Jorgeson himself stood slightly under six feet tall and strongly built, but Renvar loomed over Jorgeson by several inches and had at least twenty or thirty pounds more muscle. Thick dark hair, long enough to reach his collar, framed an angular face with a close-trimmed black beard. Startlingly blue eyes peered from beneath storm cloud brows. Everything about Renvar radiated danger, even to a man like Jorgeson, who was no stranger to intimidating others.
“Back away, or so help me, I’ll make you move,” Jorgeson growled.
“That would not go well,” Renvar replied, his voice equally low and dangerous. Still, he took a half step back with a derisive smile that told Jorgeson he was being humored.
“Whose guards are bothering your people?” Jorgeson asked.
“Not guards—hunters. Four of them came after the pack a fortnight ago. They had a witch with them. Two of my family died,” Renvar replied. “I’ve relocated the pack, but that should not have happened.”
“Four hunters, and a witch?”
Renvar nodded. “The witch also had weapons.”
“Where were you attacked?”
Renvar gave him the location, a stretch of forest dotted with caves along a side road between farming villages. “We covered our tracks well. No one had disturbed us before. I still don’t know how they found us.”
“Blame the witches,” Jorgeson replied. “That’s true more often than not.” He frowned, considering Renvar’s story. “Did you see where they went, where they came from?”
“We were too busy shielding our young and our elders, getting them to safety,” Renvar snapped back.
“Have your people been sloppy? Been eating travelers who happen past on the full moon? Snatching some sheep or cattle for a snack?” Jorgeson could see that his comments annoyed the shape-shifter—what some called a thrope—and while baiting a werewolf might not be wise, Jorgeson would be damned if he would allow the other man to get the upper hand.
“No. We were careful. We’ve lived in this area for generations. If we were… ‘sloppy’… the farmers would have come after us with torches long ago.”
“The Valmondes and their outlaw band aren’t thrill-seekers,” Jorgeson replied. “They know they’re fugitives, so they have a lot to lose if they’re turned in to the guards or my bounty hunters.” He shook his head. “No, it’s more likely that they heeded a call for help. Maybe your pack haven’t all been honest with you,” he goaded.
“Ridiculous! I would know if my people were lying. I would smell the lie on them.” Renvar looked up, and everything in his posture suddenly seemed more wolf than human.
“Unless they’re very, very good,” Jorgeson replied. “Is there anyone you haven’t seen in a while? Anyone prone to causing trouble? Because the problem with the Valmondes is they don’t want attention. They aren’t playacting being heroes. If they’re risking their lives to hunt your pack, then someone put them onto you.”
Renvar looked as if he might spring at Jorgeson. His body tensed, hands clenched into fists, muscles taut. With an effort of will, the pack leader took a deep breath and tempered his reaction. “Your suggestion… worries me. My kind needs to kill to eat. We’ve survived this long by being… judicious… in the victims we choose. Lone travelers, runaways, brigands no one will miss. Stray cattle or sheep—or those encouraged to stray,” he added with a dangerous smile. “Always sparingly, no evidence left behind. If someone has violated my orders, it is a grave infraction. If they have lied to me—it is worthy of death.”
“Then see to your own house,” Jorgeson retorted. “And I will see to these hunters. But if you have a rogue in your pack, this will happen again. Even when I’ve taken care of the Valmondes, the farmers and villagers will involve themselves if you give them cause. We saw enough of that in the city,” he added with distaste.
“We have an agreement,” Renvar repeated. “My people and those like us keep the roads reasonably free of highwaymen and cutpurses in the places you lack guards to patrol. In exchange, you leave us alone.”
“And my men have left you and yours alone,” Jorgeson snapped. “If you want to be of service, sniff out the Valmondes, and I’ll kill them for you. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
Renvar regarded him for a moment. “I had wondered what brought you so far from the comforts of the city,” he replied, his voice a low rumble. “Even out here, stories travel—even to such as I.”
Jorgeson scowled at the implication that Renvar knew about his disgrace and dismissal. It gave Jorgeson less leverage with the pack leader. How like a monster to make it clear that he knows where I’m vulnerable.
“We have common cause in this.” Jorgeson took a step forward, refusing to be put on the defensive. He might be willing to work with monsters, but only, always, with himself holding the upper hand.
“There are benefits to our working together,” Renvar rephrased the statement. “If my pack could have traced their trail, we would have handled the problem ourselves. Their witches removed the scent. In the interest of discretion, I decided to bring the matter to you. But rest assured, if necessary my people can and will settle the issue. If it comes to that, I cannot assure that it won’t be messy.”
“If it involves the Valmondes, it will undoubtedly be messy,” Jorgeson muttered. “Don’t worry; I take your meaning. And you know, I’m sure, that if there’s a slaughter, your pack won’t be able to stop running until they’re far from settled territory, maybe outside of Darkhurst itself. So,” he said, fixing Renvar with a glare, “Some solutions are better than others.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Track the hunters, kill them, and keep the villagers from getting ideas.”
“Because trying to stop hunters from looking like heroes for killing monsters worked so well back in the city,” Renvar replied.
“Different place, different circumstances,” Jorgeson dismissed his rebuttal. “I have witches of my own. We found the Valmondes when they went Below. We can find them out here.”
“If you found them once, why are they still alive?”
Jorgeson smiled, baring his teeth. “Sometimes, the sweetest kill is of a worthy opponent.”
Chapter Six
“I thought we were done with this shit.” Corran swung his sword, slicing through flesh, catching for an instant as it hit bone before the ghoul’s head went rolling.
“Apparently not,” Trent replied, pivoting to keep the two ghouls he fought from scoring a hit.
Corran heard scrabbling overhead and dove to one side an instant before a ghoul dropped from the ceiling, landing on all fours and lunging a second later. Teeth snapped so close to his neck that Corran feared he had run out of luck. Sharp claws dragged down his bicep, and he forced his knee up and between himself and his attacker, buying himself time. Warm blood soaked through his torn shirt and welled at the shallow bite on his shoulder.
The ghoul pressed down, unnaturally strong, and Corran knew he could not keep it clear for long. His undead opponent never tired, but Corran had killed three of the nest already and felt the battle in every gash and aching muscle. The ghoul’s claws sank deep into Corran’s right arm, and he bit back a cry, trying not to retch at the stench from the creature only inches from his face. He wriggled beneath it, and freed his left arm, bringing his knife down into the ghoul’s back with all the force he could muster at such an awkward angle.
The blade slipped between ribs, and the ghoul bucked, arching back with a shriek as its claws tightened, ripping deeper into Corran’s skin. The knife’s point protruded from the creature’s chest, and Corran twisted the blade, pulling back just enough so that if the ghoul collapsed, he would not be stuck by his own weapon.
The ghoul shuddered, and for an instant, its hold on Corran’s arm eased. Corran seized the chance, rolling them until he pinned the creature with his weight, driving the blade deeper as he slammed the ghoul back on the floor. Cold, black ichor sprayed him from the chest wound where the blade poked through. He brought
one knee down hard on the ghoul’s thigh, immobilizing it while he leaned back and brought his sword across the creature’s scrawny neck, severing its head, then retrieved his knife. Corran staggered to his feet, bleeding, and gave the head a kick.
“Behind you!” Ross yelled as Corran heard the scuffle of the ghoul’s feet on the worn wooden floor of the winery. He wheeled as the ghoul swung at him, its filthy claws catching in the meat of his shoulder even as he avoided the worst of the blow. Ghoul wounds went bad quick, and infection was a certainty. Already, he could feel the older gashes growing swollen, warm, and painful, and he knew that getting back to their safe house would be an ordeal once the adrenaline of the fight left him.
The nest of ghouls had been a surprise, despite the fact that Rigan, Aiden, and Elinor had pinpointed the location by noting a disturbance in the currents of magic. They had grown used to fighting the more sentient monsters that seemed far more common out here, away from the city walls. A different sort of hunting, tracking, and trapping was required for prey that possessed the guile and awareness of a human being, like the pack of werewolves they had recently decimated.
Ghouls, on the other hand, were tenacious, ravenous, and difficult to kill. Stupid, but dangerous, and with the predator instinct of wolves. Corran had forgotten how much he hated them, though he had several scars to remind him of previous encounters.
“Trent!” Corran saw another ghoul crawling across the high ceiling, maneuvering to drop into the middle of the fight going on between Trent and two other ghouls. Corran ran forward, sheathing his knife and gripping his sword two-handed. He pitched into Trent with his shoulder, shoving him out of the way, and brought the sword around with all his strength, cutting the falling ghoul in half.
Trent thrust his knife deep into the neck of one of the ghouls and pivoted, kicking high. The kick sent the second ghoul stumbling back into the heavy barrels, and Trent went after him, taking advantage of the ghoul’s lack of balance to take its head off with one clean swing.
“Damn!” Corran stabbed at the top half of the ghoul he had cut in two. Foul, dark liquid pooled on the floor mixing with the spilled wine, making the floor slippery. His head throbbed, and his arm ached as the poison from the ghouls’ cuts made its way into his blood. The ghoul’s hand grabbed his ankle, and he went down hard, sliding on the creature’s blood. Corran rolled before the ghoul could shift its grip, unsheathing his knife and bringing it across the ghoul’s neck.
Its bony grip loosened, releasing his ankle. Corran heaved for breath, as sweat and blood stung his eyes. He rolled to one side, pushing himself up, gripping his weapons in bloody hands. Bodies littered the floor of the building, but thankfully, none of the hunters had fallen. As Corran started forward, intending to rejoin the fray, Trent finished his last opponent. Ross ran his attacker through, keeping him skewered and upright on his sword as he cut off the head with a swing of his knife. Grunting in disgust, Ross tilted his blade and let the ghoul slide to the floor.
Corran went for their gear bag and dug out the bottles of green vitriol and the canisters of the salt, amanita, and aconite mixture. His hands shook, and a growing fever brought a flush to his face.
“Come on,” he urged, “let’s finish this.”
Ross wiped his sword and knife clean on the nearest ghoul’s ragged clothing and came to help, taking one of the canisters and sprinkling the mixture over the ghouls’ corpses. Corran and Trent followed him, pouring the green vitriol and standing back as it burned through the quickly rotting flesh, sending up noxious smoke.
“We could just torch the whole thing,” Ross muttered.
“Rather not if we can help it,” Trent replied. “They might be able to salvage some of the barrels, and it’s been pretty dry out here. Don’t need to destroy their stores and set a wildfire. Can’t imagine the villagers would thank us.”
The vineyard belonged to Merchant Prince Kadar, as did all of the winemaking in Ravenwood. It looked like a blight had struck many of the vines. Row upon row of dead plants stretched out around the warehouse, the grapevines blackened and shriveled. The gnarled plants still stretched along the wires that supported them like crucified corpses.
Together, the three hunters stumbled outside, coughing and gasping, as the smell of burning flesh and green vitriol filled the winery. They were all bleeding, shirts cut and ragged, covered in blood and ichor. For a moment, they leaned on each other, trying to catch their breath, amazed that once again, they’d emerged from battle alive.
“Not looking forward to the ride back,” Trent muttered as they made it down the steps. They had tethered their horses some distance away, protected by a circle of salt, iron filings, and warded stakes that hid them from the notice of most creatures.
“If I know Aiden, he’ll have bandages and poultices ready,” Corran said. Rigan was still recovering from a hunt a few days before that had badly taxed his magic. Mir had been seriously injured as well, so Aiden stayed back at the monastery to care for both men and await the incoming casualties.
“I’m hoping Polly has dinner for us. I’m pretty sure that once I get the smell of those damn ghouls out of my nose, I’m going to be starving,” Trent replied.
Ross took point on the way back, with Trent and Corran walking together behind him. Corran knew he needed to make conversation to keep himself conscious.
“How do you manage?” he asked Trent, as the distance between them and Ross lengthened a bit to give a semblance of privacy. “All of this—being outlaws, leaving the city—you seem to take it in stride.”
Trent gave a bitter chuckle and grimaced. “Looks can be deceiving,” he replied. “But honestly, I’m all right with it. Oh, I’d rather not have lost everything I had, and I’d prefer not to be hunted, but part of me always dreamed of leaving the city and never coming back.”
Corran frowned, looking at him. “Why?”
Trent shrugged. “Not everyone who’s born into a Guild trade is suited to it. I’m a good butcher. But I never had the interest in it that my father and brothers have. Although what I learned comes in handy hacking up monsters.”
“You don’t miss the work or the city?”
Trent shook his head. “I miss my family. I hope they’re all right. But I hated the Guild and dealing with customers, and while I don’t mind eating meat, I don’t like butchering,” he laughed. “See? The gods put me in the wrong Guild. But I always wanted excitement. So in a way, although there’s a lot about being out here that’s horrible, I’m almost enjoying parts of this.”
Corran focused on talking to avoid thinking about the injuries that burned. “It never crossed my mind to be anything but an undertaker,” he said. “I just accepted that’s how it would be, like my father and mother and uncles. Then they died before their time, and I had to take over to keep a roof over our head and feed Rigan and Kell, and it all came naturally. I didn’t mind the gore, and I could do the hard work of digging the graves. Rigan and Kell were better with the families. We did all right. Rigan took to the work, but I think if Kell had lived, he might have wanted something different. Something more.”
The half-moon shone enough light across the vineyard for them to travel without a lantern. They hadn’t gone far beyond the buildings when the evidence of the blight ended, and they traveled along rows of healthy vines. Long shadows stretched from the posts that supported the plants, and vines cast strange skeletal silhouettes.
Corran felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Then he realized: the night was far too quiet.
Ghouls rose from the shadows beneath the vines, half a dozen of them, maybe more. Corran bit back a groan. They were in no condition to start a new fight.
“Got any ideas?” Corran muttered.
“Set the grass on fire and hope they run slower than we can?” Ross replied.
“That was my thought,” Trent added.
“We won’t make it.” Corran knew how fast ghouls could move. “Either the fire will get us, or the ghouls will.”
/> “If I have to pick, I’ll take the fire,” Ross answered.
Corran eyed the distance between where they stood and the trees where they had left their horses. Just getting there would tax their strength, without battling ghouls along the way. “Maybe if we lay down a line of salt and vitriol between us and them, it will hold them off.” He didn’t believe it himself, but the suggestion was the best he had.
“Even a bad idea is better than none,” Trent agreed. “Let’s do it.”
A flash of light sailed through the air from the shadows at the edge of the vineyard, followed by another and another. They crashed in between the ghouls and the trapped hunters, bursting into flames when they hit.
“Run, you idiots!” Polly shouted. More flaming missiles smashed into the dry grass and vines, sending up a wall of flame.
“Here goes nothing.” Trent slung an arm over Ross’s shoulder. Corran led the way, keeping his knife and sword at the ready in case more ghouls rose from the darkness. They ran as fast as they could, tripping and stumbling, as the ghouls behind them shrieked in frustration.
“Oil bombs,” Corran panted, “That’ll buy us some time.
Ross dared a glance over his shoulder. “The ghouls,” he shouted. “They’re… disintegrating.”
Corran spared a look. The creatures rotted as they moved, flesh sloughing off until nothing remained except bone.
“Aiden,” he panted. “He must be using his healer’s magic against them.”
“There shouldn’t even be ghouls out here.” Trent’s labored breath made him difficult to understand. “Thought we were done with conjured monsters when we killed Blackholt.”
“Maybe they got loose,” Ross suggested. They weren’t far from the trees now. Thanks to Polly and Aiden, the ghouls no longer pursued them. The vineyard blazed, sending flames high into the night sky.
“Maybe Blackholt sent them out here before he died, to keep someone in line,” Trent said.
“Or maybe Blackholt and Machison weren’t the only ones who knew how to summon monsters,” Corran said, feeling a chill despite the sweat that ran down his back and the roaring fire behind them.
Vengeance Page 11
