Worst of all were the hollow-eyed skulls of dead men, some still wearing bright helms. A hundred swords stuck out of those piles, a few clutched in skeletal hands.
Kanthe turned to the others. “I think we now know why this pass was named Path of the Fallen.”
They all turned to the archway and the frantic bat’s efforts to ward them away.
“What’s up there?” Jace asked.
All around, the howls of the thylassaurs turned to savage wails, close enough to hear the hunger in those hunting cries.
“We don’t know,” Kanthe said, “but we do know what’s back there.”
“We keep going,” Frell decided. “We have no choice. Maybe those bones are centuries old.”
No one objected as the thylassaurs’ fury grew. It was death to remain on the stairs with that savage pack approaching.
As they headed toward the arch, Kanthe was not fooled by his mentor’s words. He eyed the bat dancing in the air above and took heed of that warning. He slipped his bow into his hand and drew an arrow to his fingers. Still, he felt no conviction his preparation would help. He pictured all those silvery swords in dead men’s hands.
Weapons certainly hadn’t helped them.
They crossed warily under the archway, all holding their breath. But the steps beyond the span looked no different than the ones behind them. The forest filled the breadth of the chasm ahead. They fought their way higher, step by step, landing by landing. Still no threat revealed itself.
Maybe Frell was right …
Nyx was the first to notice the change. “The birds are gone,” she whispered.
Kanthe stopped. He cocked both eye and ear, searching and listening to the tangles of forest. No hawks screamed down at them. There was no chatter from the rookery burrows. He realized it had also been a while since he had spotted any vermin or had to dodge the fangs of a striking serpent.
Frell waved for them to keep going.
As Kanthe continued, he searched for any sign of life that wasn’t green and thorny. He eyed the walls, noting the nesting burrows high up the cliffs, but they all appeared empty and deserted.
Where did they all—
Movement from one of those holes caught his eye. Something fell out and rolled down the cliff face. It vanished into the undergrowth.
He stopped, letting the others pass. He squinted at the other holes, but he failed to spot any other such occurrence. He began to turn away, ready to dismiss it as a displaced rock, when another gray-black ball popped out of another old rookery nest and bounced and rattled down the wall.
Then another.
And another.
He tried to fathom this mystery, until a cry burst ahead of him. He barged through the leafy brush to join the others. On the next landing, Nyx stood with a hand over her mouth. Jace drew her back a step, while Frell leaned forward.
Something sprawled across the rock ahead.
Kanthe pushed forward to see.
Nyx mumbled, “Poor thing…”
Kanthe joined Frell. The body of a dwarf deer lay stretched on its side across the landing. Its legs stuck out stiffly in death. Its glassy eyes stared at them. Its belly was distended with bloat.
“What killed it?” Jace asked.
With the eye of a hunter, Kanthe looked for any wound, for a spot of blood.
Frell’s next words sent a shiver through Kanthe. “It’s not dead.”
“What?” Nyx backed another step, sounding as horrified as Kanthe felt.
But Frell was right. As Kanthe stared, the deer’s eye shifted toward the alchymist as he spoke. From its nostrils, a tiny pained breath escaped, so weak it didn’t appear to move its chest.
Kanthe cringed in pity at its state.
It’s alive but unable to move.
With the macabre interest of an alchymist, Frell bent a knee closer. He mumbled, “Are those black thorns in its neck?”
Kanthe had no interest in answering that riddle. He swallowed hard and shifted his gaze away—but where his eyes ended up settling was far worse. The deer’s bloated stomach had begun to ripple, like a stew at a slow boil.
“Frell…” Kanthe warned, and pointed.
The alchymist grabbed his shoulder and drew them all away. “Stand back.”
The churning of the deer’s belly grew intense. A plaintive bleat escaped the beast’s throat. Then its stomach burst in a wash of blood, releasing a squirming mass of white worms, each as large as his smallest finger. They roiled and rolled across the landing, swimming through the bile and blood.
The group fled backward with gasps and cries of shock. But the blind worms ignored them, writhing off into the leafy brush, shying from brighter patches on the rock.
“What are they?” Nyx asked.
Frell looked at her, his face ashen with knowledge. But before he could answer, a clattering rose from all directions. It sounded like hail striking a slate roof.
Kanthe remembered the strange sight a moment ago. He straightened and turned to a break in the forest. It offered a glimpse to the cliffs to either side. From the old rookery nests, armored balls, each the size of his fist, surged from those holes and rattled down the rock. Hundreds of them. From ahead and behind. Even from the cliffs on the far side of the river.
The clattering rose into a hailstorm.
As he stared, one of the spheres bounced off a wall toward them. It unfolded its armored segments, flaring black spines along its back and spreading fluttering translucent wings. It flew through the air with a menacing buzz.
What in Hadyss’s fiery prick is that?
Frell answered his silent question.
It sounded like a curse.
“Skriitch…”
* * *
NYX SEARCHED THE misty forests in horror. The dry-bone clattering around them transformed into the rising drone of wings. The noise spread all around like a brushfire through dry sedge. With her heart hammering, she readied to run, but Frell caught her eye and shook his head.
The alchymist grabbed Kanthe and drew the prince low. “No one move,” he warned in low tones.
Jace snatched Nyx and pulled her down. He dropped his voice to a whisper, directed at Frell. “Skriitch. I thought they died out centuries ago.”
“What is inscribed in ink is often written more with hope than certainty.” Frell faced them as they hunkered. He spoke rapidly to share what he knew, knowledge they needed to survive. “Skriitch are an ancient scourge. They’re paralytic with their stings, flesh-eaters who nest in the living to feed their young. They hunt blind, drawn by loud noises and the smell of a prey’s breath.”
Nyx stared over at the ruins of the tiny deer. It was mercifully dead, gutted and bled by the horde of voracious maggots. Most of the worms had squirmed into the shadows, but a handful still delved the torn cavity or writhed in the blood. The stench on the landing was not the clean smell of a fresh kill, but the malignant reek of corruption and putrefaction.
Frell pointed past the carcass. “Up. It’s still our only hope. But we must move with care. Shield our breaths.” He demonstrated by using the loose cuff of his sleeve to cover mouth and nose. His voice was muffled. “Pray their queen remains in slumber.”
With those cryptic words, he led the way forward.
Jace stopped them at the remains of the deer. “Wait,” he whispered through the edge of his cloak. “I once copied a moldering edition of Haasin’s Primordia Biologicum. From four centuries ago. It spoke of the skriitch. And a possible warding. According to Haasin, the grubs infuse some scent into their kills, marking their fleshy nests. Maybe to keep other skriitch from skewering more eggs into already occupied flesh.”