Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  Copher swept pine needles aside to reveal circular hoof prints. He was about to speak went the hounds perked up. The three beasts moved ahead, sniffing at the wind as it whistled, blowing dry leaves along the ground. One of the blood hounds raised its head and bellowed out a long howl. The other three followed, howling and barking towards the trees.

  Blood was in the air.

  “They have his scent,” Copher said, standing up in surprise. The hounds fought at their chains, the scent driving them into a frenzy.

  “Go get ‘em,” Bale yelled and unhooked their chains. The hounds charged ahead, their monstrous bodies tearing through the forest.

  “Ya!” Bale commanded Smoke, and the great gray horse kicked forward, bounding after the blood hounds. The twelve guards raced to keep up.

  This was it, they’d found them. Riding through the forest with the wind against his face, Bale could almost smell the blood himself. Blood he would taste before the day was through.

  16

  The morning was warm enough for Ara to ride without Chancey’s heavy coat. Geyer led them through the forest on the white mare, and Ara sat with Briton on the bigger brown horse, talking through the day’s lesson. Being outside the castle walls, on the run for their lives, hadn’t stopped Ara’s schooling in Briton’s mind.

  At least it passed the time on the long rides.

  Ara recited the four main languages of Terene back to Briton, something Briton had explained to him just the previous day. Briton always reviewed past material to make sure Ara had not forgotten. Ara’s memory was very good. He had plenty of space available, as Geyer put it.

  “Dalcati, or the common tongue, is the dominant language of Terene,” Ara said. “It is used throughout the known world and by all nobility and Fathers of the Faith. Next comes Biconda, spoken in the eastern shore. Cramna, the native tongue of the hill people of Clyda. And finally Sanstat, the desert language of the south.”

  “Very good,” Briton said. “And why are there different languages?”

  “People are separated by mountains and rivers and great distances. Over time each formed their own language shared by those they made contact with or spread from. The Faith spoke Dalcati, and so over the centuries, it has become the dominant language under their rule. The other languages are now practiced only in the fringes and by those outside the Faith.”

  “Almost word for word,” Briton said. “Your memory is even more of a gift than your blood, Ara. And what does this tell you of your past?”

  “I speak Dalcati, therefore, I come from a Faith dominated region.”

  “Let’s say, Faith influenced. Many tribes not with the Faith still speak the common tongue.”

  “Dalcati has been around a long time.”

  Briton cocked his head. “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s the language of that old book of yours.” Briton touched the chain around his neck. Though Briton claimed it was simply a diary from long ago, the old teacher still carried the tiny book with him.

  “Good observation. Yes, Dalcati was the language of the Royals.”

  “What answers has that book taught you about the source of the Royal blood?” Ara asked.

  Briton sighed. “Very little, I’m afraid. Either the source of the bloodline was a mystery, even to the Royals, or it was so commonly known the king had no reason to give an account.”

  Morning light streamed through the cracks in the canopy above. From underneath, the thin leaves seemed to glow.

  “Is Hemo real?” Ara asked.

  Briton didn’t answer.

  “I know the Faith isn’t the holy order they claim to be, since they want to hunt me down and torture me and everything, but both the dry bloods and the Royals believe in Hemo. They fight and die for him. So, is it true?”

  Briton rode in silence for a moment, weighing his answer. “There’s nothing I’ve read or seen that proves he exists, or if he did exist, that he’s still with us. But our very existence is a great mystery. We had to come from somewhere, the world and everything in it. I’m afraid it’s likely a problem to which we’ll never discover the solution.”

  That sounded like the kind of answer Ara would find in a philosophy book. It didn’t tell him anything. “But do you believe in Hemo?”

  Briton sighed. “Honestly, Ara, I don’t know. If he does exist, I can’t imagine him condoning the practices of the Faith, or wanting the Descendant’s persecuted in his name. And if he does, he’s not someone we should be building monuments to.”

  The white horse stopped ahead of them, and Geyer turned in the saddle. His eyes searched the forest behind them.

  “What is it?” Briton asked.

  Geyer held up his hand. Ara couldn’t hear anything through the wood save the occasional bird overhead. It had been so long since they encountered another person, he’d almost forgotten they weren’t the only people in this part of the world.

  An inhuman cry sounded in the distance.

  “What is that?” Ara asked.

  Geyer’s face lit with fear. “Blood hounds!” He looked to Ara and cursed himself, “Foolish clot!” He turned the surprised horse around and rode back, stopping alongside them. He ripped the bloody bandage off Ara’s face. It came loose with a tear. Ara’s hand covered the stinging side of his face and blinked, his right eye suddenly stabbed with gray light.

  “They can follow the scent of his blood,” Geyer said to Briton, holding up the cloth. “Ride on. Fast. I’ll join you when I can.”

  The hounds howled in the distance, the dark call drawing closer.

  “Ride!” Geyer shouted. Briton kicked, and the great brown horse charged forward with such speed it nearly sent Ara to the ground. He clung to Briton’s robes as they sped through the forest. Geyer rode off in another direction, the bloody cloth held out in the air.

  They rode as fast as Briton could push the horse through the thick wood. The horse’s hooves threatened to trip multiple times and send them toppling, but each time it caught its footing. Ara clung to Briton’s waist so hard he feared he’d crush the old man. The howls of pursuit kept them moving forward, Briton letting the horse choose its own path.

  They came to a rise and took it. The horse climbed, panting heavily. When they neared the top of the hill, Briton pulled the horse to a stop under the cover of trees. They sucked in air in great gasps, trying to catch their breaths.

  “There,” Briton pointed down the hill. Back in the forest below them, two separate parties of riders moved through the trees. White glinting shapes, forking away from each other.

  “They’ve split up,” Briton said. “Half must be chasing Geyer.”

  “Will they catch him?”

  “He’s got a better chance than us.”

  A large animal ran ahead of the horses, tearing up the ground in powerful bounds.

  “What is that thing?”

  “A blood hound. Used to track runaway Descendants. It must have gotten a hold of your blood.”

  “Can it still smell me?”

  “I don’t know. They may just be following our tracks.”

  The closer party of riders moved through the forest towards the slope. They came to the hill at the same spot Ara and Briton had begun their ascent. Ara got a clear view of what hunted him. Six men on horses. Beside them was a monstrous beast of brown and black fur. It looked like a small bear with a metal collars around its great head. It scrambled up the hill, barking and snarling ahead of the horses.

  “No, no, no,” Ara stammered at the approaching nightmare.

  “Hold on,” Briton said. He turned the horse and pushed it farther up the hill.

  Ara didn’t think the riders had seen them, but the hound had; he felt its eyes on his back now as he reached the top of the hill. He imagined what would happen when it finally caught them, and the beast leaped upon him with those teeth, tearing through his body to get to his blood. Could he heal from that? Would he want to?

  The brown horse crested the hill and charged down the o
ther side, picking up speed. The horse wobbled trying to stay in control and avoid toppling over. Ara didn’t care. Falling to his death would be better than dying under the claws and fangs of the hound.

  At the bottom of the hill, the trees rose up thick before them. Ara could not see a gap the horse could possibly fit through. They were going to crash. He fought to keep his eyes open, not to turn away from the fate that awaited him.

  “Whoa,” Briton said, pulling back on the reins. But it was too late; they were moving too fast. The horse reached the bottom of the hill and leaped forward clearing brush and a fallen tree. Ara felt himself flying through the air, as if in one of his visions. Then they crashed back to land with such force it unseated him. He clawed for the saddle and hung for a moment on the side of the horse, his left foot stuck in the saddle bag. He looked up; a pool of water stretched out ahead of them.

  “Whoaaaa,” Briton tried again. The horse slowed but not in time. They flew into the dark green pool. Water hit Ara like solid ground and ripped him off the horse. He spun underwater, surrounded by the thunderous kicks of the horse.

  Ara’s head stopped swirling as he finally came to rest, touching a foot to a soft slimy bottom. It gave way as he kicked up, swallowing his boot. Ara flailed his arms until his head emerged from the stagnant water. He gasped for breath and looked around. The brown horse charged still, coming out of the other side of the pool, shallower and shallower. Black leaves clung to its body. The horse didn’t stop. It ran riderless through the woods, as if sensing the beast that pursued it.

  Voices shouted behind them. Barks and growls filled the air.

  Ara swung his arms and legs trying to stay above water.

  “Ara,” Briton called weakly. The old man’s head poked out of the water near the side of the pool, black leaves covered his bald head. “Your face.”

  My face? Ara stopped his thrashing long enough to reach up and touch his face. He felt a slippery texture. Mud stuck in his wound? He rubbed it but it would not scrape off. He looked down at his hand; they were not leaves. Black worm-like creatures spread flat along his skin, pulsing with life.

  The creatures were everywhere, covering Ara’s body. He swung his arms, trying to pull them off. He sunk down, unable to stay above water. The more he struggled the weaker he grew. Soon, he could barely kick his legs. It was a familiar weakness, the draining of strength. The pulsing black creatures were feeding on his blood!

  “Through here!” a voice shouted over the barking. The riders crashed into the tree line.

  Ara splashed frantically to stay above water and to wipe away the tiny creatures. But more and more black shapes floated towards him from all directions, biting onto his skin, sucking his blood, weighing him down. No longer able to stay afloat, Ara sunk under the surface as the creatures teamed on top of one another.

  When he hit the bottom, the muddy floor encased him. As the blood left his body into hundreds of tiny parasites, Ara had a realization.

  There was no healing from drowning.

  Geyer kicked the white horse, urging her on. A damn fool he had been to leave Ara’s blood around. Of course, the Temple guard would use blood hounds to track them. A few days in the quiet of the woods, and he had forgotten what was after them.

  Now, the hungry barks closing in reminded him all too well.

  Geyer had hoped the pursuers would follow the scent of Ara’s blood and leave the slower Briton and Ara, but they had divided ranks. A half-dozen riders chased Geyer with the blood-thirsty dogs. He had seen first-hand what the beasts could do to a man. Something he’d never forget. He kicked harder, cursing the weight of Briton’s pack on the horse. Who brings books on an escape party!

  Geyer raced ahead with no plan but to flee in a separate direction from Briton and Ara. As he cut through the trees, he needed to come up with something fast. The riders would soon be upon him.

  A river roared somewhere ahead. Geyer turned the horse towards the sound, descending a small incline to a lower valley with a winding river. Geyer charged down the riverbank, leading the horse into the water. The horse’s hoof prints ended at the sandy beach, disappearing as he reached the rock-bottomed river. This was it; he had only minutes before the riders were upon him. He leaped off the mare, splashing into the cold water. The river’s current was strong and pulled at his legs. Geyer leaned forward, holding the horse’s reins for balance.

  “Stay here, girl,” he said. Then he let go and strode through the water back to the riverbank, the bloody cloth in one hand. He lifted a small log that had washed up on the bank, careful to keep his feet on the rocks and not mark the sandy shore. He carried the log into the river until the cold water covered his waist. His foot slipped on the slick rocks and he was almost swept down the river. Geyer pressed the cloth through a jutting point on the log, poking a hole in the fabric. Then he wrapped the cloth around the log and released it. It moved at an angle, and Geyer feared it would wash up on the bank again, but the rapids pulled it into their white channels; the log shot downriver and out of sight.

  It worked. Now he had to get to cover. The riders would be upon him any second.

  Geyer fought his way back to the horse, who had stayed despite the current’s pull. “Good girl,” Geyer said. He grabbed the reins and marched her up the river, staying deep enough in the water to not leave tracks. Pushing against the river was like fighting fate itself.

  Hooves pounded behind Geyer; the riders were almost here.

  A little farther. Geyer pressed through rapids to where the river calmed, then made a mad sprint around the bend just as the blood hounds reached the sandy riverbank. Barks and angry snarls echoed over the sound of the river.

  Geyer bent down under the bank and held the horse still, praying the log trick worked and took the riders downriver. All of them this time.

  Geyer’s horse whinnied and shook off the cold water.

  “Shhh. Quiet, girl.” Geyer petted her head and led her to the soft riverbank. Though the rapids smashing against the rocks was loud, Geyer didn’t want to take the chance of being heard. He tied the horse to a thin branch and pulled his sword from the saddle scabbard, tying it across his waist. With any luck, he wouldn’t need it. The thought of luck made Geyer glance at the wheel of fate on the end of his sword handle. He frowned. He’d been wrong to think he’d hit bottom at Castle Carmine. Fate could always spin him lower.

  Crouching, Geyer inched along the bank under the cover of brush. Two great blood hounds sniffed along the spot he had entered the water. The hounds dug their snouts into the sand and rocks coming his way, then circling back around.

  Seven riders reached the river’s edge and pulled up their horses. They wore the white uniform of the Temple guard over their armor. All except one. Atop a great gray horse sat a tall man in black armor. This was the one people talk about; Bale the Blood Knight, personal sword to the Highfather himself.

  Geyer held his breath. His sword felt heavy in his hands. How long had it been since he last used it?

  Then the fates shined on him. The blood hounds stood erect, aiming their noses high in the air. They barked downriver, then tore off after Ara’s bloody rag. The riders followed after them.

  Geyer exhaled as the beasts and six Temple guards disappeared down the winding riverbank. But one did not go. The man in black stayed behind, scanning the river’s edge.

  Geyer crouched lower into the brush as the man turned his way, his dark eyes falling upon him. A cold chill whipped through Geyer’s body; his legs froze in place. He’d seen that face before. It came to him on those fitful nights when the alcohol failed to drown out the nightmares of the past.

  It was the face of the assassin who killed James and Maddie Carmine.

  But that was impossible. Geyer had sent his sword through the man’s heart that day in the Hidden Forest. Yet, here he stood. Alive. The leader of the Temple guard. It wasn’t possible.

  Geyer wrapped a shaking hand around the handle of his sword. He hadn’t drawn the weapon in ove
r a decade. He was slow and far from fighting shape. Still, it was Geyer’s duty to avenge his old master. The knight’s code demanded it. But his legs trembled under him, forbidding him to rise. He dropped lower; a coward hiding in the brush.

  Death waited on the riverbank.

  Geyer stayed hidden long after the horse hooves had faded and Bale the Blood Knight was gone. Geyer crumbled to his knees. He’d been defeated without even drawing his sword. As much as he hated his life, he was afraid to die.

  Behind him, the white horse pulled loose from the tree branch and trotted up to him. Geyer grabbed the horse’s reins, his mind coming back to the present—the old man and the boy. By now, they were either dead or captured.

  No. Geyer had to know for sure. He pulled himself onto the horse.

  You coward. It is not time to surrender yet.

  The white horse raced uphill, away from the river and back towards where they had separated. Could they still be alive? The Blood Knight and the hounds had followed Geyer, maybe he’d only sent a small party after Briton and the boy. Geyer’s hopes faded when he found their tracks. The forest floor was torn up by hooves and paw prints.

  Geyer gritted his teeth and forced the white horse on, afraid of what he would find at the end of the trail.

  The barking faded. Briton moved from his cover in the brush and frantically ripped the leeches off his skin and wet robes. One held fast to his neck and bled once he finally tore it free. The riders were gone, following the tracks of the runaway horse. They had not seen Briton or…

  “Ara,” Briton called. The boy had disappeared under the water’s surface. Briton had thought it was to hide. Briton had held his own breath at the sight of the Temple guards and the giant hounds, but Ara had not come up again. He’d been under too long.

  “Ara!” Briton lurched back into the stagnant green pool. His boots sank in the muddy bottom as he waded out to the spot where Ara’s body had submerged. “Ara!”

  Briton slipped, his legs buckling. Even if he found the boy, he didn’t have the strength to carry him out; he could barely stay afloat himself. He would simply have to find a way. Every problem has a solution, you old fool!