They gathered on the tallest roof in Elmtree. Two rows of dwellings separated them from the western fields. Beyond the verdant summer countryside rose the forest. Farther away, distant cliffs formed a darkening silhouette. The last lingering traces of sunset painted an umber wash across the western sky.
Their rooftop belonged to the village hall. To their right, a stone watchtower pointed at the first evening stars. The roof’s opposite end extended into a broad balcony, from which wandering minstrels performed in happier times. This Dally learned from the greybeard elder, who spoke of his village in fractured sentences. He and a female elder and Alembord and their escort had been found upon the road by Elven scouts, who had ordered them to abandon their mounts, as most animals refused to enter the forbidden realm. Then the company was returned to Elmtree by way of an emerald lane. The experience of traveling along the magical road had rendered the female elder mute and turned the greybeard into a man who sought to apologize without actually speaking the words.
All the villagers were barricaded in their homes, save those who were handy with a hunter’s bow or blade. The outlying homes and hamlets were emptied. Those refugees were safely housed farther back in the village.
Dally was very glad indeed not to have a major role. She held back from the leaders clustered by the rear railing and wished she knew a healing spell. One that would knit her mind and heart back together again. Or, failing that, one that could offer some temporary comfort. She felt as though a vital piece of herself had been torn away by her bodiless search. Several of them, in fact—one for each time she had moved beyond the reach of her physical senses.
Dally feared this internal cavity would only grow larger. Each impact of these far-reaching images cost her another essential component of her being.
She tried to tell herself that it was merely a passing sorrow. She would heal, she would move on, she would serve a vital purpose. She had a place. And a future. She tried to make these words real in her mind through repetition. Just as she had done in her darkest hours, fashioning her little light against the surrounding night and cold and damp. And yet this fear gnawed at her. Just as it had when she cowered inside the mayor’s shed.
Was this to be her destiny? To use a gift of such immense potential only to have it nibble at the very core of her being? Had she escaped one misery only to sink into another?
As dusk faded, Dally saw herself as she would be years from now. A crabby old woman bent over a cane, her back as twisted as her scowl. She screeched at everyone, dogs and birds included. The children laughed and threw stones at her. No one even bothered to know her name. Mad, babbling about voices and events that mattered to no one but her. Alone.
Dally turned from the group of leaders and did her best to push away the unwelcome thoughts. But in their place rose an even bleaker image.
She recalled the moment she had sensed the enemy.
Dally knew with utter certainty that she had barely escaped with her life. Just recalling the instant when the enemy had turned her way filled Dally with a sense of inevitability. Sooner or later, she feared, the enemy would find her. Then he would consume her mind and heart and . . .
Turn her into a slave. Only half alive. Never to be free again.
She did not think this. She knew. That brief glimpse of the enemy’s fury and lust for destruction still blistered her.
Then Nabu and the one other remaining wolfhound pressed their noses into her thighs.
At first Dally thought it was because they sensed her distress. Then she realized that was not the case at all.
These were wolfhounds with the white streak of war-blood. They were bred for combat. They sensed what Dally had been unable to detect in her current state.
At that same moment, the dogs now belonging to Edlyn and Shona growled softly.
Dally said, “They’re coming.”