She went to it, tested it. The door was securely locked from the inside. Its brass handle was too heavy for her to break. Lightning flashed overhead, and thunder boomed. She rattled the door as loudly as she could under the cover of that noise, not knowing even what type of business this was, hoping desperately that the shopkeeper slept at the back of the shop, that he would hear her and come to her rescue.
She thought she heard the heavy thump of a foot on wood floors behind the door. “Is someone in there…?” she whispered fiercely.
No answer.
She couldn’t wait again. “Help me!” she whimpered, hoping that the person behind the door was human, that he would taste the pheromones of her Tharrin body and be forced to respond to her plea. “Please, open the door,” she begged. “The Inhuman is coming!”
She rattled the door again, this time without the covering echo of thunder. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, and she wiped it away just as a thin drizzle began falling. From behind the door, a woman’s voice whispered. “Go away! I have children in here to care for. Don’t bring trouble down on this house!”
And with those words, the Tharrin whimpered, knew that she had just heard her death sentence. By her very nature she was forbidden to harm anyone. She could not endanger this family. She lurched back from the door as if it burned her, and a new steadiness came over her. She whispered to the woman inside, “Stay in with your children, then. There is only enslavement out here.”
She wondered if there was a place to hide, but as she glanced back at the mouth of the alley, she saw a swordsman standing in the open, looking at her. The wind was growing wild as it will before a storm, and his shadowy cape twisted and fluttered behind him. He whistled softly, and with his free hand motioned to his companions. Presently, they joined him, and the three proceeded toward her abreast. A heavy, steady rain began sweeping toward her in a curtain. The alley filled with the hiss of rain slapping against stone.
The Tharrin sniffed the air, smelling rotting food and dust from a trash bin behind her, then let out a bloodcurdling cry, something that might have come from the throat of a child, Gallen decided, for it did not sound like the voice of a woman, and suddenly he understood that this was no woman’s body he was in, but the voice of a girl barely into her teens.
The three men rushed toward her, one of them pulling a heavy bag out from behind his back. “Shush, child,” he hissed. “We do not want to harm you! We only want you to join us!”
The young woman went rigid. She had a knife sheathed at her hip for just such an emergency, a knife tipped with deadly poison. But she was a Tharrin. She could not harm another sentient being, and the men before her were not evil, only the victims of evil, hosts to the Inhuman.
She pulled out her knife, waved it before her, hoping that the threat would hinder them. “Stay back!” she warned. Then she shouted once again, “Help me! Help!”, hoping that perhaps someone at the tavern down the way might hear her.
One of the men laughed. “You won’t use that,” he said with certainty, and the young woman strained her ears, hoping desperately to hear the sound of running footsteps, of rescuers. But she only heard the steady rain, and realized that it must have covered the sound of her cries.
The servants of the Inhuman marched toward her warily. They were almost upon her. Lightning flashed above them, gleaming off their swords.
They think I can’t use the knife, she considered, and she stood up straight and tall, knowing what she must do. She reached up quickly and slashed her own throat from ear to ear.
The searing pain was exquisite, shocking, and she felt the hairs on her head stand on end in reaction. Her heart thumped wildly, kicking in her chest, and hot blood spattered down between her breasts, a seeming river pouring out of her. She staggered back against the wall, felt the poison doing its work, numbing her jaw and neck. She tried to remain standing for a moment, but the knife slipped from her hands, and she slid down the wall.
Suddenly the three servants of the Inhuman were upon her, and one of them, a man with a dark red moustache and crazed eyes, grabbed her by the head and shouted in her face. His voice was a roaring watery echo in her ears, the voice of a waterfall or a storm rushing through trees. “You think you can escape us so easily? You think you can hide in a temporary death? When you next take a body, we will hunt you again! We will not give up so easily!”
And then he let her hair go, and she was falling, falling into pain and darkness, and the cold rain sizzling on the stones was the only sound as she silently gulped, crying as she died.
A woman’s voice, Everynne’s voice, rang in Gallen’s ears, but he did not see her image, only a gray light in the distance. “Gallen, these are the memories taken from Ceravanne, a Tharrin who somehow managed to stay alive on Tremonthin for the past sixty years. When last I saw you, I told you that I would call upon you again for service. Her clone has been infused with all her memories but the last. I charge you to go to Tremonthin and protect her. I charge you with becoming Lord Protector of the planet for now, and as part of that charge, you must seek out and destroy the Inhuman.”
About the Author
David Farland is a New York Times Best-selling Author with nearly fifty novel-length works in print, whose work has been translated into dozens of languages.
He has won various awards for his work, including the Philip K. Dick Memorial Special Award for “Best Novel of the Year,” the Whitney Award for “Best Novel of the Year,” the L. Ron Hubbard Gold Award for “Best Short Story of the Year,” and others.
In 1991, Dave became a judge for the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of The Future Contest, the largest contest in the world for beginning authors of science fiction and fantasy. He soon took over the position of Coordinating Judge, where he selected stories for publication, trained new writers, and oversaw the publication of the annual anthology.
In 1999 he began teaching creative writing at Brigham Young University, where he trained several students who went on to become superstars, including fantasy author Brandon Sanderson, young adult author Dan Wells, and international sensation Stephenie Meyer.
In 1999, Dave also set the Guinness record for the World’s Largest book signing.
David has worked in a number of writerly jobs—as a prison guard, an ice-cream pie maker, meat-cutter, missionary, movie producer, video game designer, and editor.
His Runelords novel series is one of the most popular fantasies of our time, but he has also worked with other major properties, including Star Wars, the Mummy, and various video games.
David currently lives in Utah with his wife and five children. In addition to writing, David likes to hike and fish.
Enjoy more works by Dave Wolverton as David Farland. Visit DavidFarland.net
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