No. Not yet. It’s too soon.
He felt his daughter’s grip on his arm, pulling him momentarily back from the brink of utter despair. But he realized with growing sickness that it was already too late.
The madness and hallucinations would only get worse.
“The night has already fallen and the city bells of Kenatos are still ringing. There is word that an army of Boeotians has emerged from the hinterlands northward and is hastening to invade our shores. It is the biggest army they have mustered against us in all the recorded years since the founding of this city. What purpose could they have to throw away their lives against our defenses? What incomprehensible motive drives them? There are even rumors, which I can scarcely give credit to, that the Empress herself leads this force. The gates are shut and the fleet is drawing in to the quays. We are quite safe.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XVII
There was an unsettled look on Tyrus’s face that caused worry to fester inside Annon. Dusk settled over the massive depths of the Scourgelands, thickening the shadows and making every startling sound into a threat. He watched Tyrus from the corner of his eye, feeling his own sense of dread increase. The Weir had found their trail and begun the hunt.
“Why didn’t you use the Tay al-Ard when we faced the hounds?” Kiranrao demanded suddenly, his voice full of enmity.
“I use it as a last resort, Kiranrao. Don’t question my judgment.”
“Your judgment has brought us around in circles so far,” the Romani said coldly.
“If you know a better trail, by all means declare it. Otherwise be silent. They are getting closer.”
Tyrus was normally more patient with Kiranrao. There was a marked change in his tone to what he had used before. With night drawing closer, their troubles would only increase against beings that could see in the dark—or did not require eyes at all.
Do you hear them yet? Annon asked Nizeera in his mind.
Yes.
Annon felt a sensation of coldness enter his limbs. He tried to check his fear, but it was not possible. Tyrus’s story from his last foray into the Scourgelands conjured thoughts that were horrible to ponder.
How far away?
They are coming behind us on three sides, trying to converge their attack. They are fierce hunters, Druidecht. Stand ready.
He swallowed, glancing over at Tyrus and trying to meet his eye, but their leader was steadfastly focusing on the way ahead, dodging over crooked tree limbs and crossing the rugged terrain. The mesh of branches overhead would blot out the moon.
What kind of creatures are the Weir? Annon asked.
Nizeera was quiet.
Nizeera?
They are much larger than the hounds of Aunwynn, the Vecses. They are powerful and subtle, able to blend their coats with glass-like magic that can render them nearly invisible. They are strong and swift, natural predators. The dust from their pelt is poisonous to mortals, making wounds difficult to heal. They will often disable their prey and then drag them to their lair to feed.
Annon stumbled over a tree root, his mind filling with terror. Truly, Nizeera?
It is better to die quickly than be dragged off to their lair. I will protect you, Druidecht. I will protect you as well as I can. I sense your fear.
A loud wail came from the distance in the dark, discernible to all.
“They come,” Tyrus whispered hoarsely. He stopped, straining to listen. The echoing sounds of their adversaries started up in a chorus as other Weir began to yowl and moan. “They were waiting for daylight to fail,” he added angrily.
The sound of a cracking branch startled them. A huge limb crashed to the ground behind the group, as if some heavy animal had climbed into the trees. The sound of the crash was so near that they all started.
Mirrowen save us, Annon thought bleakly.
“Run,” Tyrus ordered and plunged into the darkness ahead.
The sound of their pursuers rose up in a cacophony of yowling, mewling sounds, the cracked leaves crunching and hissing. Shapes loped into the shadows, gone in an instant. Annon was unable to see them fully, but he could sense them closing in from behind, and he stumbled after Tyrus in the darkness, dreading to face the creatures hunting their steps.
There was a sound of warning, a shout of surprise, and then splashing.
Annon’s boots plunged into brackish waters. They had reached the edge of a pond, the surface covered with so many dead leaves that it hid the expanse of waters like an illusion of ground. Tyrus had stumbled into it first and warned the others, but Annon was quickly behind him and had plunged in next unwittingly.
“Hold!” Tyrus bellowed, his face dripping. “It’s a swamp. They’re herding us right into it.”