Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

But the trees were silent, and the wagon rolled on. Soon the isolated woods thickened into even denser forests between the open fields and hills.

One day, as dusk approached, Chane and Ore-Locks were asleep in the back when Wynn spotted a side road beyond the wagon line’s head. Another appeared shortly after on the other side. They’d come to a main fork.

The chieftain, A’drinô, shouted from ahead for a halt. He came striding back to Wynn’s wagon, his heavy braid swinging as he walked, and he pointed to the left, northeasterly path.

“That leads to Lhoin’na lands and a’Ghràihlôn’na,” he said. “Keep to the road, and you’ll come to an open plain. Their forest proper is beyond it, and the capital not much farther.”

A’drinô gestured toward the southeast fork on the right.

“We’ve a few stops along the valley’s southern foothills.” He glanced at Shade, then back at Wynn, and a wry smile spread across his mouth. “Tell your pale friend and the dwarf they might not be missed. Some of my men have grown lazy, sleeping through the nights.”

“Thank you for everything,” Wynn replied, though she was puzzled. Apparently the caravan wasn’t bound for Lhoin’na lands; perhaps they had no cargo to trade there.

A’drinô nodded, still smiling, and turned away. But he paused, glancing northward with a frown.

“Lhoin’na patrollers are ... strict about anyone crossing the plain.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Never understood it. They allow no blood spilled there, neither for hunting nor injury. Keep any weapons sheathed or stored, and take it slow, at a comfortable pace.”

His words tickled something at the back of Wynn’s mind—something about an open field on the way to an elven forest. She couldn’t remember what it was, let alone where she’d heard ... whatever she couldn’t remember.

“You don’t know why?” she asked.

“For any people, the reasons for some old ways can be long forgotten. All that’s left is a tradition. But polite as the elves are in their way, they take this one seriously.”

Wynn nodded, anxious without knowing why. A’drinô returned a curt bow and walked away. When the caravan rolled on and Wynn reached the fork, she guided the wagon out of the line and onto the side road.

Shade immediately rose on the bench, ears stiff as she watched the caravan leave them behind. She turned about, pressing her shoulder against Wynn and exhaling two sharp huffs.

—stay ... Wynn ... people—

With those words came another flash of the night the Fay had assaulted Wynn.

“This is the only way,” she answered, but even she watched the trees closely.

The farther they went, the more Shade fidgeted, trying to watch everywhere at once. But in less time than expected, a break in the forest appeared ahead. Wynn pulled the horses to a halt where the trees stopped.

An open plain of tall grass gently undulated with tans and traces of yellow-green. Wynn thought she spotted hints of white wildflowers, but they were too hidden to see clearly. Farther out, the edge of a vast forest, more overwhelming than the one she left, stretched both ways beyond sight.

At first, the trees didn’t seem too far away, but then Wynn realized why. Where the road entered between them, it looked like no more than a thread in width. The tallest of those trees were immense, ancient sentinels.

Wynn had never been here before, but the sight was eerily familiar.

Shade huffed again, looking off to the left as she shoved in closer against Wynn. A dull, distant pounding grew in volume.

Three riders came across the grassy plain at a full gallop. The rear pair held their reins one-handed, and gripped long, wooden poles in the other. The leader appeared to hold only a bow in his free grip. But as they raced nearer, the first thing Wynn noticed about the riders themselves was their hair and eyes.

Oversized and teardrop-shaped, their amber irises glowed in the falling sun’s light. All three had their wheat- or sand-colored hair pulled up and back in high tails held by single rings, and the narrow tips of their tall ears were plain to see. They were garbed in tawny leather vestments with swirling steel garnishes that matched sparkling spaulders on their shoulders. Running diagonal over their chests, each bore a sash the color of pale gold. As they drew closer, slightly curved sword hilts became visible, protruding over their right shoulders.

Wynn grew relieved. These had to be the border guard that A’drinô had mentioned. At least as a sage, she might ask for escort.

The leader reined in his tall russet mare directly in front of the wagon’s horses.

“ Veasg’âr-äilleach ,” Wynn said, greeting him.

His stern expression relaxed as he quizzically raised a thin, slanted eyebrow. Wynn noticed a silver ash-leaf brooch on his sash, though the other two didn’t wear one. He nodded and his thin lips parted, but a reply never came.

His gaze fixed on Shade, and he sucked in a hissing breath. Horror flattened his features just before they wrinkled in anger.

“ Valhachkasej’ä !” he spat at her.

Wynn tensed at the foul utterance Leesil had often used. She’d even picked up his bad habit, but she’d never heard it aimed at her. Before she could speak, the leader reached over his left shoulder and pinched the notched end of an arrow in his quiver.

“Pull the wagon back, woman!” he commanded in Elvish.

“What? I don’t—” Wynn started.

“Now ... despoiler !”

“Blessed Bäynæ, what is the problem?” Ore-Locks growled from the wagon’s back.

Wynn heard further rustling behind her but didn’t take her eyes off the patrol’s leader. Her wagon wasn’t even onto the plain yet, and he wanted her to retreat?

“I don’t understand,” she finished in Elvish. “Why can’t—”

The leader’s hand flashed down across his face.

Wynn heard a crack close beside her, and Shade erupted into loud snarls. An arrow shaft vibrated between them, its head buried in the wood near her thigh.

“Force her down!” the leader shouted.

The other patrollers lowered blunt lances, and Wynn’s breath caught as they kicked their mounts into a lunge. One lance slipped between her and Shade, separating them before she could move. Shade snapped it in her jaws as the rider tried to sweep it toward Wynn.

Wynn exhaled, “Oh, seven hells!”

This wasn’t about her; it was about Shade.

“I can explain,” she called, forgetfully slipping into Numanese. “Just let me—”

The other lance struck her shoulder.

Wynn tumbled off the wagon’s side, slamming down beside it. She’d barely rolled over when she heard the canvas snap. Over the thud of two feet, she heard a rasping hiss.

Chane stood over her, gloved and cloaked, his face obscured by the leather mask and darkened glasses. She could only imagine what he looked like to the elven patrollers.

“No,” Wynn groaned, “ah no!”

Chane heard Wynn speaking with someone but could not understand either of them. It was likely Elvish, as he had heard Wynn speak in the strange, lyrical lilt a few times. Though not dormant, he was groggy and barely aware. He had not taken a dose of the potion for several nights, and the last one was beginning to wear off.

His awareness increased when Ore-Locks had grumbled, “Blessed Bäynæ, what is the problem?”

Wynn shouted something more, and then a crack of wood cut her off.

Chane heard—felt—it through the wagon’s frame. Something had struck the bench above his head. When Shade snarled, Chane frantically groped for his mask and glasses.

“ A’Jeann a-shéos è !” shouted an angry, lilting voice.