“An ill omen,” Futhark grumbled. “An ill omen, indeed.”
Bas
Night within the Shadow World was not much different from night in the world of daylight, at least insofar as appearances were concerned. It was the days that were different. During the day, the sun never showed itself in the world of shadow. It was like a heavily overcast and foggy day back in the world of light, with gray skies and mist perpetually floating just above the ground. At night, however, with the twisted trees and scrubby undergrowth camouflaged by darkness, one could almost think that it was any other place in Cerilia, save for the ghostly silence, occasionally broken by the cry of some … thing …
out in the darkness. And despite having journeyed through the Shadow World on previous occasions, Aedan could never quite grow accustomed to those sounds. Or to the deathly silence when they ceased. No crickets, no night birds … nothing. He did not know which was worse.
On previous expeditions through the Shadow World, they had always made camp at night, for the curious suspension of time in this unearthly place meant that there was no reason to conduct forced marches through the night. They could remain within the Shadow World for days or even weeks, and when they came back out into the world of light, only minutes or hours would have passed.
However, that was no reason to tarry. There were too many dangers in the Shadow World for that, and the longer they remained there, the more they risked.
When they made camp in the Shadow World, they kept bright fires burning and posted sentries around the perimeter of the camp, more than they would have in their world. And in the Shadow World, there was never any temptation for sentries to sleep on the watch. While the others warriors slept-always very lightly-the sentries on duty would remain wide awake, eyes always scanning the darkness just beyond the camp perimeter. These were lessons they had learned the hard way.
Once, Aedan recalled, during their first excursion into the Shadow World, a sentry had fallen asleep on watch. The others had been alerted by his frenzied screaming. The nearest sentries to his post were merely a score of yards away, but by the time they reached his picket, there was no sign of him. They never found him. He had simply disappeared without a trace, dragged off somewhere into the darkness.
No one knew by what. After that, there were never fewer than three sentries at any one picket, and the memory of what happened to that poor soul who had disappeared kept a fine edge on their alertness. No one ever fell asleep at his post again.
This time, however, the Army of Anuire, the famous Ghost Rangers of Emperor Roele, did not make camp. They kept marching through the night, lighting their way with torches. They would be visible for miles in the darkness, but that was less cause for concern than the inability to see whatever was around them. A good number of them had seen the ominous figure of the horseman on the ridge, and it had not taken long before word of the Cold Rider spread throughout the ranks.
Many of the troops had become friendly with the halflings that marched with them, and by nightfall, there wasn’t one of them who did not know what the Cold Rider represented. Aedan supposed there was nothing that could have been done about that. Though it was cause for unrest among the troops, at the same time, it would keep them on their toes. With men that were as tired and dispirited as they were, that was perhaps only for the best. They could not afford to relax their vigilance until they had passed back through the portal and reached Diemed.
They kept moving at a steady pace, with the emperor and his retinue leading the formation on their mounts, Aedan bearing Michael’s standard, and Sylvanna riding by his side just a few yards behind them.
The advance guard had been strengthened and pulled back, so that they were only a short distance in front of the main body, their torches clearly visible. The archers marched with arrows nocked in their drawn crossbows, and almost every man had his hand upon his sword hilt. The tension in the air was palpable.
How much farther? Aedan could not be sure. He did not know this territory as well as did the halfting scouts, but by the first gray light of morning-if one could truly call it lighthe felt they should have covered enough distance to be able to emerge just beyond the borders of the Spiderfell. Morning could not come soon enough.
As he rode at a slow walk, Aedan kept thinking about the apparition they had seen upon the ridge.
Just who or what was the Cold Rider? Could he be human, demihuman, or something else entirely?
How much of what the halfling said was literally true and how much was merely his belief?
Halflings were a strange lot. Over the past eight years, Aedan had come to know the halflings who marched with them, but there was still a great deal about them that he did not fully understand. Their beliefs, for one thing. They swore by the godsr at least Futhark and his scouts did-but Aedan had never seen halflings attend services at any of the temples. For that matter, there were many humans who never took part in religious services, but still had faith in the gods. With the natural tendency that halflings had to assin-fflate themselves into whatever culture was predominant in the places where they lived, it was difficult to tell what they really believed. And the
