Nizeera padded up next to him. They are closing quickly. Something leads them toward us. Dark spirits.
Annon frowned, feeling his stomach churn with dread. He quickened his pace and noticed the others struggling to keep up. He was used to roaming the wilds, but never with spear-carrying nomads hunting him. Even the night sky could not hide the row of mountains in the northern horizon, the peaks gleaming with crags and ice. They had left Silvandom, skirting around the lake on the northern edge of the woods, and ventured into the grasslands separating the kingdoms from Boeotia. Lukias told them their destination was in the mountains north of the island city. It was unfamiliar country to Annon, who had never ventured farther north than Kenatos in his life. He had heard that Druidecht were welcome in Boeotia, but their disguises as Rikes of Seithrall would negate any friendliness his talisman would provide.
Annon and Lukias had struck an interesting comradeship along the way. The Rike was constantly amazed at Annon’s ability to commune with nature and the evidences of the spirits of Mirrowen that were manifest around them. Lukias had watched Annon summon spirits to guide them, providing insights into the land, the location of wild berries or fresh game or roots. He was fascinated with Druidecht lore and continued to ask questions, though Annon did not do much to satisfy his curiosity. Much of the Druidecht training was verbal, passed on from mentor to student to be memorized and repeated—such as the names of spirits, their powers, and what persuaded them to aid or injure mortals. It was never allowed to be written down and Annon did not trust the Rike with the secret knowledge of how to commune with Mirrowen. It was enough that he could demonstrate the power to achieve Lukias’s admiration.
Annon hoped that another day’s walk would put them in reach of the mountain passes. That would bring them closer to Basilides, where Tyrus had implored him to go. Annon had no idea how he was going to infiltrate the lair of the oracle, especially knowing that the Arch-Rike’s minions would be expecting him. He hoped that having Lukias on their side would help. He prepared himself, though, for betrayal.
Nizeera growled softly. They are running now. I hear their approach.
Annon’s throat constricted. He licked his lips. “They are gaining on us,” he said softly to the others. “They know we’re here and they’ll likely try to kill us.”
“How do you know this?” Lukias demanded. He cast around vigorously. “I hear nothing.”
“What should we do, Annon?” Khiara asked. “Do we stand and fight them? I will not kill but I can harm them.”
“Foolish to face them in the open like this,” Erasmus said. “They are trained hunters and survivors. How many are there?”
Annon sent out a mental thought to one of the spirits, who zigzagged away like a moth trailing green motes of dust. He shook his head. “We slept too long. It was not safe resting so near their territory.”
“How many?” Erasmus pressed anxiously, probably wanting to comment on the odds of their surviving the night. There was a flash of light in the distance behind them. Annon felt a sick queasiness. The moth-spirit would not be returning.
“I don’t know. To the trees over there,” Annon said, pointing. “They are a scraggly bunch but at least it will provide some cover. Khiara, you float to the upper branches and wait there, ready to come down. I will try to startle them away.”
“How?” Lukias asked. “The fireblood?”
Annon nodded. “Erasmus. You stay hidden and look for opportunities to strike. Nizeera and I will face them as we have before.” He glanced at Lukias. “You seem proficient with a blade. Are you?”
“I know all of a man’s vulnerable spots,” he replied confidently. “I will stand with you. I have warred against Boeotians before. They are fearsome but they can be killed.”
“Hurry then,” Annon said, breaking into a run toward the copse of ash trees. His heart shuddered inside his chest, swelling with emotion. He remembered perfectly the battle where he had faced them before. Every part of it was burned into his mind, every word that had been spoken. Would any of those memories benefit him now? Reeder had died facing the Boeotians at the Dryad tree in Silvandom. Annon did not want any of his companions to meet their fate here.
They reached the ash trees quickly and entered the copse silently, moving through the skeletal limbs. Annon searched for a defensive position, quickly surveying the ground. His search was interrupted by the sound of running men, panting in the darkness behind them.