Then another.
And another.
The falling twilight had made it impossible to see what sort of animal the eyes belonged to, but Malbeck said they were too far off the ground to be those of a stag, and their coloring was all wrong. In dimlight, the eyes of deer and other prey shone cool tones of white or green. These eyes were a rusted orange, verging toward red.
Somehow, Malbeck said, he knew these almost red eyes were staring directly at him. They did not blink and they did not come closer, but the lad knew they wanted to. He said he could feel their hunger radiating from them in tangible waves.
Then, in a flash, they were gone.
As the settlers huddled around their fires, frozen with disbelief, they could feel the night press in around them.
They were far from home. Far from help. Far from anything known or certain.
They listened to the shrill cries of unfamiliar birds, the screams of tiny prey meeting their tiny ends, and the footfalls of beasts better off left unimagined.
Some prayed, others cried, and a few stared into the flames with stony resignation, pondering what was to come next.
It had been a mistake to come to this land, that much was certain. But now that they were here, what were they to do?
In the morning, the sun rose over the cliffs of the Narrows, highlighting every bit of debris deposited upon the shore by the night’s waves.
There were barrels of tools, somehow undamaged.
Long ribs of the ship’s hull.
Strips of canvas from its sails.
Sodden messes too waterlogged to name.
An unfortunate length of a tattooed forearm, ripped clean from its previous owner and crawling with ants.
And a most curious crate.
Resolution Beaufort’s swirling initials were carved into its side.
The first mate, Tormond Mackenzie, opened it, cracking the lock with a bar of iron and a grunt of effort.
Inside, remarkably unscathed from their journey across the bay, were papers. Papers and maps, Resolution’s diaries, books and charts, and the original explorer’s account of his time in this land.
Tormond opened up the leather journal and flipped through the pages.
He spotted maps of the bay, the cove, even the little strip of shoreline where they now gathered. He saw drawings of the trees, those wretched trees that had driven their captain mad with greed and led them here. He read of the explorer’s wanderings, of the forests and beasts that stalked the land. He read of his encounters with the people who first lived on the land to the south and with the trappers who had also come from across the sea. He read of the cold, and the flies, and the strange way the explorer had felt pushed about in his travels, as if an unseen presence guided his steps, nudging him in directions he did not wish to take.
And then Tormond Mackenzie read the last lines of the book, written out by a hand heavy with warning.
This land, with all its bounties and promises, cannot be claimed. The consequences of venturing farther prove too great a risk. By all accounts, from nomads both native and foreign, this land has been spurned, though by God or by the Devil, I cannot say. I should have never ventured upon its cursed shores.
7
“The stones.”Greer sank to her knees. Her voice could hardly be heard above the confused crowd. “The Stones have moved.”
Her eyes darted to each of the monoliths.
The Warding Stones were Mistaken’s most absolute certainty.
They’d been there before the first settlers had arrived. They’d watched the outpost grow from a floundering band of survivors to a community and town. They affected everyone who came near them.
Occasionally, outsiders would wander across their borders—fur trappers, shipping merchants, people like Martha, fleeing their own villages after an attack from the Bright-Eyeds. Should they stay in Mistaken past sunset, the Warding Stones’ hold would fall upon them, too, and they could never leave again.
