“Adan?” Kassian tried to get through to him, but he had clenched his fist and curled up into a ball at their feet.
A distant sound, similar to that of a tree being felled, reached them all, turning three pairs of eyes to the stalactite sky. A burning branch was snapping and tumbling through the canopy.
“We need to go!” Gideon warned.
“Agreed!” Vighon replied, bending down to pick up Adan.
“Leave him to me.” Kassian retrieved his wand from its holster and pointed it at the Drake. A simple levitation spell raised Adan from the ground and gave the Keeper complete control over his direction. Navigating the large roots was trickier on their return journey, but it wasn’t long before they were passing through to a familiar reality.
In the gloom of the pit, Gideon crouched down beside the injured Drake. “Adan?” At some point on their journey, he had passed out. As he lay limp in the dirt, the old master gripped the wrist of his wounded hand and held it up for them to see.
The king narrowed his eyes. “What do you make of it?”
Kassian took in the detail with grave concern. Every inch of Adan’s hand resembled the bark of the white tree.
“I don’t know,” Gideon voiced. “But it’s not good.”
28
On the Hunt
In the wake of mid-afternoon, after winter’s snowfall had further graced the plains, Doran and Asher had put enough distance between them and The Rebellion that the sprawling camp was long lost to sight. Journeying south, astride horse and Warhog, they were the only ones to have made tracks in the snow. Thick clouds had rolled in and fresh powder had wiped away any trace of the wolf.
The rangers had only their instincts where the monsters of the world were concerned.
Agreeing that the Werewolf would feel vulnerable in unknown land, and wish to get as far away from the ruckus of The Rebellion as possible, Asher and Doran had cut a straight line south of the battlefield. Added to a sense of vulnerability, the beast’s injuries would only spur it on to seek shelter in the wooded land south of The Moonlit Plains.
This land was blemished with rocky outcroppings and forests that had taken root centuries past. Weaving between them all was The Selk Road, a path that would take any traveller to the major cities and towns of Illian. Finding it in the plains, between the dotted forests, was unlikely in winter and following it was even harder as the snows took hold. Such had been the tale of one unlucky merchant who had brought his cart to a halt on the road and tried to make camp.
Doran took it all in from left to right, his imagination putting the scene together in all its violent detail. The cart was beyond repair, the crusted wood splintered from one end to the other where something large had assaulted it. Just off from the road, the merchant himself lay strewn across the ground, half buried in snow. At least part of him was. There were other parts of him further away.
“Well, it wasn’t the cold that killed him,” Doran remarked.
“Nor his horse,” Asher said gruffly.
The son of Dorain followed his companion’s gaze to the south-west. There he saw a larger lump on the ground, though he could only assume it had been the merchant’s horse given the state it was left in.
“It ain’ fresh,” Doran stated. “Two days I reckon. Probably the first thing the wolf came across.”
Asher didn’t disagree which, in Doran’s experience, meant he agreed.
“Speak yer mind, old man.”
Asher drew a line with his hand from the cart to the dead horse. “The wolf dragged it away, likely until it got tired.” The ranger pointed to the tree line of a dense forest south-west of their position. “From here, that’s the closest source of shelter, and the wolf would have had no problem seeing it in the dark.”
It was a reasonable assessment of the situation. “Let’s go then.” Doran pulled on his reins and guided Pig towards the wall of trees. They left the remains behind and crossed the land until they were confronted by the towering pines.
Doran scrutinised the trees, catching sight of a rocky peak somewhere in the heart of the forest. “What are ye thinkin’?” he asked of his companion.
Asher adjusted himself in his saddle and looked up. It wasn’t the darkening clouds, however, that drew his focus. Avandriell was gliding around in a large circle, her wings fanned out beside her. The young dragon let out a single squawk before tucking her wings in and diving down towards the trees.
“What is it?” Doran enquired.
“Blood.”
Asher’s response pushed Doran’s eyebrow into his forehead. “She told ye that? I thought ye weren’, ye know, speakin’.”
“Trust me. She’s found blood.” Without further explanation, Asher guided his horse between the trees and into the forest.
“I never thought I’d see the day ye got more mysterious,” Doran chuntered to himself.
Trailing Asher, Doran soon heard Avandriell as her claws danced across the forest floor. It was only after the ranger directed his horse round to the left that the dwarf got a good look at the scene. It was certainly gruesome and Doran could see why the dragon had been attracted to it.
“Is that a bear?” As he asked the question, his eye wandered up a nearby tree, following the blood and gore that splattered half the trunk.
Asher climbed down from his horse. “It was.”
The son of Dorain dismounted and joined the investigation. “Eviscerated,” he quickly surmised after inspecting the ghastly state of the bear’s midriff. He pulled a dagger from his belt and raised one of the rib bones to better see it in the gloom of the forest. “Large teeth marks on the bone,” he reported. Moving on to a furry patch, just below the bear’s savaged head, the dwarf examined a raking wound that had cut through to the muscle. “There’s not much round these parts that could do this to a bear.
