Feynard by Marc Secchia

Author:Marc Secchia [Secchia, Marc]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy
Published: 2014-02-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16: The Black-Rock Mountains

“Shäyol reborn!” whispered Alliathiune, staring at the destruction with disbelief and horror in her eyes. She rounded on Kevin and demanded, “How did you know?”

He shuffled his feet, fervently wishing not to have spoken out of turn. Kevin had woken with the dawn to hear Hunter urgently telling Zephyr that the Lurk was missing, having sneaked past her–a feat in itself. Glimmering of Dawn took to the air, scouted briefly, and returned to report that the encampment of the Men of Ramoth lay in smoking ruins. Then Kevin had a horrible flash of insight–and blurted it out before he could think to clamp his jaw shut. This had recently become a habit, to his dismay.

Kevin examined his boots and whispered, “Just a lucky guess.”

“You must be the luckiest guesser alive!” she grumbled at length. “The fouling of the Well was a guess too, if memory serves me.”

“Very curious!” agreed Zephyr, regarding Kevin with a wizardly gleam in his eye. “Do you call this ability some kind of Earth logic, good outlander?”

“It’s intuition, that’s all.”

It was more than a lucky guess. Snatcher had been acting out of character ever since Glimmering of Dawn had spied the Men of Ramoth, and his agile mind linked that with an unguarded moment following their crossing of the Küshar Ravine, when the great Lurk had referred to ‘the hurts of the heart’. He had secrets. He had never spoken of his past. Eager though he was to leave Mistral Bog in their company, yet he had seemed hesitant and unsure of himself, needing Zephyr’s permission and approval before he would join their quest. Kevin had simply guessed that Snatcher’s hurts had something to do with these Men. If only he had kept his blasted tongue still!

There, in the heart of the encampment, between the smouldering frames of tents, enshrouded in the drifting billows of smoke and ash, was the lumbering figure of the Lurk, dragging his club in the dirt behind him as he wandered aimlessly to and fro, apparently unseeing. Bodies lay scattered like seed upon infertile ground. A sweetish, sickly smell assaulted the nostrils. Akê-Akê readily identified this for Kevin as the savour of burnt flesh. He promptly heaved up his breakfast of waycrust.

Alliathiune made an exasperated sound and glared at Hunter as though the Mancat had personally aggrieved her. “Exactly how does a ten-foot mountain of a Lurk sneak out of a cave past a Mancat who can see in the dark?”

“Swamp-dweller magic,” hissed the feline, drawing her blade with a zing of honed metal. “Akê-Akê spoke aright. This is an evil darktime’s work.”

“The Men of Ramoth are not above such labour themselves,” said Zephyr, lifting his gaze to the sky. “Where is our companion the Eagle?”

“Scouting.”

“Think you this is their whole number, slain in bloody vengeance?”

Akê-Akê grunted, “I would not count on it, good Unicorn. Some will have escaped, and will now thirst for our blood.”

“A Lurk’s vengeance, but for what?” Amadorn whispered, leaning heavily upon his staff, but the whole company heard him.

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