Free The Naming by Alison Croggon Page B

she couldn't bring herself to touch the one who had burned, the one who was still half a man. At last the room was empty, although it stank of burning flesh and hair and blood. Neither Cadvan nor Maerad felt like sitting down.
    "What were they?" she asked at last.
    "Wormfilth," said Cadvan. "Wers can take whatever shape they desire. But they are all evil shapes, mockeries." He looked at her, smiling grimly "You did well, although you nearly got me once. A doughty fighter, but somewhat undisciplined."
    Maerad tried to smile back. "Do you think there are more?"
    "I don't know. I don't think so. I counted nineteen, and Iheard about twenty. Maybe one didn't chance the fire. And it's not long till dawn now."
    They moved outside and sat down by the doorway still watchful but too exhausted to speak. Cadvan did not relinquish his vigilance, and Maerad, despite her weariness, watched with him. They heard nothing else that night, and at last the eastern horizon began to lighten and the sun, with unbearable slowness, lifted its rim over the edge of the earth, sending level rays over the forest before them. Maerad thought she had never been so glad to see a new day. She turned to Cadvan and almost laughed. They were not a prepossessing sight: both were smeared and spattered with the foul blood of the wers, and their faces were black with ash.
    "Well," said Cadvan heavily. "We made it."

V
    THROUGH   THE   MOUNTAINS
    THEY did not stop to wash or rest, nor even to eat. Maerad averted her eyes from the pile of corpses at the bottom of the hill. "We should burn them," said Cadvan. "But we haven't time. Our only chance is to keep moving."
    Maerad had never felt so tired. The only thing stronger than her exhaustion was her desire to get as far away as possible from that deathly place. They walked steadily on, and she tried to ignore her aching head, smarting from the wound the wer had dealt her, and to concentrate just on keeping moving. She had no idea of a destination. She was beginning to think that Cadvan was made of wire; he betrayed little sign of weariness, while for Maerad walking was becoming a torment without end. Slowly, painfully, they approached a spur of the mountain range and rounded it. As they did, it was as if the land came back to life again. Birds were singing their morning challenges in the low bushes around them, or flickering from branch to branch; and the grasses seemed to tremble with the hidden activities of small animals. An insidious pressure that Maerad hadn't noticed until now lifted off her breast. A little farther on, a small stream bubbled down the side of a high ridge and collected in a pool bordered by smooth, flat stones. To Maerad's unutterable relief, Cadvan stopped.
    "We're out of the Landrost," he said. "The peak no longer overlooks our path. He can do nothing more to us." He knelt over the pool, splashing water over his head and washing his hands: dried blood and ash swirled out into the water and disappeared. Maerad slumped on the grass nearby, unable for the moment to do anything. It was only three hours after sunrise, but she felt she had lived a whole lifetime since the day before. She was beyond sleep; despite the tiredness of her limbs, her mind was preternaturally alert. For a time she simply listened to the music of the birds and the brook, sounds that entered into her like a balm. By then Cadvan was getting food out of his pack, and she realized with a start how hungry she was.
    "We haven't lost all courtesies, at least not yet," said Cadvan, glancing up at her. "You must wash first."
    Maerad knelt on the stones and washed the muck off her face and hands. The water was cold and clear. She pulled some dried grasses and, moving with a sudden violent disgust, scrubbed herself as hard as she could, dabbing uselessly at her clothes, which were stiff with filth. Then they sat and ate, Cadvan sniffing the air. Clouds were forming in the east, high dark clouds mounting in the distance. "A storm is