The Moroi Hunters

by A R R Ash

  With a nod to the warriors, then another to Shayala, indicating for her to follow, Sar-Kyul began back to the camp proper.

  “I can persuade them,” Sar-Kyul averred once Shayala fell into step beside him. “Though that task is made more difficult by your presence. You will continue to be a source of contention.”

  As he passed, the residents of the cantonment looked upon Sar-Kyul with a blend of respect and wariness, impressed by his victory over Rel’gor but mistrustful of his foreign origin.

  Shayala looked at Sar-Kyul and assessed his words; she could only agree. Although she was reluctant to be away, where she would be ignorant of any developments and unable to take action—much as she was away from the literal seat of her power in the Court—she trusted that Sar-Kyul was as invested in this course as she. And, she admitted to herself, he is as skilled a leader as he is a swordsman, surpassing many strigoi on the first count, if not the second. Shayala nodded her assent.

  Sar-Kyul managed a smile and continued, “Tell the Moroi Hunters all that has happened and instruct Aya she should lead in my absence. In a dennight, the Silver Blades and Moroi Hunters will join with the free tribes at the northern bend of the Pale River for the march against the monsters. Can you ensure the delivery of more of the potion?”

  Shayala nodded. “In ten days, then,” she confirmed.

  They reached the main gate of the encampment, and Sar-Kyul lingered a moment as the gate closed behind Shayala’s receding form.

  Day 28: Night

  Shayala traveled continuously, untroubled by ruža vlajna or beast. She felt nothing of the wind as she ran, her hair trailing behind her. Leaf and branch fell away before her without impressing upon her notice. However, the sylvan scents were to her a medley of animal scat and musk underscoring an ensemble of blossoming vegetation.

  An opening appeared in the concealing canopy, allowing starlight and a silver sliver from the waxing crescent moon to penetrate to the dewy ground. Through that opening, Shayala glimpsed the trailing wisps of far-off smoke. From her vantage, it was impossible to know whether the smoke came from above the grotto or some other location, yet she could not chance that the fire derived from a source other than her servants. Shayala veered toward the fumes, roughly southeastward, arriving at the hillock before the moon had set.

  Although the signal fire had died, there could be no doubt it burned upon the outcropping recently. She encountered, scattered about among the ashen remains of the slain strigoi, weapons, gorgets, and scorched bones. Even dead, sunlight would immolate their bodies, so she could not be certain of their identities or when they died. Shayala crouched and, with her gloved hand, swept away ashes from a gorget, then from another, uncovering her insigne on one piece and unmarked steel upon the second. She immediately drew her blades and circuited the hillock from among the trees. Encountering no ambush, she quickly ascended the slope, feeling exposed under the starlit sky.

  Upon entering the grotto, Shayala could smell the presence of a strigoi and several humans. She traversed the tunnel quickly before cautiously entering the penetralium, where she was met by the sight of Ruln, who looked up from her feeding.

  Ruln immediately fell to her knee and cast down her gaze, uttering, with a red-coated mouth, “Your Majesty.”

  Shayala noted the healing wound upon the warrioress’s thigh. Two of the humans lay dead and decollated; the other three sat bound, with their backs to one another and heads bowed.

  “Report, Ruln.” Shayala moved to feed, the human too weak from dehydration and malnutrition to resist.

  Her words came out in a rush, as if afraid she did not have the time to say all that was necessary. “Your Majesty, we know not how, but the usurper’s agents learned your watchword. We were ambushed and Ky’rin was slain. So, too, were all the ambushers, save one, whom Ry’al and Volna pursued. Thal, Cyuth, and Ronla traveled south to get word to Lyan.”

  Shayala paused in her meal to consider all she had learned; Ruln remained kneeling and silent. Had there been word from Ry’al or Volna, Ruln would have mentioned it, Shayala thought. She could only assume they failed to intercept the survivor. This refuge is lost. And this region may soon be overrun by the usurper’s soldiers. Without turning to look at Ruln, Shayala said, “Join the others in the south. Have word sent to Lyan to meet me at the Southern Retreat.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Although Shayala was anxious to speak to her spy marshal, it would be days before Lyan could reach the rendezvous; in any event, Shayala had still to call upon the Moroi Hunters. “Rise, Ruln, and feed.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” However, before Ruln fed, she drew Shayala’s attention to the femur and skull.

  Shayala retrieved the thigh bone and located the strip of parchment beneath the skull. Upon wrapping the strip around the bone, she perused its contents, which, penned in Thal’s hand, corroborated Ruln’s account:

  Sanctuary discovered and sign compromised by usurper through unknown means. Attacked. Kyrin dead. Ruln wounded. Volna and Ryal chase survivor. Thal and others seek Lyan.

  Shayala set the parchment aflame by the single, sputtering candle.

  “When you depart, drain them and leave them to rise and welcome any who would trespass here,” Shayala instructed Ruln.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Within moments, Shayala was gone, embarked southward. To serve as a messenger for a human, she thought ruefully.

  *

  Hours later, Shayala encroached upon the torchlit perimeter of the Moroi Hunter’s encampment, having easily avoided the tribe’s forest pickets. She did not recognize the sentries stationed along the camp’s border, though they apparently knew her.

  “Greetings, Shenla,” said the younger of the two. His posture was casual, and Shayala did not detect tension or suspicion.

  The elder, however, exhibited more concern. With a nod of greeting, he asked, “Where is Sar-Kyul?”

  “He is well,” Shayala replied.

  As she resumed into the camp, the elder sentry stepped forward in a not-quite-threatening manner and asked, “Where is he?”

  Can these damned humans never leave me be!

  The further her plan progressed and the nearer it approached its climax, the more she felt she had to lose, and so she more readily checked her violent inclinations. “He bid me relay a message to Aya.” To forestall the question that she saw forming upon his lips, she added, “He remains among the Silver Blades…as their temporary chieftain.”

  That sent the two sentries back upon their heels, and Shayala continued without a further word. All activity within the camp was muted at that hour, and she proceeded directly to Aya’s tent, where she found the woman curled beneath a blanket and asleep atop a pallet of furs.

  Shayala called, “Aya.”

  Aya stirred, then started at the sight of the shadowy form, backlit by the nocturnal light at the open entrance of her tent. She instinctively reached for a kopis beside the pallet.

  Shayala stepped forward. “It is Shenla.”

  Identifying the voice and recognizing Shayala through bleary, crusty eyes, Aya exhaled and relaxed her arm. She yawned, rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, and cast her gaze around the tent. With an awkward smile, which did little to conceal her concern and confusion at the unexpected visit, Aya said, “Shenla, welcome back.”

  Shayala nodded a greeting.

  “Where’s…where’s Sar-Kyul?” Aya asked, finishing with another yawn.

  “He has defeated Rel’gor and assumed control of the Silver Blades.”

  Aya sat bolt upright at that, her sheet falling from her naked form. “What?”

  “Rel’gor’s stubbornness left him no alternative. Sar-Kyul remained to prepare them for the coming conflict.”

  The explanation did little to alleviate Aya’s confusion. Her face cycled through a range of emotions while she decided which of many questions to ask next. “When will he return?”

  Shayala knew the truth of that answe
r, though she said, “Likely once the war is concluded. In the meanwhile, he stated you should lead in his stead.”

  A sudden, obvious realization struck Aya once she grasped the full import Shayala’s statement: “We go to war against the monsters!”

  Shayala nodded. “In nine days, the tribes are to meet to the north, at the meander of the Pale River.”

  Aya stood quickly, gathered her clothes from atop a low table, and began to dress. “There is much to prepare. Riders must be sent to inform all the free tribes. Those that held out for the Silver Blades must be provided with the blood and accustomed to its effects. The camp must be made ready to move and set out until the war is concluded. You could—”

  “I cannot stay.” Shayala continued with a lie, “I must ensure the continued delivery of the blood and weapons.” Even were it not imperative she speak with Lyan, the more acquainted the humans became with the powers of the blood, the more likely they would discern her nature. And that she could not hazard.

  Aya paused in pulling on a boot and nodded at Shayala.

  “I will return before you march,” Shayala assured her. With a parting nod, she withdrew from the tent and quit the encampment, traveling southeastward.

  *****

  “These just arrived from Court Q’tarn, beyond the Eastern Ocean,” said a thin, bland-looking, reedy-voiced strigoi, indicating a group of humans chained together in an enclosed holding pen.

  Hemalier Woryth addressed Duke Munar within the grand cellar—a large, open chamber beneath Castle Ky’lor containing rows of cells, most of which held a single human. All were well-fed and even maintained in some semblance of comfort, with a pallet, a pillow, a thin sheet, and a bucket for excretions. Some had even been allowed a grimy tunic as a garment, and a fire blazed within hearths at the four walls to drive away some of the chill.

  Despite the conditions of the human prisoners, their lives were far from comfortable. Although inured to the constant reek of their buckets and the odor of their unwashed bodies, they scratched continually at their flakey skin and the lice and mites that fed upon them and shared their beds. And they lived in unrelenting fear that, at any time, the maliciously cruel duke would come to feed upon them.

  Munar moved toward the thirteen newly arrived humans: male and female, adults all but for two children. Their wide, flat faces were haggard, their brownish-red skin wan, and their eyes tired and without luster. Munar snapped his fingers, and one of the two guards standing at the cellar door approached.

  “That one,” the duke said, pointing at a male child.

  The boy cried and shook, though the other prisoners pointedly looked everywhere other than at the boy or their captors. The guard stepped forward and, vising the child’s arm, sank his fangs into the boy’s wrist. When the guard did not suffer any consequences, Munar bit into the child’s neck. Nearly immediately, he spit out the blood.

  “That one,” Munar said in an abrupt tone, pointing to a nearby female. The guard sampled her before Munar partook, again expelling the blood. The duke whirled around, his voice sharp and disgruntled, “Woryth, this batch is diseased!” Although any malady contracted by a human would not harm a strigoi, some lessened the nutritional benefit of the blood and gave it a foul, sour taste.

  “Your Grace, my apologies,” Woryth said, trembling. “They must have spoiled in transport. I-I had not yet had the opportunity to test them.”

  “Destroy the batch,” Munar ordered. “The merchant will provide a refund and supply another batch at no cost for our trouble.”

  “Yes-Yes, Your Grace. I’m sure he will be only too pleased to set this right.”

  “What else do you have for me, Woryth?” Munar asked. He could not decide which human lineage currently excited his palate, and the hemalier, as the keeper of those lineages, would know which vintages Castle Ky’lor presently kept stocked.

  “This one here.” Woryth pointed to a crying though well-tended toddler in a smaller cell. “It is of the nearly extinct Tribe of Skulls, formerly of Court H’shu. It’s one of only a half dozen or so remaining—very rare. You’ll note muted metallic flavor, with chalky, salty, and bitter undertones.”

  “No, hemalier.”

  “Then, maybe, this one.” Woryth turned to point at a brown-skinned adult male. “This is a combined strain of the southern humans and the feral tribes to west of the Court. A heavy ferrous flavor, though offset by an elemental sweetness due to its southern pedigree.”

  “Woryth, I…” The duke paused and turned at the appearance of another at the doorway to the cellar.

  Hyshin, Yah’l’s lieutenant, bowed. “Your Grace, my master requests to speak to you regarding an urgent matter.”

  Munar suppressed his annoyance. Why can I not just enjoy the simple pleasures of my office? “Tell your master I will meet with him shortly. He knows the location.” One of the few places where I can be certain prying ears cannot find me.

  “Your Grace,” Hyshin said, bowing and departing.

  Had it been anyone else, Munar would have allowed the strigoi to wait on his convenience. However, crucial and decisive events were in motion, and Yah’l was instrumental to their successful conclusion. Selecting a corpulent human with thick blood to be delivered to his private chamber, he completed his business with Woryth and withdrew to his study.

  By way of the hidden doorway, Munar granted Yah’l’s surreptitious entry. The spy marshal offered a perfunctory, “Your Grace,” in his haste to discuss the matters at hand. Yah’l carried a map of the Court and its surrounds, which he unrolled upon the desk, using assorted golden gewgaws to weight the corners.

  Without awaiting permission to speak, Yah’l began, “Your Grace, one of western patrols has discovered the hole in which the false queen has been hiding.” He indicated a circle drawn upon the map, around the vicinity of Shayala’s hideaway.

  “And Shayala?” Munar asked.

  “She was not present. The patrol engaged with soldiers loyal to her.”

  Munar was displeased to learn Shayala had avoided capture and punishment, though he took great pleasure in the knowledge of her hiding out in the wilderness like a feral human. “Survivors?”

  “Only one of the patrol returned. I debriefed him personally. He believes some of her soldiers survived the battle.”

  “Is she aware her sanctum was compromised?”

  Yah’l had known many underlings who would rather avoid the ire of their master than convey information they knew would be displeasing. Those underlings were cowards, to be sure, but the principal fault lay with the master who could not accept reality. Invariably, such a disposition would lead to his downfall. Yah’l was not a coward, nor would he serve such a master. “That is likely, Your Grace. Yet two details point to a more troubling realization. Although the sign and countersign used were correct, somehow Shayala’s soldiers detected the deception.”

  “Incompetents!”

  Yah’l continued as if the outburst had not occurred, “And our returned agent, Olathyr, was pursued by two of Shayala’s soldiers. Yet those soldiers killed themselves by drinking the blood of a half-breed, rather than allow themselves to be captured by our ambush. Such implies Shayala has somehow learned of our improved interrogation technique, though it is not conclusive.”

  “So, rather than having victory in our grasp, the bitch queen remains free and has managed to uncover our secrets? Is this what you’re telling me, spy marshal?”

  “Your Grace…”

  “This Olathyr will be punished for his incompetence. He has allowed Shayala to escape and learn the extent of our intelligence on her.”

  Yahl did not share the duke’s view on Olathyr’s culpability, though before he could speak Munar continued, “And you, spy marshal. How could she have possibly learned of our interrogations while she cowers in a cave?” The duke’s voice became increasingly louder until he nearly shouted the last word.

  To that, Yahl had no answer, though he strongly suspected the still-missing Lyan was invo
lved. Instead, he tried to overcome Duke Munar’s emotional veil of rage and restore some reason and objectivity to the conversation. “We may be able to turn Shayala’s knowledge that we are aware of her into our advantage.”

  Yahl understood that Munar was in no mood to ask for an explanation. “Your Grace, we can say for certain Shayala would never be content to live out her existence in exile. She is ambitious and cunning and clever.” At this, Munar scowled, though Yah’l continued unfalteringly. “She, no doubt, has some machination at play. The loss of her sanctum will force her hand, cause her to expedite her design. Once you’re king, she will come to us, and we need only set the trap.”

  “She may strike before then.”

  “Your Grace, your ascension is but a dennight away. She has no support, and her guard has been decimated and the remnants scattered. There is naught she can do. Until then, I must see to the end of a certain other king.”

  As he considered Yah’l’s evaluation, Munar’s ire subsided. He nodded and smiled. “See to it.”

  Day 31: Light

  Shayala sat across a rickety, rotting table from Lyan. The two were alone in a small, dimly candlelit cavern, deep within Shayala’s Southern Retreat, a labyrinthine complex within the Southern Inland Mountains. The walls were natural save where they had been hewn to fit a thick, oaken door banded with steel strips. The small flame cast feeble, flickering shadows of the two forms and emitted a thin wisp of black smoke, which clung to the nooks and cavities of the ceiling like a sooty patina. Several hundred strigoi abided in the hallways and in cavelike rooms throughout the complex, guarding ten thousand captive humans, siphoned off, a handcount at a time, from each seizure over the last decade.

  “How did they learn our protocols?” Shayala grew impatient and irritable at having no solution to the question.