Free Willow by Wayland Drew Page A

the beasts’ faceplates!
    Even more terrible than their mounts were the massed troopers, the first Daikinis Willow had seen. They were enormous. Armor clanked as they rode. Leather tunics wrinkled like heavy skin, and capes swelled behind like bats’ wings. Helmets slung from their saddles grinned like monstrous skulls. Most hideous were their weapons. Quivers of iron-tipped arrows rattled on their backs, and great bows of horn and sinew curved across their shoulders. Maces and spiked chains swung from their saddles. All carried swords hooked at the end, for gutting.
    When they halted beside him, Willow crushed his face into the earth.
    “The throats!” Vohnkar whispered to his warriors. “And the eyes!”
    Galloping from the south, a messenger had met the troop at that moment. “Nelwyns!” he shouted, reining in his lathered mount. “Nelwyns have the baby. One of the dogs tracked her to their valley, but she’s gone. We think they’ve brought her north.”
    “This far?” the lieutenant asked.
    “Probably not. It’s too soon.” The scout twisted in his saddle. “Fan out across the plain and keep close watch. They’ll try to cross at night. I must report to Sorsha and General Kael. How far is their camp?”
    “Twelve leagues. They’re laying siege to Galladoorn.”
    “Galladoorn! Ha! The last jewel in Bavmorda’s crown! Except for the Nelwyns, and the Nelwyns count for little except sport.” The two men laughed harshly. “Good hunting to you, my friends! May you kill a score of the little pigs before nightfall and feed your dogs with them.”
    “Aaargh!” Burglekutt murmured, burrowing deep into the damp moss.
    “And may you encounter a little pig like me, my friend,” Vohnkar whispered, eying the scout’s bared throat. “Were I not charged with the safety of the child, those would be your last words!”
    Still laughing, the troopers and the scout rode off in opposite directions, leaving the road empty once again.
    The Nelwyns huddled in council.
    “We should go back,” Willow said, shuddering with fear for Kiaya and his children. “If they go to the village . . .”
    “We can take the baby with us,” Meegosh said. “We’ll outwit them!”
    “Think!” Vohnkar’s level eyes steadied them all. “Do you want to lead them back to the valley again? No! Fulfill the mission. Come! Keep to the woods!”
    They pressed on. The next day they reached a causeway across a vast and steamy swamp. Creatures from another age bellowed in the distance, their howls swirling in the mists so that they seemed to loom over them. Twice, when leathery birds swept past on creaking wings, Burglekutt covered his head and scampered in little circles, squeaking like a doomed rat.
    Past the marsh, the road wound through a range of flat-topped hills and at last reached a broad plateau. Here in the evening of the following day, they came to the Daikini crossroads.
    There could be no mistaking it. The road continued north, but a much broader highway crossed here, leading west and east as far as they could see. This was a highway for Daikinis, men much larger than the Nelwyns, and for their mounts and carriages. Even if the crossroads had not found such a grim place in Nelwyn lore, Willow would have known where they were.
    The place of death, the legends called it.
    The place of the end of dreams.
    Many battles had been fought there. Many men had died. So steeped was the place in horror that Willow could feel it, even while he stood on the last slope looking down. He could feel the ground shake with the charge and clash of cavalry. He could hear the terrible song of arrow volleys, the hiss and smack of swords on leather armor, and the shrieks of slaughtered horses and mangled men. He could hear merciless laughter and screams as captive throats were slashed and torturers set to their grisly work. He could smell blood, and flayed flesh, and the stench of burning meat. Even from where he stood he could see the gibbets, the