Servant of the Serpent (Serpent's War Book 1) by Jason Halstead Page B

relief washed through him like he’d stepped into a refreshing waterfall. He straightened and continued south, moving along the bank of the stream and spotting a fresh sign of passage more and more often.
    The sun sank in the west, plunging the forest into a darkness that the stars and moon did little to penetrate. Corian slowed but pressed on, driven beyond reason by the nagging feeling that he was almost there. He’d find her around the next bend or over the hill just ahead; he knew it. He’d wasted too much time already. If he paused to rest, they’d get away. Or worse, be done with her and leave her just as dead as the father of her child had been.
    Even with his elven eyes, Corian soon gave up on tracking the splisskin party. Like most elves, he could see in starlight as though it was a cloudy day. The dense coverage of trees blocked the stars and made the details of the tracks fade into the dirt and rocks they were scattered among. He rushed on, certain they’d continue their journey down the hill until they reached their destination or some other landmark marked a change in course.
    The darkness, combined with his fevered exhaustion, tripped him more than once along the way. Corian winced each time he made a noise loud enough to startle the birds in the trees or the nocturnal animals prowling the forest. There were hunters out at night this far south, animals that might see a lone elf as a meal rather than someone to avoid. Or worse, he might alert the splisskin that he was sure were ahead of him.
    Corian pressed on, stumbling through the darkness and splashing into the stream as it twisted to his right. He followed it around the curve and staggered to a halt. The moon and stars shone down and sent hundreds of twinkling lights shining on the forest floor ahead of him. They moved and shifted, baffling his eyes until he blinked and shook them clear. He was staring at the waters of the Sarana River.
    Corian jerked his head right and left, afraid that he was exposed and easily seen. He was right, yet there was no one to see him. He spun about and stared up the creek he’d followed. Where had he gone wrong? The Sarana was a major river that flowed from the northwest, its headwater in the same mountains Fylandria was nestled among. The elves and others used it for trade, though traveling upstream was more and more difficult the farther one went.
    Corian was about to stumble back to the north when a scent caught his nose. Smoke again, but this time it smelled moist and stale. He turned back, searching for the source, and halted when he looked downstream.
    The grasses and flowers along the edge of the Sarana were lower there. Even the callowill trees left a spot barren along the bank. Corian walked towards it, slipping his bow off his back and stopping only once to bend it and fit the string in the notches. He drew an arrow and walked again, his heart in his throat.
    He stepped through a rift in the bushes that proved he was not the first to breach them. The arrow fell from his trembling fingers and bounced along the matted grass. A blackened fire pit remained in the midst of the tiny clearing. A few charred chunks of wood remained, as well as some split wood that was tossed in a pile nearby. The final knot in the noose that tightened around his neck and choked his breath was the drag marks of three boats that had been pulled ashore.
    Corian stumbled to the edge of the river and fell forward to his knees. The strength in his legs left him at the sight of the pale blue cloth his sister had worn as a shirt. He picked it up in trembling hands and sought the frayed edges of the fabric. It had been torn, but it was no small amount. Had she left this or had her captors? Had they known? Were they taunting him?
    Corian lifted his blurry eyes and stared down the river. There was nothing to be seen, only the silent flowing waters of the Sarana. Still he stared, imagining himself chasing after her. A raft, a log, even swimming. He