Pilgrim Read Free

her hold on the body she’d gained meant that WolfStar had again been distracted—with grief ! damn it!—just when his full power and attention was needed to help ward the Star Gate.
    Niah had failed because Zenith had proved too strong. Who would have thought it? True, Zenith had the aid of Faraday, and an earthworm could accomplish miracles if it had Faraday to help it, but even so…Zenith had been the stronger, and WolfStar had always been the one to be impressed by strength.
    Ah! He had far more vital matters to think of than pondering Zenith’s sudden determination. Besides, with what he planned, he could get back the woman he’d always meant to have. Alive. Vibrant. And very, very powerful.
    His fingers unconsciously tightened about the sack.
    This time Niah would not fail.
    WolfStar grinned, feral and confident in the darkness.
    “Here,” he muttered, and ducked into a dark opening no more than head height.
    It was an ancient drain, and it lead to the bowels of the Keep on the shores of Cauldron Lake.
    WolfStar knew exactly what he had to do.
    The horses ran, and their crippled limbs ate up the leagues with astonishing ease. Directly above them flew the Hawkchilds, so completely in unison that as one lifted his wings, so all lifted, and as another swept hers down, so all swept theirs down.
    Each stroke of their wings corresponded exactly with a stride of the horses.
    And with each stroke of the Hawkchilds’ wings, the horses felt as if they were lifted slightly into the air, and their strides lengthened so that they floated a score of paces with each stride. When their hooves beat earthward again, they barely grazed the ground before they powered effortlessly forward into their next stride.
    And with each stride, the horses felt life surge through their veins and tired muscles. Necks thickened and arched, nostrils flared crimson, sway-backs straightened and flowed strong into newly muscled haunches. Hair and skin darkened and fined, until they glowed a silky ebony.
    Strange things twisted inside their bodies, but of those changes there was, as yet, no outward sign.
    Once fit only for the slaughterhouse, great black war horses raced across the plains, heading for the Ancient Barrows.

2
The Dreamer
    T he bones had lain there for almost twenty years, picked clean by scavengers and the passing winds of time. They had been a neat pile when the tired old soul had lain down for the final time; now they were scattered over a half-dozen paces, some resting in the glare of the sun, others piled under the gloom of a thorn bush.
    Footsteps disturbed the peace of the grave site. A tall and willowy woman, dressed in a clinging pale grey robe. Irongrey hair, streaked with silver, cascaded down her back. On the ring finger of her left hand she wore a circle of stars. She had very deep blue eyes and a red mouth, with blood trailing from one corner and down her chin.
    As she neared the largest pile of bones the woman crouched, and snarled, her hands tensed into tight claws.
    “Fool way to die!” she hissed. “Alone and forgotten! Did you think I forgot? Did you think to escape me so easily?”
    She snarled again, and grabbed a portion of the rib cage, flinging it behind her. She snatched at another bone, and threw that with the ribs. She scurried a little further away, reached under the thorn bush and hauled out its desiccated treasury of bones, also throwing them on the pile.
    She continued to snap and snarl, as if she had the rabid fever of wild dogs, scurrying from spot to spot, picking up aknuckle here, a vertebrae there, a cracked femur bone from somewhere else.
    The pile of bones grew.
    “I want to hunt ,” she whispered, “and yet what must I do? Find your useless framework, and knit something out of it! Why must I be left to do it all?”
    She finally stood, surveying the skeletal pile before her. “Something is missing,” she mumbled, and swept her hands back through her hair, combing it out of her eyes.
    Her