The Moroi Hunters

by A R R Ash

  Shayala returned to the enclave of the Moroi Hunters to find they had departed to the site of the Moot. She hurried after the group and fell in beside Aya, who crinkled her nose at the noisome scent.

  “An unfortunate misstep,” Shayala explained.

  “Apparently so,” Aya replied. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Not as yet,” Shayala answered.

  At the northern extent of the knoll, the Moroi Hunters reached an arrangement of concentric rings of flat stones, upon which many humans sat. The group took its place at the outer ring on the eastern side. Aya strode toward the center and beckoned Shayala to follow. The two stood, awaiting the arrival of the remaining tribal representatives. Atop the knoll, the breeze was cool and swift from across the sea, and the glare from the many bonfires and cresset lamps obscured the stars. Conversations among the throng drowned out any buzzing or chirping from insects.

  Once the last of the attendees arrived, Aya began, “For those of you I know, welcome. For those I do not, welcome as well. I am Aya of the Moroi Hunters. I thank you all for attending this Great Moot, though it has been two decades since there has been cause to call one. The reason for our late arrival and for the absence of Sar-Kyul, who is well but overburdened, is the very purpose we have requested this Moot. While new dangers present themselves, so too do new opportunities.”

  She paused briefly for effect. “Many of you are aware of the slaughter of the Moon Stalkers. Now, two nights ago, our own camp was attacked. Yet these monsters did not strike out of hunger but from a desire for death and terror. Yet these thinking monsters underestimated the strength of the Moroi Hunters.”

  Aya paused again at the cacophony of gasps and conversation that arose.

  Above the din, one voice shouted, “A patrol of Silver Arrows was massacred just a few nights ago. They were ambushed.”

  Members of the Silver Arrows offered loud jeers and curses against the monsters.

  Aya began again and the crowd slowly quieted. “These attacks by the thinking monsters are occurring more frequently and are, we believe, a prelude to all-out war.”

  Shouts of denial and agreement were unleashed at the last comment.

  “Turning your head from the fact will not stop their attacks,” Aya shouted.

  The arrogant man, who had earlier greeted Aya, stood. “A few unrelated attacks are hardly a prelude to war.”

  “How many attacks are needed to convince you?” Aya asked. “How many dead?”

  He did not reply but only settled back upon the stone bench.

  An elderly man leaning heavily upon a twisted cane and whose gray beard fell to his waist, stood and asked, “If what you say is true, what would you have us do?” His voice was strong but not loud, and several others nearby took up his call.

  Aya turned a full circle to sweep her hand over all present. “I would have us join together and take the war to the monsters.”

  The ensuing shouting and yelling from the assembly continued for many moments. Shayala, standing mutely behind Aya, stepped forward beside her. Her unusual complexion and commanding presence immediately drew the attention of those gathered.

  As the outpouring began to settle, Aya looked to Shayala and nodded. The latter began, “I am Shenla. I come from the east, and my people have infiltrated the Court of the creatures.” Despite the few shouted questions, she continued. “We offer you advantages against the creatures, advantages for which you could not have previously hoped. To start…” Shayala motioned to the side, and two Moroi Hunters came forth and emptied the contents of two heavy bags before the assembly. “This is a sampling. We can provide enough silver weapons to arm every one of you.”

  Many in the crowd stood to view what was revealed. A number scoffed, and one shouted, “So? We have what we need.” Others were not so unimpressed by the weaponry and nodded in approval.

  Ignoring the objections, Shayala continued, “We offer knowledge of the creatures’ tactics and access into their castle itself.”

  A scarred, humorless woman with short brown hair shouted, “We do not know you and do not trust you!”

  Aya stepped forward and said with conviction, “But you know me and you know Sar-Kyul. We are in full support of this.”

  “This is madness,” shouted the scarred warrioress, a position supported by numerous scoffs and guffaws from the crowd.

  The feral humans require a more clear demonstration, or they will argue the point endlessly. Shayala glanced at the waning crescent moon, trying to estimate the time it would take Ronla and Thal to bear the prisoner from the moroi’s lair. This site was forty to fifty miles upon a southwestward course from the lair—a distance they should cover with their burden in not more than three hours.

  Sensing she was losing the crowd, Aya reached into her pouch to retrieve her last vial. “I know what we propose is no light undertaking. However…”

  Shayala placed a hand upon her arm and whispered into her ear, “Hold. Let us adjourn for a short while, that I may prepare for the demonstration.”

  Aya furrowed her brow. When Shayala did not expound, the woman insisted, “I must know.”

  Shayala narrowed her eyes, considering how much to reveal. Already, the whispers and murmurs from the crowd grew to fill the silence. Concluding the truth would be learned soon enough, Shayala said, “I have arranged for a captive, one of the stri—thinking creatures, to be brought here for an exhibition fight.”

  Aya rocked backward and felt as if she had lost her breath. All she managed to stutter out was, “How?”

  “Later. Just ask for a short delay.”

  Speechless and with dropped jaw, Aya could only nod. Shayala moved off, beyond the rings of stones and away from the gathering.

  Aya composed herself and cleared her throat. “Let us pause briefly. When we reconvene, we will show you our full potential against the monsters.”

  The humans began to disperse, some with annoyed or sarcastic grumblings, others muttering curiously.

  Aya heard a woman’s voice: “Volar requests an audience with you.”

  The approaching woman had a slightly crooked smile and an improperly healed nose, though her dark eyes were bright and happy. Her hair hung in plaits, and she was dressed in leather breeches, a woolen tunic of burgundy, and calf-high black boots. She kept a slung bow over her shoulder and a quiver upon her back.

  “Of course, Volara.” Aya smiled and followed the woman to a yurt, outside which flew a pennant of a bloodied wolf’s paw upon a green background.

  They entered and stood before the old, bearded man who had spoken during the Moot. The tent held a pallet of straw and linen, many sitting cushions, and a low wooden table. The man sat with his cane to his right. He sipped from a steaming mug of red leaf tea. His gray hair and beard were dry and wispy; his skin was spotted; and his eyes, hooded and aware, belied his age.

  “Welcome, and please sit,” Volar greeted.

  Aya settled cross-legged before the table, opposite the two. “Esteemed Volar, it is an honor.”

  Volar smiled a gummy grin interspersed with the occasional tooth. “Little Aya, the last time I saw you, you were just a pup, and now you come advocating war against the vampyres. Yes, that is how we once called them.”

  “Esteemed one…” Aya began.

  A raised hand from Volar forestalled her. He took a sip of tea while Aya remained patiently quiet.

  He set the mug on the table and continued, “No doubt, my age will lead you to assume I would hold a position of caution and forbearance: that such a drastic endeavor should be left as a last resort. Whether your proposed war succeeds or no, I will not be long to enjoy the victory or suffer the defeat. I am unaffected by it. But I have been alive long enough to realize the truth of our declining population. Once the time for our last resort comes, we will no longer be able to effect it.

  “I consider only the world in which Volara and my other children’s children—and their children—will live.” He affectionately pat
ted the hand of the woman beside him. “We may yet survive several more generations, but I have witnessed the increasing greed of the monsters, and they will not continue to suffer our freedom.

  “Perhaps Volara will die, perhaps not. But, ultimately, my line will end and we will all fall.”

  “Esteemed Volar, does—” Aya began.

  “Yes, child, the Bloodied Paw will support this cause,” he assured her. “On two conditions. I wish to see this exhibition of yours before I endorse it. And the Silver Blades must sanction this war as well. It will not succeed without them.”

  When he fell silent, Aya bowed to him. “Esteemed Volar, I am humbled by your wisdom.”

  Volar gave a hearty laugh, which turned into a light cough. “Child, I am too old for flattery.”

  Aya blushed and began to stutter a response but was saved the need when he continued. “I will do what I can to persuade the others.” Looking to his second daughter, said he, “Volara, please fetch for me that popinjay Grolin of the Scaled Daggers.”

  “Yes, Second Father,” Volara acknowledged.

  As she rose to leave, so too did Aya. She gave a respectful bow. “Thank you, esteemed one.”

  *

  Shayala stood at the edge of the knoll, looking eastward over the heath. She passed her gaze slowly around the horizon, straining with her superhuman vision for any sign of her agents. With a pang of relief, she caught sight of a tiny flicker, a nearly imperceptible point of light. She descended the slope and sprinted toward the luminous pinprick. Her sure footfalls landed with a steady rhythm upon the hard, dry soil. The sounds of insects and wildlife faded before her, then resumed in her wake. Soon, although the light appeared no larger, it grew brighter to her sensitive eyes.

  Now, she could discern a single candle burned above the entrance of a thick-walled, enclosed bivouac, large enough for several occupants. Thal stood without, kneeling. Shayala did not slow but continued directly into the shelter. Within, the captive strigoi lay upon the ground; Ronla, still attired as a human, was nearby. Silver gyves, connected by a steel chain, secured his ankles; manacles held his wrists behind his back; and a third chain connected the two sets of restraints.

  As she looked upon Shayala, Ronla’s expression was one of wonder and curiosity. At Shayala’s harsh glance, she quickly lowered her gaze and braced herself for Shayala’s wrath.

  Shayala did not bother with her thrall and moved immediately to the unclad prisoner. “Hold him.”

  Ronla raised her head, showing unexpected relief, and promptly obeyed. Shayala retrieved the two empty silver vials and her argent stiletto, then opened a slender cut along the captive’s neck.

  “Raise him,” Shayala ordered.

  Ronla gripped him around the waist and turned him about, allowing gravity to do its work. Once the vials were filled, she stoppered them and replaced them in her pouch. She wiped the stiletto upon her tunic and resheathed it. With gloved hands, Shayala clasped the steel chain linking the bindings on his wrists and pulled him to his feet.

  Thal handed her the key to the prisoner’s shackles.

  “You may return to the grotto,” Shayala said as she exited the shelter.

  Shayala began her run back to the knoll, pulling the prisoner in tow with a steel chain attached to his silver collar. The ankle restraints had enough slack to allow him to run at a quickened gait, though he could not sprint. He grunted in continuous pain as his shackles burned through skin and muscle to expose bone, now charred black.

  Once, he thought to overpower his strangely human-but-not-human captor and broke in a different direction, hoping to pull the chain from her hand. When he reached the length of the chain, he was brought up suddenly and violently, falling on his back.

  Shayala was on him in an instant, sword drawn. “If you seek death, then by all means, continue to vex me. If you wish an opportunity to win your freedom, you will come willingly.”

  Through surprise and pain, the strigoi growled, “Who are you? What are you?” Yet he offered no more resistance.

  Shayala did not answer; she replaced her sword and yanked the prisoner upright, recommencing the run. They reached the knoll and ascended its stubbly slope, arriving near her departure point, outside the amphitheater. Shayala dragged the prisoner to the center of the arrangement and waited. Several sets of nearby eyes observed the two and raised the alarm, drawing scores of warriors in only moments.

  Shayala stood defiant surrounded by armed, shouting, threatening humans. The outbursts came in an overlapping stream: “What is this?” “You bring a monster among us!” “It’s an attack!” “She’s betrayed us!” “There may be others!” “Destroy them!” Several advanced warily, with slow steps and raised weapons.

  “Stop this!” Aya’s shout elevated above the din as she ran into the circle and waved her arms for quiet. “Calm, I beg. This is no betrayal or attack.”

  “Explain yourself,” the scarred woman, standing at the inner edge of the encircling humans, said in a shouted growl. She pointed her sword at Shayala.

  Still holding the catenary leash, Shayala stepped forward and said in an even tone that offered no apology or conciliation, “You wish to see the power we offer you against the creatures. Observe.”

  Aya approached Shayala quickly. “You intend to fight it?”

  Shayala nodded.

  Indecision flashed across Aya’s features as she thought to protest.

  Shayala read the thoughts playing across Aya’s face and said in an equanimous tone, “I am in no danger.”

  Aya only shook her head in wonder at the courage or madness before her. Aya reached for the vial of blood within her pouch. Rather, Shayala held an upraised hand and instead offered Aya the two she carried, saying, “I am already provided for.”

  Aya shook her head in disbelief, left speechless by this remarkable woman, despite the many questions running through her mind. She took the vials, nodding and smiling in thanks and admiration.

  As Aya backed away, Shayala said to growing crowd, “A sword.”

  At first, no one made any move to answer the call. Finally, a warrior took a few tentative steps forward, paused, drew his sword from its scabbard, and threw it to the ground between Shayala and the strigoi. Shayala glanced at the weapon; its steel blade posed no threat to her. The crowd was hushed.

  Shayala withdrew the key from her pouch and made to unlock the strigoi’s bindings. Before doing so, she whispered, “You will fight me. If you win, you are free. Flee or kill the humans, as you will.” She looked him in the eyes, expecting some measure of acknowledgement.

  He returned her stare, nodded.

  Shayala removed the gyves before unfastening the collar and opening the manacles. The rattle of the chains as they fell to the ground sounded loudly in the still night air.

  Shayala backed away and drew her swords, and the strigoi, never taking his eyes from her, crouched and retrieved the weapon on the ground. He smiled, showing his fangs. This woman possessed the strength of the ruža vlajna and apparently consorted with, even commanded, strigoi; still, with a blade in his hand, his smile was one of assured victory and freedom. Shayala recognized the false belief behind his smile and would use it against him as she had when she’d battled the soldiers at the waystation.

  On came the strigoi, and the crowd erupted with excitement. Amidst the uproar, many shouted obscenities at the monster. To the onlookers, the speed at which the strigoi moved surpassed what seemed possible for a human, and many expected the battle to be over as soon as it started. The gasps sounded as a rush of air when Shayala parried a strike with her left blade while slashing the strigoi’s bare chest with her right.

  The strigoi staggered backward, growling but not crying out against the pain. He held his sword before him, expecting his opponent to follow up the attack, but Shayala held her ground, content to extend the contest to give a full showing of her capabilities. By his stance and the manner he held his sword, Shayala knew he was untrained. So much the better. The humans
would not notice or care; all that mattered was that he was strigoi.

  More wary now, he approached slowly, glancing around and considering the possibility of breaking through the circle of humans. Catching the unsubtle look, Shayala warned, “You may kill several, but not before I am upon you.”

  The strigoi made no comment or acknowledgement. Shayala advanced, allowing him to block several testing blows before opening a gash across his left cheek. She understood that, embarrassed and pained, he would soon become desperate and reckless. She struck with such a flurry that to the humans she seemed frenzied, though she indeed maintained control. She parried a wild blow, cut through his chest, and brought her right sword across his open neck. The strigoi’s head fell free, and a stunned silence enveloped the crowd.

  That silence did not hold. It was replaced by a ruckus of passionate disbelief, though many shouted their approval. Aya stepped to the center of the amphitheater and fought to be heard as she called for quiet.

  As the din subsided, Aya raised the three vials of blood above her head. “The monsters cannot stand against us. With this potion, we are more than their equal.” Her eyes slowly glided over the crowd. There she spied Volar of the Bloodied Paw: supported by his cane, he stood bent but proud, his second daughter Volara beside him. He gave Aya a supportive nod.

  Day 23: Light

  A Moroi Hunter pushed his youthful head into the tent. “Aya, Volara of the Bloodied Paw wishes to speak to you.”

  Through the partially open flap, Aya could see light of the burgeoning morning brightening. She pulled on her boots as Shayala sat upon the floor, sharpening the blade of her sword. Aya said, “See her in.”

  The tent flap fell closed but opened a moment later as Volara strode through.

  “Sun’s embrace,” Aya greeted the woman.

  “And to you,” Volara responded. “I’m sorry for calling so early, but Second Father was engaged in discussions throughout the night and requires rest.”