The Moroi Hunters

by A R R Ash

  Neither the invading humans nor the defending strigoi paused to parley or to ask questions but charged one another in a pell-mell rush to join battle. The sound of thousands of battle cries filled the chamber.

  *

  “She has come! She has come!” the fleeing guard shouted as he limped toward the audience chamber. “Shayala! Queen Shayala has returned!” His cries were not of joy or relief but of fear.

  Syuth, backed by a detachment of castle guards, met the approaching soldier outside the chamber. “Quiet, Kashin. Do you try to disturb King Munar’s ceremony?” With the other nobles and visiting royalty in attendance, Munar would find such a revelation about the previous queen’s un-demise, or any seeming loss of control or weakness at dealing with invading humans, humiliating.

  Syuth also understood he would not long retain his tenure as seneschal if he was unable to safeguard the castle against feral humans.

  Kashin stopped before Syuth. “Queen Shayala lives. She is here.”

  The nosferatu have finally been put down, and now this? Syuth thought with more than a little irritation. He recalled Munar’s disclosure that Shayala may yet live, though he had scarcely believed it.

  The other guards displayed varied reactions, from fear to disbelief.

  “Have you gone mad?” Syuth hissed. “She is dead.” He could not allow this soldier’s hysteria to spread. The seneschal’s unbeating heart could not skip; he had no breath to catch, no sensation of cold to experience a shiver, yet he felt overwhelmed by an oppressive dread.

  “No, she lives! I saw her myself!” Kashin cried, his voice rising.

  Whether the others believed that Kashin had gone mad or spoke the truth, they shifted nervously on their feet.

  Nosferatu, an army of feral humans, and now a risen queen—it is absurd and beyond comprehension. But can I risk simply dismissing him as mad? He looked to another guard, “Uyrek, go with him to investigate.”

  “I’m not going anywhere near there,” Kashin said.

  Syuth narrowed his eyes and said with deliberateness, “You will go, or you will be arrested.”

  Kashin said nothing but made no move either.

  “Very well, Malthyr, take Kashin into custody,” Syuth ordered. “Uyrek, Fyshar, go.”

  Kashin did not resist as Malthyr led him away; Fyshar and Uyrek set off down the corridor whence Kashin had come. As he watched their receding forms, Syuth wondered if his short tenure as seneschal would soon be coming to an end.

  *

  Lyan and Shayala halted before an open cell, from which came an incessant, low rumble. The spy marshal stood silently as Shayala looked upon the reasonless, growling form of her onetime guard captain.

  Finally, Lyan spoke. “I found Lyuth in a similar state and ended his suffering, though I know Halura would wish her end to come by your hand.”

  Shayala nodded absently, almost regretting her physical and emotional inability to weep for her lost friend and bond-sister. As it strained against its chains, the creature that had been Halura—for that strigoi was forever gone—yelped as the argent bindings liquefied its skin. Shayala drew a blade and approached the snarling, snapping form. She gripped its now-scraggly, chestnut hair and brought her blade down hard, slicing cleanly through its neck, ending the twisted, animalistic mockery of Halura.

  Dropping the head, Shayala gazed at the dead eyes, locked in a feral stare. “We are all that now remains of the Tribe of Fangs.”

  *

  The confused, jumbled battle filled the staging area; the space was shared by fallen bodies, angry shouts, pained cries, and the slickness of human and strigoiic blood. Crates had been toppled, barrels shattered, and carts overturned, scattering debris throughout. Although ignored by both sides, the humans encaged for shipment became unintended casualties of the fighting when their wooden enclosures were smashed during the tumult.

  As the melee continued, the accumulated bodies hampered movement and inhibited any sureness of footing. For those in the middle of the throng, the press of combatants made maneuvering nearly impossible. One could hardly swing a blade or lift an arm without striking someone, whether ally or enemy.

  Due to their unexpected prowess, the humans had briefly enjoyed the advantage; however, the disciplined defenders adapted to the attackers’ power and skill, even as they did not understand it. The frenetic tempo of battle and lack of space further disadvantaged the humans. When the effects of the monstrous blood wore off, often in mid-engagement, they had no time to consume more before being struck down.

  Aya’s thoughts turned to Shenla and Sar-Kyul. She worried how they fared and wished she could fight alongside them. Given sufficient blood, Aya was certain she and her contingent could prevail, though she feared their supply would run out before their enemies’ numbers. And even if they defeated these monsters, would they arrive in time to aid the others? I will see them again once the battle is won, she vowed.

  *

  As Shayala and Lyan exited the cell, they came to an abrupt halt; Sar-Kyul stood in the hallway and trained a nocked arrow at Shayala. They could smell the trace of noxious blood upon the tip of the arrow. Vartan stood beside him.

  Lyan, who was to Shayala’s right, tensed, readying to spring. Shayala extended an arm to forestall the spy marshal.

  Sar-Kyul’s thoughts were too jumbled for him to articulate—or to even know—what he wanted to say. Yet his aim was steady, and his arrowhead was coated with blood from one of his wounds. He did know, at this range with his heightened speed, even she could not avoid at least being grazed by the arrowhead. And but a prick coated with his blood was all that was needed to kill her. The other monster might bring him down, but Shenla would be dead.

  The silence extended, then was finally broken by Vartan: “What are you that you associate with monsters?”

  Though the question was directed at Shenla, Sar-Kyul thought it could have as readily been directed at him.

  Shayala ignored Vartan, addressing her words to Sar-Kyul, “You know I am all that stands between you and annihilation.”

  “Kill her!” Vartan shouted, to which Lyan unleashed a throaty growl but still took no action.

  Shayala continued, still speaking to Sar-Kyul, “The truth of my role and of my station is not relevant to your people’s precarious position. Our expansion is inevitable; even I could not prevent it. Stagnation is death. The Court’s survival requires access to trade and new resources, which means we must expand to the sea.

  “Yet because of me, your people have a means to defend themselves. Through the blood, I have given them a fighting chance.” In a voice tinged with regret, she glanced at Lyan and added, “A chance we were never given.”

  Her tone regained its usual strength and surety. “Were it known among the Court I was the one who provided such a weapon to you, my reign and my life would be over. Now, your people travel to relative safety. They will not remain safe forever, but they have gained generations of peace.”

  The hand that held the bow dipped slightly. Still, Sar-Kyul spat bitterly, “You used us.”

  “I saved you,” Shayala returned. “But no, it was not without cost. A cost you paid to preserve the rest of your people. A fair exchange.”

  As the fullness of Shenla’s plan came clear, Sar-Kyul said, “We were never meant to survive this battle.”

  It was not a question and Shayala did not trouble to respond.

  “And you know what I am…” He did not complete the thought.

  Sounding almost sympathetic, Shayala said, “If you were fortunate, you would have died in battle.”

  “What is this nonsense?” Vartan interjected. Sword in hand, he moved forward.

  At a nearly imperceptible gesture by Shayala, Lyan dropped one sword, pulled a dagger from her baldric, and flung it into Vartan’s neck before he had taken two steps. He fell against the wall, dropped his blade, and pressed his hands to his throat. He slumped to the ground while blood gurgled from his mouth and bubbled from the hole in his neck
. His head fell forward and he was still.

  Continuing as if Vartan had never existed, Shayala said, “Whatever your opinion of me, know that others in my position would be far worse for your kind.”

  Sar-Kyul knew, whatever Shenla’s fate, he would never again see beyond the walls of this castle; never see his children again. Rage and disappointment and a sense of impotence roiled within him. Yet he still felt oddly resigned. If his death and the deaths of those who accompanied him meant generations more of the free tribes would survive to see their children grow, then how could he not willingly make that sacrifice? Exhaling, with a sad but dignified expression, he lowered the bow.

  Shayala gave only a slight nod, and Lyan blurred into motion, advancing and piercing Sar-Kyul’s heart with a thrust of her sword. He dropped, already dead.

  Shayala took a moment to remove her human garb, though she retained her belt and scabbards. Lyan nodded approval when Shayala doffed her necklace, placing it within a belt pouch, restoring her true features. Both raced down the corridor to rejoin the battle.

  *

  The human contingent, under Sho’voth, captain of archers, and Sigryf, master of infantry, followed Shenla’s map through the mazelike routes of the castle. Their progress slowed and their casualties increased, for their monstrous opposition would no longer be taken by surprise and began to mount a more effective defense. Worse, they had been fighting for much of the night, and their supply of the vile-tasting potion was dwindling.

  “Somethin’ ain’t right wit’ Sar-Kyul’s bitch,” Sho’voth said to Sigryf, who walked beside him. Blood, dried and flakey as well as wet and fresh, coated both warriors.

  “If they lives through this, they both be dying,” Sigryf said, and Sho’voth grunted agreement.

  As Sho’voth rounded a corner, he was transfixed by a thrusting blade, and his ensuing scream came out as a gurgle. Another blade slashed Sigryf’s face, taking his other eye. Soon, the corridor became congested with the press of bodies and swinging weapons, the clanging of metal and screams of the dying, and the amalgamated odors of sour-smelling and metallic-scented blood. The strigoi fought with discipline and training, and the human casualties mounted.

  *

  From the body of a strigoiic soldier, Shayala retrieved and donned a gorget, so bloody that she could not discern the insigne. She and Lyan kept to the lesser-used passages, yet they encountered several patrols of soldiers. One such patrol of six, their gorgets emblazoned with Munar’s emblem, were momentarily shocked into stillness at the sight of the resurrected queen. One soldier was dead before the others regained their faculty of movement.

  They fought in concert: Lyan covered Shayala’s left as the latter struck right; Shayala defended Lyan’s torso as the spy marshal struck high. The four-armed, two-headed whirlwind split, attacking in opposite directions, only to reform to strike against the same opponent, before rotating to deliver a slashing blow against two different enemies. Munar’s soldiers could not defend against the constantly morphing, dividing, and coalescing form.

  When the last had fallen, Lyan glanced at Shayala with a lupine grin, and the splash of blood upon her cheeks gave her a predatory visage. The two continued without tarry.

  Fyshar and Uyrek of the castle guard were similarly nonplussed at encountering the pair. However, Shayala did not use their momentary bewilderment to score a quick kill. Her ebon eyes flashed, and she said in a low tone conveying the danger in which the two soldiers found themselves, “You bear arms against your queen.”

  Fyshar looked to his own sword as if surprised to see it in his hand. Uyrek only stared at Shayala with his wide platinum eyes. Abruptly, both dropped their hands to their sides.

  “When the usurper sought to steal my throne, you were instructed not to interfere,” Shayala said.

  Although she asked no question, Fyshar nodded.

  “Then you will not interfere now.”

  “Y-Your-Your Majesty,” Fyshar managed to stammer.

  “Inform the seneschal.” Neither guard moved, and Shayala gave a shouted growl, “Now!”

  Fyshar and Uyrek backed up several paces, gave a quick bow, and departed in haste.

  *

  Aya had lost count of the enemies she’d killed. As the battle continued, her euphoria at slaughtering the monsters began to wane while the hopelessness of the situation gnawed at her resolve. She tried to find solace in having rid the world of scores of the creatures, though she still experienced profound regret at failing to fulfill her task and thus leaving Shenla and Sar-Kyul without reinforcements. She could not bear the thought they might fail in their mission because she could not succeed in hers.

  As she thrust her kopis into the face of a monster, Aya felt a sudden burning pain in her side, followed by an intense cold sensation, centered upon the source of that pain. She staggered and fell. She lay atop another body, though whether human or monster she did not know. Through blurring eyes, she saw a monster turn away, the spray of her own blood flying from the tip of his sword as he swung the blade at another opponent.

  *

  The reports filtered in to Seneschal Syuth: Shayala had indeed returned. He still couldn’t believe it. Could strigoi return as ghosts? he wondered idly. The soldiers of the guard were wavering in their courage and duty; they would not engage against the queen. But she is no longer queen! Syuth glanced at the dais. Munar has been crowned king!

  Syuth did not wish to take this news to King Munar. At that moment, a guard, gorgeted with the Countess Sashal’s insigne, entered the audience chamber and moved immediately to speak to his mistress. Syuth could not hear what the guard said, though apparently others around the countess did.

  A swell of surprised murmurs immediately surrounded the countess. As it spread, the intensity of the buzzing increased, and the mood turned to disbelief, until the droning wave crested in a surge of panic. Queen Shayala lives.

  Chaos erupted throughout the chamber.

  Part IV

  Day 39: Light

  Shayala and Lyan joined the surviving bands of the resurgent queen’s loyal soldiers and the spy marshal’s agents—all told, near fifty strong, though Lieutenant Thal and her contingent were not among them. Reports told the human armies had expended their supply of blood and were crushed and scattered, though Shayala gave them no thought: they had served their purpose.

  With Lyan and the remaining force behind her, Shayala walked a corridor leading directly to the audience chamber. Although she was not without minor injury, she moved with a regal air, her gait proud and sure, as if she had not just engaged in a nightlong battle after a month’s exile. Word of her return had spread, and, as she passed, the remaining soldiers of the castle guard, lining either side of the corridor, laid down their arms and knelt with bowed heads.

  *

  Frightened, excited, uncertain, uncomprehending, disbelieving, questioning, even vindicatory—from those few who had held out hope that Shayala had not perished—shouts filled the audience chamber. Torin, Syuth’s replacement as captain of Munar’s guard, deployed his soldiers, thirty strong within the chamber, along the base of the dais.

  King Munar flashed an accusing gaze at Seneschal Syuth—who, to his credit, managed to maintain some measure of dignity by meeting that look—before shouting, “Calm! Calm! There is no cause of concern. We are all perfectly safe here. I’m sure this imposter will be dealt with presently.” He cast another meaningful glance at Syuth.

  King H’shu witnessed it all with passive amusement. He cast a seemingly casual glance at Goy’ul, captain of his royal guard, who moved immediately to a protective position behind Princess H’shu, still at the table.

  Despite Munar’s assurances, the clamor continued.

  “How is it possible?”

  “Can it really be her?”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “It could be her vengeful spirit!”

  “I knew she still lived!”

  “The guards must be mistaken!”


  “I never thought I could feel sympathy for Munar!”

  “If she lives, the throne is rightfully hers!”

  “Munar is the rightful king now!”

  With a languid turn of his head toward Munar, King H’shu said, “You may make history as the shortest reigning monarch.”

  Munar was briefly inclined to strike his smugly sardonic counterpart, though good sense quickly erased such fanciful thoughts.

  *

  With dispassionate thoughtfulness, suppressing all distraction and alarm, Lieutenant Voyl observed the pandemonium: he would soon have a decision to make and had yet to determine what his course would be. He recalled his meeting with Lyan in the alcove while he had been otherwise engaged. He considered both the castle guard’s mandate of neutrality and Munar’s unprecedented appointment of his own loyalist to seneschal, a position that should have been his. His life hung on his choice, yet, perhaps because of such a final consequence, a decision would not come.

  A nearby shout imposed upon his thoughts. “We must defend the king from this imposter!” Seneschal Syuth ordered his soldiers.

  Voyl acted before his mind registered the movement, his hand making the decision his mind could not. He drew his longsword and swung toward Syuth, standing with his back to Voyl. The blade severed the seneschal’s neck, just above his gorget, sending head and body toppling separately.

  Nearby members of the castle guard were stunned into inaction, while others overcame their surprise to train their weapons upon Voyl.