T HE SKRAILS FLEW SOUTH through the starlit night for several hours, winging their way along the eastern slopes of the Cintra Mountains with Kirisin Belloruus gripped firmly in their talons. Blood ran down his back from puncture wounds to his shoulders, and his body was racked with the pain. It did no good to try to struggle, because getting free of the skrails would mean falling to his death. It was bad enough that any sort of movement exacerbated his injuries, but the cold added measurably to his discomfort—enough so that his hands and feet quickly grew numb and there was nothing he could do about it. Stoically enduring, he hung limp and silent, listening to the steady beat of the great leathery wings and the occasional squawk from his captors that passed for communication.
At least he had managed to get rid of the Loden, he told himself. Whatever happened to him—and he had a pretty good idea what that would be—the Elfstone was safe.
It was a small victory given his present situation, but he took what comfort he could from it. Half a loaf was better than none at all. Even if the Loden had fallen to the ground undetected, if Praxia, running after him as he was carried away, had failed to glimpse it falling, it would still be safe from the demons. Someone would find it eventually. The Elves would be safe inside it until then, protected from whatever happened to the rest of their world and its inhabitants.
But his doubts persisted. He couldn’t help wondering if his reasoning was skewed. How could he know if the Loden would withstand the destruction that was coming? How could he know how long the Elves could survive inside the Loden before needing to be released? How could he know that the Elfstone would ever be found?
He closed his eyes. The many boiled down to one: How could he be sure of anything?
Exhaustion overcame discomfort and pain, and the steady beating of skrail wings and the rush of the wind lulled him to sleep. The events of the previous day—the flight from the Cintra and now the battle with his captors—had drained him of his strength. He dozed on and off as they flew, always jerking awake in what seemed only moments. But finally he drifted away in a long, sweeping glide, and time stopped altogether.
The jarring impact of a hard surface brought him awake again. It was still night. He lay on a barren patch of earth, freed of his captors, who winged about him in watchful sweeps, cautious against any attempt at escape. He made no effort to challenge them, his body numb clear through, his senses still sleep-fogged and confused. He lay where he was, waiting for something to make sense, drawing in his arms and legs, hugging himself against the intrusions of the waking world.
“Get up, boy!” a voice snarled, and a heavy boot kicked him in the ribs.
He did not move immediately, the numbness from the cold making him immune to the pain of the blow. He rolled from his back onto his side and then onto his elbows and knees, trying to think what to do.
An impatient growl followed the kick, and strong arms hoisted Kirisin to his feet and a pair of skrails held him upright while the speaker began to search him, staying behind him and out of sight, fingers rummaging through his pockets and under his clothing, missing nothing in their efforts to unmask what might be hidden. Finding nothing, the speaker struck him a sharp blow to the head and ordered the skrails to drop him. He collapsed a second time, barely managing to cushion his fall, the feeling just beginning to come back into his limbs.
“Bind him,” the speaker ordered, walking away.
Rolling onto his side, Kirisin caught just a glimpse of the other, a thin, gnarled figure, limbs and body all twisted, head hunched deep into shoulders so bony they were defined mostly by the blades that jutted against the fabric of an old tunic like ax heads.
Then the skrails were on him once more, bearing him to the ground, forcing his arms behind his back. He tried to create some slack in the cords that were wrapped about him, but the skrails just hissed and yanked his bonds tighter. They secured his ankles, as well, crossing them and wrapping them in another set of cords, leaving him thoroughly trussed. Their fingers were long and thin but very strong. Struggling was pointless.