The Seven

by Robert J Power

  “She loved you, Iaculous,” Cherrie whispered. He nodded and placed his healing hands upon her broken chest. “All she wanted in this life was you.”

  Cherrie felt herself drift into the darkness. Not yet! she screamed in her mind.

  “I will do what is needed,” he said.

  “You should have stayed with my girl and protected her, but you failed her, Iaculous. This is all your fault,” she hissed with her last few breaths. He dropped his head in shame, and she was glad. “If you do nothing else in this life, save my girl from that monster,” she hissed, and he nodded.

  With the last of her strength, Cherrie squeezed his glowing hand and looked into his broken eyes. She saw nothing but ferocious power behind those eyes, and this pleased her.

  “He stole her soul …”

  She felt a beast clawing at her mind, at her soul, at all she was. Not in this world but in the world where Heygar waited with Silvious, unable to move, trapped by a dreadful enchantment, by the lure.

  “Take my soul, Iaculous, and wield it,” Cherrie pleaded before surrendering to the demon of the source as the cold engulfed her completely.

  36

  Into The Grey

  The Venandi charged through the undergrowth, and Denan followed behind as swiftly as he could. He swung his sword at every branch careless enough to get in his way and cut them from his path in each sweeping motion.

  “Come here.”

  The fleeing beast did little but snarl in frustration as it attempted to escape his wrath.

  The sun between the grey leaves shone brightly, and the night’s heavy rainfall left the world glistening something fine. Denan ducked under a branch and tripped over the same tree’s root. He tumbled, rolled, and came to a nasty stop in the middle of the wet mud.

  He allowed himself a moment’s reprieve from the night's exertions before continuing the dreadful race. His chest ached, and his breath was fading, but he was determined to catch the beast. He knew it was capable of greater speeds, but with the sun’s rays reinforcing his charge, the beast was attainable. Though the smarter plan was to leave the Venandi to its recovery and he to his own, Denan wasn’t capable of mercy. Not today. If he did little else after killing Mallum, then eradicating every single one of the Venandi night hunters was a life well lived.

  “Get over here!” he roared to the endless forest of grey. He received only the dull thrashing sounds of an injured beast breaking branches in reply. He would kill one, and then he would kill them all. He would return to his father a hunter, and for his dead mother’s sake, there would be deference given to the man.

  Denan cursed again and attempted to scramble to his feet, but his strength had left him. His body was torn to shreds from skirmishes, but no blow had felled him, so he continued this demented hunt as though possessed. Perhaps he was possessed by grief, misery, and a bitter madness to boot.

  Oh, how he missed the colour of green. He remembered when these forests were greener. He also remembered seeing the first tinges of grey appearing. It was a disease of nature, he suspected, despite prophets and shamans claiming it was the great mysterious stones’ doing. As if a stone could spread out the cancerous grey, stealing the life essence from the world around it, like a blight did upon a crop. Like a bad king upon a failing nation.

  “Oh, gods of the source,” he moaned suddenly and grabbed his chest as an attack came upon him.

  No, not like this. He squirmed in the mud and struggled to rise. No, not yet. He had so much more killing to do. He couldn’t allow a simple act of suffocation to get in his way. Besides, he had a little time before the attack brought him to unconsciousness, and the beast couldn’t survive another hour being hunted. So, he struggled onwards.

  Each step was agony. Denan’s chest constricted with every deep breath, but a few miles in, he saw the first leaves with a glimmer of green and felt wonderfully renewed. A few miles after that, a few leaves turned to teeming branches of green. Eventually, he scrambled through a stunning forest, just as he had as a wild, youthful royal, earning his skills as a hunter.

  He considered taking a rest until he discovered the fresh stream of blood from where he had struck the beast. His anger flared, and he thought of her.

  Cherrie had fallen behind and was lost in the grey as he was. No, he was not lost, just desperate. He wanted to call out for her, but he knew the dangers. He wanted to call out for Iaculous too, but he also knew the futility of it. He had feared returning home for decades, and now, walking these lands, his heart was heavier than the day he had left. He had hoped to return as a saviour. He had hoped to return to something more than this.

  Iaculous had discovered Cherrie’s absence first, and he turned his mount around without regard for sense or himself. Denan had not followed. He wasn’t familiar with fear, not from an army of drunken gelderings, a storm of sea monstrosities, or even the vengeful wrath of Heygar for stealing his bride. Fear, however, had taken his will these last few days, and he was a worse man for it.

  He had left his comrades behind to the darkness, only to face an ambush from three Venandi further on up the road. They had fallen upon him from either side of the path. One had taken him from his saddle with a crunching strike, denting his chest plate, and he had rolled from the beast instinctively. His cursed horse had sprinted off from his life forever, leaving him to his doom, just as he had done with Cherrie and Iaculous.

  His old master of skills had always suggested, “Carry all you need upon you and all else upon a beast of burden,” and it had served him well in that fateful moment. With sword and shield, Denan had fought the first as the second waited its turn and the third after that. He had always despised their brutality but respected their animalistic code of honour. He had taken advantage and reasoned where each attack would come from, for if one knew the beasts and their ways, one could stand toe-to-toe with many of them—at least for a time.

  He had taken the first by dazing its initial attack with the edge of his shield and piercing his sword through its clouded grey eye. The second had attacked from behind and managed a claw to the chest before Denan had knocked it away. He plunged the blade deep into its belly, tearing a gash so deep the snarling animal had wailed loudly until it had faded to nothing. The third beast was wary, and though its grander brethren had fallen to the human’s blade, it still attacked. Denan had answered the challenge and killed it at the cost of little more than the exhaustion of battle and a spinning head.

  He had left the three earless bodies to rot upon the road. He had kept his wits about him and recalled the rules of survival taught to him as a child. He had skulked from the path with the distant sound of howling in his ears. With nothing but his belt and weapons to his name, he had disappeared into the forest and discovered a sturdy tree deep within.

  He remembered climbing high enough that no hidden set of vicious teeth would appear from the dark and tear his ankle free. Concealed and comfortable enough among the thick branches and clumps of aroma-quenching leaves, he had thought himself clever, with the wind as his company and little else. He’d felt confident, as high as a three-storey tavern, and with every hour passed in silence, the only worry he’d had was that of fighting slumber, until the monsters tracked him down.

  They had come from the path where he had slain their brothers, sniffing the air knowingly. They had gorged upon their dead brethren and sought the next course. The alpha male that had led them was broader than any other monster Denan had seen. Each step taken was an effort and taken with deliberate composure. The beast behind it had been nearly as impressive but was younger, patient, and waiting for its turn to lead. That was how it usually was in a pack of five or six. He had counted thirty at least, and he wondered if his heart had hammered loudly enough to reveal his concealment. They had known their prey was near, but better than that, they had known their prey had ceased running, as though some entity had whispered in their ears of his whereabouts.

  He had gripped the branch tightly and peered through the foliag
e as each of the monsters sniffed the air around his tree. All thirty in unison had stared up at him with unblinking eyes, and he had dug his head into the unforgiving tree bark as though avoiding their eyes might dissuade them from their nasty primordial intentions.

  One monster far below had stared at the tree trunk like a champion meeting an ill-matched opponent in the arena. The beast had lifted its paw up against the sturdy bark and dragged its long claws down, ripping through the wood as though it were little more than paper upon a blade. The surrounding pack had howled triumphantly.

  Buoyed on by the clamour of success, the beast had bitten slowly into the thick bark and tore it loose, leaving the skin of the tree unprotected and raw. By the third bite of the tree, Denan had known well his fate. Above him, a nest of birds had known also and took flight, squawking loudly before disappearing into the night. A second beast had gone to task on the other side of the trunk, biting and spitting the bark clear before tearing strips of wood away as though it were little more than a stalk of cornwheat. With each successful piece torn away, they had each taken a moment to snarl a challenge for him to drop and meet them in battle.

  “Leave me be,” he had cried in reply, and the panic in his voice had brought forth a renewed drive to fell the sanctuary quicker. So, he had climbed higher into the tree, knowing a fall from five feet would be as fatal as from fifty. Each step up had been more treacherous and trickier as the thinning branches clustered tightly together.

  Far below, he had heard the terrible splintering as the trunk faltered under the assault. He remembered breaking the surface of branches, then looking out into the cloudy night sky at the top and hearing only silence. It had almost felt like there were no dangers below, but it was a fool’s con, like placing a covering over his eyes as the hangman drew nearer. But that blindfold tore free as the branch he clung to shook suddenly, and a terrible snapping filled his ears.

  With the terrible thrust of the ground calling him back to her unforgiving grasp, Denan had done what any damned man would do. He had leapt blindly to the nearest adjacent tree and willed the power of the source that the branch he caught could take his weight. Within a pulse, he had discovered that it couldn’t.

  His head had struck a thick branch and knocked him senseless; he had fallen helplessly from the crown, hitting every branch along the way. He remembered the terrible spinning, the stinging slap of leaves upon his face, and the tearing of spindled branches on his skin. Then he had landed painfully on a large, hanging bough a half-dozen feet above the ground. He remembered gasping for air and feeling for broken bones. A terrible darkness filled his vision, and he remembered nothing more until he opened his eyes to the coming dawn.

  As he stirred his mind from the unfortunate sleep, he had discovered, to his amazement, the beasts sitting quietly beneath him as though listening to a master’s instruction. Unsure of what else to do, he had watched them as the night turned to day. Every now and then one had broken from their trance to scrape at the tree trunk weakly, but after a few attempts, each had offered nothing more than a low frustrated growl before sitting back down. This went on until the sky had turned to early morning and with the first whiff of burning touching his nostrils, the beasts fled from the tree leaving four of their brethren behind. Fearing he might lose their tracks, Denan had dropped to the ground with sword drawn, craving vengeance.

  37

  The Fury Of Sunlight

  To be his father’s son was a difficult thing, but to come home after exile and beg for a battalion of the king’s finest would be an insurmountable undertaking altogether. But he would do it to save Arielle. It’s what Cherrie would want. But when he thought deeper on the matter, enlisting his father’s help was the only way he could kill Mallum. He had come so far on this ill-fated trip, he couldn’t stop now.

  Being in Venistra was intoxicating, with so many poisoned memories stinging his every step. It had all gone wrong confusing duty with honour. As a prince to an unforgiving Venistrian king, it had been his duty to cull the packs of Venandi night hunters, and he had performed that task admirably. He remembered leading a group back then and leading them well. What a glorious life of hunting, slaying, and camaraderie it was with his entitled royal companions, and for a handful of wonderful years, he had delivered such devastation to the vile creatures that few of them remained. It was then that his father ordered he return home and take his place at court. Perhaps things might have been different had he answered the command. Instead, he had earned the people’s favour by choosing to continue his war with the monsters and very nearly winning it completely.

  He was denied victory, at the latest hour. When the beasts numbered only a few dozen packs and facing complete annihilation, a battalion of his father’s most persuasive troops had appeared at his campsite bearing false smiles and somewhat pressing orders. After being “convinced” to return home, he was met with his father’s full kingly wrath. Unfortunately, the king approved of a few roving packs—for they were a fine reminder that a king was a necessary protector, and therefore beasts were a necessary evil. If a few families disappeared every now and then, well, that was a shame. This was where the first real arguments between prince and king began. As a youth of fifteen arguing with a king over moralities, honour, and compassion, he should have become a more confident man in the years following, but he did not. Once his father’s dominance prevailed, every argument after became more and more heated. In a way, Denan was glad to understand the world for what it was beyond living in the riches of the Hundred Houses. Perhaps was he not so disillusioned, he might never have stepped from beneath the shadow of his father’s kingdom and understood the courage of peasants struggling to earn a life for themselves without entitlement to cushion their fall. As he grew older and more naive, so too did his desire to better the people less fortunate. He fought for their livelihood, spoke out against Dellerin’s strict taxes, and became a thorn upon his father’s crown. The arguments turned to venomous skirmishes, and after a time, they could no longer be contained within the privacy of their own company, but instead, they spilled out into the court. He was not alone, for he was fierce, honourable, and attractive, and he stoked the fires of betterment in many of the other youths in the Hundred Houses—at least for a time. His eighteenth birthday should have been a time of celebration, but instead of receiving a king’s blessing as was traditional, in the presence of all royals of the court, he was stripped of his title, his inheritance, and everything he believed he was. Those who had followed him swiftly fell silent, along with all of their radical thinking. The fear of the king taught him the loyalty of the Venistrian people. Perhaps, standing alone at the harbour awaiting his exiled embarking, he might still have felt a spark of hope in his heart for his country. But no friend or follower had spoken for him nor offered him help; no comrade had taken his sins as their own and walked the lonely miles with him; no peasants had offered him shelter or a warm meal. Perhaps if even one person was inspired by his selflessness he might have felt that his life wasn’t a complete failure. As it was, it took the carnage of war for him ever to find himself again.

  Denan looked towards the burning brightness of the morning in the unnatural path ahead, and the smouldering desire to hunt down the entire pack of monsters engulfed him. Let the dying beast show him the way. He desired Mallum’s head, but something drew him to hunting the pack. With the dawn came a terrible creeping presence to his mind. Something invasive and cruel. He felt as though a hand split his mind between reasoning and desire. It played with his fearfulness, it stole his better judgement, and it gorged itself upon his will. It could not be human, it was something else, and he wondered was it desolation come alive?

  “Cleanliness and perfumes are a curse in this part of the world. Why else did they attack her first?” he pointed out to no one in particular. Ahead, he heard the beast’s desperate struggles as its skin burned. Not long now. “She might well have survived this,” he said aloud, allowing his deepest thoughts to surface. Strangely
, he had believed until the morning that she could not survive the night. Yet, hope had sprung anew as though it were an infection of the soul. “And Iaculous’s flames might well burn away the curs,” he muttered as an afterthought. Denan looked back the way he had come as if, far behind, his comrades still breathed. Perhaps they did. In the light, anything was possible. It was only in the night where nightmares could be real, and in the day when they hunted them.

  Denan counted to ten slowly and forced himself to relax. Sometimes this tactic worked, and sometimes it got so much worse. He reached for his bag of spices, opened the little knot, and realised his hands shook fiercely. It really could be a bad attack. Holding the pouch to his nose, he breathed in the bitter, salty aroma and fought a coughing fit. He felt a break in his lungs and nothing more. Holding his hand across his chest, he poured the last of his water over his head, down his tight chest, and over his groin. Sometimes that helped. Taking one more deep inhale and feeling a little stretch in his constricting lungs, he cursed his own weakness and resumed the race. If he died, he died. What mattered was hunting the last beast, the one still bearing his dagger’s plunge. He had never seen a Venandi flee mid-fight with its brethren dead and left unavenged, but this one had. Strange behaviour indeed.

  The blood streaks stood out a great distance in the vibrant green as did the many broken branches and clefts in the drying mud from his prey’s pack. He was getting closer.

  Hours slipped to moments as Denan became little more than the careful hunter, watching the ground, the trees, the world, and all that was above him. All deathly grey clouds dissipated, revealing the stunning land of Venistra in all its glory. Deep down, he knew he should stop this frantic lunacy. His bones felt ready to shatter, and something crushed his chest in the invisible grip of a vice. All the agonising effort was worth it, however, when he broke through a canopy of stubborn branches and faced an unprotected flash of sunlight. On the hard, uneven ground, he almost tripped over the corpse of the beast, long forgotten by its kin. Denan covered his eyes from the glare, stood over the dead beast, and cursed his bad luck. The edge of the forest had faded away to mountainous stone. The beast had tried desperately to make the last charge, but without the cover of the trees, it had succumbed to the day and died. Somewhere above, among the dips and caves of the rocks, his principal quarry had hidden themselves away from the day.