another hunting cry rose to her left, and oh so faintly, almost as if she imagined it, a third cry farther up in the hills.
The moon was rising, huge and full out over the ocean behind them. Rhianna searched across the beaches for sight of any shadows in the coarse grass, any dark patches where a strengi-saat might hide, but she could see nothing.
The creatures did not like open spaces.
Palm trees rose up ahead. There, giant ferns shadowed the ground, and vines corkscrewed up among the foliage. It was a jungle. The strengi-saats could be anywhere in there.
Borenson crept toward the children, had them huddle together, and put a big hand on Rhianna’s shoulder comfortingly as he whispered, “All right. This is as far as we go tonight.”
“What’s wrong?” Jaz asked. “What’s going on?”
“We’ll turn the boat over,” Borenson whispered. “Rhianna, I want you and Fallion to crawl under it, use it for a shelter, and get some sleep. I’ll keep guard out here.”
“What’s going on?” Jaz demanded again.
Borenson gave him a look, warning him to be silent, and whispered, “Now, I’ve a question for you. I’m thinking that it might be good to have a fire. It keeps most animals away. But it will also light up this beach for miles, and show us up to anyone or anything that’s out there.”
So he wanted a vote. He looked mainly at Rhianna though, as if the choice were hers. He knew that she was terrified of the dark.
Each time that a strengi-saat approached, it brought the night with it, and she had learned to be afraid.
She had to balance the hope that a fire would give her with other very real dangers, though. Shadoath’s people were supposed to live on this island. Were any of them left? How long could they survive if strengi-saats were about?
Could it be that Shadoath somehow controlled the monsters?
Rhianna wasn’t sure.
“A fire,” Fallion suggested. He was nervous, shifting from foot to foot. “A small one. I can build a tiny one, and keep it small, until the moment we need it.”
Borenson peered at Fallion, measuring him. “Are you sure you can handle it?”
Rhianna wasn’t sure what he meant. Could Fallion keep a small fire going, or was he asking something more?
Fallion was a flameweaver, Rhianna knew. And Myrrima had fought against Fallion’s training. She thought that he was too young for it, and fire was too seductive. Would Fallion be tempted to trade his humanity for Fire?
That’s the question that Borenson is really asking, Rhianna decided. He doesn’t want to bring Fallion to this beach as a child, only to watch him become an immolator.
“I can control it,” Fallion said. But Rhianna could see that he was worried.
He needs the fire as much as I do, she decided.
And so they flipped the boat over, and Rhianna and Fallion scooted beneath it. Borenson told Jaz, “Look around here, bring over some driftwood and put it in piles, along with some dry grass, so we can set it afire at need.”
So Borenson and Jaz remained outside, and Fallion put his arm around Rhianna and they lay together.
They had not been lying for more than a few seconds before the fire started.
Fallion didn’t wait for his brother to bring some dry grasses or driftwood. The fire just seemed to sprout from the empty air, as if the heat were so great that it could not be contained.
It was a small fire, as promised. A tiny flame no bigger than a candle; Rhianna saw that it had formed on a twig of driftwood that Fallion had found in the dark.
But it was enough. It gave them some hope.
The curve of the gunwales on the boat let them see out a bit, to where Borenson’s feet marched past nervously.
Rhianna trembled in fear, her heart fluttering madly.
Fallion whispered, “How did strengi-saats get here? Asgaroth opened the gate between worlds months ago, thousands of miles from here. Did they come by ship?”
“They couldn’t have been brought by ship,” Rhianna decided. “We’re too far from there. Besides, the strengi- saats that caught me were running wild.”
So Shadoath must have summoned her own monsters. But why? Why would she loose them upon an island, one where she kept her warriors?
“They’re part of her army,” Fallion whispered as if she had asked the question aloud. She realized that he was drawing upon his powers; he’d seen into her mind. “They’re her night sentries. Darker things stir in the hills.”
She turned, just enough to see his face. His eyes were wild, his face pale and drawn. Sweat was rolling from his brow, and he peered intently at his little flame, as if the fire were showing him things.
What has Smoker been teaching him? Rhianna wondered. He hasn’t been training for long. Is he really that gifted as a flameweaver, or is it desperation that makes him strong?
It could have just been the tiny fire, but it seemed to Rhianna as if there were too much light in Fallion’s pupils, as if distant stars were captured in his eyes.
29
Knowing when to strike and when to hold still, that is half a battle.
Stalker took the captain’s chair at the inn. It was a sloppy dive called the Merry Jig, one that he remembered well. It was famous for featuring sour ale to go with its overcooked fowl, all served by wenches so ugly that they threatened to give womanhood in general a bad name. But the inn did have one redeeming feature: it had kept musicians playing nightly now for over a hundred years.
Once a lively place, it had apparently fallen on hard times. The serving wenches were gone, replaced by a couple of lads with greasy hair and bad teeth. The other ships lying in the harbor apparently didn’t have crew ashore, for the establishment was empty of all but the most hardened of customers-a pair of the drunkards.
“Let’s have some ale, and some of your lousy bird for dinner!” Stalker shouted as soon as he took his seat, waving his hand in general so that the lads would know that he was buying for the whole crew. He waited sullenly.
His men were coming ashore in waves, a dozen at a time rowing across in the ship’s boats. It would take the better part of an hour to unload.
Just after the fourth shore boat had unloaded, bringing some of the guests from the ship-which included Myrrima, the babe in her arms and her brood of children clinging to her robe, Shadoath arrived.
Shadoath strode into the inn wearing no armor, for she needed none. She was a Runelord at the height of her power. Her speed and her grace served as her armor.
Shadoath was a petite woman of tremendous beauty. It was as if sunlight had entered the room, all somehow captured and subdued beneath a surface that glowed like a black pearl. She held her back straight, eyes high, a study in poise.
Her beauty contrasted greatly with the creatures that followed on her heals. They were not apes, at least not of any variety that Stalker had ever seen. They were hairless, with warty gray skin as thick as a warthog’s, and arms so long that they walked on their knuckles. They had no ears that he could see, just dark circles, tympanums
