The Seven

by Robert J Power

  She was no fool to come rushing to them. Who knew what evils had occurred out on the road, since the tavern? If it came to it, she knew she could tear Denan apart in a fair fight, even with his fantastical sword, but the apprentice had a threat about him. She had seen it in the flashes of Eralorien’s thoughts. She believed her own thoughts terrible upon seeing her casual lover and youthful comrade, but after Eralorien’s behaviour under the lure, who knew how they would behave?

  “Cherrie!” Denan cried. His injuries didn’t stop him from taking hold and squeezing the breath from her. “I’m sorry, my love. Eralorien enchanted and trapped us beneath a wall of fire and doom.” He kissed her openly. She was not ever used to public displays of affection outside of the bedroom, and she felt herself blush as he cupped her face in his grubby, bloody hands.

  “Are you okay, Cherrie?” Iaculous asked.

  She wondered why his face glowed in the dark as it did. It was like the crystal upon her daughter’s killer’s chest. No, she remembered Eralorien’s words and reminded herself of the hope for the girl.

  She saw the bandoleer and one of the glass canisters glowing brightly upon it, and she thought it more beautiful than any jewel or golden coin she had ever come upon. It drew her to it immediately, and once Denan’s affectionate manhandling lessened, she walked to it. He must have sensed her curiosity, for as though he were a child with a new toy, Iaculous whipped his cloak around his chest and concealed the glow from her eyes.

  “I am well now that I am among my comrades,” Cherrie said, curious how they had discovered her in the deep forest. She suspected they had run afoul of Eralorien and, most likely, forced the truth from him. That appeared rather serendipitous, however.

  “We thought he might have done something terrible,” Iaculous said and took her hands pitifully. She wondered if an apprentice were responsible for a master’s actions, as a master was for an apprentice’s. “He was a madman when he came upon us,” he added.

  Despite herself, Cherrie embraced him as a mother would a wounded child who had played too brutally with the bigger children. Be still, little one. Plenty of time to grow up. Let’s go find your little girlfriend, shall we? She held him for a moment and felt the cold emotion taking over once more. They were still a pack, and there was still a task at hand.

  She spun her dagger absently before returning it to its scabbard at her waist. “Where is Eralorien? He and I have unfinished business.”

  Denan dropped his head and opened his shirt so that she could see the damage done to his clothing and the recovering skin beyond. “He struck me down,” Denan said as though she would fall at his feet and weep, eternally grateful that the gods had kept him safe. She reached out and caressed his cheek mechanically.

  “Are you okay, my poor boy?”

  It was easy playing this part for Denan. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and was desperate for a reprieve. He was brave, beautiful, and blessed with the soul of a poet, but he was no leader. She enjoyed his company, but far too swiftly he had lost confidence in himself. Such a thing was a turnoff to a mother in need of a man who could help rescue her daughter. It took a whore to notice these things and, where possible, ease the doubt to better their situation. A confident leader was what the Hounds needed right now. They were falling like flies, and there was a girl that needed saving. She looked at each of them and realised they needed her strength as much as she needed their skill at murder.

  Cherrie felt the lure and wondered what the benefit would be if they knew. She knew a lure could lead an unaware man to death, and he would know no better. She agonised over the decision for almost a pulse of blood before deciding against telling them the truth. Did that make her evil? Not at all. Just a little heartless. They were her comrades, but she couldn’t take any chance they would turn and flee. Therefore, she kept her peace and felt wonderful at the thought of killing Mallum.

  “Does Eralorien still breathe?” she asked, knowing the truth already. The shape upon the horse’s back was like that of a weaver’s broken body.

  As if struck in the same game with Heygar and Denan, Iaculous collapsed on his rear by the dead fire. He tried to speak, but no words came. Instead, with a simple wave of his fingers, a spiral of flame flew and found life. It rose, warmed them all, and lit up their camp.

  “Find a place to bury him,” she said to Denan, who looked like a man accepting a rope from a lifelong nemesis as he hung from a cliff face.

  Take the rope and fall in line, she thought to herself.

  “I have no shovel,” he argued, though he reached for the body upon the horse. A fine man in need of a leader. She should have taken control after Heygar’s passing, but there was little point in arguing the matter now.

  “Bury him in rocks. He was a Hound and deserves his rest,” Cherrie hissed, and Denan nodded in acquiescence. When he disappeared into the night with his load, she turned to the young apprentice.

  Alone at last, the last ever leader of the Hounds thought and sat down beside the broken healer.

  31

  The Girl With Plans

  They said nothing for a time. Instead, they listened to the struggles of the faraway gravedigger as he battled the darkness and the carrying of rocks.

  Cherrie watched Iaculous as he watched the fire. The flames danced upon each other as though they were a beautiful orange ocean during a wild squall. It was only after a few moments she realised he was controlling the fire with his will. His hands barely glowed, and for her lack of knowledge in those mysterious arts, she found this peculiar. She said nothing. She merely sat and waited for him to speak.

  A man always had something to say—especially at the more pressing of times in their lives. While sometimes it was wiser to sit and think up devious plans, a man frequently spoke his thoughts until thoughts fell away to plans. Perhaps speaking aloud was exactly what helped them form devious plans, she had always thought.

  As she had expected, the sky finally opened and gifted the world a heavy downpour. Immediately, large droplets fell all around them. Far away, she heard Denan curse their bad luck and his own more than most. Iaculous didn’t notice the rain as it fell until the fire withered in a soothing hiss. He grimaced, and Cherrie felt the drops soak her head through. She eyed the low-hanging tree and was about to break the silence when he did something he had never done before.

  Iaculous whipped his hand swiftly out in front of him as though there were an irritating insect looking for purchase on his skin. A blue sphere was born into existence all around them. She almost leapt in fright, but instead, she gasped in delicate awe, and she knew this pleased him. It was translucent, shimmering, and formed around them in a comforting cocoon. She saw Denan through the hazy veil as he worked diligently with heavy rock, oblivious to her watching. She had seen Eralorien create such a shield before, but she had only remembered the old healer’s struggles. His young apprentice barely showed effort.

  Cherrie watched the raindrops land atop the sphere and roll down its side. The smoke from their little flame passed right through as though it were a clear afternoon without a breeze. On another day, she might have asked more, but this was no ordinary day, was it? It was as if a cruel god had taken one of their adventures as his own and twisted it for his and other’s pleasure. If that were true, she thought the god a thurken cur. She thought the others just as bad.

  “My shield is not as strong as Eralorien’s.” Iaculous’s voice was weak and lost, and she wondered if the enchantment were affecting him. “I bring this shield to life so easily yet only a handful of days before, I could barely ensnare a daisy with these hands.”

  He looked at the guilty hands in question. They were covered in blood, and Cherrie resisted the urge to know more. When he was ready, he would say. So, she said nothing.

  “It is this place which draws the source closer,” he said, finally looking from the flames to her and then to the world all around them. “Every day that I walk these lands, I become infused with an unnatura
l power. Perhaps it is in the air or the water. Perhaps it is something in the food. Venistra is a place for an apprentice.” Though these words pleased her greatly, she said nothing.

  Far away, they heard the heavy clunk of a large boulder upon another and a faint curse again as the rocks Denan had gathered toppled away from the mound he was building. Cherrie would have found her lover’s misfortune humorous were it not for the tragedy involved. The rain lashed against the shield, and she shuddered at an imaginary breeze, which would have accompanied the wave. Nice to have a weaver for unpleasant things like rainstorms.

  Against her better judgement, Cherrie reached out to touch the wall of energy beside her. Her fingers hovered over the wall of delicate light, and they quivered like a limb suffering a bout of needles and stings, having sat at the wrong angle for too long. She dared a touch, and her entire arm vibrated. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, yet as she pushed, it felt as though she pushed against an eternal cliff face.

  “When you wish to leave this shield, you need only ask,” Iaculous whispered, and she said nothing.

  Instead, she pushed once more and, certain it would not budge, she rested her quivering arm in her lap. After a moment, the sensation left her hand. The source was a strange thing. Again, she said nothing. She looked into his eyes and saw the torment at play. She almost wilted and took hold of the boy and reassured him, lamented with him, and vowed vengeance with him.

  Cherrie wondered if Bereziel might have made a fine master to the boy. Perhaps not. The boy desired to know of the weaving world, and Bereziel had driven himself to near madness searching to make sense of unnatural things. He had earned a fortune as a weaver and spent a lifetime’s fortune on every scrap of parchment scribed with words on the source. She wondered if the boy were likely to take the same route.

  Was Arielle likely to have her heart tripped by him as she had? She had almost forgotten Arielle’s soul was raped from her body. Fury struck her, but she blinked it away and said nothing, for the boy had more to say.

  “There is a nasty little deceiving voice deep within my mind, and it whispers everything I need to know. Things Eralorien could never fathom,” Iaculous said. His voice broke, and her resolve almost did. “It tells me of terrible things.”

  He gripped the bridge of his nose as though a beast attempted to rip itself free of his skull. The flames flickered and grew, and the heat in their cosy little tent of light grew a little uncomfortable. The shard of stone within the jar upon his bandoleer glowed. He placed his hand over the glass, and all returned to normal.

  “I could burn every single one of those grand cantuses now if I wanted.” From the steel in his voice, she had little reason to disbelieve. “It is as if a great barge gate has opened in my soul, and it has released everything,” he whispered. “I search to fight the current.”

  Cherrie knew well the doubt in all men when they said too much. Though she wanted to, she still said nothing.

  “I do not know what Eralorien did to you, but when he came upon us, he stabbed Denan to near death, turned upon me, and then attempted to devour my soul. I didn’t know he could do that. He never told me could do that. I wasn’t ready. If I’d have known, maybe I could have saved him.”

  Still, she said nothing, despite the air suffocating her breath.

  “His mind touched mine. He showed me things, terrible things, and then tried to kill me. So, I killed him, but that wasn’t all. I think I took some of his soul—like Mallum took Arielle’s.”

  She thought this was incredible. He opened his cloak and tapped the jar.

  “I feel powerful with him next to me,” he said, and she wanted him to know power like that was nothing to be ashamed of. She embraced him and offered words of her own.

  “Should Denan really be burying his body?”

  “I could not return his soul and return him to life. I felt the cancer which had taken his mind. There was nothing to save. I stabbed him from this world, and it was all I could do. Tonight, I mourn my master. I would have no man or woman return him to the world of living now. He should be buried.” Cherrie felt his tears upon her hands where they fell.

  “Would you return the soul of Arielle?” she asked.

  “If there was one thing in the world I could ever attempt and have success with, it would be returning Arielle’s soul to the living,” Iaculous said. “I miss her more than anyone can ever know.”

  Cherrie made no further attempt to ease his suffering. Regret and sorrow were powerful tools to wield and control, and she would wield him as any other devastating weapon.

  She stroked his head. “Rest in my arms for now and feel as the world of Venistra makes you stronger. Tonight, we go hunting, and we will know success. Listen to that nasty little voice inside your mind as we save her.”

  “As you wish, Cherrie.”

  32

  The Leader Of Two

  The young apprentice said nothing as they stood over the grave. He was no apprentice anymore. He was their weaver now. He had graduated by surviving their first encounter with Mallum while his old master did not. It was the tale of legends. It was also the only tale shared from this day forward to all who would listen. His master slain, he was an apprentice rising to the challenge.

  Better that than the truth, Cherrie supposed.

  A low sphere of light hung above their head, where the old weaver lay beneath a burial cairn of stone. She felt like a giant overlooking a mountain range, and she thought it a fitting place to forget an attempted rapist. That was probably unfair, but she had always felt men were a few breaths away from committing devious acts. Eralorien had been old, but he was no different.

  Denan chanted a few words in Venistrian, and though she couldn’t understand a word, she implied the sentiment. When he finished, Iaculous touched his chest, where he kept Eralorien’s soul, and they left the grave. The time for words had passed.

  They climbed atop their horses at the edge of the forest. The shock of losing yet another comrade by the wayside had already worn off. A side effect to the enchantment cast upon them? Did it matter?

  With a shield above their heads, they turned to a night march. They had spent long enough sleeping as it was. There was a girl’s soul to recover, a dark weaver to slay, and the hour was late.

  Despite the lure, Cherrie had her wits about her. There was one more port of call to replenish what they could. Perhaps they would pick up a battalion or two to aid their mission, if they were on hand. The time of silent assassination was long past.

  There was a dignity to wielding numbers, and as fierce as Iaculous was becoming, they were no longer seven Hounds. While Denan was anxious about returning home to the Hundred Houses, Cherrie would have been a fool to ignore taking advantage of his family ties. Few in Dellerin knew his true ancestry, but he had told her long ago in a secluded corner under the glow of a solitary candle. He had some royalty to him.

  Each of the great islands had their own king, and they were free to rule any way they saw fit—as long as they answered to King Lemier, for he who ruled Dellerin itself ruled the entire world. Venistra had suffered under Lemier’s rule far more than the other great islands. Perhaps a stronger king might have done more for his people, and Denan agreed. Perhaps Denan could still play his part in their future. Perhaps their luck would change when Denan finally returned home after exile.

  “If we stick to the path, we should be all right. The beasts only travel in small packs,” Denan said from atop his mount beside her. He had said it a few times now, yet still, she was wary. Apparently, so was he. She knew his worries, for those beasts were something she feared. He frequently reached for his pouch to ease his breathing, as though it gave him strength. She had never seen him reach for the salts so much before.

  Iaculous, however, was brave. Cherrie saw the effort and passion in his drawn features as he charged his beast forward. He looked like a child holding all the worry in the world, letting nobody know of his melancholy. How hard must it have been for the you
ng weaver to find his way in this world with a master who hated him? Perhaps Eralorien didn’t hate him, but it would take a master of the mind to discover any other possible sentiment.

  Perhaps, if they did ever find Bereziel in these forsaken lands, she might request Bereziel offer one year of his life to care for the boy. She sensed the goodness in him now, more so than ever, and she knew Bereziel capable of kindness. It might serve the boy in the last few steps before he became a man. Perhaps it would make Bereziel see there was more to the world than becoming all-powerful. She thought these strange thoughts, which comforted her, rather than thinking deeply of childhood traumas involving monsters.

  “Only in small packs?” Iaculous asked, and his voice was weak and faded. The shield above their heads was taking its toll.

  Cherrie thought for a moment of leaving him to rest but said nothing. After she wielded him as her weapon, the last fire had burned out, and they counted the dead, as long as they rescued Arielle, nothing else mattered. Not even the young weaver himself.

  “We have nothing to fear from the Venandi night hunters,” Denan said, and a shiver ran down her spine. Even the name brought back memories to her.

  “We are the Hounds,” Iaculous said.

  The accompanying sphere of light shone above his head and lit the way for them all. It hovered and floated as though it had a mind of its own. He kept it lit as though it took little energy, and once again, Cherrie marvelled at the power he was displaying.

  They stuck close together and, with the wind at their backs, they began a dash towards their journey's end. Like an itch they couldn’t scratch, they followed their instincts in search of relief, and she knew the cause. The dim luring sensation to achieve a difficult task from a few days ago, in a different life, had now become an impossible, ensnaring obsession.

  Cherrie suspected something else. With every member to pass from this world, the lure had increased its grip upon the survivors. What a cruel fate to gift upon any man, she thought, but not for a moment did she entertain enlightening them.