Bloodwalk

CHAPTER TEN

The forest felt like a living, breathing beast, fighting the hunters' efforts to penetrate its depths. Rhaeme's curved blade hacked ceaselessly through the thick undergrowth of twisted vegetation. They marched in a sideways gait, their armored sword arms bent to push forward, wielding the curved blades typical of Hidden Circle warriors.

Their shield arms held thick ironvine cloaks tightly to protect against lashing razor leaves and the seeking tendrils of bloodthorns.

The rain had eased since they'd passed beneath the almost-solid canopy of branches. Rhaeme was glad for the gloom of the sky beyond that wooded ceiling. In sunnier times, he'd witnessed the effect of the trees in silhouette. He knew they looked like giant arms and fingers, interlaced and huddled together like conspirators over their victims.

The image was unsettling, as was the way the canopy moved as a single organism when the wind was strong. He put such thoughts out of his mind and focused on the task at hand, locating an easier passage so the group might search in a more stealthy manner. The only saving grace of the heavy rain was that it covered the sound of their movement. Their noisy approach echoed in his ears. Better to get in, discover the source of the region's troubles, and get out, he thought.

Easier said than done. The hunters were growing nervous. The improvised path they'd left behind them would soon begin to close itself as the forest's predatory foliage reset its traps and vicious intentions. Rhaeme stopped and waved the man behind him ahead to take point. He needed a moment to rest his weary arm and take stock of the situation. Direction was a problem inside the Qurth. Landmarks were few, and, when found, were well hidden. He'd hoped to find a small clearing, some overgrown ruin or sign of intrusion, perhaps even the sound or sight of an enemy encampment. His prayers to Savras had so far yielded only confirmations of his own fears. The Hunters of the Hidden Circle were not as receptive as the oracles to visions and prognostication, but they were gifted with a sense of insight, usually manifesting as flashes or images. Each time he'd attempted to focus his awareness on this ability, he'd smelled blood, stronger and stronger as they moved inward. He closed his eyes and again raised the small ring of dried fethra to his lips. The scent came again, this time accompanied by a warmth that covered his skin like a wave of fever. Sucking in a quick breath, he opened his eyes and looked past the men ahead of him. He sensed that they were being watched. The feeling of distant eyes on him was chilling. The darkness of the forest revealed nothing, but he was innately aware of something getting closer. The three men at the rear recognized his alarm and froze. The four ahead continued moving. A young man called Laen, a hunter for barely a year, whispered, "What do you see?" Rhaeme did not answer right away. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that whatever they sought had found them first. As he prepared to alert those in the front, the point man who had replaced him moments ago lurched to a stop and groaned. The man's sword fell from his hand and he turned around, wide-eyed and clawing at his stomach furiously. The groan became a gurgling scream as blood streamed from beneath his leather breastplate. Then it was pushed outward violently, torn apart from the inside.

Though she had ridden Morningstar hard, Eli knew she might not reach Littlewater by morning. A frantic urgency had infected her since parting with Rhaeme several miles back. She had other means of travel, but she was always distrustful of magic, even when used for great benefit. She also knew that sitting in the rain, sinking in the mud, and cursing the road ahead would do nothing for her dilemma. Magic it would be then, she thought. She took a small pouch from her belt.

Shielding it from the rain, Eli untied the leather thong to sniff the mixture of herbs and other unknown ingredients. She'd obtained the dry potion from the druidic shamans who lived around Brookhollow, in the wilder parts of the Shandolphyn. Practitioners of the wizardly arts, they were a natural sort, loyal to the old traditions of the Shaaryan tribes. This appealed to Eli's love of the open grassland. Her father had introduced her to them when she was young. Many nights she had camped with the Ghedia, as they were known, a name meaning "grass witch" in the old Shaaran tongue. One of their number, Lesani, had been like a second mother to her ever since. She missed Lesani's stories, songs, and practical wisdom and wished she were with her, but the nomadic Ghedia were difficult to locate. She focused on Lesani's lessons as she continued her task. From another bag, Eli pulled half a handful of sugar and carefully poured it into the mixture. Tying the pouch tightly, she shook it and began to hum an old song whose origins lay in the wide plains of the Shaar. She stroked Morningstar's soaked mane and neck as she hummed the tune, leaning close to his ear to be heard over the storm. The effect was almost immediate. Morningstar's shivering stopped and she felt his tense neck and back relax as the familiar tune soothed him. Eli knew that the potion would take effect immediately, possibly unnerving her mount. Calming him first could save her a broken neck when the magic took hold. Finally, she loosened the knot around the bag and leaned forward, proffering the contents to Morningstar. He licked suspiciously, but then the sugar caught his attention and he ate the mixture quickly, shoving his muzzle deep into the pouch as Eli gripped her saddle horn tightly. She let the empty pouch fall, and though Morningstar had been calmed by her humming, his relaxed muscles began to move, taking him from a trot to a full gallop. Gritting her teeth, Eli lay against Morningstar's neck and tightened her legs at his sides. Gently, she kicked his flanks and his sudden, jarring leap forward tossed back her heavy hood, turning the lashing rain into a hail of needles on her skin. After adjusting to the horse's unnatural speed, she pulled the hood back over her head and watched as the world flew by in a dark, wet blur. She recalled the first time Lesani had allowed her to use the mixture and remembered the bruises she'd received falling off the racing horse, in those days, Lesani had been quiet about Eli's past, content to enjoy her company and show her the charms of the wild. When Eli grew older, they spoke about her parents. Lesani's wizened voice had not spoken the affirmations that Eli wished to hear. The older woman had not told her to ride forth with bow and sword to claim justice. Eli hadn't even been sure there was justice to claim, but she had bristled at Lesani's caution and patience. She regretted that argument, and though forgiven for her youth, had never forgotten it. She rode now for Lesani as well, with bow and sword, to discover if justice did indeed exist.

Soon, she made out the walls and watch fires of Littlewater in the distance. The worst of the storm was behind her and she breathed a sigh of relief as the potion wore off. Morningstar slowed. Wild-eyed and prancing like a colt, he trembled excitedly in the aftermath of the magical swiftness. Raising her head, the first thing Eli noticed were dark figures approaching, long spears held out defensively. The soldiers spread out in a line before her, blocking her path to the city. She held her hands up to show she was unarmed and meant no harm.

The commander approached from behind the line of spears, a rapier at his side. Eli resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The man was almost the spitting image of Lord Hunter Baertah, right down to his manicured hands and the heady scent of perfume. "Who are you and what is your business here, Savrathan?" His voice was high and nasal, his tone practically sneering the final word as he looked down his sharp nose at the fethra ring hanging from Morningstar's bridle. Elisandrya raised an eyebrow and nodded in the direction of the city. "Are those of the Hidden Circle no longer welcome in Littlewater?" "When profitable, but plague bears little profit unless one holds the cure.

Since I see no oracles behind you, I assume your business is irrelevant?" Eli almost laughed in disbelief. She'd received cold receptions in Littlewater before, but this was ridiculous. She considered it best to respond in kind. "I bring no cure, nor promise of one. I am Elisandrya Loethe of the Hunters of the Hidden Circle and I travel alone. My business is my own." The officer digested this nonchalantly, but he did not order the soldiers to lower their spears.

"Have you seen no others on the road? Foreigners, perhaps?" He posed the question almost innocently, then became serious, staring at her intently. "A lone, cloaked figure with fair hair and strange eyes traveling south?" A lone traveler bound for the south. His physical description was unknown to her, but the rest… How could they know? she wondered. Unless this is coincidence, but something tells me otherwise. "No. No one of the sort. I'm bound for Derlusk and have met nary a soul save for yourselves." She had no intention of going to Derlusk, but saw no reason to raise their already high suspicions by appearing directionless. The officer studied her as she answered, as if seeking any falsehood behind her words. Apparently satisfied, he snorted a reply. "You may as well stand where you are and sink in the mud, but by all means, carry your hopes onward. You'll receive little else at those gates." Eli smiled despite his tone and turned Morningstar onto the path around Littlewater's walls. Questions flew through her mind as she put the officer and his men to her back, but she resolved not to dwell on them yet. If the traveler they'd described was the Hoarite of Sameska's vision, then things were even stranger than she'd guessed.

The leather breast plate split and gave way to crimson hands pushing through. A bloodstained torso crawled from the innards of the hunter who had become the road for Morgynn's bloodwalk. His broken body slumped to the ground like a second skin being sloughed off. In an instant, Morgynn stood before the circle of seven hunters, her wet lips casting a spell through the froth of her fallen victim's life.

Spitting and gnashing her teeth in the harsh language of magic, she sneered as the hunters slowly recovered from the shock of her gruesome arrival. Morgynn saw them scrambling to defend themselves, all to no avail. Those in the rear of the formation unslung their bows, dropping their swords point down into the dirt. Drawing arrows from quivers, they prepared to take aim. The three hunters closest to her raised curved swords and charged, but they were too late as her spell caught them all full in the chest. A wave of power, like focused wind, slammed into them all, knocking the swordsmen to their backs and ruining the shots of the archers. Morgynn laughed, releasing herself to the magic and her frantic pulse. Her dark eyes welled to black pools of blood, spilling down her cheeks and dancing in symbols and runes as she cast another spell, waving her hand in the air between her and the fallen bowmen. Turning to the swordsmen, who'd recovered their footing, she winced as light spilled from a small stone one of them drew from a pouch, illuminating the cleared ground and broken plants. Shaken, the swordsmen charged again, attempting to get close and disrupt her casting. Morgynn frowned and brushed her left hand across her collarbone. The scars burst into flames as they awoke and burned away, letting magic course down her right arm. A coppery scent filled the air and a reddened bolt arced from her fingertips, striking two of the hunters and forcing the third to abandon his attack. The stricken hunters had no time to scream before their muscles convulsed and tensed, threatening to tear away from the bones beneath. One fell almost instantly, a young man with dusty brown hair and striking blue eyes, now clouded with blackened tissue. While the arc of energy still gripped him, she could taste him in her mouth, both his fear and the gamey taste of his cooking flesh. The other man's eyes were lost to her, bursting within their sockets as the spell ended, showering his face in blood and pinkish fluids. He collapsed to the dirt as his muscles gave way. Trembling, he whimpered hoarsely, trying to give voice to his pain through a raw and bleeding throat. The thrum of released bowstrings followed by hissing charges of energy drew her gaze back to the archers. The bowmen had risen to one knee to take aim. The arrows stopped short of their marks, bouncing away from an invisible barrier that crackled and flashed with each strike. Smiling at their futile attacks, Morgynn brushed her right hand across the scars on her neck as she heard the last swordsman approach again, sword drawn, yelling fearfully. The magic responded. Scars disappeared in sizzling lines of thin smoke, following the runes inscribed in her flesh. Thrusting her left hand forward, a caustic scent accompanied the crawling spell as it sizzled across her skin harmlessly. The swordsman's powerful stroke fell short as crimson arrows of acid pierced his armor and buried themselves in his chest and side. The force of the missiles spun him around like a child. A wet gasp escaped him, and Morgynn could feel the flooding hole in his right lung, feel the impact of each arrow as it ate at tissue and muscle. His veins and arteries became inflamed, showing starkly against the skin on his neck and face. Her heart responded to his pounding pulse. The bittersweet flavor of adrenaline danced ghostlike across her tongue, and her eyes rolled back. She moaned as he staggered backward, dropping his sword.

His heartbeat slowed, and, pulse by pulse, she felt drawn into his death. Gaping oblivion yawned in his mind and tempted her. That moment between life and final rest, the twilight of existence where she'd been the past decade called to her, but death would not have her.

Buried once in soil that would not keep her, she had risen to a power bound only by her skin. "Toys and playthings," she whispered. "They barely know they're alive." Rage replaced her ecstasy as the man fell lifeless. She turned, furious, on the archers. Rhaeme fired one last arrow in frustration, but again it was reflected just inches from Morgynn's breast. He rolled forward to grab his sword, abandoning his bow. "Run! We can't win here!" he yelled to his fellow hunters, who gave no argument. They turned to escape, but in the dim glow of the light stone, they could see the edges of the path closing behind them.

The tortured sound of another spell being cast hummed behind them, scratching at their ears and clawing at their spines. One of the men turned back. Morgynn could see the fire of youth and anger in his eyes. Rhaeme attempted to stop the boy, grabbing at his cloak but missing. The boy drew his ready sword, still protruding from the ground where he'd first drawn his bow. His voice, raised above spell and storm, was full of the early pitch and tone of manhood. "As Savras sees, so shall I see you fall!" Morgynn finished her spell in a crescendo of sound, drowning the boy's voice and opening her mouth wide beyond its natural ability. Her scream became a buzz of noise as red-eyed insects flew in a mass from between her thin lips. Each locust was the color of dark wine and onyx. Their eyes glowed, giving the swarm a hellish light as it streamed forward to meet the charging hunter. The boy met the mass head on, swinging his blade valiantly, but the locusts were too many and quickly found small openings in his armor and clothing, landing inside his hood and hungrily feasting on his scalp and neck. Morgynn sighed as her jaw popped and resumed its natural shape. The boy's companions sprinted forward to retrieve their swords, determined to make their ends proud and honorable. Morgynn wondered what thoughts crawled through their minds as the dawning realization came that they would likely die here. Ahead of their grim charge, the boy's writhing body was lifted into the air. His boots scraped the ground for a moment before the momentum of the swarm bore him down, stripping his flesh to the bone. The locusts' buzz drowned the young hunter's muffled screams. Morgynn watched as the warriors advanced. She saw death in their eyes and hated them for their acceptance of it. Righteousness fueled their spirits, and the sight of it sickened her. Whispering a drone of grating syllables, she pulled the threads of the Weave to her will, determined to teach them the true nature of death and their foolish choice born of courage. With a single word, the lead hunter's sword flashed and steamed as cold flames enveloped its length. He screamed as his fingers froze and became fused to the hilt, the flesh burning and brittle. He tried to push past the pain, to wield the weapon against the spell's mistress, but the sword cracked and split, shattering in an explosion of metal that left his arm a cauterized stump and blinded his eyes. The next man was closer, and Morgynn had no time to cast again. She spun away, but his blade glanced across her left arm, opening a small wound that sent shudders throughout her body as her blood recoiled from the open skin. Growling another quick spell, she roared the words madly and swung her right arm around before the man could strike again. Her fingers grew, extending into long, blackened claws like swords of shadow. She raked these across the hunter's face and chest. Like ephemeral knives of ice, they melted through flesh and bone, leaving gaping scars in his spirit and mind. The man's eyes rolled and his arms went limp. Dropping his sword, he spasmed but tried to maintain control of himself. Her claws had rent his mind and he babbled nonsense as he fell to his knees. Rhaeme was last, just a few yards away, and she pitied him for a moment-a morbid, mocking pity as she whispered quietly to the dagger at her belt, freeing the clasp that held it in its sheath. She touched its jeweled pommel once and it flew at her command, slamming into the lone hunter's gut with a force born of old Nar magic. It knocked the wind from his lungs and laid him flat on his back. The carved figures on the dagger's handle squirmed against one another and mouthed quietly. Picking up his dropped sword, she stopped to watch his slow agony. He refused to scream and met her gaze, grasping at the dagger planted in his stomach but unable to pull it free. Her black eyes looked straight through his, not really seeing him, focused on the branching rivers of blood beneath his skin. The bleeding streams of her eyes changed shape on her cheeks, mimicking what she saw inside him. They matched his swift pulse in a red image of twin trees, stripped of leaves and laid bare for winter. "They barely know they're alive," she mumbled as the rage bled from her limbs, dispersed by her arcane tantrum, "then they die." Around the pair, the locusts moved from body to body, devouring the fallen and eliciting howls from those not yet passed on. Long she stood, lost in thought as the swarm finished each body, leaving naught but bones under loose armor and clothing. Finally, they gathered in a cloud around her legs and she considered the command that would send them feasting on this last body. Deciding quickly, Morgynn hissed a sibilant word and the swarm faded into thin air, returning to that foul realm that had spawned them. "You serve the whores of Savras?" she asked emotionlessly, drained for the moment. The hunter tried to spit, attempting to show some defiance to her face, but it was all he could do to breathe and force back the burning vomit in his throat.

His pulse said so much about him. Strong and stubborn, righteous and honest. Qualities she could respect, but merely a nuisance for her current intentions. The dagger responded to her twitching fingers, lifting and carrying the hunter's weight with it. His stoicism failed and he gasped, gurgling as a wave of vomit and blood flowed from his innards and into his mouth. She willed him to move slowly, allowing him a few moments to believe he would be disemboweled by the vile weapon, but it would not release him, however much he wished it might.

The blade pushed him against the trunk of a tree, pinning him to the wood. Morgynn followed closely with his lost sword. With a powerful thrust, she buried the blade just beneath his shoulder and deep into the tree. He gasped, his voice barely a whisper, his breath shallow and quick. "You would die for peddlers of visions and prophecy? Does your life mean nothing?" Morgynn twirled her fingers languidly and concentrated. The dagger worked itself free from his stomach and returned to her hand. "Kill me, witch! F-finish it!" he spat through clenched teeth. She glared at him and put a hand on his impaled shoulder. Caressing the bloodied flesh, she called to his pulse, feeling it roll and tumble in his distress. It pushed suddenly, fighting weakly against the walls of muscle and skin that bound it within him. She held it for a moment, exerting her control over its ebb and flow. He tensed as his body tried to right itself. She felt his body as if it were her own, though his pain did not register as sharply within her. Pressure built behind his eyes, and his skull felt as if it would burst. Needlelike spasms caused his limbs to twitch.

She could see the end looming in his mind, unreal and unbelievable.

His thoughts wandered, trying to escape what was happening. She watched, reading his thoughts, observing the landscape of his retreat and the emotions that lingered there. "You are Rhaeme, yes? And Elisandrya, that is her name." Morgynn spoke as if she stood beside him in that rain-drenched image in his head. "You still love her, but she seeks the Hoarite." Unbidden primal panic stole over Rhaeme in a sudden chill at her words. Morgynn withdrew her fingers, ceasing her pull on his blood, satisfied that fear of death still hung with him on the tree. His head drooped and he managed a single sob. Without a word, her hands melded into his chest painlessly, opening the doorway of the bloodwalk through his body. Rhaeme passed out. The warmth that her passing sent through him was gone almost in an instant and did little for the cold that would creep into his extremities. Then he was alone.