During their third week wandering through the trees, Greyson called a halt: he was too hot, and the saddlebags had begun to chafe. Ayalah was grateful for the excuse to rest; she, too, had sweat dripping down her face, and she felt as if she might collapse at any moment. She helped him remove all the packs from his back, and the two of them sat in weary silence under a tree that looked strangely familiar, though she couldn't see any of her marks or ribbons nearby.
"Greyson," Ayalah said slowly, half asleep, "are we missing a bag?"
He looked at her and shook his head. "What makes you say that?"
She yawned. "I don't know. Something seems wrong..." She leaned her head back against the tree and allowed herself to drift off for a moment. Suddenly, she snapped up, wide awake. "The water bag! Where's the water?"
Greyson pointed to one of the bags lazily, without reacting to her panic. "Right there."
She hefted the bag and gasped as the understanding dawned on her. "Greyson—Greyson, we're out of water. Why didn't you tell me we were running low?" Suddenly she realized how thirsty she was, and the heat seemed to crowd in on her.
"We're out of water?" He gaped at her. "But you were the last one to refill our canteens."
"No I wasn't. If I had been, I would have noticed."
"So would I. You were the last one to fill them, I'm telling you."
"I was not! And even if I was, you've been carrying the blasted thing—you should have said something about it being so light."
"Ayalah, do you really think I would notice such a small thing when my shoulders are hurting and it's all I can do to keep moving?"
"It's Warrior Tarall, for the last time," she said through gritted teeth. "And yes, you should have."
"Well, maybe you should have kept a closer eye on things, too."
"You useless, annoying, disrespectful smithy! If I hadn't been forced to drag you along with me—"
"You what? Would've had to carry your own bags?"
They were sneering at each other now, and although Ayalah knew it was ridiculous and childish, she couldn't stop herself. It felt so good to unleash her frustration on someone. "You're supposed to be here to help me, aren't you? Well, go make yourself useful. Find us some water. I'll wait here with the rest of the bags."
He glared at her. "Are you joking?"
"No." She raised her eyebrows. "Hop to it, smithy. Before the sun goes down and we lose the little light we have."
With his typical infuriating disregard for proper manners, he maintained eye contact with her as he rose. "Fine, Warrior." He said the title as if it were a curse. "I'll fetch you some water."
He snatched the bag from her hands and stomped off into the trees.
13
Her initial exultation at having won the admittedly petty argument waned quickly, and she was left feeling sheepish, alone with the bags. She dozed against the tree on and off, waking periodically to check that the bags were still there, until the sun began to set, taking away the little light that peeked through the leaves. Then, finally, she tried to shake off the languor caused by the heat and rouse herself. How long had Greyson been gone? An hour? A few hours? Longer? She'd lost track of time. And she was so, so thirsty.
He wouldn't have tried to run off—she knew that much. He was too honest, too honorable. But could he have run into trouble? Curse that peaceful smithy and his unwillingness to use weapons!
She decided she'd better go look for him. She heaved the remaining saddlebags onto her shoulders—the weight wasn't unbearable, now that their water supply was depleted—and headed off in the direction he'd gone. He had left a path that was easy to follow, what with the trampled grass and the broken branches, but once the sun had fully set she knew she'd be in trouble.
Her embarrassment at how she'd acted now turned into regret. In forcing him to go out on his own, had she led him into trouble? She should have been there to protect him, regardless of how much he irritated her or whether or not he knew a piece of the prophecy. That was her duty as warrior, after all, wasn't it?
Once she'd determined that he was too honorable to stab her in the back, she had offered him a knife, an axe, at least a heavy walking stick as a weapon to protect himself in the forest. He'd staunchly refused, no matter the weapon. At the time, she hadn't pushed him—so long as she was with him, he was safe. But why must he insist on not carrying a weapon, even when wandering off on his own? He was a fool. And a liability.
She sighed as she made her way through the trees in the dim light. Why was this forest so cursed hot? Where was this man with the stone? What was so valuable about the stone, anyway? And where had all the animals gone?
She stopped abruptly. Where had all the animals gone? The trees were eerily quiet; she could hear nothing but her own breathing.
She slid her sword from its sheath as quietly as she could and grabbed her knife with her other hand. Then she lowered the bags to the ground.
The split second of warning she got from a twig snapping to her left was all she needed. She tucked and rolled, narrowly evading the gigantic, roaring form that hurtled toward her. It was like nothing she'd ever seen before: the entire body was covered in dark fur, like an animal, but something about it reminded her of a man's body. She slashed at its side, and it roared mightily as its blood began to flow. Was that a bear snout? There was no time to figure out what she was fighting—it was too quick; she'd have to kill it first and analyze later.
The creature lunged toward her, and she ducked out of the way once more, aiming her knife at its chest. She threw it as hard as she could, and it lodged in the creature's chest with a satisfying thunk—but the creature continued on, apparently not bothered by the blade digging into the place where its heart should be. She hesitated for just a moment. How could she kill this thing?
A heavy paw caught the side of her head and sent her reeling. Then the creature was on top of her, and her sword was knocked out of her hand. The creature appeared to have fingers, which it was clumsily attempting to use to strangle her. She struggled for a moment against its big, furry arms, but her strength was no match for it.
She searched desperately for a way out: the knife in its chest! She reached up, grabbed hold of the knife—she was struggling to breathe now, gasping for air—and ripped the knife up as hard as she could, through layers of skin, fur, and nerves.
She couldn't see. Blood filled her vision and her open mouth, and she jerked back instinctively, repulsed. The creature had fallen off of her—she could hear its gurgling breath nearby. She wiped the blood from her eyes, gasped for breath—and vomited. The stink of the blood was all over her, and she could feel it dripping down her torso, her face, her arms. The blood smelled unnatural: acidic and sour. Her throat, already dry and swollen from the heat and too little water, was in agony as she hunched over, vomiting up her insides. The more she thought about the smell, the more she gagged.
She had to regain control of herself. The creature was injured, but it wasn't dead. She had to finish this.
She wiped her mouth and stood up, ignoring the black spots that clouded the edges of her vision. The creature—whatever it was—was lying on the ground, its insides hanging out. It was still alive, though; never before had Ayalah seen a creature so determined to live. The thing couldn't roar anymore, but a kind of hiss escaped from its mouth. Now that she could see it fully, a chill ran down her back. This thing was a monstrosity—some kind of unnatural hybrid not even heard of in the tales parents told their children to scare them into obedience. For the most part it looked like a giant brown bear, but its arms and legs were shaped like a human's, and it clearly had fingers underneath all the fur. What made Ayalah flinch back, though, were its eyes, so humanlike in the way they glared at her with unholy hatred.
She staggered to her sword, picked it up, and sliced off the creature's head.
14
After another round of vomiting had concluded, Ayalah calmed her breathing and reassessed her situation. She still needed to find
Greyson, she was drenched in sweat (her own) and blood (mostly the creature's, she believed), and her throat felt like someone had dragged a branch of brambles up and down the inside of it. She let her shoulders slump forward, but only for a moment. She could do this. She would not—could not—let this forest defeat her.
She took a deep breath, used some leaves to wipe off as much of the blood as possible, and lifted the bags once more. It was now fully dark out, so dark she couldn't even see the trees directly before her; she grabbed a torch from one of the bags, fished her tinder out of her pocket, and headed into the trees with nothing but the torch's feeble light to guide her.
As it turned out, it was still relatively easy to follow Greyson's path through the forest. By the looks of it, he'd gone crashing through the trees, not caring who or what might be able to follow him later. Anger was a very dangerous weakness, she knew. Worse, she might not be the only one following his trail. After an hour or so, he'd begun to tread more carefully, but his version of careful was still no match for Ayalah's tracking skills.
After another hour of following his trail, she began to truly struggle. The bags weighed down on her shoulders, feeling heavier with each passing step; her breath came in ragged gasps through her parched and scratched throat; and the black spots had returned, threatening to overtake her vision. She paused for a moment to rest. Maybe if she just let her eyes close for a mo—
Her head snapped up. Something—it sounded like another of the man-bear creatures—roared in the distance. Had one of them found Greyson? She broke into a run, headed in the direction of the roar.
The trees blurred as she ran through them, dodging and jumping over and around branches and tree roots that got in her way. There was a light ahead. She slowed down a few hundred yards away. It was probably a fire Greyson had made, but there was still a chance she might discover the man they had set out to find. She dropped the bags, let her breathing slow, and continued on to the fire unencumbered, silent as a ghost.
She didn't hear any more roaring, but she heard a good deal of growling and grunting as she approached the fire. She peered through the branches, not knowing what to expect. A den of the creatures, perhaps, judging by the noise?
Her eyes easily found the fire, blazing merrily in the night. Beside it were two hunched figures. One was the man-bear she had heard; it appeared to be struggling to get free of a trap. The other was—she blinked. Greyson! He was sitting in front of the creature, apparently deep in thought. He did not appear to be injured, although it was hard to tell in the flickering light of the fire. Had he made the trap himself, she wondered idly, or had he gotten lucky?
She approached quietly, from upwind, not wanting to alert the man-bear of her presence. She stepped out in four great strides, drew her sword, chopped off the creature's head, and jumped back to avoid the spurts of blood. It was a clean kill; she nodded in satisfaction.
Greyson had jumped back with an oath at the sight of her. "What—?" He took in her blood-stained clothes, searching her face for a long moment. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
She still hadn't put down her sword. The adrenaline that had been pumping through her since she heard the roar was wearing off, and her vision had become spotty again. She tried to nod, to tell Greyson she was fine. But instead she felt her sword slide from her grip, and dimly, from afar, she realized she was falling.
15
Her head was pounding so hard, she thought it might explode. In fact, she thought groggily, that might even be preferable to the sharp pain resonating through it at the moment.
She opened her eyes. Some light filtered through the leaves, but not much. It was probably daytime, maybe heading toward evening. Greyson sat nearby, dozing against a tree.
Good, Ayalah thought wearily. Maybe she could convince him to carry out a pity killing. A blade through her temple couldn't hurt much more than it already did.
She tried to sit up, but the attempt left her gasping for breath. Pain shot down her head and neck, and she felt as if she'd been spun around and around: the trees whirled before her.
"Ayalah? Are you awake?"
She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, ignoring his typical breach of conduct for the moment. For some reason, she felt even dizzier with her eyes closed. She opened them again. Greyson was at her side, watching her. She opened her mouth to talk, but he held up a hand.
"I found the bags where you left them. Are you thirsty? Do you think you can sit up?"
She nodded: she was thirsty. She doubted whether sitting up was a good idea, though.
He lifted her torso—gently, so gently—and leaned her against something soft. It must have been the bag with their clothes in it; she was grateful for the cushioning. She waited for the worst of the dizziness to subside before opening her mouth and accepting a drink of murky-tasting water from a canteen.
"So you found water?" Her voice, when it came out, sounded scratchy and hoarse.
"Just a trickle of it. We'll have to keep looking." He paused. "Ayalah, what was that beast? I've never even heard of such a creature."
"Neither have I," she said. Her throat was still so dry, so painfully scratched; each word she managed to get out was an effort. "Maybe it only exists in this forest."
"Maybe," said a deep voice from the trees, "you just need to travel some more."
Greyson was on his feet instantly, brandishing Ayalah's sword. "Who's there?" he bellowed.
Ayalah had jerked upright at the voice, which proved to be a mistake. Her head reeled, and she slumped back down. She was in no state fit for fighting; this stranger had caught them completely off guard and unprotected. The one ray of hope was Greyson. She hadn't thought he even knew how to wield a sword, but he seemed to be handling it well as he turned about in the clearing, trying to spot the newcomer.
"Put the blade down, young man," said the deep voice. "I am here to offer help."
Out from the trees stepped an old man. He was short and thin, with knobby elbows and a sharp, pointed chin underneath a short gray beard. He stooped slightly, shoulders bent, and there was a slight tremor in his hands that bespoke a great old age.
"Forgive me, aged one," Greyson said, lowering the sword. But he sounded unsure.
"You have questions," the old man said, nodding. "Answers will come in time. First, let us tend to our injured warrior." He smiled kindly at Ayalah. "How about some water, dear? Young man, fetch that water bag over there."
Greyson nodded. "Of course, aged one. But I'm sorry to say that there is no wa—" He stopped as he began to lift the bag. "Why—it's full!"
The old man cracked a tiny smile. "Is it?"
Greyson stared at him in wonder as he dribbled some of the water into Ayalah's mouth. The water was cold and refreshing; Ayalah could feel the cool spread across her chest and over her limbs as she gulped it down.
She swallowed a final mouthful gratefully and regarded the old man for a moment. The water didn't seem to be poisoned, and it appeared to be given freely, with no payment expected, judging by the old man's serene smile. But how could he afford such a gift? His clothes were plain and nondescript; he did not appear to be wealthy. "Thank you," she said finally, and then gasped. Her voice sounded normal again; her throat no longer hurt her in the least. "Who are you?" she asked incredulously.
The old man bowed. "I am the wizard Swynn." He turned to Greyson. "Drink, lad, drink."
She ignored Greyson's great gulps as he greedily drank from the bulging water bag. "The wizard—!"
He nodded. "Yes, I know you have been looking for me."
She gaped at him. A real wizard? But they had all died out centuries ago.
The corners of his mouth twitched up just a tiny bit. "I see you are skeptical."
"Forgive me," she said. "It's just that wizards are the stuff of children's tales and fireside stories."
Swynn nodded. "Well, it is true that I have become a bit of a recluse in my old age. I have had no real desire to see the rest of the world lately." He chuckle
d to himself. "Hmm, yes, well. Come come, sit up now. Let us have a bit of a chat, shall we?" He sat on a chair by the fire and beckoned to Ayalah and Greyson to join him.
Ayalah started in surprise. Those chairs hadn't been there a moment before! She tried to push herself up a bit more to a proper sitting position, a little at a time—but she soon realized that she didn't need to be so cautious. Her head felt fine now. She wasn't dizzy at all.
She got to her feet and sat at the fire with the two men. It had grown dark quickly, and their party seemed a pleasant and inviting one. Somehow, the heat of the day seemed to have dissipated, and the air was cool and crisp.
"Care for something to eat?" Swynn asked. He handed them each a platter of hot, steaming meat and potatoes. "Whipped that up myself a few minutes ago. Well, stop staring at me, eat up! It is quite good, I assure you."
Ayalah and Greyson exchanged a look and hesitated, but the smell was so enticing—and, after all, if he'd wanted to poison them, Ayalah reasoned, he would have done so already with the water.
Swynn waited until they were chewing happily before speaking. "Well, go on, now. Ask away."
"Where have you been hiding?" Ayalah burst out. "Why couldn't we find you? How did you find us? Have you been following us?"
The old wizard seemed to be perpetually amused, and now was no exception. "Well, I could not very well let you find me before I had determined whether or not Akanra had gotten to you first, now could I?"
"Who?"
"And yes, I have been following you. In a manner of speaking. As soon as you set foot in this wood, I was tracking your every movement. Keeping note, you see, in case you did, in fact, work for Akanra."