*Take us unto yourself. Call upon us. We can sever the link your sister created.*
It seemed as if the world paused.
Lya created? Had she now the gift of Sight? Had she known they might be separated and she would need to find him again?
The Hunter screamed. She rolled towards Paine, still convulsing, yet in her eyes lie hatred and fear. He stared the Hunter down, and righteous anger consumed him — for the loss of his parents; for chasing him unremittingly; for taking his sister; and finally for his sister’s unconsented invasion of his body.
How dare she do this to him?
His anger brimmed and he vomited again, this time unable to stop whatever was inside him from lunging forth. Paine moaned. The man slid from his arms, and voices sounded in his head.
*We are Legion.*
The dead flooded towards him.
He yielded to them.
Come unto me.
A clear voice rang out above the others, steady as a rock that stood against the swell of thoughts — the voice from the Westwood.
-Hold on, child. Do not let it overwhelm you. Concentrate on the Hunter.-
Paine struggled to take hold of the force that flowed out of him, to control the spirits that wailed in his mind. He fought.
-Surrender to it.-
He wrestled for control.
-Let go. I will help you.-
No.
Paine gritted his teeth, struggling. He sensed the others fall, and their screams echoed in his ears. The circle broke, and Paine choked on the dried venison that stuck in his throat. He gagged, struggling to breathe. The souls of the dead swept through him, each one an ice dagger to his heart. He fell to his knees. The pain was excruciating.
He heard shouts of his name, and again the voice in his head sounded above the din.
-Let go. Surrender to it, or it will kill you. Trust me, child.-
Who are you?
-One who watches over you. Now let go.-
Paine surrendered, immersing himself in the river of darkness. He was one with it, and the dead were a part of him. There was only the black river. He flowed with it, breathed it. And the souls of the netherworld waited for his command.
The voice sounded in his head, strong, comforting.
-Good. Now, focus on the Hunter.-
Paine did as he was told and turned the spirits towards the Hunter. Fear played across her face as he drove the howling legion into her. She mouthed a scream that had no sound, and her fingers gripped the air. He took great pleasure in her pain, and his anger resurfaced.
You did this to me!
He drove the pain of his heart into the woman, forcing her to feel what he had been feeling since his separation from Lya.
The Hunter shrieked.
Rage seeped from him, tainting the will of the legion. They howled joy at his hatred.
I hope you die.
The voice, calm and resolute, sounded in his head again.
-You do not want her death on your hands. Find the link to the Wormwood and sever it. Let go of the anger. Let go of the pain. She is as Diarmuid once was.-
But he couldn't. The hatred was a part of him, as much as his own soul. He couldn't let go of the anger, but he acceded to the voice’s wish. He wouldn't kill the Hunter, although Alwhin and the others had nearly killed her anyway.
Her time would come.
Focusing his rage on the links that welded her soul to the Wormwood, he thrust the souls of the dead into her and unlocked it. The bond melted away.
The Hunter screamed, flailing on the ground.
He turned towards the link within him and the spell that was weaved around his own heart. It was a knot, complex and woven well.
He reached towards it, ready to untie it, and then retracted. He needed to find her still, so he let the bond remain, painful though it was. It angered him that he had to suffer with this alone so he spun another incantation, one where when he suffered, Lya would as well. It held a hint of vengeance.
Feel my pain.
With the spell finished, Paine looked around. The others around him were still upon the ground and the Lastborn were running towards them.
Now what, he wondered. The souls needed release. The legion still swam through him. They wanted blood.
*Call upon us. Use us.*
The voice was with him once again.
-Sleep, child.-
Paine collapsed, and the souls reeled back into him, wracking his body with searing cold. They still wanted blood. And they had it, inside him. The souls of the dead and the damned swam within his veins, in his heart. And they gloried in their toll.
Then there was knowledge, vast and dark, but fleeting; and then there was blackness.
***
When the wolves returned to Brahm, the sun was hidden behind a blanket of gray clouds that roiled across the sky. She stretched as she rose and ate a meager breakfast while she walked.
The wolves scouted ahead or loped along as rearguard. Brahm watched them, intrigued. In her many years she had never encountered an entire clan. In the past, her exchanges had been limited to a single wolf, involving a brief message before it would scurry off. Never had she engaged more than one. And Night's ability to communicate with her was unsettling. Fang had never shown such a talent. It made her wonder what other beasts might show such intelligence.
Was the world changing?
When she arrived at the clearing, the wolves hung back, leaving Brahm to meet with White Feather and Diarmuid. Both grinned at her return, White Feather's smile more pronounced than usual.
He hugged her close to him. “You're back.”
She returned his embrace, although she was confused by the change in his demeanor.
“I found the wolves, but they would prefer to remain in the woods until they are needed.” Brahm smiled a full grin of teeth at Diarmuid. “They don't want to get too close to the man who took Fang from her clan.”
“Yeah, he smells bad,” White Feather said. He clapped Diarmuid on the shoulder, and the ridiculous grin had returned. It stretched across his tanned face to the point she thought he would swallow his own head.
Brahm studied the Haudenosaunee for a brief moment. It pleased her to see that grin again; he was too somber of late. Diarmuid still seemed distant, but the contrived smile on his face was somewhat reassuring.
But what had changed?
“It looks like you two got along fine without me,” she said.
White Feather winked at Diarmuid.
A private joke.
She wondered what it was about, but left it alone.
If the dog was sleeping, let it lie.
“Any sign of Talon?” she asked.
Diarmuid shook his head, his lips pursed.
She felt the same.
Where was the falcon?
Night stepped from the shadows and Brahm jumped. A sense of pleasure emanated from the wolf for having caught her off guard.
She let it slide and gave him the approximate location of the army. His thoughts came to her once more.
*Be ready. I will return.*
Brahm nodded, and the wolf bounded off into the trees.
The following morning, after a dreamless night, Brahm woke to a murderous headache. The effects from Soul Running still inundated her, and it was all she could do to lift her head and rise. She had overindulged.
Shit.
She remembered well her first experience, and still thought her skill connected with the blue-eyed woman she had encountered — the Lastborn woman.
The woman whose fucking soul was living inside her.
After that encounter and her first steps as a Soul Runner, she had had to sleep for days to recover.
Upon breaking fast, she headed into the woods to wait for Night's return, leaving White Feather and Diarmuid in the clearing to watch the skies for Talon. She leaned back against a young maple that twisted its way towards the sky, overshadowed by towering cedars and sycamores. The wolf expected her to be wai
ting, and wait she would.
The song from a meadowlark drifted from an open patch of long grass about twenty feet from where she sat. Brahm let her thoughts drift as it sang, pondering the Clan Mother's dream.
Did Lya have anything to do with the woman in the cave? Or for that matter, did the Lastborn-woman? Would saving one of them get rid of her?
The second soul stirred again.
-It’s her!-
Her attention shifted as Night came to her. She sat silent and showed no fear in his presence.
Not this time.
His eyes gleamed and he lowered his head.
*We have seen the girl. She is surrounded by two-foots, tens of hundreds of them. Most smell of witchcraft and death.*
Brahm rose and summoned the others to join her.
Night’s tail hung in a shallow arch.
*We leave now. *
He bounded into the woods, his thoughts trailing him.
“We follow,” Brahm said, and ran after him.
Night led the trio at a fast pace, the wolf remaining barely in sight. Only once did he stop to drink from a small puddle, giving them a moment's rest from the sun that blinked through the canopy of leaves. The feeling of heaviness in Brahm's head grew with every step.
She considered pausing to rest. The wolf kept a strong pace, but she was determined not to show weakness; no matter the cost. She suppressed her fatigue and trudged onwards.
Finally, thoughts from the wolf came to her.
*We are close. Your footsteps must be lighter here. Orenda, you are with me. The others follow Bane.*
As he said it another wolf appeared, a tawny brown that was slightly smaller than Night. Brahm motioned for White Feather and Diarmuid to follow Bane while she clambered after the larger wolf.
For some time Brahm crept through the trees. Unsheathing the kahbeth, she breathed in steady, slow breaths. She slipped into her ethereal dance, drawn to it once more. She became an entity of sensation, one with the Great Mother and the forest. With a sweeping grace her soul floated onwards.
She sensed Night stop and crouch low. Brahm’s body paused with him, but her spirit traveled on and she sensed the size of the encampment. Within was the pulse of human lives, too many to count. Slowly, she glided among them, searching for a soul that would seem different from the others, one that would be frightened and alone. Yet the entire encampment was a field of fear, full of souls trapped and bound to a will not their own. She sensed the struggle among them, the struggle to be liberated and the hatred and jealousy of all things free. The tumult of emotions rose from the camp like the stench from a pit of carcasses, thick and putrefying. It made her soul want to gag.
She whispered through the camp and gasped as she came upon a long stake in the ground. Skewered upon its roughly-hewn spike was Lya’s falcon, still and lifeless, its body emanating a cold void.
Brahm continued on and found Lya, seated upon a crate, surrounded by Hunters, generals and a man in white robes. His face was covered. The generals appeared to be inundating Lya with questions, but the words Brahm could not hear. The girl shook her head, her face angered. Brahm probed further and Lya peered about her, as if sensing Brahm’s presence. Then Lya grabbed at her chest as if in sudden agony. With what little energy she could muster, Brahm tried to brush the girl's essence with her own, but her soul reeled back before she could reach her. As it was yanked backwards, she noticed something. Someone had witnessed the encounter. Something had sensed her.
With a jolt, Brahm dropped to her knees. The kahbeth tumbled to the earth. They were screaming at her, or was it her second soul? She put her hand to her head. The pain was blinding and she groped along the ground.
Night’s breath was on her neck, moist and rank.
*You were sensed. We must leave. Quickly.*
She groaned as she rose, grasping for the kahbeth to sheathe them once more. Then she stumbled after Night.
When she met with the others, White Feather dropped to the ground, his shoulders stooped.
“They are at least three thousand strong. Not all Hunters, but I'm not sure how we're going to get her out. We'd be caught before we took two steps.”
Diarmuid eased himself down. “We didn't see her. Did you?”
She gave a shallow nod, her head still feeling like it was being cracked open from the inside.
“She's close to the north end. She seems all right.” A thought troubled her. “I can't figure out why the Hunters are gathered this far west of the Mississippi.”
Diarmuid shook his head. “I'm not sure, maybe they came for the silver of Underwood. This army will plow through Haven if they're not prepared. Even then I'm not sure they would stand a chance.” Diarmuid cast a glance towards Night. “We need to send a message.”
The wolf’s thoughts echoed in Brahm’s head.
*Whatever message you need sent, we will deliver. Decide your next move and come to us when you have need.*
The following morning, after what little rest they could manage, they took the horses and began the trek forward. The weather was hot and the moisture in the air saturated Brahm’s lungs. Her head still ached, and her vision was clouded.
She needed rest, a lot of it.
For hours they traveled, giving a wide berth around the encampment of Hunters. The wolves acted as scouts, brief flashes of movement in the periphery. At times they would herd the three of them north and at others back south again. Brahm yawned. Fatigue weighed on her like a miller's grindstone around her neck. She fought to stay awake as the steady sound of Roan's trotting practically lulled her to sleep in the saddle. Her eyelids felt like flaps of dried leather. Finally, Diarmuid called a halt near a small river so they could cool off. Brahm gave thanks to the Great Mother and collapsed to the ground.
***
Brahm woke to a gentle nudge and a whispered summons.
“Orenda.”
The nudge became a shake.
“Orenda, wake up.”
There was urgency in that voice and the shake persisted.
“Orenda, the wolves are here.”
Brahm opened her eyes and shielded her face from the stabbing sunlight.
“What's going on?”
“Orenda, are you all right?” White Feather leaned over her and stroked her cheek, his touch tender. “We need you.”
Brahm attempted to sit up, but collapsed. Consciousness slipped from her feeble grasp. She needed sleep.
She was faintly aware of Diarmuid and White Feather backing away from her as something large leaned in. The pungent smell of earth and death flooded her nostrils — a wolf. She opened her eyes to find Bane sniffing at her. Then Night approached. He growled at Bane, and sent him scurrying off.
*Orenda, you cannot rest now. The Hunters come. They bring the girl. You must rise.*
A renewing energy seeped into her with the breath of the wolf on her face. Slowly, her vision returned, the fog lifting.
*This gift is temporary.*
“Lya is coming,” she said to the others and groaned. “The Hunters are bringing her.”
White Feather pulled her to her feet. “Then we could not ask for a better opportunity.”
Diarmuid cast a wary glance towards her. “He's right, but this is too convenient. Something smells funny about this.” He rubbed the bandage on his arm.
“I agree,” she said, watching him. “Someone caught me while I searched for Lya. I think it might have been another Soul Runner.”
Diarmuid frowned. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “I'm not sure, but I have a feeling I was noticed.”
He pursed his lips. “I don't like this. It could be a trap, but it’s the only chance we have.”
White Feather took the horses to hide them among the trees, the wolf leading him.
Diarmuid took a moment to study Brahm. “Are you going to be all right? We had a hard time waking you.”
She faked a smile. “I feel fine.”
Diarmuid said nothing, bu
t disbelief lingered in his eyes. Diarmuid knew of the skill she possessed, and the fact she was using it blindly. His steady gaze penetrated her lie. She turned it back on him as his fingers fiddled with the bandage.
“Don’t you dare summon that ghoul. We can do this without help.”
He turned from her and cast his eyes towards White Feather as he returned from the woods.
On the man’s heels was Night.
*They bring the girl to the river. We wait in the shadows, Orenda.*
The wolf stole into the forest, his casual lope now one of stealth.
The three waded across the river and spread out, each finding cover. They agreed to wait until what seemed to be the right opportunity to strike.
Brahm unsheathed the kahbeth.
Ten Hunters headed towards them, making for the river. Lya was surrounded by the entire group. She marched with purpose, her face defiant and haughty. Brahm had seen that look before.
-It’s her!-
Brahm’s spirit was hauled forward without consent, dragged by the second presence inside her. She sailed towards Lya in a mad frenzy. Her soul careened towards Lya’s as Brahm’s fingers clutched the kahbeth. Like iron filings to lodestone, her soul reeled back before she reached her. The voice in her head was screaming again.
-It’s her! It’s her!-
Shut up!
She rang her finger along the blade of the kahbeth, forcing blood. The pain silenced the voice once more.
Three Hunters stooped to fill their flasks at the river. The others remained watchful, but casual in their stance. Perhaps this was good fortune after all, she thought. Perhaps this wasn’t a deliberate move by the Confederation. Night watched her from the shrubs. The wolf nodded, but his thoughts did not come to her.
Brahm fidgeted as she waited, flicking the blades of the kahbeth with her thumb. The Hunters took turns and when one of the last ones finally stooped before the waters Brahm knew their moment had arrived.
So had White Feather.
He loosed an arrow that dropped one of the Hunters face down into the river. The arrow protruded from his back.
The Hunters reacted quickly, four of them bounding towards the source of the strike. White Feather ran towards them, war club in hand.
tmp_ab131adc730627acb6e8cb55492d02d1_rmMCfR.fixed.tidied Page 20
