Терри Брукс - Tanequil

How far, he wondered suddenly, was he from the bridge?

He looked for it in the fading light, but could not find it. He was right at the edge of the ravine then, skirting its rim as the voices beckoned him on. He peered down into its darkness, but nothing could be seen. He glanced across its span, as well, but there was nothing to see there, either. The voices whispered more urgently, redirecting his concentration. They were humming now, but he could detect in the rise and fall of their music the need they were trying to communicate to him. Don't slow down, they were saying. Don't hesitate.

He gripped the darkwand in both hands, moving ahead in a crouch, the twilight deepening swiftly toward nightfall. If he failed to reach the bridge quickly, he would be left in darkness. What chance would he have against his pursuer then?

He felt a sudden rush of panic, sweat forming on his brow and trickling down his spine, soaking through his tunic.

-Follow—

He did so, focusing his attention on the sound of the voices, the direction of their humming becoming his compass. He must trust in them. He must believe that it was Cinnaminson who guided him, the controlling voice among the many, no different now than before, when she had led him down into the ravine to find Mother Tanequil. She was watching out for him still. She was protecting him.

Behind him, he heard movement, a sudden rustling, and he turned to look. A shadow moved slowly through the trees, bent low, scrabbling on all fours, head close to the ground. An animal, tracking. It was moving slantwise to where he crouched at the edge of the ravine, not yet seeing him, but sensing his presence, realizing he was close. He froze, watching it creep through the grasses, appearing and disappearing. He felt his throat tighten and his mouth go dry. He had never been so afraid.

-Follow–Mechanically, he started moving ahead again, his thoughts scattered, his mind on the consequences he would face if his pursuer caught up to him. He saw Bandit stretched lifeless on the grassy flats near Taupo Rough. He saw the desiccated bodies of Gar Hatch and his crew hanging from the spars of the Skatelow. He felt Cinnaminson shiver against him as she told him some of what she had endured as a captive. He felt his skin crawl as he imagined what it would be like for him if he were caught.

-Quickly

No longer pretending that there was any time left, that he could afford to rely on stealth and caution to see him through, he began to run in a low crouch. His only chance was to reach the bridge and his companions. Surely Kermadec was a match for that monster. Surely Khyber could call on the Elfstones to stop it.

Please, please, someone must be able to help!

Then he heard the sudden, explosive sound of his pursuer coming fast, tearing through the trees, heedless of caution. He wheeled back to see the shadowy form bounding toward him, the glint of its strange weapon flashing in the darkness in small bursts of silver fire.

Pen backed toward the ravine's edge, lifting the darkwand to defend himself, a pitiful weapon employed in a hopeless effort. — Stop. Do not move. Trust us

What choice did he have? There was nowhere left to go. He waited helplessly, staff lifted, body tensed, not knowing what he was going to do, no longer able to think clearly, watching as his pursuer drew closer, grew larger, turned darker than the night about him. He could see its cloak and hood. He could see that they were shredded and blackened with blood, the result of its encounter with the moor cat days earlier. It looked ragged and wild, something left over from the netherworld. It came at him in a frenzy, screaming, the sound so chilling that the boy very nearly broke and ran in spite of the admonition of his protectors. — Stand. Be strong–Helpme, he thought. Then the monster was on top of him.

On the far side of the ravine, Khyber Elessedil watched Pen stop suddenly and turn back toward his pursuer, as if realizing that he had been discovered. Then the black–cloaked hunter leapt from cover and closed on the boy in a reckless, maddened rush. She was shocked by its ragged look, its clothing torn and crusted with muck, pieces of its cloak trailing behind it in long black streamers. It had clearly gone through some bad times to get there, but now, having arrived, its course of action was settled. Even from as far away as she was, she could see the flash of its knife as it attacked.

She had only a moment and only one thing she could think of to do. She threw up her hands, the Druid magic gathering in a sudden rush at her fingertips.I know so little, she was thinking. She needed more time, she needed better preparation, she needed Ahren to act for her, she needed so much and she wasn't going to be given any of it. She wasn't even going to be given a second chance if she failed with the first.

She braced herself against the earth, legs spread for balance, arms extended.

It felt to Pen as if a giant's hand had struck him, the force of the blow knocking him completely off his feet as his attacker leapt at him, knife sweeping through the space he had just vacated. But the back side of the giant's hand caught the attacker as well, flinging him away in an audible rush of wind that scattered dust and debris in all directions and ripped up clots of scrub and grass. Out flew the black–cloaked form toward the dark drop of the ravine, arms and legs flailing wildly. The hood fell away, and Pen saw his pursuer's face for the first time—a blasted, torn visage that was only barely human and reflected an unfathomable madness.

A fresh shriek ripped from its twisted mouth, one born not of fear or anguish, but of fury and a promise of terrible retribution. Still trying to escape, Pen scrambled backwards on all fours. His attacker's abnormally long limbs grappled for the roots that grew along the edge of the ravine, fingers catching hold, toes digging in. It caught itself and hung there, scrambling to find purchase, to get back atop the slope, its crazed eyes fixed on Pen.

Then a dirt–encrusted root snaked out of the ravine like a sea leviathan's tentacle and wrapped about the leg of the dangling creature, fastening tight. The black–cloaked form twisted and struggled as its grip was loosened. Another yank, and Pen's attacker was falling into the abyss, down into the blackness. It struck with an audible thud, and then the roots of Mother Tanequil were moving, sliding against each other in rough scrapings. Pen heard the sounds of flesh tearing, bones breaking, and blood exploding out of ruptured limbs.

A final shriek rose out of the ravine's depths.

And then there was only silence.

Pen sat facing the ravine, breathing so hard he thought his heart would give out. He stared down into the void, half expecting the hooded creature to reemerge, even knowing that this time it was dead and gone and never coming back. Stunned by the suddenness of its demise, not quite certain that he could trust what he had seen, he waited anyway.

When he lifted his gaze, he saw Khyber. She was standing on the other side of the ravine, arms extended, body braced. Her posture and the shocked look on her face revealed her part in what had happened. It was her Druid magic that had knocked him aside. She had used it there, as she had weeks earlier aboard the Skatelow in Anat–cherae to sweep their hunter from the decks of the airship and into the waters of the Lazareen. Both times, she had saved his life.

He stared at her in disbelief and gratitude, then lifted his hand in a small wave. She straightened and waved back. They stayed where they were for a moment, looking at each other across the ravine, but from a greater distance, too, one measured by hardships endured and deadly encounters survived. Suddenly it made him feel close to her, enough so that he wanted to call out and tell her so. But the darkness was a curtain between them, and the night seemed poised to steal away his words, so he stayed silent.