by James Davis
Eli watched him until he disappeared behind sheets of rain, where even the lightning could not show him to her.
From a distance, the surviving tower of Jhareat pointed like a jagged bone into the black vortex of flashing thunderheads above. It rose from the center of a bowl-shaped depression, surrounded by the forest, which sloped steeply downhill toward the crumbled bits of stone, all that was left of Jhareat’s once strong outer walls. Whether the slope was natural or some ancient crater made during the city’s fall, Morgynn could not tell.
The strange tales of the ruin of the once mighty city were sketchy and fanciful at best, so she hadn’t pressed her contacts in Derlusk for more than its location. She’d grown tired of sagelike explanation and speculation.
From behind a large stone, Khaemil appeared, slowly and deliberately making himself visible as he approached. He had learned not to surprise Morgynn, and made all effort to ignore his primal instinct to remain quiet and unseen.
Patiently, for the moment, she waited as he came closer, noting the grim look of bad tidings on his ebony face. Her mood froze in midswing, somewhere between her recent success with the pale sisters and whatever nerve Khaemil might choose to strike in the next few moments. Chaos boiled in her mind and she closed her eyes to take a deep breath, dreading her own wild emotions.
“My Lady Morgynn,” Khaemil bowed slightly at the waist, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Yes, Khaemillenthranux, I hear you. Speak.”
Her use of his true name caused him to wince as if jabbed by a dagger. A fiend’s true name held power for those with the proper knowledge, and Morgynn’s tone conveyed her growing impatience clearly. She knew something was wrong. Sweating in the chilly air, he obeyed her.
“Talmen and his followers have detected a presence in the forest, east of here.” He swallowed and gritted his teeth, but kept his eyes level as he reported. “Hunters from Brookhollow have entered the edge of the Qurth. They seek us even now, just past the fringes.”
Words failed her and rage bloomed in her heart, racing through her body. Outwardly, she showed no signs of her turmoil, but Khaemil stepped back a pace. She could almost see his pulse beating in the air, fluttering to escape her anger. Morgynn looked to the east, sniffing the air and searching for those wayward heartbeats, foreign to her. She would know them.
“Hold still,” she said, walking purposefully toward him as one might approach a door.
Such was her purpose.
Her hands entered his chest, splashing crimson as they disappeared. Her arms and torso followed, racing along his veins and through his body.
A vast plain of red opened before her eyes, crisscrossed with corridors and tunnels. This was the void of the blood’s magic, one river leading to the next, the connection known only by those of her kind. Distance meant little here, and time even less. Instantly she was drawn to those faint heartbeats she imagined and could now see. Beacons of pulsing red light called her to their corridors, their tunnels.
As he felt Morgynn’s presence pass into him then leave him, Khaemil gasped for breath. He was winded, but otherwise none the worse for wear. It was never pleasant to be the portal that initiated the bloodwalk, but it was a far less fearsome fate than befell the recepient.
CHAPTER TEN
The forest felt like a living, breathing beast, fighting the hunters’ efforts to penetrate its depths. Rhaeme’s curved blade hacked ceaselessly through the thick undergrowth of twisted vegetation. They marched in a sideways gait, their armored sword arms bent to push forward, wielding the curved blades typical of Hidden Circle warriors. Their shield arms held thick ironvine cloaks tightly to protect against lashing razor leaves and the seeking tendrils of bloodthorns.
The rain had eased since they’d passed beneath the almost-solid canopy of branches. Rhaeme was glad for the gloom of the sky beyond that wooded ceiling. In sunnier times, he’d witnessed the effect of the trees in silhouette. He knew they looked like giant arms and fingers, interlaced and huddled together like conspirators over their victims. The image was unsettling, as was the way the canopy moved as a single organism when the wind was strong.
He put such thoughts out of his mind and focused on the task at hand, locating an easier passage so the group might search in a more stealthy manner. The only saving grace of the heavy rain was that it covered the sound of their movement. Their noisy approach echoed in his ears.
Better to get in, discover the source of the region’s troubles, and get out, he thought. Easier said than done.
The hunters were growing nervous. The improvised path they’d left behind them would soon begin to close itself as the forest’s predatory foliage reset its traps and vicious intentions. Rhaeme stopped and waved the man behind him ahead to take point. He needed a moment to rest his weary arm and take stock of the situation.
Direction was a problem inside the Qurth. Landmarks were few, and, when found, were well hidden. He’d hoped to find a small clearing, some overgrown ruin or sign of intrusion, perhaps even the sound or sight of an enemy encampment. His prayers to Savras had so far yielded only confirmations of his own fears. The Hunters of the Hidden Circle were not as receptive as the oracles to visions and prognostication, but they were gifted with a sense of insight, usually manifesting as flashes or images.
Each time he’d attempted to focus his awareness on this ability, he’d smelled blood, stronger and stronger as they moved inward. He closed his eyes and again raised the small ring of dried fethra to his lips. The scent came again, this time accompanied by a warmth that covered his skin like a wave of fever. Sucking in a quick breath, he opened his eyes and looked past the men ahead of him. He sensed that they were being watched. The feeling of distant eyes on him was chilling. The darkness of the forest revealed nothing, but he was innately aware of something getting closer.
The three men at the rear recognized his alarm and froze. The four ahead continued moving. A young man called Laen, a hunter for barely a year, whispered, “What do you see?”
Rhaeme did not answer right away. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that whatever they sought had found them first. As he prepared to alert those in the front, the point man who had replaced him moments ago lurched to a stop and groaned. The man’s sword fell from his hand and he turned around, wide-eyed and clawing at his stomach furiously. The groan became a gurgling scream as blood streamed from beneath his leather breastplate. Then it was pushed outward violently, torn apart from the inside.
Though she had ridden Morningstar hard, Eli knew she might not reach Littlewater by morning. A frantic urgency had infected her since parting with Rhaeme several miles back. She had other means of travel, but she was always distrustful of magic, even when used for great benefit. She also knew that sitting in the rain, sinking in the mud, and cursing the road ahead would do nothing for her dilemma.
Magic it would be then, she thought.
She took a small pouch from her belt. Shielding it from the rain, Eli untied the leather thong to sniff the mixture of herbs and other unknown ingredients.
She’d obtained the dry potion from the druidic shamans who lived around Brookhollow, in the wilder parts of the Shandolphyn. Practitioners of the wizardly arts, they were a natural sort, loyal to the old traditions of the Shaaryan tribes. This appealed to Eli’s love of the open grassland. Her father had introduced her to them when she was young. Many nights she had camped with the Ghedia, as they were known, a name meaning “grass witch” in the old Shaaran tongue. One of their number, Lesani, had been like a second mother to her ever since. She missed Lesani’s stories, songs, and practical wisdom and wished she were with her, but the nomadic Ghedia were difficult to locate. She focused on Lesani’s lessons as she continued her task.
From another bag, Eli pulled half a handful of sugar and carefully poured it into the mixture. Tying the pouch tightly, she shook it and began to hum an old song whose origins lay in the wide plains of the Shaar. She stroked Morningstar’s soaked mane and neck as she hummed t
he tune, leaning close to his ear to be heard over the storm.
The effect was almost immediate. Morningstar’s shivering stopped and she felt his tense neck and back relax as the familiar tune soothed him. Eli knew that the potion would take effect immediately, possibly unnerving her mount. Calming him first could save her a broken neck when the magic took hold.
Finally, she loosened the knot around the bag and leaned forward, proffering the contents to Morningstar. He licked suspiciously, but then the sugar caught his attention and he ate the mixture quickly, shoving his muzzle deep into the pouch as Eli gripped her saddle horn tightly. She let the empty pouch fall, and though Morningstar had been calmed by her humming, his relaxed muscles began to move, taking him from a trot to a full gallop.
Gritting her teeth, Eli lay against Morningstar’s neck and tightened her legs at his sides. Gently, she kicked his flanks and his sudden, jarring leap forward tossed back her heavy hood, turning the lashing rain into a hail of needles on her skin. After adjusting to the horse’s unnatural speed, she pulled the hood back over her head and watched as the world flew by in a dark, wet blur. She recalled the first time Lesani had allowed her to use the mixture and remembered the bruises she’d received falling off the racing horse. In those days, Lesani had been quiet about Eli’s past, content to enjoy her company and show her the charms of the wild. When Eli grew older, they spoke about her parents.
Lesani’s wizened voice had not spoken the affirmations that Eli wished to hear. The older woman had not told her to ride forth with bow and sword to claim justice. Eli hadn’t even been sure there was justice to claim, but she had bristled at Lesani’s caution and patience. She regretted that argument, and though forgiven for her youth, had never forgotten it. She rode now for Lesani as well, with bow and sword, to discover if justice did indeed exist.
Soon, she made out the walls and watch fires of Littlewater in the distance. The worst of the storm was behind her and she breathed a sigh of relief as the potion wore off. Morningstar slowed. Wild-eyed and prancing like a colt, he trembled excitedly in the aftermath of the magical swiftness.
Raising her head, the first thing Eli noticed were dark figures approaching, long spears held out defensively.
The soldiers spread out in a line before her, blocking her path to the city. She held her hands up to show she was unarmed and meant no harm. The commander approached from behind the line of spears, a rapier at his side. Eli resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The man was almost the spitting image of Lord Hunter Baertah, right down to his manicured hands and the heady scent of perfume.
“Who are you and what is your business here, Savrathan?”
His voice was high and nasal, his tone practically sneering the final word as he looked down his sharp nose at the fethra ring hanging from Morningstar’s bridle. Elisandrya raised an eyebrow and nodded in the direction of the city.
“Are those of the Hidden Circle no longer welcome in Littlewater?”
“When profitable, but plague bears little profit unless one holds the cure. Since I see no oracles behind you, I assume your business is irrelevant?”
Eli almost laughed in disbelief. She’d received cold receptions in Littlewater before, but this was ridiculous. She considered it best to respond in kind.
“I bring no cure, nor promise of one. I am Elisandrya Loethe of the Hunters of the Hidden Circle and I travel alone. My business is my own.”
The officer digested this nonchalantly, but he did not order the soldiers to lower their spears.
“Have you seen no others on the road? Foreigners, perhaps?” He posed the question almost innocently, then became serious, staring at her intently. “A lone, cloaked figure with fair hair and strange eyes traveling south?”
A lone traveler bound for the south. His physical description was unknown to her, but the rest …
How could they know? she wondered. Unless this is coincidence, but something tells me otherwise.
“No. No one of the sort. I’m bound for Derlusk and have met nary a soul save for yourselves.” She had no intention of going to Derlusk, but saw no reason to raise their already high suspicions by appearing directionless.
The officer studied her as she answered, as if seeking any falsehood behind her words. Apparently satisfied, he snorted a reply. “You may as well stand where you are and sink in the mud, but by all means, carry your hopes onward. You’ll receive little else at those gates.”
Eli smiled despite his tone and turned Morningstar onto the path around Littlewater’s walls. Questions flew through her mind as she put the officer and his men to her back, but she resolved not to dwell on them yet.
If the traveler they’d described was the Hoarite of Sameska’s vision, then things were even stranger than she’d guessed.
The leather breast plate split and gave way to crimson hands pushing through. A bloodstained torso crawled from the innards of the hunter who had become the road for Morgynn’s bloodwalk. His broken body slumped to the ground like a second skin being sloughed off. In an instant, Morgynn stood before the circle of seven hunters, her wet lips casting a spell through the froth of her fallen victim’s life. Spitting and gnashing her teeth in the harsh language of magic, she sneered as the hunters slowly recovered from the shock of her gruesome arrival.
Morgynn saw them scrambling to defend themselves, all to no avail. Those in the rear of the formation unslung their bows, dropping their swords point down into the dirt. Drawing arrows from quivers, they prepared to take aim.
The three hunters closest to her raised curved swords and charged, but they were too late as her spell caught them all full in the chest. A wave of power, like focused wind, slammed into them all, knocking the swordsmen to their backs and ruining the shots of the archers. Morgynn laughed, releasing herself to the magic and her frantic pulse. Her dark eyes welled to black pools of blood, spilling down her cheeks and dancing in symbols and runes as she cast another spell, waving her hand in the air between her and the fallen bowmen. Turning to the swordsmen, who’d recovered their footing, she winced as light spilled from a small stone one of them drew from a pouch, illuminating the cleared ground and broken plants.
Shaken, the swordsmen charged again, attempting to get close and disrupt her casting. Morgynn frowned and brushed her left hand across her collarbone. The scars burst into flames as they awoke and burned away, letting magic course down her right arm. A coppery scent filled the air and a reddened bolt arced from her fingertips, striking two of the hunters and forcing the third to abandon his attack.
The stricken hunters had no time to scream before their muscles convulsed and tensed, threatening to tear away from the bones beneath. One fell almost instantly, a young man with dusty brown hair and striking blue eyes, now clouded with blackened tissue. While the arc of energy still gripped him, she could taste him in her mouth, both his fear and the gamey taste of his cooking flesh.
The other man’s eyes were lost to her, bursting within their sockets as the spell ended, showering his face in blood and pinkish fluids. He collapsed to the dirt as his muscles gave way. Trembling, he whimpered hoarsely, trying to give voice to his pain through a raw and bleeding throat.
The thrum of released bowstrings followed by hissing charges of energy drew her gaze back to the archers. The bowmen had risen to one knee to take aim. The arrows stopped short of their marks, bouncing away from an invisible barrier that crackled and flashed with each strike.
Smiling at their futile attacks, Morgynn brushed her right hand across the scars on her neck as she heard the last swordsman approach again, sword drawn, yelling fearfully. The magic responded. Scars disappeared in sizzling lines of thin smoke, following the runes inscribed in her flesh. Thrusting her left hand forward, a caustic scent accompanied the crawling spell as it sizzled across her skin harmlessly.
The swordsman’s powerful stroke fell short as crimson arrows of acid pierced his armor and buried themselves in his chest and side. The force of the missiles spun him around like a c
hild. A wet gasp escaped him, and Morgynn could feel the flooding hole in his right lung, feel the impact of each arrow as it ate at tissue and muscle. His veins and arteries became inflamed, showing starkly against the skin on his neck and face. Her heart responded to his pounding pulse.
The bittersweet flavor of adrenaline danced ghostlike across her tongue, and her eyes rolled back. She moaned as he staggered backward, dropping his sword. His heartbeat slowed, and, pulse by pulse, she felt drawn into his death.
Gaping oblivion yawned in his mind and tempted her. That moment between life and final rest, the twilight of existence where she’d been the past decade called to her, but death would not have her. Buried once in soil that would not keep her, she had risen to a power bound only by her skin.
“Toys and playthings,” she whispered. “They barely know they’re alive.”
Rage replaced her ecstasy as the man fell lifeless. She turned, furious, on the archers.
Rhaeme fired one last arrow in frustration, but again it was reflected just inches from Morgynn’s breast. He rolled forward to grab his sword, abandoning his bow.
“Run! We can’t win here!” he yelled to his fellow hunters, who gave no argument. They turned to escape, but in the dim glow of the light stone, they could see the edges of the path closing behind them. The tortured sound of another spell being cast hummed behind them, scratching at their ears and clawing at their spines.
One of the men turned back. Morgynn could see the fire of youth and anger in his eyes. Rhaeme attempted to stop the boy, grabbing at his cloak but missing. The boy drew his ready sword, still protruding from the ground where he’d first drawn his bow. His voice, raised above spell and storm, was full of the early pitch and tone of manhood.
“As Savras sees, so shall I see you fall!”
Morgynn finished her spell in a crescendo of sound, drowning the boy’s voice and opening her mouth wide beyond its natural ability. Her scream became a buzz of noise as red-eyed insects flew in a mass from between her thin lips. Each locust was the color of dark wine and onyx. Their eyes glowed, giving the swarm a hellish light as it streamed forward to meet the charging hunter.
