A second movement caught his eye, this one coming from the other side. It wasn’t a change in the light this time, but a movement of the brush that was windless and otherwise still. Something else was back there, and he was caught between them.
He stayed frozen in place a moment longer, trying to judge whether it was best to ease farther backward or bolt forward toward freedom and fresh cover. He chose the latter, pressing himself even closer to the ground as he scooted slowly, silently back into the trees, eyes shifting left and right, trying to see everywhere at once.
But again, nothing revealed itself, and no sounds broke the stillness. He felt the heat of his anger rising in response to his frustration. He was going to put an end to this nonsense. He was finished with all of them—mutants and Elves alike—and they would all be dead and buried before he was done with this business and on his way back to Arishaig and his old life.
He was almost to the thickest of the shadows that clustered behind him when a sudden hush, a stilling of the air, made him pause.
Something was about to happen.
Cymrian was flattened against the earth, ready to spring up and attack, when everything abruptly went quiet. His hunters had sensed his presence. He waited several minutes to make certain they had quit advancing, and when there were still no further noises or hints of movement, he decided not to wait any longer. Staying low to the ground, he began to inch his way backward into the trees, having already chosen a position that would be difficult for a pursuer to reach without becoming exposed. He assumed this would not be something his hunters would want to risk, so he kept retreating until he was completely layered in shadow, the mist so thick that it hung directly over him in an impenetrable blanket. He could see nothing of what was out there, but was content to rely on his other senses as he waited to see what would happen.
Then something moved off to his other side—a second presence, very likely one of the creatures he had been tracking earlier. The momentary sound of its approach was so faint, he almost missed hearing it—the barest scrape of a passage through dry leaves. He froze, but the sound was lost in the heavy brume, its exact location impossible to pinpoint. The most he could determine was that it was off to his right, while the earlier sound had come from his left. He was caught between two stalkers, and he could not be certain how close either was.
Give her whatever time you can, he told himself, thinking of Aphenglow. At least enough time to save Arling.
He knew he was in trouble. There were at least three of them, two of them mutants, the other an unknown. Good odds if the latter was a normal man, even one possessing skill and experience. Bad odds if he was subhuman or worse. He had to assume the latter, having seen close-up the mutant he had killed. He had been lucky with that one. He had caught it unawares and dispatched it quickly, but he could not expect such luck a second time. With creatures of this sort, all it took was a single mistake and they would have you.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He would have to choose which of the two closing in on him he would try to disable first.
He chose the mutant.
Turning in that direction, he began to creep forward through the haze, pausing every few seconds to listen, waiting for some small movement or sound that would give away his adversary’s position. He had the short sword gripped in his right hand, ready to use. His mind was calm and his heart quiet. He was wary, but not afraid. He believed himself ready to do what was needed, and he did not for a moment believe he was going to die.
He never believed that.
Steady.