The Quest (The Hidden Realm Book 5) Read Online Free PDF Page A

over the eastern horizon, still out of sight on the far side of the pass. As the Mordi put on black hoods to protect themselves from the coming dawn, Elerian noted that the mutare, who were indifferent to sunlight, were now standing alertly, their weapons gripped firmly in their hairy hands. All of them were looking intently down the far side of the road which fell away before them toward the plains that began at the foot of the mountains.
    “What do they see?” wondered Elerian uneasily to himself, for even from his vantage point on the ledge, he could not see over the crest of the pass. To his left, standing with his back to the sentries, Ascilius missed the change in attitude among the mutare, for he was occupied in drawing a sturdy rope from his invisible pack.
    “What a nuisance,” he thought to himself as he then struggled to secure the end of the invisible cord to a small fir growing from a deep crevice in the cliff face. When he finally tied a knot that satisfied him, he turned to where he thought Elerian was standing, blindly holding out the coils of the cord. As Elerian’s invisible hand took the rope from his fingers, there was a sudden cry from one of the mutare. Starting at the noise, which was half shout and half bestial roar, Elerian and Ascilius both looked toward the crest of the pass. Rising up before the sentries, outlined by golden sunshine, were the heads and shoulders of a lone Tarsian rider and four steeds, three of them bearing no burden on their backs. Sword drawn and shield raised, the rider bore down on the line of guards in a thunder of hooves.
    “Anthea!” thought Elerian to himself in dismay, for who else could it be? “She must have ridden like a storm out of the east to reach the pass in so little time.” Consumed by a desire to come to her aid before it was too late, he hastily cast the rope over the rim of the ledge. Before the last coil of the cord struck the ground, he slipped off the ledge, both long hands wrapped around the thin line. His palms stung, heated by friction until, ten feet from the ground, he relaxed his grip, dropping the rest of the way.
    As Elerian landed lightly on the stony floor of the gorge, the Tarsian reached the line of changelings, felling one of them with a mighty sword stroke that split the mutare’s wolf like head down to his long jaws. On either side of the rider the spare horses, well trained in the arts of war, reared and struck out with iron-shod hooves, but the snarling, howling pack of mutare who swarmed around them made difficult targets. Avoiding sword and hooves, they darted in and out, hoping to hamstring the horses so that they might bring down the rider.
    “A brave effort, but the enemy are too many and too quick for her sword,” thought Elerian grimly to himself as he dropped his saddlebags, pack, and shield onto the ground. “It is only a matter of time before they pull her from her saddle and tear her to bits.”
    Drawing Acris with his right hand and Rasor with his left, he raced up the road with long, swift strides, falling first upon the Mordi who thought to protect themselves by standing behind their changeling allies. His invisible knife and sword flicked right and left, each quick stroke taking a deadly toll on the Goblins. Before the last of their lifeless bodies touched the ground, Elerian fell fiercely on the hairy mutare massed in front of him. Preoccupied with their attack on the rider, they did not become aware of him until they began to fall like tall grass before a scythe. Confused and dismayed at being suddenly caught between an invisible enemy and the sword and horses of the Tarsi, they faltered, for none of them had tasted blood yet. With their fierce, bestial side still dormant, self-preservation became their primary concern. Seeing that the whips of their drivers were silent, the survivors of the melee suddenly broke off their attack. Casting aside their weapons, they fled down the road on all fours, bounding to