The Knife's Edge by Matthew Wolf Page A

horror. Being awake was not much better.
    Several times, a strange mist rose from the soil. It was so thick he could barely breathe, and he would scramble off the trail into the underbrush. Sword clutched to his chest, he listened to animal-like howls and cries. At last, exhaustion overtook him, and he slept restlessly until the mist of morning announced the dawn.
    Gray awoke from one of those mornings. It was a particularly frightening night with snarls that sounded in his ear. It was still raining and he felt as if his clothes were now permanently attached to his soaked skin. Still groggy, he glanced down. Barely an arms-length away, imprinted in the mud was a head-sized cloven hoof-print. He tensed, peering through the foliage. Overhead, thunder cracked. It shook the woods like the rumble of a giant. He glanced to his leather belt.
    Five notches, he realized, today will make the sixth. He was out of time. A shiver traced his spine. What if I’m on the wrong path? What if I’ve wasted all this time? He hadn’t heard a murmur of the Sil either, not once, and that was his only way out. He shook his head and cast the thoughts aside. No, he would trust the pendant.
    More thunder roiled above, sounding closer. Gray looked up. Another storm was brewing, and something told him, this would be far worse than all the others. He unsheathed the sword from his back and rose, moving forward.
    Into the thickening mist.

The Hawk
    K ARIL RUBBED HER HANDS BEFORE THE red flames. They made camp on the desert, just outside a ruined town. The nearby trees cast shadows on the flat land. She watched them out of the corner of her eye, reassuring herself that they were not creatures standing still in the night.
    “Find anything?” she asked, noticing Rydel had slipped into the camp like a shadow and now stood beside a nearby tree. The elf threw a cloth bundle on the ground and she unfolded it.
    Rydel held up a small root. “This’ll be enough for me. The rest is yours.”
    She eyed several shriveled roots the color of dirt, and a green head of leaves. Grabbing a long root, she nibbled on it. It was bitter, nothing like she had ever tasted in Farhaven. She thought of the farms of Eldas. What she wouldn’t give for a lignin fruit, head-sized melons that hung from small trees or the crisp tang of moonroots plucked on the twelfth night of every moon. She took another bite. At least it was edible. It had been two fortnights since they had left Eldas and her heart panged with thoughts of her home.
    “What’s bothering you?” Rydel asked.
    “Nothing.”
    “It is a strange thing when you lie,” he said. “It is truly not elvin.”
    She said nothing, staring into the flames as she ate.
    “I understand your sorrow,” he said softly.
    “Do you? Or is caring for those you loved simply my human side as well?” She regretted the words immediately. It wasn’t Rydel’s fault. But sourness gnawed at her insides like a poison.
    The elf looked pained. “I did not mean to offend. I loved your father, too.”
    She shook her head, feeling a fool, and touched his arm. “I know you did. Forgive me.”
    “By tomorrow, we will see Lakewood, and your uncle,” he said, changing the subject.
    The thought lifted her spirits. For a moment, she wondered how different Mura would appear after two years outside the realm of magic. It was said that ten years within Farhaven was the equivalent of one year within Daerval. “And even more pressing, we will finally see the boy of prophecy,” she said. “My mother was right, as always. I was forced beyond the Gates. Now I must continue to follow her words. I must watch over the boy, and ensure his survival.”
    “And how will you do that?” Rydel asked. “We’ve seen the destruction the enemy has wrought. He may already be in danger.”
    Karil couldn’t deny the truth of that. Upon their journey, they had come across barren towns, and ruined villages, each more horrifying than the last. Fear for the boy’s