She was still out of breath, with wisps of fear and despair tugging at the fringes of her resolve, when she reached the shore. Long practice made it easy to make her possessions safe from the water for the crossing, but the cold water, swifter than she expected, dragged her down under as she tried too hard to hurry across. She coughed and sputtered, the silty water in her throat adding to her exhaustion. By the time she hauled herself onto a quiet corner of the island, she moved as if she were carrying stones in her pockets. Duin shook his head ruefully, as if to chide her for never learning from him the proper way to swim.
It was not hard to identify where the creature was; stones and earth flew aside as easily as she might move pebbles. Though the trees of the island were largely untouched, the creature tore through rock, delving more in minutes than she with a shovel could do in days. It seemed purposeful, as if it knew just where to dig.
Even if I knew of another stony sinkhole here, I doubt I could lure it away into it, she thought. It seems far too intent on what it is doing. There was a loud report of shattering stone then, and for a moment the fountain of soil stopped. Then a cut stone, broken in half, was dragged from the hole by gripping branches and cast aside. The stone was marked by an Arnorian seven-pointed star, like the one she wore on her tunic; or rather, it had been, but the star on the stone was broken nearly in half.
And from the hole uncovered by the creature's limbs, a warm golden light rose, illumining the trunk as if in sunlight. For a moment, the huorn did not move, seeming to be staring at the source of the light. Then with an ululating rumble, it reached a branch into the hole and pulled out a strange amber-hued stone, uneven in shape, from which the golden light spilled, casting shifting rays of warm light through the gaps in the grasping twigs and branches that gripped it. It held the stone aloft, while Kryssta stared, her thoughts empty. I must be too late, is all she could think.
All around her, the trees of Girdley Island began to sway, as rays of golden light, turned this way and then that by the huorn, touched them. They shifted, stretched, as if waking from a slumber. Branches began to reach for her, slowly, easily avoided for now, though as more trees started to awaken, there would soon be nowhere to hide on Girdley Island. Or indeed anywhere, once they crossed the river. Who could hope to stand against an innumerable army of awakened trees?
