“It’s a grove of white birch,” he whispered. “I see it ahead.”
She detected the faint glow of the trees, visible even in the darkness.
“Are the horses tied?” she whispered.
“Well tied.”
“Good. We’ll have to be fast. Jump on, slash the ropes, and go.” And hope the steeds could outrun the beasts that followed. If anything could outrun the beasts that followed.
“The gelding is on the left,” Tyrus whispered. “He’s a bay. The gray mare is yours.”
She nodded. They both clutched their blades, slowing their steps, peering toward the glade, ready to rush forward the moment they saw —
Daigo let out a snort and tried to leap in front of Moria, but she was already stumbling over whatever he’d noticed in her path. It looked like a fallen branch and she was righting herself, cursing, when Tyrus inhaled sharply.
Bone protruded from the end of the “branch.” Bloody bone and shredded flesh and, on the other end, a hoof.
“The horses,” he whispered. “They’ve killed…”
He didn’t need to finish. He and Moria raced forward, both calling a warning to the other to stop as they realized, simultaneously, what they’d done. They’d run, and it was only for a few steps, but it was enough. All around them the forest erupted in growls. Red eyes flashed in the darkness.
They stumbled into the clearing. Tyrus tripped this time, and Moria looked down to see him stagger away from the head of the gray mare. The remains of the horses were everywhere, whole pieces and sometimes no more than bone, the flesh stripped as cleanly as if vultures had feasted for days. There was blood, too, and she slid on a rope of entrails.
Tyrus grabbed her arm to steady her. Then he swung her around behind him, his blade out, the two of them back-to-back. The forest had gone silent now, but Moria could sense the beasts circling. Daigo hissed and spat. When those red eyes flashed in the darkness, he lunged, only to slide on the blood-slick grass and dance away, snarling, his fur on end, ears laid flat. When Daigo looked up, Moria whispered, “Trees. We need to climb a tree.”
“The birch are too small.”
“I know.”
Moria lifted her torch and squinted into the semidarkness.
“There,” she whispered, pointing to an oak outside the grove.
Tyrus shifted, as if flexing his knees while he contemplated the distance.
“Twenty paces,” she said.
“I have the bigger blade. You’ll go first.”
“No, you ought —”
Daigo cut off her argument with a growl. Just go.
Moria inhaled and they turned as one, putting her in direct line with the tree.
“You’ll be right behind me?” she whispered.
“You have my word,” he said.
Which meant yes – without question, yes. She exhaled, adjusted her dagger and the torch, crouched, and counted to three under her breath so Tyrus could hear. Then she ran.
FORTY-SIX
Moria held the torch as high as she could to light the way for Tyrus. She could hear him right behind her, so close the sound of his breathing seemed to drown out the pounding of his boots. When she strained, she caught the swish of grass as Daigo ran off to Tyrus’s side. What she could not hear was the sound of pursuit. It didn’t matter. The beasts were there, right there, on Tyrus’s heels, and she didn’t need to look back to confirm that.
When Moria reached the tree, she whipped around. There they were – a seething mass of red eyes and dark shadows. She pitched the torch at them, wheeled again, and jammed her dagger into the tree trunk. She used it as a climbing spike, yanked herself up, and grabbed the lowest branch. She swung onto the limb, leaving the dagger behind. She leaped up onto the branch and took the next one. Soon, Daigo was beside her and Tyrus was on the limb she’d just vacated. She kept going until she was as high as the branches would hold her weight. Then she stretched out on her stomach.
Tyrus reached the branch below hers and handed up her dagger. They both lay with their arms wrapped around the tree, staring down into the night.
The thrown torch had ignited the dry grass, but it only smoldered and smoked, obscuring more than it revealed. Then, as they regained their breath, the clouds overhead drifted past the moon, not clearing it but stretching thin enough for the beams to penetrate.
At first, Moria still saw only red eyes. But as she watched, she could make out shadowy shapes, writhing in the darkness below. When she squinted, one of the shapes seemed to take form into —
“Don’t look.” Tyrus reached up to grip her arm.
“I know but —”
“Don’t look. Please. I don’t care if the stories are true or not. Don’t take that chance, however curious you are. Please. For me.”
She tugged her gaze from the shapes below.
“Think of something else,” Tyrus said. “Tell me about them.”
“You already know —”
“A little.” He managed a wry smile. “Share your expertise and perhaps we can figure a way out of this.”
We can’t. It doesn’t matter if we’ve seen them or not. There’s no escape from —
“Fiend dogs,” she blurted, feeling a mix of relief and fear naming them. “They’re fiend dogs. You’ll see only shadows and eyes. But if you look long enough, they’ll take the form of giant black dogs. They’re both a warning of death and death itself. If you see one, it’ll chase you until it catches you, and then it’ll kill you.” She hesitated. “There’s no escape.”