She did not want to explain the nature of her connection with Feint Collier and so she did not. She moved some of her frozen hair out of her face. “Which way do we go?”
He pointed with the axe down the mountain.
Huge pine and cedar trees crept up from the lower slope of the Watzholt, and the trail disappeared into it. The trees were blanketed in fresh snow and the branches drooped, but lower down the storm had only brought rain, and the trees were vibrant green and lush.
“I like not the look of that,” Jon Tayt muttered, standing at the edge of a rock looking down the trail into the maw of the woods. “Good place for a trap. They could see us coming down, but we would not see them until it was too late.” He scratched his neck and gazed at the trail from different vantage points.
“The woods will provide cover for us as well,” Maia suggested. She wanted a fire to warm her hands and feet. She was still shivering in spite of her many layers. But she had to agree with Jon Tayt—the trees would be an excellent place for their enemies to conceal themselves.
Jon Tayt shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Best to double back and take another pass down.” They started back up the slope, climbing away from the thinning snow. Maia despaired ever being warm again. They had not gone far when Argus began to growl and whine, sniffing and roaming around their trail. His ears went up as he stared up the trail.
“Black luck,” the hunter said. “Trap is closing.” He sniffed the air. “Must be more men following our trail. Better run for the woods then. We must forge our own trail rather than taking this one. It will be easier to hide in the woods. Caught on this slope, we are dead.”
Maia’s heart began to warm. “All right.”
They started back down the trail again and diverted from the already plowed path, heading into fresh snow. The way was steep, but the depth of the bank made it easy to sink their boots into it and slog down. Little bricks of ice came loose from their steps and tumbled down the fleecy slope. Argus followed in their wake, a low threatening growl in his throat.
The sound of a hunting horn filled the air from higher up. Maia looked back and saw men in the gap. The horn blasted again and the noise was joined by the sound of a horn from the woods below.
“Keep going!” Jon Tayt barked, crashing through the snow to carve a trail. The men were still a way up the mountain behind them, but they were running down the trail they had made, closing the distance quickly.
“How many!” he asked her.
Maia looked over her shoulder and saw at least a dozen. She could not see a uniform or insignia. Each was heavily bundled in a fur cloak and hat.
“Too many,” Maia answered frantically. “Keep running!”
The snow bucked and heaved as they went down. From the line of trees lower down, she could see men emerging as well. Yet another horn blared, answering the other calls. Dark shapes flitted through the snow farther down, snapping and barking, tethered by leashes. Hunting dogs!
“Ach,” Jon Tayt swore. He cut a steep path, trying to close the distance to the woods, but Maia could see they were not going to make it. Their pursuers from behind were covering ground faster than she and Tayt could make it, because the snow was already trampled, providing easier footing. Voices could be heard above and below, mixed with the barks of the dogs. Argus growled and began snapping in return, but he was only one and they were many. Horsemen appeared from the trees below them, streaming into the drift to close off their escape. The woods were teeming with men!
“A fine kettle of fish!” Jon Tayt shouted, wiping his face. His voice was rising nervously. He looked back and hissed his breath. He sheathed his throwing axe and brought his bow out, already strung, and adjusted the quiver bag so it was within easy reach.
Maia stared up at the mountain, watching crumbles of ice and snow come barreling down as the soldiers from above raced downward at them. Small clods of snow tumbled against her legs. She turned her gaze to the soldiers below. It was like a hunting party, complete with hounds, and they were the prey.
She reached down and took a hunk of snow in her frozen palm. She stared at it, taking in the way the sunlight winked off the crystal edges. The approaching soldiers were speaking in a guttural language, full of coughing sounds and unfamiliar inflections. She had never learned the Hautlander tongue, though she recognized its rough speech. The snow crystals in her hand triggered a realization. Snow melted. Snow became water. Water was from storms. Storms were under the control of her power. She was the master of storms.
She felt the kystrel’s magic flare. Even though it was not touching her skin, her chest burned with heat. Her mind went black with implacable power and vengeful triumph. She would not be hunted. Not her, not by these petulant mongrels. The look of fear in Jon Tayt’s eyes told her that her own eyes were glowing silver.