by Bruce Blake
They moved slow and with care, the woman and her beast, as though one or the other o' them experienced trouble with walkin'. Not unlike himself. Judgin' from how the animal looked to be leadin' her, he guessed it must be the lady havin' difficulty. He wondered if she were hurt and, if so, why the furry thing'd want to be helpin' her.
As he watched, bein' careful to control his breath and keep from shufflin' his feet and attractin' attention, another movement at the edge o' his vision caught his awareness. It flitted past like a bird on the wing, havin' disappeared by the time he got his head turned toward it. The ol' sailor frowned, concerned to find the forest suddenly so busy with people and creatures when he hadn't seen fowl nor beast since he lost track o' Ivy.
Another flash o' muted color. Gray? White? Somewhere in between? Horace squinted hard, searchin' for somethin' to tell him if this were the missin' Ivy. If so, he needed to warn her about the woman and her creature travelin' not so far ahead o' her.
A branch shook and quivered, then a second did the same, makin' him realize it weren't one thing movin' through the forest, but two or more. Another beast with a woman clingin' to it? Hard enough to believe he'd seen one such thing. All this activity gave him more reason to appreciate the ship-bound life he'd grown to hate—weren't nobody or nothin' on the damn boat you wasn't expectin'.
Never knew what lay beneath them waves, though.
He shivered and put the thought from his head, concentratin' instead on where he'd seen the flutter o' movement. Out the corner o' his eye, he still spied the lady and the beast; he understood what he were dealin' with there more'n he did whatever hid itself amongst the brush.
Subtle motion in three different places convinced him it weren't Ivy sneakin' up on the others, least not unless she'd got some o' her friends to join her. Unlikely, but it didn't mean weren't more o' them Small Gods he'd seen before. But why would creatures like them need to sneak up on anythin'?
Whatever were hidin' came to a break in their cover. A shape flashed across the space from one bush to the next—long ganglin' arms, scrawny body, pale skin.
And no eyes or mouth.
The sight of it turned Horace's knees watery and his insides to ice. Two more similar figures darted through, keepin' pace with the first, and then them faceless hid themselves again.
The ol' sailor's gaze flashed back to woman and beast. They continued movin', pickin' their way through the forest as if afraid o' steppin' in an unseen pile o' shit. Neither person nor animal possessed the slightest inklin' o' the horrible creatures creepin' up on them.
The sudden urge to cry out and warn them parted Horace's lips, but he stopped himself before doing so. Ivy'd given him a good sense o' what them faceless things was about, but he didn't have no idea what the furry, toothful beast'd do if it caught wind o' his presence. Killed by a beast with a ferocious mouth or beings with none whatsoever—not muchuva choice.
Instead o' shoutin', Horace closed his gob and waited. He realized what he should be doin' were findin' a way to get the fuck outta the area as quick as his feet'd take him. Couldn't, though, and he weren't sure why. His brain made the suggestions to his legs and feet to start themselves movin', but they wasn't payin' attention, and his gut knotted and twisted at the idea o' runnin' away.
A drop o' nervous sweat rolled along his temple and he swallowed a lumpy wad o' saliva. Bush leaves moved again, closer to the woman and her furry escort.
Why don't the beast know they're after them?
As the three o' them crossed the space in the brush, Horace noticed their pale skin streaked with a darker color and realized they'd smeared themselves with somethin' to hide their scent. Camouflaged themselves, he thought they called it.
No need for such nonsense aboard a ship.
But he weren't ship-bound, and neither was the faceless, the furry beast, nor the woman. The rules o' the forest differed from the ones he'd spent all them turns o' the seasons adherin' to. The ol' sailor'd never imagined he'd miss ridin' them waves.
His feet finally started movin' again. He picked one up and set it down again, takin' care not to put it on top o' a branch what'd crack or a pile o' crinkly dead leaves. Strange thing: the step his foot took after all that time weren't away from creature and woman, but toward them, and he didn't know why.
The brush a mere ten paces behind them shook and the furry animal stopped its measured pace, raised its head. The sound o' a deep growl rolled across the space separatin' them from him, and the lady rotated her head on her neck. For whatever reason, she didn't appear to have any clue what direction she should be lookin'. Her unsurety didn't stop the beast, though.
The great furry thing wheeled around, pullin' itself from its companion's grasp. Panic flashed across her face, plain to Horace even o'er the distance what lay between them. The animal crept away toward where the brush hid the three faceless things and the woman's hands reached out, graspin' at the empty air. Her head turned this way and that, not settlin' on anythin'. Seein' her do so made the ol' sailor realize the truth o' her: she couldn't see.
He took another step, then a second. More sweat ran from his brow, but he weren't so worried about the furry creature becomin' aware o' him anymore. The beast seemed more concerned with the more realistic threat posed by the three faceless things.
The animal coiled itself, thick muscles bunchin' under its fur. It looked ready to launch itself toward the near thicket what hid the stalkers when they leapt out, movin' way quicker'n Horace'd ever have thought possible.
The beast sprang forward to meet them in mid-air, a half-growl, half-roar comin' outta its mouth. The woman screamed, suddenly aware somethin'd gone very wrong but not havin' any idea what it might be, or where around her, or how bad. Horace's heart sped in fear for her, again without knowin' why such a thing should be the case.
His feet picked up the pace, carryin' him toward her as the faceless three clashed with the creature of tooth and claw. The beast roared and thrashed, its cacophony shakin' saplin's and rattlin' foliage. The pasty things made not the slightest noise other'n their limbs whisperin' through the air and their taloned fingers rippin' through fur and flesh.
Horace concentrated on the woman, doin' his best to keep his attention away from the fight. Leaves and branches smacked at his face, plucked at his sleeves. Creepers caught at his boots, but he pulled himself free without breakin' stride. Amongst the usual foresty odors o' wood and moss, another scent crept its way into his nostrils, a coppery aroma what threatened to make him gag.
The stink o' blood.
He dared a glance to his right toward the clash o' furry beast and the pale o' skin and immediately wished he hadn't.
The creature what'd been leadin' the woman snapped the air with powerful jaws, swung massive paws what ended in sharp claws, but its efforts did it no good. The three faceless things darted in and out, stabbin', slicin', rendin', and movin' too quick for the poor animal to catch them. A pale skinned thing avoided one of the beast's strikes with a deftness what seemed impossible for a bein' without eyes, and made its way onto the furry back. It sank talons deep into the mighty animal's neck, reached its other hand around in front, avoidin' the gnashin' teeth.
With a flick o' its wrist, its sharp nails slit the creature's throat.
"Fuck me dead."
Horace bit his tongue and pivoted away, regrettin' the curse squeezin' its way outta his lips.
Not many strides remained between him and the woman, so he redirected his attention to her. She'd turned her head toward him, hearin' him crashin' through the brush even o'er the beast's angry roars what had now become strangled, gurglin' cries. She raised her hands in front of her face, cowered from him and the sight o' it squeezed Horace's heart. Other'n Dunal, he couldn't think o' any time he'd purposely hurt anyone, and he wished he could go back and undo what he'd done to the simple shiphand.
The ol' sailor slowed, found himself outta breath.
"I—" He stopped tryin' to speak, struggled air into his lu
ngs and out, attempted it again. "I ain't gonna hurt you."
He held his hands out in front of himself, showin' her his empty palms before rememberin' weren't no point; if he wielded a trident right in her face, she wouldnt've known any better.
She scuffled away from him, her feet tanglin' and throwin' her to the ground. He pulled up short o' where she lay, not wantin' to make it any worse. She didn't say nothin' and, in noticin' she weren't makin' any sound, he realized there weren't many other noises, either.
He turned himself around, movin' slow as though doin' so might make seein' what'd happened easier. It didn't.
The furry beast lay on the ground, chest heavin' and the occasional breathy huff gettin' expelled through its nose, the fight gone outta it. And most of its blood, too. The three faceless things lit into it, tearin' away chunks o' fur and flesh, rubbin' the warm and bloody bits against their skin-covered maws. Seein' the ferocity with which they'd dispatched the huge predator made Horace curse himself for not runnin' the other direction.
But somethin' made him come this way against his will. Somethin' about the blind woman drew him; not sure what, but ev'ry bit o' his mind and body screamed at him about her importance.
Behind him, a noise escaped her. Not more'n a peep, probably a sound she didn't intend to make, judgin' by the size o' it. He almost pivoted to look back, but it turned out he weren't the only one what heard her.
The nearest of the faceless raised its head, stood, and took a step toward them.
XXXVI Rilum – Now
Hunger. Always the hunger.
The sharp-tooth hadn't scented them. After so much time hunting together, he no longer needed to give the others direction. They knew how to disguise their smells for the hunt, how to determine the wind's orientation and approach from the correct path. They moved in silence, creeping toward their prey, the semicircle they formed around it tightening with each step they took.
The sharp-tooth's head jerked out of the log in which it had buried its snout to feast on the grubs within. Once-was-Rilum had fed on the same insects ages past, dissatisfying as they were, but he'd since become an expert hunter. He'd taught his companions the same skills, and all but forgotten the bitterness of the wriggling white things.
The beast moved its gaze toward him, ears standing straight, the coarse fur at the back of its neck rising, but too late. He shot forward, talons finding the animal's throat with practiced ease, and his allies joined the fray. The creature roared, lashed out with its wide paws, but its claws found empty air. Many like it had fallen to them; instinct and experience guided their attack in a manner to make short work of their prey but keep them from harm.
All but that one.
The sharp-tooth's struggles diminished from desperate flailing to limp distress as blood spurted from its throat and fingers dug into its flesh. Its knees faltered and gave way, the beast's body flopping to the ground with an expulsion of air. It continued snapping its jaws, but no longer possessed the energy to raise its head for more than a heartbeat. With little danger to them, once-was-Rilum and his companions began tearing strips of meat and fur from the animal.
The first piece touched once-was-Rilum's face and the familiar pang of frustration flooded his chest. A long time ago, he'd enjoyed a mouth filled with teeth. His body recalled the satisfaction of biting into a chunk of food, rending it to smaller pieces with incisors and molars, tasting bloody juice on his tongue. Though he no longer possessed a mouth nor the teeth once within it, the beast's energy and life-force still found its way into him. It penetrated his skin, satiating the craving, but it never satisfied the ache of disappointment.
They gorged, the sharp-tooth's fight ending along with its life. The bouquet of its bloody flesh filled his head even if its flavor could not. The hunger took over as he ripped chunk after chunk of muscle and fur, tendon and cartilage from the carcass, rubbed it against the indentation in his face to imbibe its goodness, then cast the wasted piece aside. Its essence overtook everything except the sight of his companions partaking in the bounty, the sounds of rending meat and cracking bone.
He didn't realize they weren't alone until three quiet and impossibly familiar words floated across the forest.
"Fuck me dead."
Once-was-Rilum stopped, straightened, cocked his head in the direction from which he'd heard the voice. He concentrated and identified other odors leeching past the stench of the blood smeared on his face: salt, smoke, meat, sweat.
Man.
He stared with his carapace-covered eyes at the gauzy white silhouettes of tree trunks and brush, shapes hidden amongst them. He tensed, ready to defend or attack, until another odor found its way into his head.
This one gave him pause. He'd smelled it before, many times. Once, they hunted a creature with a similar scent as this, back when they were five. It was the reason they'd become four, before a sharp-tooth had made them three. A hard lesson learned that day.
Once-was-Rilum waited a few moments longer, attempting to determine the small gray creature's intent. The faintest crunch of feet on moss suggested a retreat. Satisfied no danger threatened, he returned to his feast. The stink of a man would be easy to find.
Perhaps they'd be four again.
XXXVII Dansil – Toward Sunset
When the trees and bushes became too dense to negotiate on horseback, Dansil guided his mount toward the track, halting before they reached it. He slid out of the saddle and picketed the horse on a handy branch, then trudged through the thicket to the edge of the road, brush and leaves damp from the previous day's rain depositing their wetness on him, extinguishing any hope of his clothes drying.
He'd drawn close enough to see the group he'd been pursuing and count the number of riders. Dansil ducked back into the foliage of a wide-leafed bush, breath held as he anticipated a sentry calling him out. His heart beat in his ears. By the time it did so twenty times, he decided he hadn't been spotted and released his air from his lungs.
It made little sense their goal turned out to be a widening of the dirt track in the middle of nowhere. He leaned out, confident none of them kept watch. His eyes darted from one rider to the next, not bothering to see their faces, instead counting their arms—the surest way to pick Trenan out in a crowd.
Each of the gathered riders possessed two.
He's separated from them, gone on ahead.
It meant they neared their goal. Dansil straightened and hurried from his hiding place, choosing a path both away from the muddy track and deeper into the woods. He passed by his picketed horse, noting the trees nearby so he might recognize this spot when he came back for his steed.
As he cut through the brush, broad leaves slapped at his face, splattered droplets of water across his cheek and forehead, against eyelids. Each unexpected contact startled him and he looked around, expecting to find the robed healer, reaching out toward him to relieve him of another piece of himself, or Stirk's deformed body grasping with his remaining hand to snag him by the ankle. No one. He flexed his three fingers and wiped the dampness away with the sleeve of his jerkin.
He moved doing his best to keep the noise to a minimum. Trenan's soldiers may not have appeared to be paying attention, but he doubted that was the case. Despite his care, his own movements grew louder in his ears, so he slowed, stopped. He listened to his heartbeat, his breathing, and the rustle of leaves, the gentle tromp of what might have been footsteps.
Dansil squatted, faded as tight into the nearest brush as he could. The forest remained dense, though thinner than where he'd left the horse. He inhaled a slow, steady breath through his nose, scenting wet moss and moist wood, then held his air.
A flash of black between tree trunks caught his attention. His heart sped, and he shuffled deeper into the damp foliage, leaves dumping cold droplets onto his neck to run down his back. Had the healer found him, come to extract more payment? He curled his left hand into a fist, scowled at the feel of the missing fingers.
Another glimpse of black acc
ompanied the first, and another, then more, their direction taking them along an approximation of the path Dansil himself followed to get here. He watched, eyes darting from one flash of dark cloth to another, until he spied a figure bringing up the rear wearing clothes other than plain, colorless robes. If this was the healer come for him, the strange being had brought several friends, none of them Stirk.
A cramp threatened in Dansil's left calf, the muscle drawing itself into a knot, but he dared not move to relieve it. He set his jaw, clamping his teeth against the pain as the group moved past, unaware of his presence. It constricted into a ball uncomfortable enough to curl his toes. Still, he waited until the parade of strangers went by, their sounds fading until silence ruled the forest again. Only then did the queen's guard stand, the twist of sinew in his leg paining him so much he covered his mouth to keep from crying out.
He stood a moment, one hand clasping the closest branch to hold him steady while he flexed his foot, curling and uncurling his toes inside his boot. He pressed his lips tight, moaned in the back of his throat waiting for it to pass. When it did, he took a last look around, scouring the surrounding forest for any glimpse of a black robe. Without any, he set out again, pushing himself as fast as he dared, the remnants of the knot lending him a distinct limp.
The trees thinned and his progress became quicker. In the sky ahead of him, a wall of shimmering green rose, stretching from the earth up and up and up so high it appeared to grow past the sun. He tilted his head, attempting to divine its height, but found it impossible, thought it may go on forever.
Stopping at the top of a hill, grassland spreading out below, he looked first to his right at the wall continuing as far as he could see, the ground beside it cleared of trees and brush the same as in front of him. He directed his gaze to the left, saw the shapes amongst the yellowing grass.
The queen's guard crouched. Too distant to make out their faces, he faded back to the edge of the forest and hurried along the tree line, both the cramp and the spot where Stirk stabbed him pestering him with discomfort. Dim sounds crossed the space to him—the clatter of swords, he thought, but couldn't be sure.
