by Troy A Hill
"We'll make you pay. We’ll do to you, what you did to him,” he breathed his raspy whisper into my ear. "I know what silver does to your kind. I'll enjoy every stroke of my knife on your body…."
Verpa Dei! I cursed myself silently for letting him surprise me. I was lazy. When I awoke, I had started the fire instead of checking my surroundings. Careless and lazy.
He slid across my body. For a brief second, his groin crossed my free hand. I could have grabbed his groin. I could be faster and stronger than Onion Breath.
But that silver knife tipped the odds in his favour. He could slice my neck. Even if I managed to keep my head, I’d be hurt, badly. Maybe even dead.
"Oh, we know what you are," He said, as he edged his body around mine. He kept hold of my arm and didn't let his knife drift from my throat.
“Hand behind your back,” he commanded and tapped my left arm with his elbow.
I complied, careful not to provoke a reaction.
“We got there a day after you sucked him dry and pushed him to his death. We dug him up and saw the damage. The wound in his neck, we knew it wasn’t right. We looked closer and found the bite marks. Pull your other hand back.”
I did so. He still had hold of my arm and bent it toward my neck. The pain of a normal injury would mean nothing. If he broke the bones in my arm, they'd heal within minutes. The blade, however, could do real damage. Silver severed my body's connection with the blood magic. My demon would need much more blood than usual to overcome that damage.
Onion Breath manoeuvred to get both of my wrists within reach of his off hand. His knife hand drifted. With my cheek pressed into the dirt, my neck was at an awkward angle as he shifted positions. He darted his eyes toward my face to check the blade’s position. That was the break I needed. His eyes drifted too far, and I caught his gaze. I’ve heard bards say the eyes are the windows into a person’s soul. They certainly are.
I drove my mind into his.
He froze in between blinks. All I needed was that eye contact. Once I had his gaze locked, I entered his mind and grabbed his awareness. I froze every muscle in his body.
Once I had him, I didn’t need to keep eye contact. With Onion Breath frozen, I rolled him off me, scooted away. Time was surreally slow as my senses, heightened from the attack, explored the area past my small campfire. I sensed, more than heard, other men as they crept upon us. He had accomplices. One of them raised a weapon in the forest. The click of the crossbow trigger sounded in the night along with the twang of the string. Its bolt whined through the leaves.
I used my preternatural speed and rolled my stiff would-be-captor onto his side and around to shield myself with his body. His silver knife, which was as long as my forearm, glistened in the firelight as the first bolt ploughed the air between us. I caught my reflection. My eyes were already going red. They did that when my thirst took hold.
The bolt swished past my ear and thudded into the ground behind me.
“Lazy,” I thought. “Maria, you’re lazy. Six hundred years and you let these religious zealots find you.” Despite my self-recrimination, I kept moving. There was no time to be lazy now.
Another crossbow string twanged behind me. They were all around me.
I rolled with supernatural dexterity past my stiffened captor. This bolt, intended for my own back, sliced a small gash in his shoulder. The small scratch was all it took to break my hold on his mind. He grunted in pain.
I leaped at the one who had fired at me first. But Onion Breath's arm shot out, and the cold blade flashed against the firelight. I tried to dodge and spun mid-air to avoid most of the thrust. But not enough. Damn it! That son of a she-dog scored a hit on me.
The blade opened a gash in my side. I felt the cold wash of the silver cut deep into my soul. My demon screamed and rattled her cage hard. She wanted out. She wanted blood.
Verpa Dei! All of them. All the god’s penises!
That silver blade hurt. The gash it cut in me was deep enough to expose muscle.
I wouldn’t bleed. Not much anyway. I had used most of the blood from Syram. With that cut, my demon’s magic would try to heal it with whatever blood was left. I’d be pale until I fed again. Two or three feedings just to get that one wound to heal.
Inside my head, my demon rattled her cage and clawed at my psyche. I sensed my eyes shift to red. They go blood red when I need to feed. The pupils almost seem to glow when my demon wants to feed. She sensed blood nearby and wanted to take it.
But I had to keep her chained. There was no give and take if the blood-demon took control of my body. She was primal and without moral limits. She and I coexisted only because I kept her fed with blood. If I let her loose, we might kill these three, but were there more of them? How many Witch Hunters with silver blades were too many for my demon to handle when I was without a weapon?
I shoved the mental locks tighter on my inner demon.
A horse nickered. I smelled several of their mounts off in the distance. I had no idea how many more of these Witch Hunters there might be in the forest. These had silver weapons. If there were more of them with silver? Better to run than fight.
The click of wood against wood. Another bolt dropped into the first crossbow’s channel. The glimpse I had of the bowman as I had spun and dodged showed me a young man, barely an adult.
The first archer lowered his crossbow and tried to shove his boot into the metal hoop at the front. I leaped.
He didn’t have time to reload. Instead, he dropped his crossbow and drew two long knives, one in each hand. Irrumator! Bastard. I could smell the silver of his blades.
He was hunched over, his head forward on his neck, and his shoulders misshapen. His mouth curled into a snarl, like an animal threatening before it charges. He held his weapons in a ready position that would work well for his deformity. His stance was wide, grounded, and well balanced.
I shifted my lunge and slipped aside. Two silver knives. The wound in my side twinged. My demon screamed. Pain washed over me again. My demon, my hunger, needed blood to heal me. She demanded that we feed.
Onion Breath lunged at me with his long silver seax. His stance, his bearing, his thrust and redirection of the blade, told me these guilders weren't amateurs. I spun away from his strike and kicked at his legs. He dodged, which gave me room to manoeuvre.
Should I release my demon and hope I could get her under control again once she had fed? Or flee and put distance between my body and the blades? I had let my demon loose once before. There were reasons stories of my kind as monsters existed, whispered amongst the mortals. I didn’t want to let her have control again. My gut twisted at the memories of the last time.
Onion Breath and his hunchbacked friend circled me, four silver knives out between them. Four blades I had to avoid. There them might be around me, beyond where I had time to send my undead senses.
Out of options, I pulled energy from my reserves, from my demon. That would loosen my hold on her. I leapt across the small clearing with the supernatural speed and strength my demon provided. The movement shot a spasm of pain through my body.
My hand slapped the wound. I pressed hard to offset the incredible sting as I tried to flee past the witch hunters. A bowstring twanged, and another bolt cut through the air. I spun as I leapt to avoid the bolt. Silver flashed in the night as the missile sped past my ear. That made that cut in my side hurt. My demon shrieked. Panic and pain. I had to leave.
Time to run until I could heal and plan my next step. Tonight was all about survival and escape.
5
We Run Together
Perhaps I should have released my demon?
Two days on the run, no sleep, and three maniacs still dogged my heels. A few times I had sensed other people. More Witch Hunters? Or trappers? Perhaps a hunting party, out to catch a stag for the lord’s table? If the guilders were on my heels, they’d alert everyone they encountered. I couldn’t take a chance on anyone until I was clear of them.
Lazy. Carele
ss and lazy.
I continued to increase the distance between myself and my pursuers, but it wasn’t enough yet. My thirst for blood raged. I hadn’t even been able to find a farmer asleep in their cottage.
The cut in my side refused to heal. The damn slice pulled and sent a wave of pain through my side every time I moved. When the sun was up, I ran slower, even slower than a human. My demon didn't like the sun. It sapped my strength and made my head ache. I tried to stay shaded in the forest. When I had to cross open fields during the day, I crept through the tall grasses and underbrush, to avoid being seen by anyone. I hoped I could confuse my trail enough to throw off any pursuit, but these witch hunters stuck on me like a hound after its prey.
Even though they had to sleep, and rest their mounts, I moved slower, much slower when the sun was up. At night I’d pull ahead of them. During the day, they’d catch almost back up. And my demon was yelling for blood. Sassy little wench had moved beyond annoying. She was growling and rattling her cage door. My demon was thirsty! She’d have to wait. I needed to add to the small lead I had.
The whimper of the animal came right before the salty odour of matted blood and fur.
Another whimper, then a rustle of a metal chain. Just a clink. A dog? A wolf?
Verpa Dei! The gods must be laughing at me.
I had too big of a heart to let another creature suffer. I let my steps carry me toward the sound.
The wolf shifted when he saw me, then froze. His eyes were a light green. The wolf's coat was that of an animal who had seen many seasons come and go. His tan and brown fur was tinged with white. His muzzle, paws, and most of his back was almost solid grey. That an animal with his years would have stepped into a trap surprised me.
Trappers had gotten inventive. I had not seen a trap like this before. This was two stout wooden branches, torsion tied at the ends, so they could be spread apart in the middle and would snap back together in an instant. A wooden board was across them, a hole cut in its face. A short metal chain ran from this contraption to a stake in the ground.
The wooden jaws were closed around the greyback's left foreleg. But he couldn't get his mouth to the ropes due to the board above. Blood matted his leg where the trap had snapped shut. I could still smell the small seepage of warm, red liquid that hadn't dried yet.
The old wolf sat still, head erect. His eyes followed me as I knelt at the edge of the small clearing. He wasn’t panicked. Nervous, yes. I could see that in his eyes. A younger animal probably would have chewed their leg off by now to get free of the trap.
The trap reminded me how much my wound ached. The only difference between this old wolf and myself was that I could still run.
I reached out with my mind. Although dogs and I get along well, there was something in the wolf’s mind that kept me out. I could wander along the edges, but I couldn’t get in.
I could, however, sense three other wolves close by. They held themselves still. Two of them seemed smaller, full of energy; energy trapped behind a dam of the watchful gaze of their older compatriot.
I sent calm thoughts to the wolf, careful not to shield my own thoughts so they could read my intentions. I projected an image of myself pulling the wooden jaws apart to free his leg.
Whatever thoughts I sent out must have made sense him.
A sense of invitation to approach peeked through into my mind.
That damn trap was not a pretty sight. I could see where the wooden pin to hold it open had sat before the wolf's leg had tripped it. The oblique angle of his lower paw was a noticeable break in his bone. We were both hurt. I couldn't do much to help myself beyond running. But, for the wolf, I could at least make sure he was free.
“This will hurt,” I said aloud. “There’s no other way, my furry friend.”
He didn’t reply, so I pulled the trap apart.
He pulled his leg out, and it brushed across my hand. But his eyes never left mine. A small whimper of pain escaped his throat. His muzzle was in my face as he smelled me. I stayed still. Better to let them get to know me, even if I wasn’t staying long.
The mother wolf and her two offspring approached. She sniffed at my skirts, then turned toward the older wolf. She licked his wound clean.
The two younglings nosed around me. They were about half grown. Not pups any longer, but not adults. Their noses explored my clothes. One of the younglings found the slit in my dress, under which my still-open wound lay. His nose darted into the cut and pressed against the gash in my side. I flinched but tried to hold still. I didn't want to alarm any of the wolves. Unlike the wolf's, my wound didn't bleed. My demon used blood for energy. Why let it leak from my flesh?
The young wolf’s attention was calming. I closed my eyes. The other pup’s tongue drifted across the slice as they worked in tandem and cleaned the wound. I opened my eyes and saw the mother and the greyback gaze intently at me. I reached out toward one of the younger wolves, let him sniff my open, upturned palm. He sniffed and took a pace toward me. I stroked my finger across the top of his head.
That’s when I saw the blood smear that the old wolf had left as he pulled his broken leg out of the trap.
Blood.
I raised my hand to my mouth and licked the red smear from my skin. The faint taste of red nectar wasn’t enough to even begin to sate my hunger. The wolf blood, however, tasted sweet. There was something different about it. No, about me. The taste it seemed to be a key to a lock in my mind.
Greyback had risen to sit, his injured foreleg held off the ground. A thought leaked through the slim touch I had with his mind. Not words, but I understood the concepts he sent.
“We are pack. We run together.”
The blood from the wolf was the key. I could hear Greyback’s thoughts. His mind gave a wolfish chuckle.
“You won’t be running anywhere until that leg heals,” I said out loud, more for my benefit. My eyes swept around the clearing. There were several trees close by which could lend a branch to my idea. I reached to my already tattered skirts and ripped a strip of cloth free. I knew, after all these centuries, how to set a broken bone. But, would he let me? I gathered what I needed while the wolves watched.
I laid the materials in front of Greyback: several sticks, about half as long as his front leg, and several long strips of cloth. He sniffed at them. I projected the thoughts of him upright, ready to run, and worked back toward how I would set and splint the broken bone. This time I included a large sharp sense of pain when the bone-break pulled apart and allowed to rejoin in correct alignment.
“We are pack. We run together,” his thought entered my mind. Again, not words. Concepts. I didn’t know wolf language, so that’s how my mind translated the ideas he sent.
He settled on his side, the injured leg toward me. The pups stared from either side, their heads cocked to the side. Mother wolf moved in and lay across his shoulders and neck. My thoughts seemed to get through to her what was about to happen. Her presence and contact with Greyback was just as much of a comfort for him as to protect me. He laid his head back on the forest floor.
“We are pack. We run together.”
6
Splints
My worst fear about this was that I'd face a violent and upset old wolf, so I sent calm thoughts as I felt let my fingers dance across the coarse fur on his leg until I found the break. I sent a warning to the wolves. Greyback closed his eyes.
“We are pack…”
He yelped once, and his head swivelled toward me, as I pulled the bones apart. Mother wolf stayed on him. She deflected the snap of his jaws at me with a quick butt of her head on his. He whimpered as I guided the bones back into their normal alignment. I laid the sticks along his leg. I wrapped the fabric torn from my underskirts around the splint. The young wolves watched from either side as I wound the strips around and around, then knotted them off.
Greyback lay still for several minutes as he drifted through the residual pain. He pushed back into a sitting position, with the injured le
g still raised. Mother came to smell the splint, then nudged the young ones, and moved off with them into the brush.
“They hunt.”
I stood to follow them. I didn’t need to hunt, but I needed to keep running.
“We are pack…”
“I know,” I replied out loud. “We run together. But I bad men chase me. You’ll be much better on your own.” I pushed thoughts out toward him, images of the men on horseback. Silver knives out. Crossbows spit their silver bladed bolts through the air at me.
“Hunt, eat. Then run. We run together…”
“I know, but, you’ll face greater danger with me.” The Witch Hunters wouldn’t hesitate to take out a wolf to get at me. But how to communicate that to a wolf’s mind?
Greyback sent images. One of the young ones plunged through the forest, frightened. The sounds of an arrow in flight sizzled around him. The youngling yelped as the arrow pierced his side. This wasn’t one of the pups I had met.
In the vision he sent, several wolves fell to arrows. Mother wolf and another, a male wolf, ran and pushed their young along. A spear from a rider thrust once. Mother’s mate yelped and died as they speared him. Others, in panic, stepped into traps like the one in this clearing. The hunters rode them down and killed the wolves.
The men in his visions didn't look like any of the Witch Hunters I had just dealt with. Landholders, shepherds, and farmers never tolerated wolves in their lands. If there were packs active in these lands where livestock roamed pasturelands, there would be hunters and trappers out.
I’d have to be more careful and concentrate on my surroundings. I needed human blood to sate my thirst... and time, more time than I could afford, to allow the blood to heal the painful cut. I knew I needed to move on, and soon.
