Deglan shook his head as he watched the back end of the horse trot away. “If he ever falls under my care again, remind me to render him impotent. I know a plant that would do it.”

Remembering the huntsman, Deglan turned back to the trees. Sweat and Panic were gone, as was their master. Deglan’s thoughts went to Slouch Hat.

“May Earth help you if you are guiltless,” he muttered to himself.

They lost the trail just as the last hazy light of a purple dusk dwindled in the sky. They had come across a small branch of the River Trough, narrow and easily forded, but beyond they found no sign of the Unwound’s passing. The trees were undamaged, the leaves on the forest floor undisturbed. Faabar squatted in the shallow water, searching for a sign. Padric heard him growl in frustration.

They were all tired. The day had been long and the effects were showing in their little band. Deglan had not groused for several hours. Even his toad seemed ragged and sleepy. Rosheen had fought her weariness stubbornly and valiantly, but eventually collapsed on top of Padric’s pack. He could feel her behind him, leaning against the back of his head. Padric ached all over, his feet stone bruised and sore.

They were countless miles from the village with night falling quickly and Faabar appeared to have no intention of turning back.

“It is following the stream bed.” The fomori said this almost to himself, but Padric heard.

“Upstream or down?” he asked.

“Up,” Faabar answered “The silt is deeply furrowed, the stones turned.”

“It doesn’t want to be followed,” Deglan said, stifling a yawn.

“But it leaves so clear a path,” Padric said. “Once it leaves the water, its destruction will continue.”

“But in the dark,” Faabar said grimly “we could miss it and pass right by without ever knowing.”

“Or it could be waiting to ambush us,” Padric said. The thought had come to him suddenly and he voiced it without thinking, immediately wishing he had not.

“Either is possible. And both are cunning.” Faabar stood, his scowl burning in the last rays of dying sunlight. “Unwound are not cunning. This has been thought through, purposefully planned to throw us off and plant doubt in our minds. A bloodthirsty machine does not do this. They seek, they slaughter, they seek again. That is their way. This…is something else.”

“What then?” Deglan asked, some of the bite returning to his voice.

“We won’t know until the trail ends.” And the fomori was off.

Padric heard Deglan groan then spur his toad onward, up the stream bed.

“Are we really going to do this?” Padric asked his unseen passenger.

“You had your chance to turn back, farm boy,” came her reply.

Padric smiled and followed after the toad.

The moon rose, bathing the stream in soft, cold light. Padric could see where the blackness of the treetops gave way to the star encrusted sky and the fire of moonlight dancing in the water ahead, but naught else. The rest of the world was ink and mystery.