Still, the idea of it—of her alone, locked inside that forlorn place with prowling nightdrakes just outside—consumed his thoughts. The danger she placed herself in, and the reasons for doing so. If only Hale hadn’t been responsible. He and his family had led a good life in Norgard. They didn’t want for anything.
Then why did he try to kill my father?
The question haunted Corwin. Hale’s actions made no sense—both during the attack and afterward, when he refused to offer any explanation for it. But neither did he deny it. Maybe if he had explained, Corwin could’ve done something about Kate’s pleas for the mercy of exile.
Damn the man, Corwin thought, teeth clenched. He—
The thought died in his head as a strange movement caught his eye. He turned toward it, back twisting in the saddle. Although his eyes saw clearly, his mind couldn’t make sense of the black-bodied creatures spilling over the hill that lay in between the road and the larger hill occupied by the Relay tower.
“What is that?” someone shouted from behind Corwin.
“Nightdrakes!” someone else answered.
No, it can’t be—it’s daylight. And yet they most certainly were drakes, Corwin realized with a jolt of shock. They didn’t look exactly like the nightdrakes he was familiar with; instead of pale gray, these were black as tar. But they bore the same dragonish heads, the same fangs and claws, and sinuous bodies with flightless wings fanned out behind them. And that same awful keening.
Stormdancer snorted and started to shy, tossing his head in the instinct to flee, but he stood no chance outrunning them at this distance. Reining the warhorse under control, all further thought fled Corwin’s mind, and his own instinct took over. He yanked the pistol from its holster and fired. The shot struck one of the scouts, and it went down. With the pistol’s usefulness expended, Corwin stowed it and reached for his sword.
A moment later the pack was upon them. Storm jumped sideways as one of the black creatures leaped. Bringing his sword arm in range, Corwin reined the horse hard to the left. He swung, but the blow glanced off the nightdrake’s toughened hide. Still, the hit was strong enough to deflect the beast momentarily. It fell to the ground but circled and came again. Moving impossibly fast, it became a dark blur before Corwin’s eyes. Before he could raise his sword, the beast struck him full force, knocking him from the saddle.
Corwin landed hard on his back, starbursts arcing across his vision. He’d managed to keep hold of his sword, but it didn’t matter. The nightdrake was on top of him, jaws spreading wide. It closed its fangs around his left shoulder, and Corwin cried out, the sound lost in the commotion around him. Chaos had erupted over the caravan, men and horses screaming.
The pain paralyzed Corwin, stealing from him the will to fight, to survive. But only for a moment. Then he lifted his right hand, sword still clutched in his fingers, and brought the hilt down on the creature’s head, smashing its eye like a grape. The drake’s jaws loosened, and it let out a howl of pain.
Summoning his strength, even as he felt its poison burning through his veins, Corwin raised the sword again and thrust it into the beast’s opened mouth and out through the back of its head.
Corwin lay there, panting for several long seconds. Then he pushed the heavy weight of the drake corpse off him and struggled to his feet. A few feet away, he saw Storm sprawled on the blood-soaked ground, the stillness of death already lying like a shroud over the warhorse. A wrench went through his chest at the sight. He and the horse had been through so much together, survived so many trials and threats. This is the end for both of us, my friend, Corwin thought, his vision blurred from poison and the fire burning inside his wounded shoulder.
For a second, the will to fight almost went out of him again. No. He pulled his eyes away from the dead horse. There were others still alive. He would do what he could to protect them for as long as breath remained in his body. Raising his sword once more, he charged the nearest drake. If I’m to die today, I will die fighting.
6
Kate
SOMEONE DIED HERE.
The thought slid through Kate’s mind unbidden, and for a moment she wasn’t even sure where it had come from. Ahead the hard-packed road looked undisturbed, tranquil almost. No dust from hooves or wagon wheels clouded the air. To either side of the road, the grass grew long and wild, strewn with everweeps. It was beautiful, a welcome sight after her long argument with the ferrymen of the Redrush. They’d delayed her for hours on her return journey from Andreas, enough that she would have no choice but to stay in the abandoned Relay tower tonight.
So where did that thought come from?
The smell on the air—but not one she could detect. Rather it was Darby smelling it, reacting enough that Kate sensed it with her magic without meaning to. She reached toward the horse with her power and soon saw a distorted image of a nightdrake. To his equine mind, the dragonish creature was more monstrous than in real life. He made it the size of a wagon, with fangs as long as daggers, claws like scimitars.
Kate frowned, trying to process the image. It made no sense. The sun shone too brightly for a nightdrake to survive it, dusk an hour away at least, and there were no shadows for them to hide beneath. There must’ve been an attack last night, Kate reasoned. She sent reassurance through the link, convincing the horse there was no threat.
Kate urged Darby onward, and soon they crested the hill. In the valley below, the ruin of a caravan lay sprawled across the road. Overturned wagons, the long, rounded bodies of dead horses, and the thinner, frailer bodies of dead men were easily distinguishable even from a distance. Those poor people and horses, she thought, mouth hanging open in dismay.
She steered Darby away from it, meaning to bypass the scene altogether and head on to the Relay tower. This was not her business or responsibility. The reek of death was strong enough now that she could smell it, too; Darby pranced beneath her, anxious to move away. Kate was just about to let him have his head when movement drew her eye to a flag fluttering atop the only remaining upright wagon. The sight of the familiar white horses in a rearing pose on a dark-blue background made her stomach clench. The royal sigil of Norgard . . . House Tormane . . .
Corwin.
She wheeled the horse about and pressed her heels to his sides, sending him forward. Darby protested, each step short and choppy, until Kate took hold of his mind and bent his will. There is no danger, she insisted. The drakes can’t survive the sun. Only, even as she pressed this truth onto Darby, doubt rose inside her. Something wasn’t right. The caravan hadn’t been encamped when the attack happened, and the destruction felt fresh, as if it had occurred only hours before instead of last night. And why did the drakes leave so much meat behind? They never did that, but as she drew nearer, she saw that one of the men was still alive.
He lay flat on his back in the middle of the wreckage, not far from the upright wagon, and was struggling against the weight of some creature lying on top of him. At first Kate thought it was a nightdrake—it had the right shape—but the color was wrong, black instead of pale gray.
As Kate scanned the area, steering Darby forward with her legs, she saw several of these black creatures and no recognizable nightdrakes at all. A surge of alarm went through her, heightening all her senses.
She turned her gaze back to the man struggling to free himself. Her breath caught as she realized it was Corwin. Smears of blood and dirt marred his face, but still she recognized him. In a sudden panic, she heeled Darby forward. Corwin’s eyes turned to the sound of pounding hooves, and she saw the delirium on his face. He’d been wounded, that was certain, but she couldn’t tell how badly.
How am I going to get him out from under that thing? The strange creature was close to horse size and probably twice as heavy. At least it was dead, the tip of a sword protruding from the juncture where its neck met its shoulder.