibrant, friendly town has become a dark and dangerous place, unwelcoming to outsiders and feeding on its own decay.”
“Forgive me,” Solomon said, “but then why would you send her there by herself?”
“It’s not the way of the Mar-trollid to interfere with that which others seek. Besides, do you think we could have stopped her?”
“No, I suppose you couldn’t have. I need to go there, too. Will you point me in the right direction?”
“Of course. But stay long enough to break your fast with us, Gan-Solomon. My daughter will brew a tea that will fortify you on your journey, and it will be easier to show you the landmarks in the full light of day.”
Part of Solomon felt like leaping up and running from the wagon, making it to Celia before anything could happen to her. Another part, a larger one, recognized the wisdom of Gan-Rowes suggestion. Traveling in a strange land by dark could be done, but it would be slower. Rested, well-fed, directed, and able to see, he’d make much better time.
“Thank you again for your hospitality, Gan-Rowe.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Solomon turned to help Gan-Rowe down the steps of his wagon, but the large creature needed no assistance. He stepped down gracefully and with a surety that belied his sightlessness. The camp was starting to come into focus in the dim light of predawn.
They were walking toward a fire that was being kindled in the center of the camp when a noise came from another wagon. High-pitched and wavering, it was like nothing that Solomon had heard before.
“What is that?” he asked.
Gan-Rowe was already moving toward the sound. “Trouble,” he said. “Someone is in distress.”
Solomon didn’t wait to hear any more. He ran toward the keening wail, loosening his sword.
The wagon that the noise was coming from was large as all of the Mar-trollids’ were, with steps up the back leading to a sturdy door. Only this one’s door was shattered, the remnants hanging from twisted iron hinges. From inside came the sounds of a struggle, the scream of someone in pain again and a strange whistling noise.
Bounding up the stairs, Solomon paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside, but there was no need.
A figure dressed all in white, larger than Solomon but not nearly the size of the Mar-trollid, had a hold of the wagon’s occupant and was attempting to drag her toward the door. The Mar-trollid pulled back and screamed again when the figure in white lashed out, slamming its fist into the creature’s side, silencing her by stealing her breath.
Solomon jumped forward, punching at the back of the thing’s head. A blow that should have stunned it and let Solomon get between it and the Mar-trollid. From there, Solomon could force it back out the door, where he could draw his sword and fight it without danger to the Mar-trollid female.
His blow had almost no effect. The figure in white’s head snapped forward an inch or so, and Solomon’s hand blazed in agony. It was like punching a slab of old, hard wood and made the same type of sound.
It was enough to get the thing’s attention, though. It turned a featureless white mask to Solomon. He couldn’t see any string that tied it to the head, or any other way it was attached. There were no eye holes, no openings for the mouth or nose for the figure to breath from. Yet, Solomon felt that it saw him perfectly clearly.
It was disorienting, but Solomon rallied quickly. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t going to take the Mar-trollid woman anywhere.
Instead of trying for another punch, Solomon leapt forward and wrapped his arms around the large thing, squeezing tightly. There was very little give to it, again reminding Solomon of the texture of wood. But he wasn’t trying to squeeze the breath from it.
He planted his feet, and with a grunt of effort, lifted it, turning and slamming it to the floor of wagon. A brief whistle came from inside the mask, then it was climbing to
