“Be careful,” Paedrin warned to the others. “Don’t touch the trees.”
Khiara and the Prince joined them at the summit, and together the four of them ventured down the other side while the others finished climbing the stones. Something flickered on the edge of Paedrin’s awareness and he shot a look to his left. Nothing. He ground his teeth, hating the exposed feeling that enveloped him. He saw the look on Hettie’s face as she stared into the deep woods, a drawn, anxious look on her mouth. He wanted to hold her tightly so much, whisper reassurances into her ear. But those words would be lies. He was anxious himself, the dread pall of the Scourgelands settling across his shoulders and burrowing into his soul.
Kiranrao appeared off to the right, a swirl of shadow magic that made him substanceless one moment to the next. The Romani stared at the woods with contempt.
“Let’s go,” he said. “No traps here. Nothing defies us.”
“A good omen,” Tyrus said from the top of the mound. “But I have no doubt that the denizens of this place know we are here now.”
The baying came from the woods behind them. They had passed into the lair of the Scourgelands unharmed so far, which Paedrin ascribed to Tyrus’s brilliance of moving in following the dust storm. But the hounds had discovered their scent at last.
He looked at Tyrus and saw his jaw tighten. “They can communicate with each other at great distances. They’ll surround us before attacking, so we have time still. Faster.”
“Will you use the Tay al-Ard?” Prince Aran asked.
“Not yet. Only if the situation is dire. Stay together and move fast. We’ll change directions often and see how they react. This way.”
Paedrin’s heart was hammering with anticipation. He was ready to fight, ready to kill. If Aboujaoude could master his squeamishness about death, then so could Paedrin. Strange, hulking boulders covered in moss stood in various points along the way, some sheared as if struck by lightning. The companions walked faster, trying to get away from the sound of the baying. Before much time had passed, the sound came again, also from behind them. It was answered by a call from another direction, ahead of them.
“That way,” Tyrus said, changing direction suddenly, bringing the others into step with him. They plunged through the trees, heedless of the noise they made. Some of the oak trees had branches so low that they had to hurdle them to pass. The pungent air grew thicker, not with the smell of renewing loam but with the fetid stink of dying flesh.
Another chorus of bays started from another side, joined by the other two from different points around them. The beasts were responding to their movements fluidly and the sound took on an eerily human sound, like the cry of a child. It made Paedrin shudder to his bones.
Tyrus cursed softly to himself. “Ahead . . . keep going!”
“We should find a position to defend ourselves,” Baylen suggested.
“The Cruithne is right,” Kiranrao joined. “We don’t want to be attacked on all fronts.”
“You don’t understand their tactics,” Tyrus snapped. “The baying is to unnerve us. When they attack, they will attack after it has gone silent.”
The sound was achieving its intended purpose, Paedrin realized. The howling came from every direction now and he thought he could see slips of shadows through the dark maze of trees.
“We’re heading right toward a Dryad tree,” Phae warned, pointing. “That way.”
“Follow me,” Tyrus said, altering the course immediately. They were going back the way they had come, circling the other direction. Paedrin was sure of it.
“We’re heading back, Tyrus?”
“Trust me,” he said. “Don’t trust your senses. We’ve shifted directions multiple times already. Without the sun, you have no way to trust your bearings. Just follow me.”
They plunged into the woods deeper and suddenly the baying stopped.
Everyone looked around in bewilderment and fear. The look on Annon’s face was full of dread and Paedrin noticed his friend’s fingers start to glow blue.
“Not yet,” Tyrus ordered. “Follow.”
“What about our defenses?” Baylen asked.
The Paracelsus turned on him. “You’re about to understand it firsthand, Baylen. There are no defensive positions. You stay alive. That’s all you think about.”
“How many do you think there are?” Kiranrao asked.
“We only heard their pack chiefs. I counted probably eight.”
“How many are in a pack?”