The Coming Storm Page 3

  Choosing his people carefully, Colath deliberately kept the group small, two Elves, two men and himself.

  It was enough. With so few they could travel both light and fast. Of the two Elves he chose Jalila for her skill with a bow and Alic for his talents as a Woodsmen. Both were blooded, had had children, so if things went badly their bloodlines wouldn’t be lost.

  Of the men, Mortan was Woodsman and most familiar with the lands to the west. Iric was a Hunter and rode as if he was stuck to his horse like a burr. Both men rode Elven culls, not the horses of men, which was the other reason he’d chosen them. Even an Elven cull was quicker than the fastest of the beasts most men rode. He wanted speed if they had need of it.

  None questioned his request. It was their duty and, for the Elves, their Honor as well.

  They didn’t speak much while they rode. There was little need. Some among Men would fill silence with talk but not these. Neither was much for it and they’d been among Elves long enough to be accustomed to silence.

  He set a quick pace, feeling an urgency he couldn’t explain but not so quick a pace as to tire the horses too much. Still, they covered more ground than men alone would have, moving quickly up the slopes and through the foothills that led to the upper reaches.

  It was Mortan who caught his eye as they set camp, standing still and staring at the sky as though he were struck by something. It was so unlike him not to be setting about his chores as they all were doing that it got Colath’s attention.

  “What is it?” Colath asked, quietly.

  “I don’t know, milord,” Mortan said, his brow creasing sharply.

  He was big and bluff for a man, with sandy hair and a matching trim above his mouth that drooped down on either side. Elves had no such facial hair, so it was striking when they met men who did. Known for his temper, and yet when needed Mortan was as steady as a rock.

  Mortan tilted his head a little. “Do you not hear it? Not what you hear but what you don’t.”

  Colath hadn’t ridden much with Mortan, knowing him more by reputation among the Hunters of men, some few of which Elon allowed to ride with Elven Hunters. He’d chosen him for his knowledge of these lands. Thus, the title, where none was needed. Men put much stock in such things. Colath’s people didn’t. What you did proved your worth, not your family, birth or some other arbitrary naming. Elon was First among equals by virtue of his integrity and ability to lead, not because of a matter of birth. As with Colath. Elon had chosen him for this task for his abilities, not for their true-friend bond or long friendship. If another would have served better, that one would have been chosen.

  “I’m no lord of yours, Mortan. Colath, only,” Colath replied, quietly, but he was listening too.

  It was what you didn’t hear. He should’ve noticed it himself but his senses had been more attuned to movement and what he should’ve heard had faded so gradually as they rode that he hadn’t credited it.

  “No birds.”

  “That’s it, Colath. No birds.”

  The others had stopped, too, their heads up, listening.

  “We’re not that high in the mountains, nor is it so late in the day the birds would be roosting,” Colath said.

  “No, we’re not,” Mortan said. “It’s early spring. The birds that’ve wintered in the south should be here. There should be the endless chattering they do once they’ve arrived in the north, as if they’re catching up with each other as we do.”

  The silence was striking. It only increased Colath’s sense of foreboding.

  Here was the ‘nothing’ for which Elon had asked him to look.

  “All right,” Colath said, “we make camp and we set watches. I’ll take first alone so second and third can sleep.” His people didn’t need much sleep but rested people made fewer mistakes and sleep now might be their best chance. The men couldn’t do without it for long stretches, not easily.

  They ate in that odd silence, now they were aware of it, with only the soughing of the wind through the trees to break it. Even the horses seemed not to like it, shifting about restlessly and they still had at least a day’s journey or more ahead.

  As darkness fell and the others slept, Colath could admit to himself he also didn’t like it. The descending stillness as they rode had been deceptive, the noise of birds and such diminishing as they’d ridden further west. It made him uneasy to know it was happening only a long day’s hard ride from Aerilann.

  Riding out the next day, the omnipresent silence grew oppressive. There was little sound of natural things. Every now and then they would stop and scan the ground, looking for sign or cutting trail. No one spoke, a look was all that was needed. They were all too woods-wise not to know what it was they were seeing. The larger creatures were tracking east, followed by the lesser.

  It should have been the reverse and only because of lack of food.

  There was no lack. The winter had been mild. Grass grew thick for grazing, berries were clustered thickly on bushes. There was plenty. They should have startled herds of wild sheep and goats, spotted an elk or two, seen sign of the shyer deer, heard the grunting of boar rooting among the trees and shrubs. They should have spotted at least one wolf perhaps, before it loped away into cover. Bear, which in these high reaches feared only a pack of wolves or the mountain cats, should have left their claw marks on the trees as they sharpened them, or patches of fur scrubbed off on the bark as they shed their winter coats. Of that there was no sign.

  One couldn’t have ridden through these steep hills and thickly forested valleys without frightening a rabbit from cover, or watching squirrels scamper from tree to tree in search of food.

  Bold creatures, squirrels, confident in their speed, but rarely venturing too far from the trees and a quick escape. There was no sign of them.

  The skies, too, were clear and empty, no flights of sparrows or larks darted overhead, no hawks wheeled.

  Everyone was uneasy.

  That the borderlands were somehow closer than they’d ever been was one reason but the stillness was another.

  Despite the occasional slowing or stops to examine a track, they made good time. The mountains towered above them in the nearer distance, they weren’t merely a bluish shadow glimpsed between breaks in the trees or through the narrow slopes of a valley. This country was much more rugged, split with fissures and gorges, bare slopes of rock that crumbled beneath the hooves of the horses.

  Alic threw up a hand to signal a halt. “Colath, look here.”

  In a patch of dirt between rocky outcroppings was a paw-print of sorts.

  “Boggart. It’s too large for a boggin.”

  With a nod, Alic pointed at scratches on the stone, a little faded but clear.

  “More than one, to judge by the claw marks. They went down there.”

  He pointed to a thickly wooded ravine.

  Such places, with so many trees, tumbled rocks and small caves and caverns, held the dens of many of the natural predators that roamed these hills. There would be water there, usually a small stream, and cover in plenty. Small game would be available, even some larger if deer or elk wandered along in search of the water. A quick foray up onto the slopes would gain a larger meal if a mountain cat or a bear wished. It was also more danger than Elon would have wished them to take, so with the sign of boggart Colath avoided them. Instead, they rode along the rim looking for sign or glanced down through the trees to see if they could spot one of the mountain cats lounging in the sun as they liked to do.

  None had been seen. On a bright and sunny day they should have caught a glimpse of at least one in all the ravines they passed.

  A cat wouldn’t cross a boggin, much less its larger cousin.

  Boggarts or boggins, both stood upright and were massively muscled. For all that, they were fast, if not as fast as a kobold or as sly. Boggins were smaller and less clever than their larger cousins. Both had large distended jaws, with canine teeth that pushed upper and lower lips into a permanent snarl. The older a boggart,
the more its front teeth showed, small and sharp for rending and tearing. In length a boggin was smaller than a mountain cat but its mass was greater. A boggart was as large as a mountain cat and that much greater in mass. They weren’t venomous but they were vicious, tenacious and frequently, though not always, moved in a group of three or more individuals.

  This wasn’t their usual territory.

  “If they come up the slopes tonight, they’ll pick up the trail of the horses. We should put distance between and find a secure place to camp,” Colath said.

  Alic nodded. “Agreed.”

  For all the silence and the possible dangers, it was a beautiful day. The sun shone brightly. Flowers dipped and nodded among the blowing grasses on the hill and the leaves on the trees hadn’t yet lost the new-leaf brightness. Colath appreciated the beauty of this wild place. If not for the growing tension it should have been a pleasant ride.

  The sun lowered. The shadows of the mountains fell far behind them when they stopped. Both Mortan and Jalila. They slid off their horses to examine a mark in the dirt.

  Jalila looked up, her eyes showing puzzlement.

  “Alic, Iric, stand guard,” Colath said and swung off his horse to crouch near them.

  Looking at the print in the dirt, he understood their confusion.

  “What is it, Colath?” Mortan asked. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “Nor I,” Jalila added.

  He shook his head.

  Mortan had spread his hand over the track to gauge its size. For a man he didn’t have small hands. The track was two of his handspans wide, plus a little more. There was weight as well, the front of the track pressed deeply into the dirt more so than the back.

  “Like a cat’s somewhat,” Jalila commented, her head tilted and almost in the grass. “It was chasing something. Or running.”

  Mortan stalked across the grass, his head down and eyes intent. “A boar from the looks of these tracks.”

  Trotting over to join him, she nodded. “A good-sized one as well. I wonder that it stayed when all else fled.”

  “Too old, or sick?” Colath asked.

  “Not the way it’s moving by these tracks,” Mortan said.

  Jalila nodded. “It’s big. So it’s old and canny. Perhaps it had its den deep enough it felt safe until now.”

  “These look fairly new.”

  Colath looked up at the sky.

  They had another hour of two of daylight left, plus some of twilight. The men wouldn’t see so well but the Elves would have no problem.

  He considered it. An unknown dweller of the borderlands. Big. Catlike.

  “We follow.”

  “I’ll track it on the ground,” Jalila said, “it will be easier to cut trail.”

  She was experienced enough not to get too far ahead, beyond the cover of their arrows and her own bow was in hand, an arrow nocked and ready for quick flight.

  He nodded.

  Moving off, she settled into the steady trot their folk could maintain for miles or even days, if necessary. Her eyes were on the ground. Every now and then she bent a little to better see the track, slowing only by a fraction.

  They followed, arrows notched loosely in bow strings and the horses at an easy jog.

  By size and weight, that which they followed was too big for them to risk being caught unawares.

  The sun was getting lower and Colath was becoming concerned. Time grew short, they would need to find a good camp soon. With something like this stalking the countryside he didn’t want to be out in the open but under some kind of cover. He’d seen the claw marks of the thing and the way its feet were set. Those weren’t promising.

  Jalila slowed and raised a hand, then lowered it. A signal. Slow and quiet. The horses were nervous suddenly, hides twitching just a little, as if they smelled something or sensed something they didn’t understand but knew was unsettling.

  Ahead was a tumble of rocks, part of a small ridge that dropped off beyond them. Jalila trotted toward it cautiously and then pointed them toward it.

  Setting the others to guard the horses, Colath followed Jalila’s sign as she came to join him near the rocks. Using hand signals only, she indicated that the chase had gone around the rocks. A good-sized boar wouldn’t have fit between them and his small, hard hooves wouldn’t have had good purchase. A tall, slim Elf, however, would have no difficulty. They eeled their way among the boulders, keeping low until they had a good view of the slope below.

  The chase had ended there.

  The boar was still alive. Hamstrung but still alive, its front hooves clawing and digging at the earth. It squealed weakly as it thrashed. It wouldn’t live long but it would have a terrible death.

  Most natural predators preferred fresh meat freshly dead from a severed spine or crushed throat. It made sense. A thrashing hoof or a chance bite from the taken prey could do it injury.

  The creature that had caught it wasn’t natural and like many of the things that came out of the borderlands by all appearances it clearly preferred the opposite.

  It’s very wrongness offended Colath’s sight.

  Built like a cat, yes, like the sleek fast cats of the desert grasslands, it was long and lithe. Its tail lashed lazily as it fed. It ate leisurely, its face buried in the thrashing boar’s lower belly, oblivious to its struggles. It had no fear of the boar’s sharp little hooves. Hooves that had been known to cut a careless man to the bone. Armor – a thick ridge of hide or bone – grew over its face, a ridge not unlike a mane in appearance that ringed its neck and protected the vulnerable throat.

  Its hide wasn’t fur but more closely resembled the boiled leather men used in their armor. If there was fur on it at all, he couldn’t tell it from here and didn’t wish to get close enough to look. At that size, the boar was a fairly good meal for it but maybe not enough of one. As the creature pulled its face back to drag out the entrails, Colath got a good look at its muzzle. That wasn’t something he wished to see close, either. Longer and narrower than that of cats, it seemed designed to snap at the heels of its prey and cripple them, or to burrow into the soft underbelly as it did now.

  Killing it wouldn’t be easy. An arrow from the side beneath the neck armor, perhaps. That tough hide would resist much. Elven swords would probably cut it but the duller blades of men might be hard put to do more than glance off it or scratch it. The hide looked thinner at the joint of hip to body. An arrow there might cripple it but it was a chancy shot.

  He waved Jalila back and followed himself swiftly but quietly.

  “Go look, quickly but with care,” he said quietly to the other three. “Remember what you see. I’ve heard of something like it but I’ve never known someone who’s seen one in life. For our purposes, we’ll call it a manticore. I want you to be able to describe it. Don’t give it cause to consider anything other than its current prey. If some of us fall, one of us must bring a description of this thing to Elon and those in Aerilann and the Kingdoms beyond.”

  He looked up at the sun. Time grew short. He wanted distance between that thing and his people and some surety something similar couldn’t be a threat to their small party.

  Stringing his bow, he and Jalila took up the guard positions. He hadn’t forgotten the boggart in the ravine, either. While it wasn’t likely it would choose to leave the ravine at exactly the spot where they’d paused, it might pick up the scent anywhere along it. They had a very sensitive nose, boggarts did.

  Jalila was tense, too, he could feel it. As tense as he and for the same reason. Her eyes scanned everywhere as his did but she also eyed the sun as he had. He knew she also had no liking for that creature below and misliked being even this close to it, as did he. Not that any sane thing would.

  The others returned and quickly. Both men were paler and visibly disturbed, Mortan much more so.

  Alic, of course, being Elven, showed little except for a certain tightness around his eyes.

  “Let’s go and quietly,” Colath ordered. “Keep bows rea
dy and swords at hand.”

  The horses were nervous as well, their muscles twitching. They couldn’t see the source of their unease but something disturbed them. There was no stamping of the feet as the horses of men would do or shaking of heads to rattle bridles but they were distressed and showed it in the whiteness around their eyes. Glad to be away, they moved with quick, mincing steps at first, then lengthened their stride into a trot and the ground-eating canter for which they were known.

  Above, the sun had dipped behind the mountains, with only the fading glow in the sky to light their way.

  Colath led them away from the manticore and the ravine with the boggart, searching for a place to camp. He wanted stone on three sides, preferably with an overhang, deep enough for them and the horses. In the last light of the sun he saw a likely spot but shadow pooled deep within it.

  He sent an arrow winging into those shadows and at the screech from within, Jalila and Alic sent two more to follow. A small salamander writhed out, twisting sinuously, biting frantically at the arrows that pierced it before it flared up in a burst of flame and died. Taking the precious arrows with it.

  A salamander, here. Salamanders were creatures of the south and east, not here.

  They wouldn’t seek shelter this late again, Colath decided, not in these lands.

  Arrows couldn’t be spared for tasks like this. They all carried spare fletching and arrowheads in case of need, the fletching carefully pressed to keep the feathers from curling and throwing off the flight. The shafts, though, were harder to find.

  With one to watch and one to fetch, they gathered up firewood quickly as the light faded from the sky. Fire was one of the few things some of these creatures feared but it also attracted them. So the fire wasn’t set, merely laid ready. Colath set a small elf-light down low within a crevice so they could see but so its light wouldn’t blind them or their night-sight. Each watch sat with bow at hand and blade loose in the scabbard.