Paul Kemp - Shadowbred

My legs feel weak under me as one after another of the dark things falls to earth and crashes through the trees. There are dozens, hundreds.

"He is losing himself in the Source, Magadon. Losing himself forever. Part of him does not want you to succeed. His fears are coming for you."

I see the fears in my imagination, sniffing for me through the forest.

"Hurry," says the voice at the wall. "If they catch you…"

I nod as if the speaker can see me.

I know I must move faster to outrun the fears. But the terrain is difficult. I am moving slowly. What else can I do?

"The river, Magadon."

"The current is too strong," I say, then realize what I need to do.

I scramble up the riverbank and comb through the forest until I find a trunk of darkwood about the length of a tall man and about as wide around as a barrel. I know the wood to be reasonably strong yet unusually light.

I try to move the log nearer the river but find it too heavy, darkwood or no. I will have to dig it out into a makeshift boat right where it is. I know how. I have seen fishermen in a village on the shores of the Dragonmere turn logs into boats in a matter of hours.

But I do not know if I have hours.

The log will make a poor boat, but I do not need a seaworthy vessel. I just need something that can stay afloat on the river for a time so I can ride the current away from the fears. The river will be safer and faster than the forest.

A scream that trails off into a howl sounds from somewhere in the distance. I hear madness in the howl, and hunger.

The fears are on the hunt.

I look about the forest, see only pine, darkwood, cypress, and stillness. The voice at the wall chuckles.

I curse, pull the makeshift mask away from my mouth, and set to work. I cut at the log with my mind blade and shave off the bark. I hack hunks from what I hope will become the bow and then flatten the top. The mind blade slices through the darkwood efficiently. The sound of my blade chopping wood echoes through the forest. I know the fears will hear me but I press on, deeming the gamble worth it.

By the time I am done with the rough work, I have shaped the log into something that resembles a one-man boat. I stand over it, gasping, sweating. The smoky air causes me to cough but I fight through the fit.

I set to digging out the interior and find my blade ill-suited to the task. Sweating, shaking, angry and afraid, I straddle the half-completed boat and curse.

"Demon's teeth!"

How long have I been at it? The fears must be coming, must be near. "I need a godsdamned axe," I mutter.

In answer to my will, the sword hilt in my hand reshapes itself into a haft. The blade shrinks and transforms from a sword to a large, glowing wood axe.

I stare at it wide-eyed, then set to work.

Each strike throws up a huge divot of wood and I make rapid progress. Lift and strike; lift and strike. My arms burn but I do not stop, cannot stop. I am not precise and the boat looks hollowed out by a drunk, but I think it will do. I just need it to stay afloat with me so I can ride the rapids and escape the fears.

A howl sounds from somewhere to my left. Another answers from somewhere to my right. Both sound near. I freeze in mid strike, gasping. The sweat that coats me makes me go cold.

I examine my work. Good enough. If it floats like a boat, well and good. If it floats like a log, I will just ride it down the damned river.

I straighten up, wincing at the stiffness in my back, and shake the fatigue from my arms. I concentrate on the axe and mold it back into a blade. I tuck it into my belt.

Not far away, something moves in the forest, something dark and predatory. Adrenaline washes away my fatigue but I know the rush will not last. My muscles border on exhaustion.

I bend, grab the front of the dugout, and heave.

I laugh when I lift the front off the ground and it sounds the same as the mad laughter from the voice at the wall.

A howl from nearby. Another. Close. I hear crackling in the woods.

They are coming for me.

"Move," I say to myself. "Move." My arms burn. My legs feel like lead. But I drag the boat through the undergrowth, slipping, struggling, grunting, cursing.

In my mind I imagine the dark things prowling through the forest, following my scent-the scent of fear. The image keeps me going, pushes me on.

I lose my footing, curse, get up, and yank the boat forward another stretch. The strength in my legs is fading. My breath is a bellows. Fatigue makes me dizzy. When is the last time I had water?

I can hear the river's current ahead through the trees.

"Almost there," I say. "Keep moving."

Movement behind me turns me around. I see two black forms perched in the fat lower limbs of two cypress trees. Each is as large as a mastiff. They look vaguely manlike, with a head and four limbs, but their skin looks as smooth as oiled leather.

They howl and their mouths are voids. The sound steals my breath. They leap from one tree to another, deftly landing on large limbs. Leaves shower the earth. The fears' oval heads lack facial features save for three wet vertical slits where their nostrils should be, and a gash for a mouth. Spiderwebs of spit hang between their open jaws.

I cannot help myself-I catch my breath and scream with terror. Pointed tongues emerge from their mouths and taste the air, taste the fear.

Terror energizes me. I fairly pick up the boat and scramble for the river. I hit the bank, see the flowing water below.

I hear the fears leap to the ground and I spare a glance back. Sweat drips into my eyes. The fears howl, and up close, the sound is nauseatingly wet. They bound forward on all fours, leaping through the undergrowth, heads jutting forward, strides eating the distance.

I turn, give a pull for all I am worth, and get the boat over the top of the riverbank.

Behind me, the fears crash through the undergrowth, breaking saplings. I hear their wet respiration. They are nearly upon me.

I push the boat over the bank, run beside it as it descends the slope, and hop in as it picks up speed. The bow hits the water and its movement stalls. I jump out, heart racing, not daring to look back, and get behind it and shove.

"Move, godsdammit! Move!"

The voice at the wall laughs.

"The gods damn you straight to the Nine Hells!" I swear, and push, and push, and push.

"Mind what you wish," the voice says.

The fears growl from atop the bank. I cringe, expecting an impact at any moment. I do not even think to draw my blade; I only want to run.

The boat moves farther into the river and the current seizes it. I lose my grip on it, curse, run as best I can through thigh-high water, grab it, and pull myself in without tipping it.

I lay in it face up, staring at the cracked sky. I realize too late that I do not have an oar or anything else with which to steer but I do not care. Sweating, terrified, I sit up, draw the mind blade, and stare back at the receding riverbank.

I do not see the fears. They are gone.

For the moment.

5 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

Cale, Tamlin, and the Uskevren house guards rode at a moderate pace. By the end of the first day out, they had passed through the ring of villages that surrounded Selgaunt-most of them empty, or nearly so-and entered the rolling, open countryside. To Cale's relief, Vos proved as easy a ride as Stormweather's groom had promised. By the end of the second day, Cale felt reasonably comfortable in the saddle, enough so that he could enjoy the pastoral air and scenery rather than focus on staying seated.

Stands of larch and small woods of oak, elm, and maple broke the monotony of the whipgrass plains. Rauthauvyr's Road stretched before them to the horizon. An overcast sky hung ominously over the land, but the rain held off and the drought persisted.