knee in the air, his back twisted as if he were lying on a rock, seeking to get comfortable. His breath came shallow.
He’ll probably die in that position, Rhianna thought.
One of the monsters hissed, and Rhianna spotted a shadow on her left. She whirled to face it. There was no more wood. She dared venture no farther.
But she was ready for them. She took a log from the fire and set it under the gunwale of the boat, then threw her spare clothing atop it.
Soon the boat was ablaze, creating a bonfire.
Now we can’t use it to get off the island, a small voice seemed to whisper to her in despair.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. If I don’t live through the night, nothing matters.
So she planted her saber in the sand and squatted beside it, her back to the fire, both hands gripping the hilt of her sword.
Her eyes grew heavy as she fought sleep.
Finally, she decided to rest her eyes for a moment, relieving them from the stinging smoke.
Only a moment, she told herself.
She closed them.
When they flew open, the sun was a pink ball out on the horizon, and the boat lay like the smoking corpse of some beast, its blackened ribs all turned to cinders.
Rhianna heard a cough, peered down at Sir Borenson. It was his coughing that had wakened her.
He was still breathing shallowly, but he peered at her through slitted eyes. “You made it,” he whispered. “Now get out of here. Bring help if you can.”
“I will,” she promised.
She dropped the saber at his side, in case he needed it. She didn’t want to lug the thing down the beach. So she took only her dirk, jogged to the beach where the sand was wet and firm, threw off her shoes, and ran.
Three miles or thirty? she wondered.
She ran, feet pounding the sand, heart hammering, ignoring the stitch in her side and the burning that came to her legs. She gripped her dirk firmly, just in case.
Run, she told herself. Nothing else matters.
Hours later, in the heat of the day, Myrrima, Captain Stalker, Smoker, and a dozen other crewmen marched up the beach. It was hours past noon when they found Rhianna’s blade lying in the surf, half buried in sand.
Myrrima picked it up, wiped it dry, and called out nervously, “Rhianna? Borenson? Is anyone here?”
There was no reply, only the soughing of the wind over the sands.
Smoker inhaled deeply from his long-handled pipe and peered toward the shore. “I cannot feel their heart fires,” he whispered. “They are either dead or far away from here.”
Stalker and the others searched for tracks, but found none. What the tide had not washed away, the morning wind had.
“Rhianna would not have left her weapon like this,” Myrrima said. She grieved, fearing the worst.
So they marched on for an hour, calling for Rhianna and Borenson, the despair gnawing at Myrrima’s gut, until at last they saw the black ribs of the boat lying in the sand, and found Borenson beside it.
He was pale and sweating, looking as if he would die. But he wept when he saw Rhianna’s blade and heard the news.
“Rhianna left just after dawn,” he told them. “She waited for daylight, so the strengi-saats wouldn’t attack, and then ran for help.”
With a heavy heart, Captain Stalker whispered, “My guess is that she did not wait long enough.”
32
Why should I weep for a man in prison, when I am held captive by my own desires?
Fallion clung to his rangit as it raced along an open road. The dusty road itself shone a steady silver-gray in the starlight, but the foliage beside the road ranged in hues. Open fields that basked in the moonlight were a darker gray, while in the shadowed woods the boles of trees were black slats beneath the foliage.
Strengi-saats, attracted by the sight of running beasts, raced beside them, but dared not attack the well- armed troops.
The land seemed dead. No dogs barked or raced out from the shadowed cottages at the sound of approaching strangers. No cattle bawled in the barns as if wanting to be milked. No smoke coiled lazily from chimneys.
The land had been swept clear of life. Even the sheep were gone.
Where? Fallion wondered. But he knew.
The strengi-saats had eaten everything that moved.
The ride was jarring. Within an hour, every bone in Fallion’s body seemed to ache, and he could hear Jaz whimpering on the rangit behind him.
They climbed hills and rode through shadowed vales. And in the cool hours of morning, when a chill wind had begun to numb his hands, they topped a mountain pass and looked down into a valley beyond.
At last, there was a city with smoke coming from chimneys. The valley below was black with fires, choked with them, and in the silver moonlight, he could see masses of men-or something that looked like men-toiling in the darkness.
It’s an army, he realized. An army hidden here at the edge of the world.
And what an army!
As the rangits bounded down the slopes with renewed energy, eager to be home, they passed fortified bulwarks and deep trenches, until at last they reached the encampments. Fallion soon saw that what he’d thought to be cottages were in fact tents. What he’d taken to be hearth fires were forges, burning in the open air.
Hammers rang in the night, and manlike creatures called out with strange groaning cries.
As he neared, he saw creatures with warty gray skin scampering about on their knuckles, bringing fuel for the forges. Others were dragging logs down from the hills, denuding the mountainsides.
They stared up at him as he passed, and their gazes chilled Fallion to the bone. The creatures were not human, he was sure. There was no joy in their eyes, no sadness or any other emotion that he could name.
Just deadness, yawning emptiness.
At the forges he saw workmen, some Bright Ones, some gray men, hammering blades, fashioning helms and axes.
They’re preparing for war, Fallion realized, but with whom?
And quickly he figured it out. Once, long ago, in days so far past they seemed to be legend, black ships had sailed from the west, surprising the folk of Mystarria.
The ships carried the toth, and their assault had nearly decimated the world.
The creatures hammering out weapons in this dark vale would be far more dangerous than toth, Fallion suspected. They formed the heart of an army from the netherworld.
There would be men who would join their cause, Fallion knew, men like those that had ridden with King Anders-mercenary warlords from the north, embittered nobles from minor houses, cruel and cunning men eager for a profit.
Fallion tried to guess how large the army might be. Two hundred thousand? Five hundred? He could not guess. The unending city sprawled across the valley, rose into nearby hills, and spread beyond them for unguessed distances.
