Steel and Stone: 5 (The Meetings Sextet) by Ellen Porath

Author:Ellen Porath [Porath, Ellen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786963270
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2012-05-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

The Owl and Kitiara

TWIGS AND BRAMBLES CAUGHT AT KITIARA’S GATHERED blouse and scratched the leather of her leggings. The air around her shivered with oaths. She was well aware that out in the darkness, shadowless forms watched and waited, but so far they had done no more than mark her every move. Her saddle pack, slung across her back, hampered her movements, but she slashed undaunted at the clinging tentacles of plants with her sword and dagger.

The darkness had eased a bit, as though Solinari were rising behind the clouds. The moon, even weakened as it was, provided enough light for Kitiara to see a few feet, at least, to each side. Trees bent like crones before and behind her. The ominous sound of breathing came to her, sighing like the wind.

Caven Mackid would have said she was mad, attempting this alone. Tanis would have advised her to wait until morning. Wode would have grinned in glee at her present discomfiture.

But they were all dead. And Kitiara was journeying through Darken Wood—looking for the way out—at night.

Motionless, she gazed at the rocky ridge close on her left, then toward what she sensed was a valley off to her right. It was too dark to see much detail, but she pushed on, following what looked like a path, even though the trail that had brought her and the other three into Darken Wood had vanished. Branches and vines pressed around her once more. Reflexively, Kitiara brushed the tendril of a vine away from her face.

Another spasm of dizziness left her drenched with sweat. “By the gods,” she murmured, “what ailment have I picked up? Or have I been bewitched?” She waited for the moment of weakness to pass. She was covered with scratches; her back itched from sweat and dust. Thorns had pulled threads from her blouse, ripping holes into it. Blood oozed from a long scratch on her right cheek, skirting her eye.

Suddenly something stood in front of her on the path. She nudged it with her sword. It looked like a gigantic tumbleweed. Surely a good push would send it cascading into the valley below. She nudged the tangled ball with one hand, then, when it seemed unaccountably fixed in place, put one shoulder to it and pushed. Instantly she realized her error. Hundreds of tiny hooks fastened onto the front of her shirt. Tendrils twitched at her ankles, at her wrists. One tentative, quivering tendril tickled the base of her throat. She tried to pull back from the brambles. The tendril at her neck nevertheless moved along her jugular vein.

With an oath, Kitiara slashed into the brambles—were they thicker than before?—with her sword, and the vegetation fell back. “Ah,” she murmured. “So you can be defeated.” She stepped again toward the brambles and smiled to see the tangle move away from her.

Then Kitiara took another step, and the bramble, the path, the ridge, and the valley all vanished. The night, in the same instant, became darker, as though Solinari had been a candle, suddenly snuffed out.

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