Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

Two more hounds joined it, one all white, one black and white.

Keleios whispered, “Guard yourself. I don’t like the looks of them.”

They passed close to the hounds now. The black one was missing an eye, and the white had a twisted foot. They stared with malice glittering in their trusting brown eyes.

Tobin asked, “What are they?”

Lothor answered, “The day forms of the hounds of Verm. And their eyes are not fooled by magic.”

Gabel said, “Monstrous things.”

Keleios asked, “Have you been the prey in a daytime hunt?”

“I have experienced many wondrous things since we last met.”

“Poor Gabel, I was hunted through these woods when I was seventeen.”

“Brave little half-breed.”

Lothor said, “Enough. The hounds’ powers are limited in daylight, but if they warn the others, we may fail yet.”

They broke into a trot without another word. A ring of hounds surrounded the beached boat. They snarled their displeasure, and a large yellow one threatened with raised fur and bared teeth.

Lothor strode forward. “Make way for your betters.” He spoke a word that no one quite heard, guttural and hissing at the same time. The hound backed away snarling and the rest slunk to a safe distance.

Keleios said, “Quickly, let us push out over the water.”

Lothor asked, “But where will we go in such a small boat?”

“The fisherfolk travel from island to island in boats such as this, Loltun. Hurry.”

The sea lay calm and empty. Soft waves lapped at the shore. Keleios put hands on the boat. “Push.”

Poth and the green imp leapt aboard. Tobin and Eroar, in human form again, leaned into the boat. Gabel stood and did not help. Keleios spoke through gritted teeth. “The hounds will lead others to us. Hurry.”

She glanced at the idle enchanter and said, “Gabel, if you don’t help, you swim.”

He joined the rest in putting their shoulders and arms into pulling and pushing the grounded boat into the water. The yellow hound sent a howl floating into the light, and far off was an answering horn.

“Push, push for all you’re worth.” The boat gave all at once, shooting into the water, sending them floundering. Lothor fell, and the dark water swallowed him. The others climbed up the side. Keleios cursed softly as she drew the oars in the locks. “Can the black healer swim?”

“I don’t think so,” Tobin answered.

“Urle’s forge, why didn’t he ride, then?” Just before she could dive in after him, a gauntlet-covered hand grasped the boat’s side followed by the Loltun prince’s face. Tobin helped him up, and Keleios had to caution, “Have a care or you’ll dump us all in the drink.”

Lothor lay in the bottom of the boat, gasping like a landed fish.

Keleios began to row. She had Tobin grab the other set of oars and they began to move out to sea. The horn sounded again.

Gabel seemed near tears. “Why don’t they simply teleport in?”

“The hounds’ minds can’t give a clear enough picture, and not even a demon can teleport without some idea of where and what.”

Keleios whispered a prayer under her breath. “Ellil, goddess of the eternal sea, daughter of lies and humanity, you know me. I have fished and swam and trusted my body to you many times. Great Ellil, give us a wind to sail to safety.” Her shoulders and arms strained at the oars. “Row, row like you’ve never rowed before.”

Lothor sat up carefully. “I will row.”

“No.” It came out sharp, and his face clouded with anger. “Tobin knows how to use oars; you do not. There is no time.”

If the wind did not help, neither did it harm them. Ellil was as capable of destroying their sail as filling it. She was the sea and not altogether trustworthy.

They rowed. Tobin did not turn to look back; but Keleios saw.

On the shore a group of beings could be seen, scales sparkling like jewels in the sunlight. Green, red, blue, and white the demons shone in the light. One raised a brass horn to its lips and blew a single note. The sound was clear, beautiful, and fearful.

A seeking wind blew, smelling of death and rot. The plague storm rose from the island and began to creep toward them. They rowed but could not outdistance it. The sword half-rose from its sheath. “Master, Alharzor can teleport; he is still fresh.”

“No,” Keleios said, “I’m too tired.”

“But Alharzor is not tired.”

She shook her head.

“I can teleport, Keleios,” Eroar said.

She glanced at the dragon. “How many?”

“I am also tired. Three, plus myself.”

Keleios sighed, “I’ve done one teleport today, I can’t do another, but with Alharzor’s power I can carry myself, Poth, and the demon.”

Gabel asked, “But where to? What’s within range?”

“Shut up, Gabel. Let me give Eroar the picture.”

To teleport without ending part of a freshly moved chair you had know your coordinates. Keleios knew of only one thing that would be exactly the same. She envisioned piece by piece the drop of the unicorn’s head as it bent to eat from low-growing dragon’s blood, the stallion standing on a grey rock watching for intruders, a short bush with a rabbit hiding underneath it. She had used it as a practice point before. She asked Eroar, “Do you have it?”

“Yes.”

She let the boat drift and drew demon magic inside once again, but she was achingly tired. Keleios felt as though she were swimming against a strong current, but this water was fire and burned down her skin. Alharzor was there, angry, powerful, and not tired in the least. Eroar left with the three men. Groghe leapt upon her back, and she held Poth in her arms. The cat spat at the imp, and he hissed at her.

Alharzor fought her, trying to control, to take them where he wanted to go. The death cloud crept closer, the air reeking with its smell. Keleios struggled against the demon and breathed through her mouth, fighting nausea. Poth gave a squall. Keleios said, “If you keep fighting me, we will both die.”

“I am already dead,” Alharzor hissed. “You killed me.”

Keleios couldn’t argue with him, but she had to stop him. Alharzor was a red demon; that meant fire. She thought of cold—ice to put out the fire, cold to drive back his anger. Alharzor retreated before the wave of winter magic, screaming. She held him in a prison of frost. The sword’s metal froze in her hand, but the core of fire that was Alharzor pulsed through it. She had him. Keleios reached outward with his power. The cloud hovered over the boat, and Keleios glanced up once. Concentration slipped. Bits of something once alive floated in the cloud; the cloud flowed over the boat.

Keleios appeared beside the others. She half-collapsed on a bed that was shoved too close to the wall. One hand touched the wall and the rich heaviness of the unicorn tapestry. The bulk of their coming had scooted the bed crookedly. A small girl sat huddled in the bed, staring at them with wide green eyes. Groghe tumbled off of Keleios’ shoulders and somersaulted past the child. The girl let out a small scream. Poth leapt free onto the braided rug that covered the floor. The nursemaid, Magda, was defending her charge with a broom. The woman had backed the men into a corner away from the bed.

Lothor called to Keleios, “Tell this woman we are friends before I waste magic on her.”

Keleios began to retch, trying to gasp in clean air. Speech was beyond her. Groghe, imp that he was, knew how to bedevil the nursemaid. He crept behind her and lifted her skirts. She screamed and swatted at him with the broom. He was too fast, and she hit empty air. The imp soon had her spinning like a top, swatting with the broom as if he were some giant green mouse.