Page 6 of HeartTorn

“Nothing,” Taar answers with a sharpness that belies the truth. I consider pressing him for answers; then again, if something horrible is about to happen, perhaps it would be better to let him focus on being his stoic warrior-self. Grudgingly I bite my tongue.

Another swift exchange of song, and Taar urges Elydark forward. My eyes keep darting from the wood on our right backto the awful precipice on our left. It’s all too easy to imagine sudden monstrous forms emerging from that mist to swallow us whole. Is it really necessary for us to ride quite so near the edge? Despite myself, I can’t help leaning back against the solid chest behind me, taking comfort in Taar’s broad presence. Encircled in his arms, I feel relatively safe. Nonetheless my fingers can’t help seeking the knife sheathed at my belt, tracing the little gold jewel on the hilt. Not that I’ve got any real experience with weaponry; but I feel braver knowing it’s there.

Taar and the unicorn grow more silent the nearer we come to that rickety bridge. Are we actually supposed to cross that thing? It looks ready to collapse at a breath of wind, and Elydark, though light-footed, is bigger than the biggest draft horse I’ve ever seen. Add the combined weight of me and my warlord husband, and there’s no way in any of the nine hells we’re making it across. Even if we did, what awaits through that awful mist? All the stories of Cruor I’ve been told over the years clutter my head at once, a jumbled confusion of nightmares. While Taar did not confirm any such stories last night when he spoke of his homeland, neither did he deny them.

Gods help me, how did I let myself get talked into this whole mad plan?

Movement explodes on my right.

Though just moments before I was on alert, waiting for something like this to happen, I’m caught unawares. A yelp bursts from my lips, but it’s nearly drowned by the wailing of this mad creature which throws itself at us in a blur of flailing limbs and flashing steel.

Elydark is not easily startled, however. The great unicorn pivots so delicately on his massive hooves, it shouldn’t even be possible. The next thing I know, he lowers his head and lunges in a surge of powerful muscle, driving his horn straight into the chest of the berserker. I find myself lurched forward over thesaddle pommel, staring down the line of the unicorn’s bowed neck, straight into the face of a dead man.

Only he’s not dead. Or not quite.

He stands with Elydark’s horn piercing his sternum, protruding between his shoulder blades. He looks down at it, all wild rage vanished in a moment of utter blankness. Sparce black hair falls from a skull-like scalp across bare shoulders, wafting softly as he tilts his head to one side. He wears a crimson cloak, but beneath its folds, his torso is naked save for pauldrons in a style I recognize: it’s the same armor Taar donned for his duel with Lurodos. His sword is similar as well, a distinctly Licornyn blade. He lets his sword-arm drop slightly, his stance curiously relaxed for a man newly impaled.

He looks up. His gaze is unseeing, vacant. Rotted flesh eats away at what may have once been fine features, while pale eyes sag in hollow sockets. His mouth is a leering scar.

Then, galvanized with sudden energy, he grabs hold of Elydark’s horn and yanks his body free. I see the awful gash, but no sign of blood or gore. Instead a writhing red light seems to fill up that space like multistranded webbing. My eyes can make no sense of it, but my ears are filled with an awful un-song.

Elydark staggers back, the dread I sensed in him before ringing louder than ever.

“Ilanthor,” Taar says, his voice oddly strangled, close to my ear. “Is that you?”

The awful creature merely backs away, energy fled from his limbs. He sways where he stands, like a hollowed-out tree, ready to topple at the slightest breath of wind.

The underbrush stirs. Two more crimson-cloaked figures emerge from the forest, one male, one female. The man’s rotten face is equally devoid of all life or expression. But the woman steps a little forward from the other two, and, to my horror, her sagging jaw twists into an approximation of a smile.

“Hail, Taarthalor,Luinarof Licorna!” she cries, raising a gray hand in salute. Like the others, she wears Licornyn armor under her cloak. Her torso is almost as naked as the men’s, with only a swash of leather binding her breasts. Her lusterless hair is braided back from her face. She seems older than the other two, though it’s difficult to say through the decay. Her awful, lifeless eyes turn to fix on me. “And what is this?” she demands, pointing with her sword. “Are the rumors true after all? Has our braveluinarfinally chosen hismaelar?To think Shanaera should find herself supplanted by a human bride! What will the elders think?”

“Naerel,” Taar breathes the name, his rough voice unable to disguise a slight tremble. “Morinar.” He utters a word that sounds almost like a prayer. Then: “How can this be? You’re . . . you’re . . .”

“Dead?” the woman supplies, casting a glance at her two companions, who offer no reaction. The hole in the first man’s chest has entirely vanished now, leaving behind not even a scar. Strange that this healing magic doesn’t seem to affect the rotten flesh sagging from his bones. “Indeed, belovedluinar.Dead and suffering beyond all comprehension. Thanks for noticing!”

I glance up, try to catch a glimpse of Taar’s face. He’s gone strangely pale, his eyes white-circled, his lips curled back in a disbelieving snarl. My gods-gift detects Elydark singing some warning into his head, but he pays it no heed. “What are you doing here?” he demands, his sword arm lowering more than I like.

“Waiting for you, of course. We have a message. From Shanaera.”

“Shanaera?” There’s something in the way Taar speaks that name that sends a stab straight to my heart. It’s like a song, almost—a song once beautiful, but broken and remade as a lament. “Is she here?”

“No,” the woman—Naerel, I think—replies. “But she left behind a token by which you may know her.”

She tosses something at Taar. It winks like a coin in the strange green light of the forest. His hand darts forth to snatch it midair. I catch no more than a glimpse of the object when he briefly uncurls his fingers. It’s a ring—delicate leaves of silver holding a golden stone, not unlike the stone in the knife at my belt.

Taar closes his hand quickly, knuckles whitening. “Where is she?”

“Not rotting on the Agandaur Fields, you may be pleased to know,” Naerel answers with a giggle that makes my skin crawl.

“Shakh,” Taar growls. I don’t have to understand his language to recognize an expletive. Elydark tosses his head, partially rearing up on his hindlegs. I catch hold of his mane for balance. “Tell me,” Taar demands, when the unicorn’s forefeet hit the ground again. “Tell me where she is.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Naeral shows her blackened gums in a smile. “She’ll find you soon enough. She has great hopes for you, dearluinar.”

Elydark shifts his weight from hoof to hoof. I see a ripple of fire flare along his neck. Gods spare me, is he about to burst into flame? He’ll burn me alive if he does.

“It was you.” Taar’s sword arm rises once more as he points it at each of the dead creatures by turn. “It was you we fought in the valley below the temple. You are working with the Miphates!”

Elydark’s muscles bunch. A wordless command sings from Taar to the beast, and I have just enough presence of mind to grab hold of the pommel before the unicorn lunges. His song-roar mingles with the bellow which bursts from Taar’s throat as he swings his blade at the nearest dead man. Though his eyes remain blank, his head heavy, the man steps back at the lastsecond, narrowly avoiding the blow, which should have cleaved his head from his shoulders. With a nimble turn of carrion limbs, he slashes with his own blade, cutting across Elydark’s flank. The unicorn screams, staggers, and I find myself thrown from the saddle, tumbling to the dirt.

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