The thick forest checked the progress of the Shape less than tall grass would that of a man.
Behind us our trail was marked by deep, black pits in the forest's green, clean cut and great as the Mark upon the poppied valley.

They were the footprints of the Thing that carried us.
The wind streamed and whistled.

A flock of the willow warblers arose, sworled about us with manifold beating of little frightened wings.
Norhala's face softened, her eyes smiled.
"Go--foolish little ones," she cried, and waved her arms.

They flew away, scolding.
A lammergeier swooped down on wide funereal wings; it peered at us; darted away toward the cliffs.
"There will be no carrion there for you, black eater of the dead, when I am through," I heard Norhala whisper, eyes again somber.
Steadily grew the dawn light; from Norhala's lips came again the chanting.

And now that paean, the reckless pulse of the monster we rode, began to creep through my own veins.