Winterskin: A Dark Fantasy (Kindred Souls Book 1)

by C. M. Estopare

  Night swallowed the day as Kat kept a lookout for her two shieldbrothers tasked with gutting the last two direwolves. The hours spent waiting, spent turning her head and searching, could have been days to her—months, weeks. It felt as if time did not exist in Baate Noir as the forest darkened, somber shadows reaching from the gnarled black hands of twisting trees as the heavy clouds overhead thinned, the snow stopping. The wind screeching past her ears as she took another double take behind her, eyes somewhat blinded by the swinging lantern hanging from the high hand of a Sonant marching at the center of their detail.

  As she brought her eyes back to the front, she caught Horace's worried gaze. Shaking the frost from his hair, he combed his fingers through crunchy chestnut ringlets as his eyes darted from the treeline to the snow strewn path behind them. He covered an eye against the orange glare of the lantern and stared. Brought both hands to his face and slowly slid his fingers down towards his chin.

  “They'll be back.” Bertrand muttered, his voice a croak. “Someway or other, they'd better come back.”

  ~~~

  The wind died with the night as the clouds overhead continued to thin. Curving the Chaperon into a clearing devoid of trees, the Sonants declared a bivouac upon the snow before guiding the convoy's long line into a defensible circle of wagons, oxen, and cityfolk. Hastily thrown together pyres of rotting wood were erected and placed along the outskirts of the makeshift bivouac. Setting them aflame, the burning pyres worked to keep in the heat while frightening away any night-stalking beast with an aching for human flesh.

  Once the pyres were lit and the outskirts scouted for prowling beasts, the members of the Chaperon broke off into their own respective groups centered around raucous cookfires or dimly lit lanterns planted heavily into the snow.

  Dropping its hindquarters into the snow, Kat's mare whinnied and snorted as it plopped the rest of its body to the ground in a cross huff. Her shieldbrothers were scattered amongst the large circle of campers, some ambled near cookfires while others rested beneath the dim light of dying lanterns on the circular edges of the bivouac. Kat found her own edge near a rock and a tree stump, but allowed her horse to chose which obstruction they'd make their personal shelter upon. Horse chose the stump.

  Unrolling a fleece bedroll from the back of Horse's saddle, Kat collected a flaxen cloak from the tightly balled up roll before throwing the thick blanket over Horse's brown flank. Digging into Horse's saddle bags, Kat found her ax, placed it near her thigh and removed the shield from her back. Placing the wooden shield upon her legs, she reached back to wrap the cloak round her shoulders and pull the hood upon the crown of her head.

  Relaxing onto Horse's side, Kat listened to the murmuring voices of those still awake. She used it as a method to calm herself, to whisk her off to a deep sleep she so desperately needed. Horse snored beneath her, the beast's whole body rumbling as it snorted in its sleep. Kat's eyelids lowered, her head tilted back, and the whole world shifted into darkness.

  She was gone—drifting off to sleep.

  But she wouldn't be out for long.

  …

  “Sis.”

  A hand shook her shoulder, throttled it almost with clammy fingers.

  “Sis, get up.”

  Kat opened her eyes to find most of the bivouac dark, save for the burning pyres surrounding the campsite.

  Alan stood over her, his face concealed by a hood that fell in a sharp widow's peak.

  “What's it?” she whispered back. “Thought the Sonants had firewatch.”

  “C'mon, Sis.” Bertrand hissed, offering her a half-gloved hand from her right. “In all seriousness...”

  She took it, hefting herself up with his help. “What's the meaning...”

  “Get your shit, Maeva. Whatever you can carry. The essentials.” Alan snapped.

  Horse still snored, still wheezed white puffs of hot air into the freezing night. Kat stuck out her bottom lip, shook her head once and bent low to retrieve her shield and ax. She thought about digging into Horse's saddle bags to retrieve a bit of flint, but decided against waking the mare. It slept so peacefully, she smirked.

  “C'mon, then. To the outskirts.” Alan mumbled, nodding before shoving past her towards the darkened treeline farther back. Kat and Bertrand followed, the two almost in step. Kat frowned, threw the tall man a questioning glance which he rolled his eyes at. Shrugged and pointed towards Alan's retreating form as the other man slowed to a stop in the brush.

  Alan turned, arms crossed. “Twat won't hear us here.” he spat.

  “Speak fast, Alan.” Kat growled, hand resting on the head of the ax sticking from her belt. “I haven't had a lick of sleep. So, every second is precious—don't waste my time with trifles.”

  Beside her, Bertrand stifled a laugh as he pressed his hands to his hips.

  “Horace ain't gonna say it, so I will.” Tapping his fingers against the padded arms of his surcoat, Alan huffed. “Manuel, Noel—they ain't coming back without help.

  “Which is why,” opening his arms, Alan nodded to both Kat and Bertrand. “I've decided to skip the official shit, and muster—,” indicating Kat and Bertrand with his open palms, Alan mockingly bowed his head. “—the greenling and loud-mouth. You're to track our brothers.”

  “But their tracks are probably cold by now—damn near impossible to track. Besides, I've got next to no experience...” here she was, doubting herself already. Kat cut her gaze from Alan's, stared into the brush beside her with her lips pressed into a hard line.

  “Maeva 'snowskin', remember what mangle face would call you? Old Roux?” Alan countered, giving her more credit than she believed was due. “Don't go all humble on us now, Maeva.”

  Kat spat into the brush, brought her eyes back to Alan's face. “I'm not humble—I'm realistic.”

  “Realistically speaking, you'll keep a level head while I track them. You'll be more alert to an ambush, to night-stalkers and the like while I freeze my arse off picking through their trail.” Bertrand told her, nodding. “Winterskin is a valuable trait, Sis.”

  Kat smiled at that, cut her eyes away again in embarrassment before crossing her arms. “So, your plan is...?”

  “Fuck the wolves.” Alan spat. “Fuck the wolves and find our brothers. Horace is in the dark about all this—let's be straight about this, lads—er, and lass. This is insubordination, got it? But, only if you don't return by morning. No one will know a damn thing if you return—and as if by magic, Noel and Manuel pop out of the brush as well. Horace can stop racking his brains about those igits, and concentrate on holding the convoy's rear till we get to the Poudurac. You follow? Bert? Kat?”

  The two nodded their reply in silence, gazes hard and calculating.

  “And if we...say we don't return by sun up...” Bertrand asked, tilting his head. “...what then? What becomes of you, Alan? Us?”

  Alan's ashen skin blanched a papery white as he broke eye contact. Clasping his hands behind his back, Alan hung his head and muttered to himself before bringing his gaze up to meet Bertrand's eyes. “'If a man owns a pigsty on a swampy foundation, at least he can thank the gods he has shelter.'”

  “Meaning?” Kat quipped, a chill sweeping up her spine at Alan's vagarious words.

  “They will die out there, Katell. If you two fail to find our brothers tonight, Baate Noir will swallow them come the morn.”

  SEVEN

  Gossamer clouds drifted apart, ripping aside like a curtain of moth-eaten lace, to reveal the bright eye of a full moon. It brought light to their venture, as Kat and Bertrand backtracked through the stygian forest of Baate Noir in search of the site where the pack of black direwolves first attacked the Chaperon. They were sure to find black corpses, the two wolves taken down by a hail of the Sonants' silver tipped arrows. Yet, the farther they backtracked south, their eyes frantically searching for the feathered ends of arrows planted into the snow, Kat and Bertrand's sureness of self waned with the hissing chill of the night and the absence of tracks. Of
arrows and of wolf corpses.

  The snow had swallowed it, swallowed all—Kat assumed. No—Kat, knew. If wandering out here proved to be fruitless, could they return to camp empty handed?

  Throwing a sidelong gaze over her shoulder, Kat's eyes widened at the encroaching darkness. Wind raked it's icy claws against her cheek before she decided to turn her gaze back to the front, to the ongoing trail of nothingness blanketed in a sparkling white.

  The bivouac was far—the darkness told her. She could have sworn the burning pyres were about two miles distance. Could have sworn that the twirling flame surrounding the bivouac's outskirts spat their embers somewhere near, but the darkness told her otherwise. Told her that they had traveled far, only to find nothing.

  Beside her, Bertrand tensed. Hunching his back, Bertrand broke into a snow crunching sprint, leaving Kat behind. She jogged to catch up as he stopped some ways away, took a knee in the snow and placed his half-gloved fingers into a stained patch of white. Shifting beneath the weight of the shield upon her back, Kat came to a halt beside him. Shook her head and cursed.

  “Undead dragged them off.” she murmured, eyes on the dark pool of burgundy that seeped through the snow. Tilting her chin up, her eyes scanned the Path. Kat's gaze fell upon a pool similar to this one farther up the snow strewn pathway, a dying crimson color staining the fresh snow. Also absent a corpse. “Fuck.”

  “No.” Bertrand shook his head. Bringing his outstretched hand to his knee, he gazed towards the shadowy treeline. “I see no path, no trail of blood. It just pools here.”

  “Raptors, then?” Kat asked, scratching her head as Bertrand stood with a grunt. “Haven't seen any but...” she turned her head towards him. “...is it possible? Just—out of nothing? No calls, no cries, nothing?”

  Bringing a hand to his chin, Bertrand pressed his forefinger against his lips in thought. “You're right, Kat.” he said, pulling the hand away. “The Sonants would have spied something flying away with a direwolf corpse clutched between its talons. They'd have shot it down. Used it as food.”

  “Besides, we would have heard something. Raptors aren't exactly quiet about their kills.”

  Yet, the skies have been quiet. Eerily so. Snow had fallen and covered everything...

  “It's nothing to worry about, Sis. Just makes my job a tad harder, but we'll manage. Night's moving fast, now. So take your mind from it.” the tall man huffed, bringing his hands to his hips before hanging his head with a sigh. “I remember the stragglers cutting off into this part of the wood, possibly moving west.” Bertrand said, pointing towards the treeline at her right. “There will be tell-tale signs of our brothers that the snow cannot conceal, and we'll follow those. We'll find Manuel and Noel, Sis, but we've got to hurry.” he murmured, bringing his eyes to the sky, “Time's running out.”

  ~~~

  Crashing through the gnarled and twisting maze of half-dead trees, it wasn't long until they found another puddle of blood staining the snow. Another puddle without a trail of red leading to or from it. Another bloody stain without red tracks seeping westward, or coagulated droplets sprinkled throughout the snow. The red just pooled there in its spot near the thin trunk of a coal cast tree. Seeping into the snow as if something had been ripped to bits there and simply vanished. Vanished on into another plain of life.

  Kat was beginning to have a weird feeling in her gut as they moved on, passing another stain in the snow that simply sat there. The red pool guiding their path westward. From time to time, Bertrand would find scraps of black cloth—pieces of a surcoat—littering the wood amidst scatterings of browned droplets.

  “Human blood...” he'd murmur, not stopping to study it. “...spilt some time ago.”

  Kat would grunt her reply, her eyes on the trees ahead as they thinned. Her mind on the bivouac, on the camp so far behind them now that if the sun burst forth from the horizon they wouldn't make it back in time to save Alan's ass. They surely wouldn't, she thought, shaking her head from side to side. What would Horace think if he woke to find his cousin and Bertrand gone—disappeared into the night like ghouls? What would he do to Alan? What would he do to them if they returned empty handed? Bertrand, a childhood friend? Katell, Horace's own cousin? Would he save them from the lash of the whip—or worse if it was decided the two had attempted to desert and failed? What would Horace allow? What would he punish them with?

  Her first Chaperon and she had already botched things—perhaps, perhaps she just wasn't...

  “Quit it.” Bertrand snapped. “Boohooing over there with your shoulders scrunched up to your ears. Everything's fine, pretty thing.” he teased, playfully cuffing her shoulder with a heavy hand. “We'll find them and return, just like Alan said, alright? It's all going to be worth it,” he grinned. “you'll see.”

  That made her stomach twist. Made her lips split into a sneer.

  Or, perhaps it was the fetid stench of stinking flesh creeping through the air. The tepid stink oozing from a slumped figure leaning upon a tree trunk about a stone's throw away. She watched a head force its way up, the crown trembling from what she assumed to be the cold. Kat gasped, tripped forward, and pressed her hands into the snow before sprinting towards the slumped form of a person. A person wearing a torn black surcoat stained darker than its black threads near the midsection.

  Bertrand got to him first. Kneeled in the snow as he had done before and placed his hands upon Manuel's slim shoulders. “What's happened?” he breathed, air puffing from his lips as white mist. “Did the wolves get you? Where's Noel?”

  Kat had nothing to offer, nothing to give. Dropping her shield to the ground, she shrugged off her cloak, undid her belt and slipped her surcoat over her shoulders. She should have shivered, her torso was covered in nothing but a sweat stained chemise that did nothing against the cold. But the chill didn't bother her, didn't make her teeth chatter inside her skull as it did poor Manuel. Ignoring the stench of his open wound, Kat knelt near him in the snow. Pulling the surcoat taut over her bent knee, she began ripping it into large strips with the help of her ax's sharp side. Tying two strips together, she motioned for Bertrand to move away before she came to Manuel's side and eyed the large gash that cut through the side of his waist. It still seeped blood and tissue. The wound gaped like the sour mouth of a diseased toad, crying blood and pink puss. She watched Manuel slither sticky fingers over the wound.

  “It looks as if...something...” she swallowed, shoved his hands away to press the bindings to his side. Gently, she wrapped it around his midsection and tied them tight around the wound.

  Manuel's mismatched eyes were wild, his face pallid and papery as he stared down at her. “You're both—in my path. I'm going—going back to the Chaperon.” he croaked, falling forward with a mind to crawl away only to be caught by Kat's wiry arms. “Move...girl—I need to—,” he wheezed, gasped suddenly before slapping a hand to his bound wound. “—need to report to—to Horace...”

  “Steady there, brother.” Bertrand hushed him, picked him up from Kat's arms and pressed him towards the tree. Manuel slumped, his hand to his wound as Bertrand stared at the bound up gash. “Did something try to...eat you?”

  The halfling snapped his gaze towards Bertrand, his chest rising and falling as he began to hyperventilate. Peeling his stare away from Bertrand, his gaze fluttered to the clearing behind him. Opening his mouth, he turned back towards the two as he began to tremble. Began to shake. “Noel,” he whispered. “Noel.”

  “We need to help him.” Kat snapped, still kneeling in the snow. “We can't let him crawl back—if we leave him, he'll kill himself out here!”

  Bertrand brought his gaze to Kat, his jaw firm. “He won't get far.”

  Manuel shook, his head bobbling as he whimpered, his eyes transfixed. Bertrand snapped his fingers for the halfling's attention. Manuel let out a startled cry as he brought his gaze back to the bigger man. “H-help me up.” Manuel stammered.

  “Tell us where Noel is, brother. We'll bring you both back to t
he Chaperon. You can tell Horace everything.”

  “H-help me up.” Manuel repeated, eyes pleading.

  “Bertrand.” Kat snapped, gaze going from Manuel to him.

  “Manuel, you can't stand.” Bertrand explained, opening his palms. “Tell us where Noel is, and we'll be back to help you.”

  Manuel sighed, hand to his wound. Blood stained the makeshift bandages as Kat felt the slightest hint of a chill waft from the clearing up ahead. “He's dead—there ain't no point—none. He's—he's dead—”

  They heard a cry. A woman's voice calling out to the night with a high-pitched shriek.

  “She's coming—she's coming—help me up! If we don't leave—you'll all be dead too! Help me—let's go! Let's—,”

  Clapping his hands to Manuel's trembling shoulders, Bertrand forced the halfling down. “Not without Noel.” he growled, voice steely. “Not without my brother.”

  Manuel froze, stilled. Turned his face towards the clearing up ahead and spat. “That way.” he murmured, turning his head around. “H-he's—that way.”

  And Bertrand stood. Ripped his ax from his belt and unslung his shield from his back. Bertrand brought his gaze to Kat, who still kneeled in the snow. Reaching for her belt, she tied it round her waist once more and picked up her cloak and weapons. Shrugging on her cloak, she weighted her ax in her right hand, brought Gran's round shield to her left.

  Kat brought her gaze to Manuel, her eyes hard. “Tell us what we should expect.”

  Wide eyes met her's. Mismatched eyes that turned to milk in their sockets. That went as wide as the moon above. “Death.” he rattled. “Expect death.”

  EIGHT

  Heavy wheezing resounded behind them as Manuel struggled to move away. Snow crunched beneath him when he fell. A watery cough exploded from his lungs as he began to crawl away, sluggish and enfeebled. Bleeding. Bleeding from the sucking hole in his midsection.