“Corran?”
“We never saw it before it was on us,” Corran said, gasping in pain.
Trent knelt beside Jora’s savaged corpse. “I’m sorry, Corran.” “Oh, gods,” Corran moaned, cradling his head in his hands, unable to look at the damage the creature had done.
“She’s gone, Corran. I’m sorry. I’ve got to get you out of here, before the guards come. Both of us need to be far away from here.” “Jora—”
“Jora’s dead.” Trent wiped his knife on the ghoul’s ragged shirt.
“If you’re found here, odds are her brothers will blame you. And if the guards find me, I’ll hang.”
“CORRAN?” CALFON SAID. “Are you with us?”
“Sorry,” Corran muttered, shaking himself out of the memory.
“I’m ready.”
“Let’s go,” Trent said, leading the way out of the cellar and into the night.
According to the Guilds and the Lord Mayor, curfew protected residents by encouraging law-abiding folk to be indoors, safe from the criminals and monsters that roamed the streets at night. But curfew’s sole function, as far as the city’s residents could tell, was to provide one more excuse for the guards to rough up whomever they pleased with impunity. Earn the ire of a guard for any reason, no matter how insignificant, and they need not even invent charges of theft. Curfew violation alone could excuse a beating severe enough to leave a man hobbled, or dead.
Wrighton, the neighborhood of Ravenwood that was home to most of its skilled tradespeople and artisans, was empty and silent.
No one but the Lord Mayor’s guards should be abroad at this time, but the guards didn’t care to risk their skin to put down monsters, so that left the hunters dodging two groups of predators, both equally deadly.
Trent and Calfon led the way. Mir, Pav, and Bant brought up the rear, with Corran, Ross, and Allery in the middle. They slipped through the shadows and into a narrow alley, keeping tight to the wall of a building, stepping over garbage as rats squealed and skittered out of their way.
Trent’s hand snapped up in warning and they froze, backs against the wall, making themselves as still and silent as possible. Bootsteps sounded around the corner, and voices carried in the dark. The night patrol, Corran thought.
“You there! Stop!”
Corran felt cold fear slip down his spine. Ross laid a hand on his shoulder and gave a sharp shake of his head. No guards were silhouetted in the alley entrance; the command was not meant for them.
Running footsteps sounded, then a cry of fear, and the unmistakable sound of fists meeting flesh. Beside Corran, Ross flinched at the sound of the beating.
Calfon shot a warning glance at the hunters gathered behind him.
Intervene now, and we lose our shot at the ghouls.
“Don’t hurt me!” a man begged.
Corran gritted his teeth. Did the guards that beat Papa to death make him beg? Did they even give him a chance to?
“Curfew began a candlemark ago.”
“I’m sorry! My daughter is sick with fever. I had to go out to fetch a healer.”
“So?”
“Please. I’ll pay you whatever you ask, just let me help my daughter.”
“Turn out your pouch. Let’s see what coin you have.” “Take it. I need to bring the healer.”
“This won’t buy me two tankards of ale!” one of the guards complained.
“It’s all I have. Please—”
Corran heard the man cry out as he slammed against the wall. “Not enough,” the first guard said. “What else can you offer?” “Let me bring the healer to my house, and you can take me to the jail,” the man bargained. “I’ll serve my sentence.”
Corran and Ross exchanged a glance. A night in jail or a hefty fine would more than suffice as punishment for violating curfew— and often did, unless the guards were looking for an excuse for violence. The Lord Mayor’s soldiers grew bold in the certainty that their excesses would be overlooked, while Ravenwood’s residents learned to fear the guards’ caprice.
“There might be one thing you could give me in payment,” the guard replied. “I let you take the healer to your house, and in return, I come back in a week and spend the night with your daughter.” “Mercy! She’s only fourteen! Please—”
“Just one night. Probably not her first toss. And if you don’t get the healer, she won’t see fifteen.”
Corran closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Ross dug fingers into his shoulder. “Stay out of it,” he whispered. “We can fight ghouls, but we can’t take on the guards, too.” Corran’s eyes flashed in response, and he saw the same anger and revulsion on Ross’s face.
“You want to heal your daughter, and we want a little something for pretending we didn’t see you out here,” the guard continued in a smug tone that made Corran want to throw up. “Now what’s it gonna be? Dead or borrowed?”
“One night,” the desperate man bargained. “And you’ll take care with her—”
“We take care with all the ladies, don’t we?” the guard said to his companion, who guffawed.
“Yeah. We take care of them. No complaints outta any of them.” “All right.” Defeat resonated in the father’s voice. “Just let me get to the healer.”
“Go right ahead,” the first guard mocked. “We’re coming along.
Keep you out of trouble. Need to know where you live, after all, if we’re going to come calling.”
None of the hunters moved until the guards and their victim moved off. By then, Corran shook with rage, and his nails had cut red half-moons into the palms of both hands.
“We fight one kind of monster, and let another run loose,” he growled as Calfon clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“And what would you have us do?” Ross asked quietly. “Take on the guards?”
I wanted to put a knife in that bastard’s back and slit his friend’s throat, then serve them up as ghoul bait, Corran thought, still seething. He shook off Calfon’s hand and glowered at Ross. “Let’s move. If I hadn’t been ready for a fight before, I am now.” “Hurry,” Calfon urged. One more block brought them to the dilapidated warehouse Calfon had identified as the ghouls’ nest.
Far removed from the usually bustling harbor front, buildings this close to the old city wall were less desirable, and often, at least temporarily, abandoned; the warehouse looked deserted. Nothing moved at the dark windows, and no lanterns lit the interior. Bant and Allery watched the street. Calfon and Mir took point, easing open the double doors, swords at the ready. Ross and Pav followed right behind, weapons drawn. Corran and Trent came next, armed and carrying green vitriol and salt.
Calfon signaled the others to follow, and Ross lit a lantern, keeping it tightly shuttered, allowing just enough light to escape to let them get their bearings inside the decrepit warehouse. The stench hit Corran as he entered, like an abattoir in summer. If he had any doubts that the ghouls had made their lair here, the smell dispelled them. “Get moving,” Calfon ordered, and the hunters fell to their tasks.
Mir lit another lantern and lifted it high while they made a sweep of the large, open space. The bloodstains on the floor told Corran that the ghouls had brought their dinner home with them on more than one occasion, and he swallowed hard at the thought. Bant and Allery kept watch, staying just out of sight behind the edge of the door. Mir unloaded the bag with the salt-aconite and the green vitriol.
Now we wait, and see how long it takes for the ghouls to smell our blood, Corran thought as he flattened himself next to one of the windows. He saw a shadow slink around the warehouse and signaled the others. Bant gestured from his post at the opposite wall, alerting them to a second ghoul. Corran strained to hear anything that might clue him to the location of the other creatures. The scrabbling on the roof sounded like hail, until Corran remembered the clear night. He looked up at the darkness above the wooden beams, and realized with a creeping dread that he could see stars through the broken shingles.
“They’re her
e!” he shouted, as the shadows in the rafters began to move. Ghouls flowed upside-down across the ceiling like gaunt, long-limbed spiders, thin as famine victims despite their distended bellies. The joints in their elbows and knees looked too pronounced, their skulls too large, eyes sunken and dark. Corran wanted to tear his gaze away, but was fascinated by the ghouls’ macabre dance.
Shaking himself into action, Corran raised his sword in one hand, and a long knife in the other.
“We’re down here, you bastards! Come and get us!”
A ghoul sprang from the shadows, its bony fingers barely missing Corran’s arm. Corran backed up, one step at a time. The ghoul stalked him, head down, eyes focused on its prey.
A second ghoul appeared from the back door, training its gaze on Trent. Bant squared off with the newest adversary, circling carefully, waiting for an opportunity to attack.
Four on the ceiling, one at each door. Eight of us. Not bad odds. “Two more over there,” Mir said.
I liked it more when we outnumbered them.
Four ghouls dropped from the ceiling and hit the ground running.
One of the creatures sprang at Allery, catching him by surprise and knocking him over. Allery and the creature wrestled, rolling over and over, the ghoul struggling to get a grip on Allery’s throat as he fought to bring his knife up to land a killing strike.
Corran’s opponent hesitated and he took advantage of the opening, launching himself at the ghoul. The creature hissed as it saw the steel blade coming and dodged aside, letting the sword slice down through its shoulder and ribs instead of taking it through the neck. Dark blood slowly oozed from the shattered chest and the ghoul’s right arm swung limply from the useless socket. The wound would have had a living man on his knees, overcome with pain and shock, but Corran saw calculation and naked hunger still burning in the creature’s dead eyes.
The ghoul knocked aside Corran’s sword and lunged forward, jaws wide, going for his neck.
Corran staggered backward. His world had narrowed to the maw snapping inches from his throat, and the sharp nails ripping through his shirt. The ghoul threw him against the warehouse wall, following with uncanny speed to make the kill, pinning him against the wood as its fingers tightened, cutting off his air.
Corran bucked, getting his feet up between himself and the ghoul and kicking the creature away. He sagged to his knees, gasping for air, but when the ghoul came back at full speed, he met it in a crouch.
He raised his sword in both hands, and the ghoul’s momentum drove it down the blade, black blood washing over his hands. The creature’s good arm came up fast, opening gashes in Corran’s cheek even as he wrestled the blade up into the chest cavity. The monster shuddered, its jaw working open and closed, ichor spilling from its blue lips. Corran was still trying to shift his grip when silver flashed through the air and the ghoul’s head toppled from its shoulders.
Corran kicked the body free from his blade and looked up as Mir extended a hand to help him to his feet.
“Come on. There’s more where that came from.”
Corran took in the scene as he got to his feet. Three ghouls were down, hacked to pieces. Five still battled the hunters, and if the ghouls felt fear at the sight of their fallen nest-mates, it did nothing to slow their attack or blunt their hunger.
Sharp claws raked down Trent’s arm and he cried out. The butcher’s blade sank deep into the ghoul’s shoulder, but blood ran down his arm, and the wounds made it difficult for him to keep a firm grip on his sword. As Corran ran to help Trent, Mir circled behind the ghoul still evading Ross’s blade.
“I’ve got you!” Corran yelled.
“I’m all right! See to your own!” Trent managed, not daring to take his eyes off the ghoul. The creature moved right; Trent mirrored it, but not fast enough, as the ghoul shifted at the last moment, opening new gashes with a swipe of its bloody, clawed fingers. With a fierce cry, Corran lurched into the ghoul’s path, slashing at its side and belly with his blade and slitting it open. The ghoul dropped with a howl, splattering Corran with blood. He swung his sword again, sending the ghoul’s head rolling.
“Shit!” Calfon’s curse made Corran turn. Three battered ghouls faced off against their opponents, as Mir and Allery beheaded the fallen monsters and sprinkled their corpses with green vitriol and the salt-aconite mixture.
Trent held his own against his opponent, keeping his bloody left arm tight against his chest. Bant ran to join him, and together they cut down a ghoul and severed its head. Ross bled from gashes across his chest, the sword in his hand slick with monster blood. Before Corran could provide any assistance, Ross launched himself at another ghoul with a two-handed strike that cut the creature in half through the waist. A second strike tore through the ghoul’s neck and spine with enough force to send the head rolling across the floor.
Pav circled one of the remaining ghouls. Blood soaked his shirt and ran down his arm. He was tiring, and as Corran closed the gap between them, the ghoul sprang forward.
“Pav, watch out!”
The ghoul attacked, maw open wide, claws bared, ready to take the weaver to the ground. Pav swung and missed, and the ghoul sank its teeth deep into his shoulder. The hunter screamed, struggling to get free. He shoved his dagger into the ghoul’s belly at almost the same moment Corran slashed down through the creature’s neck. The monster’s headless body fell backward, but the head remained, jaws tight on Pav’s shoulder.
“Gods, Corran! Get it off me!”
Corran swallowed bile as he shoved his sword into the ghoul’s mouth, prying the jaws apart; they snapped open and the bloody head dropped to the ground. Corran kicked it toward the center of the room, and Pav collapsed to his knees, eyes wide with sheer terror. “It’s over,” Corran said. He frowned as he looked at the deep bite and the blood staining Pav’s shirt. “We need to get you out of here and clean that wound.” He helped Pav to his feet and turned toward the center of the room.
“That’s all of them—for now.” Calfon stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the damage. Mir and Trent used poles they had found somewhere in the old warehouse to push the ghouls’ corpses toward the center of the floor, while Bant and Allery scavenged bits of broken crates and splintered boards to stack against the pile of bodies.
Once Corran had assured himself that Pav was not going to pass out, he went to help, trying to ignore how his hands shook now that the fighting was over.
“Hurry it up; we really don’t want company,” Calfon urged, going to retrieve more of the green vitriol and the salt. Corran brought the rest, and together they doused the bodies, standing back as noxious smoke rose from the burning flesh. Salt, amanita, and aconite came next. Mir and Trent joined them, carrying the lanterns. Mir and Trent used their candles to light the dry wood piled around the bodies. The flames caught quickly, and the smell of the burning ghouls made Corran gag. “Come on,” Calfon said, once the blaze was underway. “We all need patching up, and it’ll be dawn soon. Let’s get out of here, while we still can.”
Chapter Three
“SHE’S NOT LOOKING at you,” Rigan Valmonde said, as he and his friends, Wil and Donn, hunched over a table at The Lame Dragon, nursing their tankards of ale.
“I’m sure she winked at me,” Wil said, his eyes on the pretty darkhaired serving girl.
“She had something in her eye,” Donn replied. “Or maybe she was trying not to cry at the sight of your ugly face!”
Rigan and Donn laughed, while Wil bore the teasing with a longsuffering sigh. “You’re both just jealous,” he retorted, but he had more ale than fight in him.
“I suspect she gets a dozen marriage proposals a night from the fellows in here,” Rigan said, “and turns them all down.”
“That’s because she’s got high standards,” Wil sniffed. “She’s been holding out for the best.”
“Well, then, you’re completely out of luck, my friend,” Donn said with a laugh.
“I don’t see either of you courting any
one,” Wil sulked, glaring at his two friends.
“That’s because we’re working, mate. I only got away from the shop because they needed me to run some errands,” Rigan said, holding up a bag full of pigments and powdered plants. I’m not going to tell them about Elinor. She said she’d go walking with me. Now I just have to work up the courage to ask.
Rigan was eighteen, old enough to marry—an eligible bachelor in a respectable trade. Corran, two years his senior, was among the few men in the Guild his age who wasn’t betrothed or already married. But the losses of the past year had pushed marriage from the minds of both brothers. Corran would have been married to Jora by now, if she’d lived. And Mama would have been happy to see it. Rigan pulled himself from his thoughts, returning his attention to the conversation.
“Speak for yourself,” Wil said. “We finished up with the horses early, and I got sent over to bring back a bucket of ale, with spare coin to enjoy a little for myself.” In the warm press of bodies inside The Lame Dragon, the distinct smell of horse clung to his clothing, an unavoidable part of being the farrier’s apprentice.
“I have to agree with Rigan. There’s not much chance for courting when we’re this busy at the shop; there’s a ship in port and orders to fill,” Donn said, and sighed. He was apprenticed to the potter, and the stubborn clay on the wheel was to blame for his rough, reddened hands.
“Then here’s to some well-deserved time off!” Wil lifted his tankard in salute. He waved to the serving girl, motioning for her to come over.
“What are you doing?” Donn said.
“Getting another round of ale,” Wil said, balancing uncertainly on the chair.
Rigan shook his head. “That’s your second—or third—already, isn’t it? And I can’t. I’m late enough as it is. Corran will have my head if I come home drunk.”
“Pfft. We’re close to home, and you hold your ale well. Come on—”
Donn pushed Wil’s hand back to the table. “I can’t either, and neither should you. Why don’t you get that bucket of ale and we’ll all head back—before you drink the inn dry.”
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