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Authors: Juanita Coulson
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guidance, he knew he must begin to turn and head out onto the open Vrastre Plains.
The night thickened perceptibly, and then an eerie fog, seemingly lit from within, rose out of nowhere. Danaer had never encountered its like. The horse felt his uneasiness and snorted and shook its mane. Danaer gentled the animal and rode on, though at a slower gait.
He told himself he was no child, to be frightened of fog and dark. Yet he murmured a prayer to the walkers-of-the-night and damp-breathers, those things of legends. Now Danaer sensed a presence—no; many presences, all around him. If he turned and glanced over his shoulder, would he catch a glimpse of some nameless demon hovering there?
The roan stumbled and Danaer tightened the reins, using all his skill to control the nervous animal. Before him, the fog swirled and climbed, filling his sight.
Vapor became grotesque faces and gaping, fanged jaws, and sharp talons raked at Danaer and the horse.
Instinctively, Danaer jerked the roan back violently as one of the fog paws grazed his leg. Icy fire seemed to lance through his bones and sinew, and the roan danced aside in terror.
Danaer's heart thundered as he fought the brute, at war with both these supernatural vapors and the horse's panic.
Wizardry! It could be nothing else!
This was no fog of the plains, nor was it his mind playing tricks. The well-trained horse lunged and grew wild-eyed, as it never would be confronting mortal predators, no matter how fearsome.
Now Danaer knew the same horror that must have seized the hapless general of the Clarique. Magic— again working to the Markuand will!
Danaer set his jaw, vowing not to succumb to sorcery. He had sworn to deliver the General's message, and he would not be bested by creatures of the mist. With a snarled warning, he drew sword, though wondering if the army's steel would pierce his foes. Knotting the reins in his right fist, he held the roan against its urge to bolt. "Steady, Sure-Foot, and show them no weakness, lest they take strength from it! Steady! Argan banish you, demons!"
He slashed at the nearest of the fog apparitions, dividing the ugly form in halves, sending the vapor spinning to either side. Another rose to take its place and Danaer struck with desperation, severing slavering muzzle from the head, cutting off the clawed feet.
Other melting and re-forming demons appeared, closing in behind and around and above Danaer while he continued to fight. There could be no parrying and a shield would not avail him much, even had he brought one.
A new presence came upon this unreal battle, an invisible but very palpable force. Had Danaer wished for a shield? A shield was in his hand, not a thing he could touch but as potent as this unseen ally who had joined his cause, setting itself between Danaer and the abominations in the fog.
"Argan hurl you to Bogotana's Realm!" Danaer roared, taking heart and wielding the sword savagely. This time the demon he slashed dissolved away completely. The roan's antics were lessened, as if the brute also sensed that help was with them.
Leaves rustled, though there were no trees close by, and a warm wind swept across the scene, overwhelming the cold fog. Yet more demons broke, bursting into air. Did Danaer imagine a faint howling, a disappointed gibbering boiling from the departing mist? He could not be certain, but knew the creatures were being bested—were gone!
"Kant, prodra Argan," he said with gratitude, giving the goddess her due. As he gulped for breath, that sound of leaves came once more and with it a tantalizing jingle, like jewels and coins brushing one against another. With that, the last of the evil fog disappeared. He was in familiar darkness.
Danaer gazed around, quieting the roan, listening intently. The rustling leaves and the jewel-music were stilled. But he had not dreamed them. He had been well supported in the struggle, and those sweet sounds had been some manifestation of his unseen ally.
Wizardry!
The night thickened perceptibly, and then an eerie fog, seemingly lit from within, rose out of nowhere. Danaer had never encountered its like. The horse felt his uneasiness and snorted and shook its mane. Danaer gentled the animal and rode on, though at a slower gait.
He told himself he was no child, to be frightened of fog and dark. Yet he murmured a prayer to the walkers-of-the-night and damp-breathers, those things of legends. Now Danaer sensed a presence—no; many presences, all around him. If he turned and glanced over his shoulder, would he catch a glimpse of some nameless demon hovering there?
The roan stumbled and Danaer tightened the reins, using all his skill to control the nervous animal. Before him, the fog swirled and climbed, filling his sight.
Vapor became grotesque faces and gaping, fanged jaws, and sharp talons raked at Danaer and the horse.
Instinctively, Danaer jerked the roan back violently as one of the fog paws grazed his leg. Icy fire seemed to lance through his bones and sinew, and the roan danced aside in terror.
Danaer's heart thundered as he fought the brute, at war with both these supernatural vapors and the horse's panic.
Wizardry! It could be nothing else!
This was no fog of the plains, nor was it his mind playing tricks. The well-trained horse lunged and grew wild-eyed, as it never would be confronting mortal predators, no matter how fearsome.
Now Danaer knew the same horror that must have seized the hapless general of the Clarique. Magic— again working to the Markuand will!
Danaer set his jaw, vowing not to succumb to sorcery. He had sworn to deliver the General's message, and he would not be bested by creatures of the mist. With a snarled warning, he drew sword, though wondering if the army's steel would pierce his foes. Knotting the reins in his right fist, he held the roan against its urge to bolt. "Steady, Sure-Foot, and show them no weakness, lest they take strength from it! Steady! Argan banish you, demons!"
He slashed at the nearest of the fog apparitions, dividing the ugly form in halves, sending the vapor spinning to either side. Another rose to take its place and Danaer struck with desperation, severing slavering muzzle from the head, cutting off the clawed feet.
Other melting and re-forming demons appeared, closing in behind and around and above Danaer while he continued to fight. There could be no parrying and a shield would not avail him much, even had he brought one.
A new presence came upon this unreal battle, an invisible but very palpable force. Had Danaer wished for a shield? A shield was in his hand, not a thing he could touch but as potent as this unseen ally who had joined his cause, setting itself between Danaer and the abominations in the fog.
"Argan hurl you to Bogotana's Realm!" Danaer roared, taking heart and wielding the sword savagely. This time the demon he slashed dissolved away completely. The roan's antics were lessened, as if the brute also sensed that help was with them.
Leaves rustled, though there were no trees close by, and a warm wind swept across the scene, overwhelming the cold fog. Yet more demons broke, bursting into air. Did Danaer imagine a faint howling, a disappointed gibbering boiling from the departing mist? He could not be certain, but knew the creatures were being bested—were gone!
"Kant, prodra Argan," he said with gratitude, giving the goddess her due. As he gulped for breath, that sound of leaves came once more and with it a tantalizing jingle, like jewels and coins brushing one against another. With that, the last of the evil fog disappeared. He was in familiar darkness.
Danaer gazed around, quieting the roan, listening intently. The rustling leaves and the jewel-music were stilled. But he had not dreamed them. He had been well supported in the struggle, and those sweet sounds had been some manifestation of his unseen ally.
Wizardry!
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