Of Truth and Beasts

Another familiar had been severed from him by the one place he could not follow Wynn. Again, so close—again, so lost—but this time it brought panic instead of outrage. Something assaulted the sage—something in the forest itself. Had that barbaric woman summoned an influence he could not identify?

If Wynn died in there, what became of his hope to follow her to his one desire?

What became of Sau’ilahk’s dream of flesh?

* * *

Chane chopped downward with his sword as the mottled brown majay-hì tried to bite into his calf. The animal lunged away, and his blade gouged up moss and earth.

“Pull back!” Ore-Locks shouted.

Chane glanced over—and then a leafy branch slapped into his face. He lost sight of everything, and on instinct pulled the sword upward, trying to slash and clear his view.

A tan hand gripped that branch. Chane quickly tipped the blade down.

A sharp clang sent a slight shiver up his sword. He sidestepped as he thought he saw a long, white blade strike for his abdomen. Hunger flushed through him as his gaze snapped upward.

Chane stared into angry amber eyes among the tree’s leaves. He groped for the elven woman’s hand or blade, and leveled his sword to slam its edge into her head.

“No!”

Wynn’s cry made Chane falter. He twisted away with a wild slash to fend off the priestess and heard his cloak tear. A sharp pain filled the left side of his chest. Hunger ate away the agony as fear cleared his thoughts, and then he saw ...

Wynn was on the ground, and something dark coiled around her throat.

He ran straight toward her, as she gripped the dark tendril with one hand and slashed through it with her dagger. Another one coiled around her left calf and knee, squirming up her thigh.

Earth-stained roots were somehow moving on their own.

Chane slashed through the second root’s base as Wynn ripped away the piece she had severed from her throat. She groped for her staff as he reached down for her, but at the same time, he glanced over his shoulder.

Ore-Locks backed toward them, farther into the clearing, whipping his iron staff in a wide arc as he tried to keep the pack at bay. Shade darted around his circumference, harrying anything attempting to go around. But more of the pack poured from the forest as Vreuvillä stepped into the clear. The priestess held a long, curved white dagger in her hand.

“To the tree—now!” Wynn shouted.

Chane balked as he pulled her up. The crawling on his skin had grown worse since entering this place.

Another root erupted at Wynn’s feet. She lunged away, pulling from Chane’s grip. The root writhed and twisted toward her, growing thicker at its base as it extended.

Chane hacked down. The instant the root severed, another tore up through the moss and lashed at his face. He stumbled away, and it swerved toward Wynn.

How could it know where she was? Even though it moved, it could not so precisely target her. Either something directed it or its sense of its target was not natural.

The smallest notion broke through Chane’s faltering reason.

So long ago, he had crouched in hiding with Welstiel, as they were hunted by Magiere. That night, neither Magiere nor Chap had sensed or tracked Chane’s presence—not while Welstiel had a grip on him. And Welstiel had been wearing the ring.

Chane spun and rushed at Wynn. Twisting behind her, keeping everything in his sight, he wrapped his left arm across her front. Grabbing her far shoulder, he closed his left hand hard upon it, until the brass ring bit into his finger.

Chane dragged Wynn backward, hoping this would work, as rage-fed hunger washed over him again.

Wynn struggled to keep her feet as Chane dragged her. She kicked at the root, trying to fend it off as it reached for her ankle, but Chane’s grip crushed her shoulder so hard, she gasped.

“Still,” he snarled in her ear. “Quiet.”

Wynn did as she was told and watched the root.

It rolled and lashed the earth and whipped to the left. Mulch and moss tore at its base as it coiled and snaked about. Suddenly, it rolled over and lashed her way.

Wynn cringed, flattening her body up against Chane’s.

The root flipped and twisted to the right, snaking beneath old, decayed leaves.

Wynn swallowed hard, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. The root had lost track of her, though she stood only a staff’s length away. How was that possible?

More roots erupted all around the clearing’s edge. Majay-hì scampered away from those twisting tendrils. Vreuvillä quickly stepped clear, and then froze, staring at them.

Each thick, earth-darkened tendril felt about the ground, searching for something—for Wynn.

With their adversaries distracted, Ore-Locks and Shade retreated to a position just shy of those roots. Not one root sprouted farther in than the clearing’s edge. None emerged within reach of them, as if ...

Wynn struggled to twist her head around and look to Chârmun.

“Back up,” she whispered.