The Pillars of the World

Chapter Twenty-three

Hearing the mare’s pathetic whinny, Morag’s hands tightened on the dark horse’s reins. He shook his head, but slowed his pace, as if waiting for her to decide if he really had to stop.

She drew back on the reins, then twisted in the saddle to look behind her. The other mares walked past her but didn’t go far. The sun stallion turned, blocking the road.

The last mare kept coming toward them. She was sweating heavily from the effort to keep up. The dead hide around the nighthunters’ bites kept sloughing off, leaving more open sores for the flies to find.

If it wasn’t for the mare’s tenacity, Morag would have summoned Death to end the suffering. But anything that fought so hard to live should be given the chance to fight until there was no hope—and the mare didn’t know there was no hope.

The mare stopped before she was close enough for the sun stallion to lash out at her.

Morag faced forward, pressed her knees against the dark horse’s sides, and said, “Let’s go.”

She still didn’t understand why she had ended up with the sun stallion and his mares. After she had guided the witches’ spirits to the Shadowed Veil, she had returned to that meadow just to check on the horses Morphia and the others had left behind. Then she had set off on her own journey since there was nothing she could do for them. She’d been surprised when the sun stallion had rounded up his mares and come after her. Perhaps the horses felt some comfort in being close to one of the Fae; perhaps they recognized her and the dark horse as the only familiar things in a world that had gone strange. All she knew for certain was she was now traveling with a stallion and five mares, as well as the dark horse.

The dark horse snorted, stopped, looked toward the woods beyond the roadside field.

“Water?” Morag asked quietly, noticing that all the horses had flared nostrils and were looking in the same direction. Whatever they scented didn’t frighten them.

The dark horse pawed the road.

Water.

But was it safe to enter those trees in order to reach it?

Morag studied the land, looking for signs.

On the right-hand side of the woods was a cluster of dead trees.

She let her power drift over the land, feeling, listening.

Death whispered.

Death will whisper louder if we all don’t get water soon, Morag thought. Urging the dark horse to head for the woods, she said quietly, “Stay watchful. Be careful. Those . . . things . . . are nearby.”

The dark horse snorted softly. So did the sun stallion as he fell back far enough to guard the mare who had already been bitten by the nighthunters. Morag watched the trees as they approached the woods. There were no birds here, no squirrels. The small creatures had fled, another sign that the nighthunters had claimed this piece of land.

Mother’s mercy, but those things grew and bred unnaturally fast. And when they fed, they devoured blood and magic and a little bit of the creature’s spirit.

She lost track of the days since she and Morphia had parted company, each to give her own warnings. The traveling had been slow because she stopped whenever she came to an Old Place. She had found no witches. Sometimes the land simply felt abandoned; sometimes it felt like the magic was bleeding out of it. She had thought of going up the shining roads through the Veil to warn the Clans that their roads would soon be closing, but even the dark horse had refused to approach the roads, as if he sensed what was about to happen. And, in truth, she didn’t want to change to her other form and go up those roads herself since she didn’t know how fast those roads might close. She had been lucky once to have escaped before a shining road closed. She couldn’t trust that she would be as lucky again.

Besides, Death had summoned her in each of those places.

The Small Folk were suffering from the nighthunters’ attacks, and at each Old Place there were several who asked to be guided to the Shadowed Veil.

At first, she’d resisted because they didn’t appear to be so terribly ill. Then the Small Folk explained that none who had been bitten had recovered. The ones who asked for her help were more afraid of having their spirits devoured before another of Death’s Servants passed by than they were of giving up life prematurely.

So she had gathered them gently and taken them to the Shadowed Veil so that they could pass through and reach the Summerland beyond.

Even for the Gatherer, death had become too constant a companion.

As soon as they reached the stream, the mares hurried forward to drink their fill. Then the sun stallion took his turn, drinking quickly while the dark horse stood watch.

Morag untied her canteen from the saddle and dismounted. “Go on, drink,” she told the dark horse. She watched the trees for any movement. The sun stallion guarded the mares.

When the dark horse finished, she filled her canteen and drank, gulping down the water, which had a slightly bitter taste. Another sign of the nighthunters’ presence—or the loss of magic in the land.

As she bent down to refill the canteen, the sun stallion reared, screaming, and struck a mare’s flank with his hoof.

As the mare bolted toward the field, a small black body fell off her flank. The nighthunter spread its wings and leaped toward the sun stallion, trying to sink its needle-sharp teeth into the sole of the upraised hoof.

The sun stallion twisted its body. The nighthunter’s teeth scraped the side of the hoof. Before it could attack again, the dark horse lashed out, knocking it to the ground. His hoof came down, pulping the body.

Then came the awful sound of nighthunter wings in flight.

“Run!” Morag yelled. The horses had to be away from here before she made her own kind of strike. The mares obeyed instantly, running for the field. The stallions moved to either side of her, prepared to fight.

Frustrated and scared, she swung her canteen by its straps, hitting the sun stallion’s rump. He whirled, ears flat, teeth bared.

She swung the canteen again, hitting one of the nighthunters before it could reach the dark horse’s neck. “Run so I can fight!”

That they understood. The horses ran, and, for a moment, she was alone, feeling as defenseless as any other creature against those spawns of twisted magic.

Then she gathered her power and released it in a short burst, hoping the horses were far enough away not to be touched by it. The nighthunters fell all around her, stunned. But they wouldn’t stay stunned for long.

Morag ran.

The other horses had fled the length of the field and were gathered by the road. The dark horse, however, danced nervously a few yards away from the woods.

“You stayed too close,” Morag said angrily.

The dark horse snorted, offered his left side.

Morag barely had time to get both feet in the stirrups before he turned and galloped across the field to join the others.

Her power couldn’t kill the nighthunters. She’d learned that the night the mare was attacked. They were bodies without spirit, and there was nothing for her to gather. But her power could leave them flopping on the ground for a few minutes. They weren’t completely helpless—they could still bite and scratch— but they could then be killed by mundane methods.

When they reached the other horses, Morag dismounted and sank to her knees, shaking. Her skin crawled while she raked her fingers through her hair, almost expecting to dislodge a nighthunter from the tangles. After a minute or so, she got to her feet and examined the horses. One mare’s flank was bleeding a little where the sun stallion’s hoof had struck her, but none of the others had been injured. The sun stallion’s hoof, where the nighthunter’s teeth had scraped it, wasn’t really damaged. Still, she poured the water she had left in the canteen over the stallion’s hoof and the mare’s flank to clean them as best she could.

She glanced at the woods. The nighthunters would be revived by now and were no doubt flying through the woods to reach the trees closest to this part of the field. But it was still daylight, and there was enough open ground between the trees and where she stood. The nighthunters kept to the woods and the shadows within it. They wouldn’t cross this much open ground in daylight. However, once the sun set . . .

She would have been willing to stay a little longer to give the horses a chance to graze, but, although they sniffed at the grass in the field, none of them ate.

“Let’s go,” she said, moving toward the dark horse. “We’ll find someplace else to rest.”

Death whispered.

Morag turned in a slow circle, trying to find the reason for that whisper.

The sun stallion and the dark horse watched the road. The mares bunched together.

Moments later, a young man riding a floundering horse came into sight. When he saw them, he spurred his horse. It broke into a heavy-footed trot for a few paces, then dropped back to a walk, its head hanging down.

There was nothing exceptional about the young man that Morag could see. He had average looks, and his hair was adequately described as brown. He wore black trousers and a black coat, both dusty.

The sight of him repulsed her.

He swung out of the saddle, quickly stripped the bridle off his horse, and walked toward her, greedily eyeing the stallions before focusing on the mares.

“I require one of your horses,” he said, approaching the mares.

That he thought he could take what he pleased with no more explanation than that, and that she would meekly yield to his command, infuriated her.

“They aren’t for sale,” Morag said coldly.

He gave her one quick, thorough glance, as if debating if she were another kind of mare he’d like to mount, then turned his attention back to the horses.

The mares trotted way from him—except the mare who had been bitten by the nighthunters. She laid her ears back and stood her ground.

As the man looked at the mare’s wounds, Morag saw recognition—and satisfaction—in his eyes. Her own eyes narrowed as she studied him again.

“You’re a Black Coat,” she said. When he gave her a puzzled look, she added, “An . . . Inquisitor.”

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “I’m the personal courier for the Master Inquisitor. My horse is used up. I need one of these.”

“So that you can deliver your Master’s orders to kill more witches?” she asked, her eyes on the flat leather bag that rested at his hip.

“Of course.” He looked proud and arrogant. “He is the Witch’s Hammer.”

“And I,” Morag said softly, “am the Gatherer.”

His face paled as he finally, really looked at her. “You killed Konrad,” he whispered.

“I didn’t ask his name.”

As he turned to flee, the wounded mare lashed out with her hind feet, kicking him in the chest.

Morag heard bone snap.

The nighthunters flitted around the edge of the woods, darting out a few yards into the daylight before returning to the shadows. A fresh death would make them bold enough to come to the feast before anything else could feed, despite the sunlight.

“Move out to the road,” Morag told the dark horse. He and the sun stallion obeyed. The mares followed.

Morag approached the young man, but not close enough for him to touch her. Bloody foam bubbled over his lips. She could sense the blood spilling inside him, filling him up.

“Help me,” he gasped, trying to reach for her.

She smiled at him. “You want me to gather you?”

His eyes widened in fear as he struggled to breathe. “No! You’ll send my spirit to the Fiery Pit, the Evil One’s lair.”

Morag tipped her head to one side, studying him. “I have never heard of the Fiery Pit, but it sounds like a fitting place for your kind. Perhaps your Master Inquisitor can show you the way.” She looked at the woods. The nighthunters were becoming bolder, but weren’t quite bold enough—yet. “Then again, perhaps his other servants will take care of you.”

With effort, the young man turned his head, saw the black shapes darting out from among the trees.

“You can’t leave me here with them,” he gasped. Blood gushed from his mouth. “You can’t leave me.”

“You and the other Inquisitors created them, didn’t you? They didn’t exist here until your kind came to soil this land.”

His eyes glazed. He made one more feeble attempt to reach her. “Please. You can’t leave me.”

The nighthunters left the shadows. Morag watched them fly across the field.

“Yes, I can.”

Hurrying toward the dark horse, she made a sharp gesture with her hand. “Go!”

The mares cantered down the road, the sun stallion following to guard. The courier’s horse trotted after them.

Morag mounted the dark horse, then looked at the courier’s horse. If it tried to keep up with them, it would die soon. It might die anyway.

Let it try to stay with us, Morag thought, keeping the dark horse to a trot the courier’s horse could manage. There’s nothing I would want to see die near that field. Almost nothing, she amended as she heard the courier’s ghost scream.

Exhausted, Morag snuggled into the straw to get a little more comfortable. Even with the summer days being so long now, they hadn’t been able to travel as far as she’d hoped. But they had reached this farm. One of the small bags of silver she’d found in the courier’s saddlebags when she’d stopped long enough to strip the saddle off the horse had been enough to buy grain for the horses, a meal for herself, and a place in the barn for her and the dark horse. The sun stallion and the mares were in a nearby pasture. They would be safe enough for the night.

The farmer thought the courier’s horse might recover with proper care, so she’d given the animal to him to keep or sell. She couldn’t take it with her. Fae horses had more strength and stamina than ordinary horses. Sooner or later, the poor beast would be left behind to fend for itself if the effort to keep up didn’t kill it.

Tomorrow was the Solstice. She hadn’t known that, had lost track of the days. The farmer and his wife had invited her to stay for the Midsummer celebration, but she had declined. This year, the only thing the Solstice meant to her was there would be more daylight during which it was safe to travel. And that was especially important because she finally had a name in the human world to mark her destination.

Ridgeley.

It had taken some effort to get her hosts to understand that she wanted to find a village on the southern coast of Sylvalan but didn’t know its name. She really wasn’t interested in a particular village; she just wanted to have a marker in the human world that would help her reach the southern Clans as swiftly as possible. Because of the horses, they’d told her the place she was looking for was a village called Ridgeley. An old man named Ahern lived near there—a man who bred the finest horses around. When the dark horse had pricked its ears at the sound of Ahern’s name, she had a suspicion about who she would find there. But even if it wasn’t the right place, the Lord of the Horse would surely know where to find the Lightbringer or the Huntress.

Three days more. Four at the most, depending on how swiftly they could travel. And then . . .

No. She wouldn’t let her mind circle around what might be. She would find out soon enough what might be waiting for her in Ridgeley.