The White Mists of Power Read Free

air. He stared straight ahead, his stride sure. As he reached the trees, the white mist enshrouded his black-clad frame like an aura. He stepped behind some long green moss and disappeared.
    The hounds howled. The hound masters’ muscles bulged as they fought to keep the hounds steady. Dakin took a step away from them, their fervor making him nervous. Do you think that is wise? the Enos had asked. Dakin shook the voice from his head. The hunts had worked before. They would continue to work.
    He stared at the forest, wondering why the mist seemed less opaque.
     
     
    ii
     
    Seymour leaned against a tree, gathering his luck around him. All morning he had heard the baying of the hounds, the mournful wailing that meant someone was about to die. The hounds had never before come so deeply into the forest. Either someone had run far, which Seymour doubted, or Lord Dakin finally realized that Seymour was alive.
    The cold ground dug into his backside. He had been shaking for hours. He had survived the hounds once, through luck and some careful preparations. Usually, though, his luck was poor. He couldn’t count on his magic saving him again.
    Seymour stood. He had a set of traps scattered a few yards away. He would try a spell once he was certain the hounds were after him. When that spell failed, he would run for the traps. He could catch at least two dozen hounds in those traps; that would stall them for a time and at least give him a lead. He hoped to get enough of a lead to make it to the city safely.
    A twig snapped. Seymour swallowed. Branches to his left rustled. He had heard the hounds. They hadn’t been that close, he was sure of it. Still, he grabbed his ebony walking stick and finished placing his luck web. He remembered what the hounds were like, their mouths dripping, teeth sharp and pointed. He had seen them come back from a hunt once, bloody froth on their lips. He stood, clutched the stick to his chest, prepared to shove the stick into the ground and begin a chant should he see a hound.
    A man burst through the thick blackberry brambles and stumbled on the dirt. His long black hair was matted and tangled with leaves and twigs, his face bloody and dirt-covered. His clothes hung in tatters, and he had lost one shoe. He wouldn’t survive much longer.
    Seymour took a deep breath. The hounds were chasing someone else, not him. He was safe.
    A hound howled. The sound rang through the trees. The man glanced over his shoulder, the fear on his face clear. He was heading toward Seymour’s hiding place. Another hound howled. They had found his scent. Seymour bit his lower lip. If he helped the man, he might have Lord Dakin after him again. But if he didn’t help, the hounds would tackle the man and tear the skin off while he still lived.
    Seymour’s hands shook as he lowered his staff to shin level. The man turned forward just before he reached the staff. He tried to jump, but his left foot caught on the round black surface and he tripped, sprawling on the pine needles at Seymour’s feet. The man rolled over and started to push himself up, but Seymour grabbed his arm and raised a single finger to his lips.
    He moved his staff, checked to see if it was unmarked. The ebony was as smooth as it had been the day Lord Dakin had given the stick to him. Seymour ripped a piece of bloodied cloth from the man’s pants. The man was still on his knees, panting, as if he were trying to catch his breath before running again.
    “Wait,” Seymour whispered. He tied the bloody cloth to the staff. He could barely breathe. He had been prepared to do this spell, but he had hoped he wouldn’t have to. He had never done it successfully. He had hoped that he would have enough luck, but as he stood at the edge of the clearing, traps on one side, hounds on the other, he knew that he would fail.
    The underbrush thrashed. Seymour thought he could hear the hounds snuffling forward. The man was getting to his feet slowly, as if he were in great