Into the Shadow by Christina Dodd Page B

always was, cooking in hell.’’ Warlord drew another breath deep into his lungs. His head snapped up. Without any care at all he stood. ‘‘Follow the plan. Lead the men. I’ve got to go.’’
    ‘‘But . . . you . . . we . . .’’ Magnus could barely stammer his dismay.
    Warlord leaned over, grabbed the front of Magnus’s shirt, and lifted him to eye level. ‘‘Don’t fail me.’’
    In a single bound Warlord slid from man to panther.

Chapter Ten
    Hurry. Hurry.
    He would know. He would find her.
    Hurry ...
    What was that?
    Karen skidded to a halt. She turned.
    The path stretched behind her, empty, rocky.
    She looked around, yet saw nothing but the line of the Himalayas etched against the sky, jagged, pristine, indifferent. She listened, yet heard nothing but the ever-present wind, the thunder of a distant waterfall, the brief scream of a hawk overhead.
    She’d been walking for a half hour, and she’d been nervous every minute.
    But she was being ridiculous, granting Warlord powers no mere man could possess. He was gone from the camp. Unless he’d arrived back the very minute Karen left, she had a good chance of escaping.
    She might not like the mountains, but she knew how to run, and she knew how to hide.
    So she needed to hurry .
    The path was no more than a slice of soft stone among the granite, but as long as it took her in the opposite direction from the warlord’s camp, she would follow.
    She turned back with renewed intent, walking briskly between giant stones and through a high mountain meadow. The path dipped . . . she heard the soft sound of a footfall . . . she swung around again.
    Nothing was there.
    She scanned the meadow.
    Nothing.
    A movement caught her eye. But when she looked at the place she saw only the shadow of a high and distant cloud.
    Nevertheless . . . she would have sworn that some thing moved through the grass after her.
    Impossible. It must be the wind that rippled through the flowers.
    Yet the hair stood up on the back of her neck.
    She would have sworn someone—or something—was watching her.
    She turned back to her journey, walked around a corner, and skidded to a stop.
    ‘‘Oh, help,’’ she whispered.
    The path skittered along a cliff above and a two-hundred-foot chasm below, and narrowed to only six inches of crumbling rock. Below, the raging river chewed at the stones, licking away at the support, and this crossing made the terrifying jump from the warlord’s tent look simple.
    When it came to heights, she was a coward. She knew it. Her father had taunted her often enough. And usually she handled her fear . . . but not today. Not when she was escaping a madman’s clutches. Not when she was imagining a pursuit that wasn’t there.
    Taking a deep breath, she put her back against the cliff and inched forward, one foot after the other, eyes determinedly forward and staring across the chasm to the opposite cliff. She took deep, slow breaths, warding off hyperventilation. The cool breeze chilled the sheen of sweat on her face. She didn’t want to faint. No, God, please, don’t faint, because there was always a chance she’d live through the fall and suffer for days and nights of never-ending agony . . . like her mother. . . .
    Worse, fear made her hallucinate.
    She thought someone stood in front of her on the path. Someone who breathed hot breath on her neck.
    With infinite care she turned her head to the side.
    Warlord stood there, fierce and furious, staring into her eyes.
    No. Oh, no. It wasn’t possible. How did he find her so quickly?
    ‘‘You would face this . . . rather than me?’’ he asked.
    ‘‘What do you think?’’ Her insolence was instinctive—and misplaced.
    For deep in his eyes that red flared, and he said, ‘‘I think you’ve made a terrible mistake.’’ He grabbed her.
    For a long, bitter moment she thought he was going to throw her into thin air, and she was going to die. Die as she had died every night in her nightmares.
    Instead he