As the last man crossed from the road into the field, however, the dryad suddenly stood tall and raised her hands. As the field workers watched in horror, the ripple of the breeze on the wheat inexplicably changed direction, flowing toward them. Several cried out and turned to run, but the same shafts of grain they’d spent months cultivating now bent to ensnare them, threading a thousand knots around their limbs and pulling them down. Those who tripped and fell were covered over in an instant, and then the dryad stepped forward with spear raised to harvest the reapers.
The telltale drone of an enormous insect warned Salim, and he threw himself to the side just in time to see one of the tiny pixie arrows thud softly into the ground where he’d stood. Without thinking, he spun, bringing the blade of his sword up and around in a wide slash.
Caught by surprise, the pixie’s momentum carried it straight into the blade, which caught it at its collarbone and sheared off an arm and a wing, spraying Salim with a fine mist of blood. The little fey didn’t even have time to scream as it completed its trajectory and thumped down into the dust of the road, rolling to a stop, its gossamer wings crusted with bloody dirt.
Damn. Salim was used to killing undead—he wouldn’t say he liked it, exactly, but it did hold a certain satisfaction. Yet those things were already dead. They’d had their chance, and only a twisted mockery of natural laws or the meddling of capricious spellcasters had brought them back into a semblance of life. Pixies, on the other hand, were creatures of the natural world. Salim had met a few in his travels. They were cocky and juvenile, yes, and generally a pain in the ass, but not evil. He hadn’t even known why this one was fighting.
But there would be time for recriminations later, if he survived, and if he didn’t, one more stain on his conscience wouldn’t matter either way. He turned back to the farmers who’d unwisely advanced into the field after the tree spirit.
The dryad was down on one knee, weeping silently, and the wound in her side would have looked like a gouge in a tree trunk if it weren’t for the saplike ichor flowing out of it. Several of the farmers were breaking free of the wheat now, and the broad-shouldered young man who’d been the first to escape raised up the long-handled scythe for a second blow.
Salim turned away. This was madness. There was no hope of organizing the manor’s servants, nor any clear commanders of the various fey. They were simply throwing themselves at the manor like moths against a lantern and, if the dryad and pixie were any indication, with similar results. Why?
Over the shouts and screams of men and fey, trilling higher than the flames now crackling in earnest at various points around the grounds, Salim heard a sound he hadn’t noticed before. A thin, reedy piping, as if someone were playing a jig to accompany a barroom brawl in a mummers’ play. It seemed to be coming from the south, and without stopping to think, Salim began running in that direction, keeping his body low and using the fields for cover where possible.
The piping was getting louder. Near the southernmost edge of the manor proper, a crew of several men bearing actual swords—no doubt harvested from the various coats of arms and antiques adorning Faldus Anvanory’s den and study—came running around the walls of the house. One of them saw Salim and called to him, looking for information.
A figure stepped out of the rows of corn. Even through the loose fabric that wrapped it like a sarong, Salim could see that the creature’s body was that of a woman more stunning than any in Lady Jbade’s retinue. Salim had seen beautiful women before, but this one tugged at his groin in a manner all out of proportion with her physical shape. Even facing away from him, toward the onrushing men, the curve of her back and hip were enough to set Salim’s skin on fire with a desire to touch them, to skin himself alive just so that he might press himself that much closer to her.
“Nymph!” he screamed, voice hoarse with lust. “Don’t look!”
But it was too late. With a graceful pull of one delicate hand, the knots of the wrap slipped free, and the nymph drew its garment off and away.
The effect was immediate. As one, the charging men stumbled and fell to their knees, screaming and clawing at their eyes. Salim saw trickles of blood running through the lead man’s fingers.
Even with his eyes averted, Salim saw spots like those that came from staring overlong at the sun, and his peripheral vision was blasted away to nothing by the aesthetic radiance of the nymph’s nude backside. She started to turn toward him, and Salim closed his eyes tight, fixing the creature’s location firmly in his mind.
It worked. Salim closed the last several yards at a sprint and collided with warm, naked flesh. They tumbled to the ground, one of his hands tangling itself in the impossibly fine strands of the creature’s hair.
The nymph screamed and snarled at him like a wild beast, nails cutting furrows in his cheeks, and he raised his sword. A sudden image of the crippled pixie flashed through his mind, and at the last second he shifted his grip, bringing the sword’s pommel down with all his strength on top of the creature’s head. The writhing form jerked and then lay still. Salim sat up and waited until he was certain it was safe, then opened his eyes.
He was kneeling over the naked body of the nymph, her eyes closed. The top of her head, where his fingers were still snarled in hair like threaded moonbeams, was marred with a splotch of blood. He looked lower. Beneath him, the nymphs breasts—still inhumanly perfect, but no longer painful in their beauty—rose and fell softly with the steady rhythm of unconsciousness.
Good. Salim stood once more and looked to the men who had caught the full brunt of the nymph’s fury. Several had stood up and were moving cautiously with arms outstretched, calling out to each other in fear and confusion. Others lay sideways on the grass, knees curled up against their chest in fetal positions.
“Stay where you are,” Salim commanded them. “You’ll only hurt yourselves by moving. Help will come soon.” Then he was off once more, heading south past the end of the manor.
The pipes were growing louder now. Salim heard screams and saw the bobbing lights of lanterns. Another few steps and he realized that they were bobbing his way. The air began to fill with the sound of heavy footsteps.
Then Salim was among them: screaming farmhands from the far fields, running flat out with no regard for strategy or the gardening implements that might have been used as weapons, only a desperate need to flee. They stared at him with eyes that seemed to register nothing. Some were babbling as they passed him, trails of snot and drool streaking from their noses and mouths.
Behind them came a capering man, bounding along on legs that bent backward. Below his bare chest, the strangely misshapen legs were furred brown like a goat, and a pair of horns curled up from his forehead. The pipes stopped for a second, and he threw back his head and howled with laughter.
“Run, you bastards! Yes! Run for your manor, and burn like you burned our forest!”
Then his eyes caught sight of Salim. Grinning wickedly, he lifted an eyebrow in invitation, then put the set of hornpipes to his lips and blew.
The note sent a tremor through Salim’s body. It was only a single note, yet in that brief burst of sound he heard all the terrors of the ancient world, the things that lurk just out of sight beyond the dying campfire, waiting with claws that rend and jaws that bite. He felt his stomach tighten and his muscles turn briefly to water, and something deep in the back of his brain, almost an involuntary reflex, screamed for him to turn and run. To run, and to never stop running, churning the ground under his feet until his legs were raw, bloody nubbins and all he could do was crawl. In one breath, he felt all this.
And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. Salim’s will returned, and the bowel-loosening fear that held the others in their grip was no more, rolling on past him like a cresting wave. He bore down on the satyr, and saw recognition dawn.
“Oh shit,” the creature said. Then he dropped his pipes, letting them hang from a leather thong around his neck, and sprinted away from Salim, south into the wav
ing fields.
“Salim!”
Salim half-turned, not breaking stride. Neila was racing toward him, shoeless, skirts held up around her flying knees with one hand, the other clutching a dirty ox goad.
“Stay here!” he called, and charged into the fields. Behind him, he heard the crashing of brush as she ignored him and followed in his wake.
The fields were low here, and it was easy to follow the satyr, both by the frantically bouncing shape ahead of him and the careless swath the fey cut through the crops. Their path was straight, and the satyr’s goal obvious: to reach the edge of the cultivated fields and the start of the southern wood, where his familiarity with the terrain would give him a distinct advantage over his pursuers. Salim put everything he had into running, ignoring the cries and unladylike curses that came from behind him. Slowly but surely, he began to close the gap.
But not quickly enough. With a shout of triumph, the satyr hit the edge of the woods and bounded into it like a deer, cloven hooves launching him over tree roots and under overhanging branches with uncanny speed.
Salim stopped at the sharply defined edge of the forest. Beyond, massive trees spread leafy branches of the sort rarely seen in arid Thuvia, blotting out the last rays of the day. Already the satyr’s stubby deer tail was flicking its way into the shadows beneath the canopy.
Salim had taken the race as far as he could, and he’d lost. There simply wasn’t strength enough in his legs to catch the satyr in his own terrain. It was impossible. He bent over and placed his hands on his knees, breathing hard.
Alright, you worm-eaten bitch, he thought. You win. It’s your turn.
As quickly as the words were formed—Salim hated to think of them as a prayer—they vanished, leaving his brain full of the fluttering flaps of dark, heavy wings. In their wake, a new vitality took hold of his legs like a terrier shaking a rat, jolting him upright. The energy flooded up through his veins, setting his thighs and belly afire and coming to rest in his lungs like a hot stone, radiating power and heat.
With a roar, he launched himself into the forest.
Tree boles whipped to either side of him, their branches beating at his face and chest as he rocketed past. Roots reached out to trip him, but his legs were no longer his own, and they moved with an otherworldly grace, each step smooth and gliding. His knees still churned at the same pace, but now each stride was lengthened impossibly, his body sailing forward without effort as each footfall shoved him away from the earth and left him hanging suspended in the air. It was like running in a dream, the exhilaration dampened only by the deific taint that Salim felt like oil clinging to the inside of his skin.
Ahead of him, the retreating shape of the satyr was just barely visible. Salim’s quarry ran like the forest creature he was, darting from side to side erratically in an effort to keep his pursuer off balance. For long breaths the satyr would turn and be lost among the trees, only to reappear again as Salim’s legs carried him along the same uncanny path.
The satyr dodged between two thick-trunked behemoths, making for the safety of a thick patch of briars. Salim changed course to follow.
The world rocked and turned sideways. Pain exploded in Salim’s chest as he fell backward onto the loam and roots of the forest floor, his legs still jerking ineffectually. Between the trees, the satyr dropped lightly down from the branch where he’d swung out from behind the tree to plant both hooves in Salim’s chest, the powerful goat legs crushing the wind out of him in a tremendous kick. The satyr smiled and drew his belt knife.
Salim looked around frantically for his sword, and found it lying several feet to his right, where it had dropped when he took his short and unpleasant flight backward.
The satyr saw his glance. Their eyes locked, and then they leaped for it as one.
The satyr got there first, by virtue of not bothering to try and retrieve it. Instead, he simply kicked it away into the bushes with a quick flick of his hoof. That motion in turn took him just long enough for Salim to get a grip on his furred hindquarters and pull, dragging the fey down on top of him.
They fought like beasts, without words or strategy, rolling and kicking up furrows in the deep loam. Salim got his teeth into the satyr’s haunch and tore at it, the rancid fur and flesh still managing to remind him of the fried goat meat he’d had for lunch earlier. The satyr screamed and drove hard with the contested knife, its blade cutting a blaze of pain down the outside of Salim’s hip. Salim twisted the satyr’s wrist, and the knife fell away as well. Then it was just them, thumbs jabbing for eyes and throats, hands slamming skulls against tree roots until the whole world started to explode and turn colors.
Rolling on top, and with his opponent’s arms finally pinned, Salim leaned back to get a better view of the situation. The satyr saw his chance. Lips pulled back in a snarl that revealed teeth both human and canine, he ducked his head to bring the sharp points of his horns in line with Salim’s face, then lunged upward.
Letting go of the satyr’s arms, Salim grabbed the horns with both hands and torqued them cruelly sideways, lifting himself with his knees so that the satyr had to spin beneath him or let his neck be snapped. Then, with the satyr’s arms pinioned safely against the ground once more—this time by his knees—Salim guided the satyr’s face forward as if pushing a wheelbarrow, bringing it within an inch of the rough tree trunk in front of them.
“Look at this tree,” Salim said, leaning down so that his lips were almost touching the satyr’s tufted ear. “You fey love trees, don’t you? That’s good. Because if you don’t quit struggling, I’m going to grind your face against the bark of this tree until it comes off. Your face, that is. Understood?”
A whimper.
“I said ‘understood?’” Salim gave the satyr’s head a shake.
“Okay!” the satyr cried. “Okay, I yield! Gods, let go!”
A crashing in the brush announced a new arrival. Salim looked up to see Neila picking her way over roots and deadfalls. She’d lost her ox goad somewhere along the way, and her skirts were streaked with dirt, but she otherwise looked unharmed. She saw him crouched over the satyr and gave him a tight, victorious smile.
Irritated that she’d disobeyed his command to stay behind, Salim said nothing, just nodded his head toward the sword lying half under a bush. She returned it to him, and with its point at the satyr’s throat, he stood up and moved aside to allow the satyr to do the same. The fey did so, pointedly ignoring the blade nicking the soft skin beneath his neat goatee, instead brushing the leaves and dirt from his bare chest and the goatlike fur that began just below his navel.
“Who are you?” Salim asked. “And why did you attack the manor?”
The satyr laughed bitterly and spread his hands in a mockery of formal introduction.
“My name is Delini, good master,” he said, “piper of the fields and lover of the deep glens, sworn enemy of all maidenheads. As for why we attacked the manor, ask that one.” The bearded chin lifted to point at Neila. “She knows.”
Neila drew herself upright and shot him an imperious look.
“My father purchased this land fairly and honestly.”
“From who?” The satyr’s sudden howl of anguish and frustration made both the humans jump, and a tiny trickle of blood flowed where Salim’s sword point had nicked the fey’s neck. The fey seemed not to notice as he gestured wildly with his arms. “From some Lamasaran noble who’s never entered my forest save to hunt my beasts or rut in the deep moss?” He began beating himself on the chest with a fist, punctuating his sentences. “This is my forest, my glens, my groves, and those who trespass here do so by my gracious leave. And I’m revoking it!”
He looked down for a moment as the echo of his shout hung in the air, and when he looked up again, his big doe eyes were wet with tears.
“You burned it,” he whispered, voice raw with emotion. “You burned it and planted wheat.”
Salim looked back at Neila.
“I think we just found our third suspec
t,” he said.
Neila’s eyes widened.
So did the satyr’s. “What?” he asked.
Salim turned back to the fey and lifted the creature’s chin lightly with the sword’s point.
“What do you know about the death and kidnapping of Faldus Anvanory?”
The fey looked astonished for a moment, then his face broke out in a smile that twisted his face, turning the bestial horns and hair into mere accents on an otherwise handsome man.
“Faldus is dead?” he asked, wonderingly.
Shit, Salim thought. He doesn’t know. But Neila was already stepping forward, eager to believe.
“You!” she cried in triumph. “I should have known! You killed my father, and want to ransom back his soul for the sun orchid elixir!”
The satyr laughed sharply.
“The sun orchid elixir?” he asked. “Why in the name of the forest would we want that? We’re fey, little princess. We’ll live as long as we live, and be reborn in time from the womb of the deep wood. Immortality is a game for pretentious, short-lived humans.”
“Maybe you wanted to make sure Faldus didn’t live forever,” Salim countered, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d already seen the truth in the fey’s eyes.
Delini waved a hand dismissively.
“If Faldus got the elixir like he wanted, maybe he’d finally go back to Taldor and leave us be. No, if we wanted to kill the Anvanorys, we could have poisoned their crops or sent an invisible pixie into the manor to slit their throats. We don’t need them dead, just out of our forest.”
He turned to face Neila and leered, licking his lips.
“Of course,” he said, grabbing his furry crotch and shaking it at her, “we could always just breed them out.”
Satyrs, Salim thought, but then Neila stepped forward and with one quick motion drove her knee up into the satyr’s proffered groin. Delini doubled over in pain, and Salim was just able to withdraw his sword in time to keep the satyr from spitting himself on it.
Death's Heretic Page 10
