"That's why we have these." She passed the cup back to Rayya and touched the threads. They went from the cups' handles to one of the canopy's struts. "Marvin kept knocking 'em in."
The girls drank. It tasted… different. Denser than the water in Traverd. But it was good all the same and washed the dryness back down Clara's throat.
"Better get this 'un plucked. See you."
She skipped towards the farmhouse. The chicken danced beside her. Clara and Rayya made their way back to the orchard, where the air was light and fragrant after the pens.
Clara climbed her ladder. She plucked apples, but thought of decapitated ducks. Maybe she and Rayya could be like them. They'd fly away to someplace good, instead of blundering around in stupid circles till they keeled over.
"It'll be dark soon."
Clara blinked away ducks and chickens. She bobbed under the branches. Isley Darthun stood below, amid the baskets and their blood-coloured mounds.
"I don't mind. I can pick more…"
"These'll do just fine."
Clara frowned. Those few piles of apples didn't seem like much in exchange for a place to sleep. But Isley steadied the ladder and she climbed down.
"We're eating soon. Do you like chicken?"
"Sure," Clara said.
Behind Isley, Rayya grimaced.
The dining table at the farmhouse stretched almost the full length of the room. Clara, Rayya, Tammie, and the Darthuns clustered at one end. Farmhands revelled at the other. Their laughter and the smell of wine mingled together, warmed and blurred the edges of the world.
"Ley says you're on your way to Lemstras." Marvin pushed a nest of ginger curls back from his face with one hand, ate a drumstick with the other, and chewed as he spoke.
Rayya and Clara looked at one another. Clara blurted the words out before her friend could speak or the silence could stretch.
"Yeah. We're going to visit Rayya's brother."
"Oh, that's nice," Isley said. "Is your family from Lemstras, Rayya?"
Clara held her breath. Would her friend burst into tears? If she did, they'd have to tell the truth. About fire and swords and Kharjis and their parents. The laughter would die. Everyone would avert their eyes, murmur sympathies…
"No," Rayya said. "Sachin moved there to take up an apprenticeship. He's an apothecary…"
She smiled. Her leg shook under the table. Clara pressed her thigh against Rayya's, shared her warmth, and it stopped. Rayya's smile and voice grew steadier too.
"…and it turned her purple!"
The Darthuns laughed. Tammie grinned over the chicken bones. Clara ate everything they pushed at her, though her stomach protested and threatened to burst. A piece of gooey blackberry pie shut it up.
"There are blankets and pillows in the hay barn," Isley said. "If you need anything else, just come up to the house."
"Thank you," the girls said together.
They walked beneath an indigo sky. Stars sparkled like gemstones. Rayya was a step or two ahead, and Clara couldn't see if her smile had slipped. But there were no sobs.
They got ready for bed, and made themselves comfortable in a corner behind piles of hay. Rayya only said a few words. She wished Clara goodnight, then huddled in her bedding.
Clara lay awake amid hay-hills and rustic smells. Wood creaked in the wind, but the barn had its own noise that was nothing like her wardrobe's. She closed her eyes though her mind didn't close with them. Clara turned one way, then the other.
After a while, perhaps hours, she said, "Rayya?"
The darkness swallowed her voice and didn't yield any other. Clara sighed. She pulled her blanket aside, fumbled with her boots, and put them on.
Maybe a walk would help her sleep…
***
Stars twinkled, celestial wounds that seeped into the sky. Xerachus' wounds leaked too. He should stop, return to the dark, finish healing. But he loped onward. Clara Mandrake was out there and he'd find her.
Mandrake… Claws and blood.
Xerachus padded through meadows that stank of sheep dung. Some of the animals watched him from a distance. Easy meat. He could leap upon them, tear them apart in an orgy of woollen gore. Feast. But… Clara Mandrake. He'd devour flesh later.
The breeze changed and he sniffed new scents. Blackberries, apples, cows, chickens… All the food and filth of farms. But there was something else… Ah! Xerachus ran towards it. Pain spread through his wounds, ensnared his limbs. But he didn't slow and the smell strengthened with every bound.
There!
A figure stood in the starlight, its back to him, head tilted towards the heavens as though reading their secrets. That familiar odour hit Xerachus in waves.
His eyes flashed. Claws twitched.
He crept forward and a growl rumbled through his teeth.
***
The growl trembled through Clara's bones. Her muscles tightened. The monster had chased her through her dreams and found her. Should she turn around? Or she could watch the stars and hope its teeth and claws were swift.
Maybe it'd tear her head off. Would she fly away like a duck or scurry around and thump the ground like a chicken?
Another growl. Closer this time.
Clara turned.
Jaws widened and saliva glistened. It barked at her, the biggest hound she'd ever seen. Eyes and teeth gleamed. It wore a collar. A farm dog, out in search of foxes to rip open.
It barked again, snapped at her.
Clara's eyes burned. Stupid animal! She'd strangle it like she strangled Tommy, smash its head on the ground, gouge its eyes, tear its stomach, eat its innards.
All this burst through her brain and came out in a snarl of her own.
The dog cringed, whimpered. It backed away and ran off into the night.
***
The man tensed. He spun round. His eyes met Xerachus' and widened into moons. He screamed, but pink claws slashed his throat and the noise drowned in a gurgle. Blood spurted from the wound, spat between his lips.
He fell in the dirt and Xerachus stood over him till he was still.
His claws shone. Life and death dripped from them. They were broader than they'd once been — no longer the needles that could penetrate a nose or ear, pierce a brain, and leave a corpse almost unmarked. That throat would shriek like a mouth, tell others he walked the countryside. Unless…
He dropped down, straddled the corpse, and bit into its neck. His teeth tore at the wound, mangled flesh. The man tasted foul but they always did. He sat up. The throat was a mess now. An animal could've taken him, a wolf or feral dog. It'd do.
Xerachus stood. Blood trickled down his chin, and along his limbs as well. He growled. His wounds gaped, soaked his fur.
He sniffed the air. Clara Mandrake was on the wind, faint but sharper than before. Xerachus longed to press on and find her. But his strength would bleed away into the fields, and even if he reached her he'd be in no fit state to deal with her.
Another smell came, weaker despite its nearness. He loped towards the house and its open window. Beyond it, a boy lay with blankets bunched halfway over his face. They muffled his snore.
Xerachus watched him for some minutes. Then he skulked away, towards the rear of the cottage. A shed stood near the outhouse. Dust and cobwebs laced its crannies. The door opened to his touch, and darkness greeted him. Xerachus melted into its embrace.
***
"…and the monster…" Katrina lunged and swiped her fingers above a girl's head. "…attacked!"
The child cried out, and even a few adults gasped, flinched — as though Katrina might leap off the table and strew the taproom with their bones. But the girl's eyes gleamed. Her shriek gave way to a grin.
"We drew our swords…"
She brandished one of the fire irons. At least she wasn't waving sharp steel over their heads, Silas mused. He bit into the lump of cheese at the end of his knife. Fruity flavours crumbled between his teeth.
"…and thrust!"
Katrina g
ripped the middle of the poker and performed a half-sword technique on her invisible foe. The whole inn cheered — the audience that clustered around the makeshift stage, the drinkers who lounged in the corner where Silas sat, even the landlady behind her bar and the waitresses who walked among the tables.
He gobbled his cheese and glared. What the hell was she doing? Katrina von Talhoffer, up on a table, entertaining a taproom like a bard or wandering storyteller! Had the battle at the Harvishtis' house driven her mad?
The young woman's eyes swam before him. His arms shuddered, as they had when she… she… He bit down on the flat of the knife. How could Katrina make them cheer about that?
A tankard thudded on the table in front of him. Liquid sloshed inside.
"On me." Lucas sat beside him. He brandished a mug of his own, and his beard glistened.
"Thanks…" Silas picked it up. Ale burned its way down his throat.
"Did it really happen like that?" He waved his mug towards Katrina, who continued to slaughter imaginary enemies.
"More or less."
"Nice one."
Silas murmured more thanks, but the dead girl's eyes were back. He took another drink and tried to focus on Lucas' instead.
"How're Lotti and Jost doing?"
"Marwa's going easy on them. She brought them food and said they should just rest for a bit."
"Good."
"In a week or so, she'll go back to treating them like crap. That's how she is."
"They're little kids. They shouldn't… They… They deserve better."
"Aye." Lucas gulped his beer. "They do. Maybe things'll get better for them. Maybe they won't. But they aren't monster food. And that's on you and her."
Applause shook the taproom. Katrina jumped down and passed the poker to a waitress. Hands patted the monster hunter's back as she came over. Behind her, the audience fragmented and conversations sprang up. Lucas clasped Silas' shoulder and walked off. Katrina took his seat.
Someone brought her an ale. A few more followed, along with grins and praise. Silas avoided their eyes. Drank. When the last beer-bearer left, and the two of them were alone in the corner, he glowered at her.
"We killed people. I killed people."
"I know." She sipped a drink.
"You made it sound like a… a… Like it was good! A fun little story to excite people in the pub!"
They drank in silence for a minute or two.
"Stories are important." Katrina waited for him to meet her gaze before she continued. "They make what we do real."
"It was real when we killed the Harvishtis. It was real when you grabbed the butler and-"
"Not to them." She nodded towards the middle of the taproom, where men and women chattered. "Our order needs them. They're our eyes and ears. We don't have enough people to scour all the lands till we find monsters. We need them to send for us if they think something's lurking in the bog or the woods. They have to know who we are, what we do, and trust us to kill the things that want to kill them."
She drained her tankard and Silas did the same. They both reached for fresh ones.
"And this will protect us, if the Harvishtis try to cause trouble. Any peacekeepers who come here will find the whole county's on our side. Every farmworker for miles around will tell them how the Harvishtis fed children to a monster and tried to murder us."
"They only believe that because you told them."
"What matters is they believe it. In a few days, the story will be truth and they'll tell it as if they saw it happen with their own eyes. Speaking of which…" She tilted her tankard towards the door, where a band of drinkers stormed off into the night. "I reckon they're on their way to the Harvishtis' place."
"They want to see the bodies." He winced. "The bones. The dead monster."
"And burn the place to the ground, probably."
"But…"
"People need vengeance. And when it's too late for a lynching, this is the next best thing."
They drank for a time. Silas imagined the mob barging into the country house. Would they desecrate the corpses? He tried to push those images out of his brain.
"I was telling you about my eye, before Marwa Fazan came to us."
"Huh? Oh, yeah."
"Eighteen years ago… I would've been a little older than you, I think…"
Silas tried to calculate, but the numbers drowned in his drink.
"We tracked down a monster. A fierce, cunning thing. It killed Robyn, my mentor, and almost did for me too." She caressed the scars below her eyepatch. "The healer said my eye was infected. He wanted to cut it out, but I wouldn't let him. The infection… the corruption… took the eyeball and left the rest of me alone."
"Now you can see where monsters have been?"
"Their traces are…" She gulped down a mouthful of ale. "It's like being a dog, I think. They can smell the world and know what's passed through a place. Like that, but I see it."
Silas didn't know what to say, so he concentrated on his ale for a while.
"We still have to find the thing from Traverd," he said.
"Yes. We'll carry on asking around tomorrow. If we can't learn anything at the farms and country pubs, we'll head for a town. Hogmire, maybe."
Two children played near the fireplace. One was the girl from Katrina's audience, and she mimed a half-sword thrust. A boy clutched his phantom wound, collapsed, and writhed around on the rug.
Silas sighed and drank.
***
Allat's eyes shone brighter than the summer sun. They lit the hilltop and Fahmaia's skin baked in their heat.
"Forgive me, Goddess. I've failed you."
The mawlana braced herself. Those cosmic orbs would blaze, and she'd burn in hellfire while a million souls cursed her name. For she had doomed and damned them all.
But tears the size of oceans glistened in the Goddess' eyes. Allat's sorrow was worse than wrath. It shivered through Fahmaia's bones, and she welled up in turn. Humanity had sinned. Failed. The One Goddess wouldn't rage or revel in mankind's destruction. She wept for what she must do.
"Forgive me…"
Fahmaia knelt and the heavens opened. Allat's voice sounded, not in thunder but a whisper that drifted into her ears.
"Wake."
Fahmaia's eyes opened and the Goddess' were gone. She gazed at another pair instead, white in a night-dark face. The man crouched before her. One of his hands reached for her sword, the other clutched a dagger.
She twitched. His eyes flicked up. The knife glimmered and came for her.
10
The dagger froze. Moonlight caught its point and danced in the stranger's eyes. He gawped at Fahmaia's face. The weapon moved again. She kicked out. Both heels thumped his chest, knocked him back on his rear.
"Enemies!" Fahmaia let loose a noise like a hawk's cry. The Kharji danger signal tore through the night and her voice chased it. "Enemies!"
Bodies stirred nearby, dark shapes crawled onto the hilltop. She clutched at Allat's Earring. Her foe dived forward, seized the middle of the scabbard, yanked the weapon away. But her fist closed around its handle and she pulled. The sword flashed. His dagger thrust.
The mawlana hacked his elbow and the man screamed. Blood spurted from his stump. She slashed him across the chest and his life gushed out. Its warmth splashed her face.
"Allat!" Jamsheed struggled on his back, wrestled with the woman above him. "Goddess, help me!"
The woman tore her arm free, raised her club. Fahmaia cut and Allat's Earring sheared through her head. Half the woman's skull slid away. Lengths of hair fluttered in the moonlight.
Figures dashed across the hilltop. Kharji war cries bellowed in their wake. The mawlana's warriors stood in good array now, dishevelled as they were. Their enemies scrambled back down the hill.
"Allatu Akbar!" Jasmina ran after them, waved her sword around her head. It became a beam of pure silver. "Unbeliever scum!"
"Jasmina, wait!"
Fahmaia tried to catch her arm b
ut missed. Jasmina charged down the hill, and a couple of the others moved to follow.
"No." The mawlana waved them back. "Stay here."
She sprinted, and was off the hilltop too fast to know if they heeded her. Shadows hurtled away below — as though they'd routed the darkness itself. Her foot caught on a rock. She lurched, scrambled, almost tumbled. But Fahmaia found purchase at the last moment and leapt onto the ground beneath.
Steel glinted ahead, vanished, glinted again. Jasmina still swung her sword, and it flashed like a sentry's signal. The mawlana flew towards it.
"Stop!"
"Argh!"
Something splashed. Fahmaia grabbed an arm, pulled the woman backwards. Jasmina's leg broke free with a second splosh. Stench wafted from the water. Rotten eggs and decaying vegetables.
"We can't blunder through a swamp in the darkness." Fahmaia drew her further back. Ahead, silhouettes disappeared and footfalls faded after them. "They know where to tread. We don't."
Jasmina panted. Water dripped from her leg.
"Sorry, mawlana. I-"
"Let's get back to the others."
They found them tending to their wounds. Two bodies lay in the camp, but neither wore Kharji garb.
"Who was on watch?"
"Samir," Jamsheed said. "He took over from me."
Only four warriors sat or squatted on the hilltop. Fahmaia pursed her lips. Jamsheed followed her gaze.
"Should I… Should I search for him, mawlana?"
"Tend to that cut. I'll look. Jasmina, dry yourself and help the others."
Fahmaia lit a lamp and shuffled down the slope in its glow. She paced around the foot of the hill, walked almost its full width before she found him. Samir lay in a heap. His head lolled, limbs straggled as though in the middle of a swimmer's stroke. An arrow protruded from his chest. Its end dangled from the shaft, half its fletches gone.
She extinguished the light and the shadows took him back. Fahmaia moved away. The archer would've fled with the others. If they still watched, they'd had ample time to hit her already. But still…
The mawlana went back to her warriors. They clustered together in the middle of the camp and five faces looked up at her. She shook her head.
Clara Mandrake's Monster Page 12
