Hemlock (The Manhunters Book 2)

by Jesse Teller

  HEMLOCK

  The Manhunters

  Book Two

  by Jesse Teller

  Copyright 2018 Jesse Teller

  Kindle Edition

  Also by Jesse Teller

  Legends of Perilisc

  Chaste

  Liefdom

  Mestlven

  The Manhunters Series

  Song

  Hemlock

  Crown

  For Nikki, for everything you did when I needed it done.

  Do you remember these guys?

  To Rayph Teller, you will make mistakes.

  Just try to make it right.

  Thirty-three Years After The Escape

  “Fire! Feed the fire! Arm yourselves with torches. Back-to-back now, the flames will stave them off. Normally, fire would not spook a creature this fearless, but we are a day’s march from Hemlock. This ground is sacred.

  “He was here. The Great One, the one the flames summon, he stood this ground, fought here, bled here. This is one of the few places where he still keeps a weathered eye for all who would serve him. We will be safe here. Tonight, we can rest and find what little sleep we will before the rains of tomorrow and the acid canyons. You will sleep well, and while you nestle into your hard beds, you can listen to my tale. I will tell you of the time when this land became sacred to him. I will tell you why we now rest under the guarding eye of the Mark.”

  Map of Lorinth

  The Decimation of Midvor

  Six Years After The Escape

  Dusk lay uneasy on the abandoned farmland. Crops grew out of control, wheat on the ground, too heavy for its stalks. Corn slumped, raided by crows and other birds. A hush had fallen over the surrounding land, and Rayph Ivoryfist and Sisalyyon stood on the road hidden within the trees, studying the town and its growing shadows.

  “You say your people told you of the animals here?” Rayph asked.

  “The trees are restless,” she whispered. “All animal life, save the birds, has vanished. The people all left.”

  From the tracks of carts that had passed, they looked to be carrying very little. Maybe a hundred people had walked this road recently, but Rayph doubted they had much in the way of belongings. “Can you tap into the forest while I go check things out?” he asked.

  Sisalyyon nodded. She stepped into the gloom of the trees and dropped her cloak, exposing her naked body. Rayph pulled his eyes away, thinking of his wife and how long it had been since he had seen her.

  Sisalyyon was the most ravishing woman Rayph had ever seen. Her perfection was a thing of legend. He heard her roots take the ground, and he turned to see her warping into the form of a cherry tree. The half-dryad dug into the ground. Her arms exploded into branches and blossoms. Her face alone remained that of a woman, and she nodded at Rayph as tears of sap rolled down her cheeks.

  “It’s all dead. On the other side of the village, a mass grave holds hundreds of animals. Everything here is either dead or has fled,” she said. “So much decay and murder.”

  She heaved as she wept, and Rayph nodded grimly. “Keep me posted.” He stepped from the trees and walked the road to the heart of the village of Midvor and the isolation it promised. Crows screamed at him, raising a storm of belligerent cacophony that gave Rayph pause. He pushed on, letting the night and the sudden chill weigh heavy on his mind. Darkness seemed in a rush, as if filled with bloodlust for the death of the day. Blood red clouds and the bruised purple sky spoke of the brutality of the night’s advance. Rayph touched his dagger, feeling the ally within kick, suddenly awake.

  “Are we alone, Fannalis?” One pulse and Rayph knew they were not. He crossed the threshold of the arch over the main road and into the ragged edges of the village, where the houses teetered and moaned with the burgeoning wind. He felt it then, eyes resting on him as he moved, hungry eyes devouring every detail and plotting as he walked. Every door hid shadowy secrets. Every curtain waved in the wind, betraying the darkness within the abode, hungry and waiting.

  Fear stabbed Rayph as he walked the dead village, and he wondered at what might have scared away its citizens. He reached the center and found the mill and the town pub. The mill house squealed as the vanes overhead slowly turned, casting new shadows. The mill door was an open mouth, waiting and set to snap closed.

  Rayph turned his back to it and approached the pub door. He touched the handle and spat a word, hearing the lock on the other side slide, and the door burst open to slam the frame. The stench of old blood and dead flesh assaulted him. He spat a word, light burst forth from his hand, and he flew into the room.

  Chairs had been shattered. Blood splashed the wall and sat in dry, peeling puddles on the tables and floors. Signs of murder hung everywhere, with no indication of the bodies that should be left. He searched the floor for drag marks and found none. Rayph moved on, stepping past tables, cracked and broken, and floorboards creaking, to make his way to the bar and jump behind it.

  A great struggle had taken place here. The body of a mighty man lay in shreds on the ground, arms rent and ragged, tossed away as they were ripped free. Huge gashes in the thighs and neck, the face had contorted into a grimace of such pain as to drive a man insane. But the blood was scarce and the prints in it made little sense. He saw handprints and strange smears, marks that could have been knees, and a lack of puddles that nagged at his memory.

  “I have faced this horror before, but I know not when,” he whispered.

  The words echoed back at him, and he was sure someone had heard. He touched the bat skull and feathered fetish on his chest and felt the instant connection of his crew back in Ironfall.

  “I’ve seen this before. I can’t remember when. I found a body, but the markings around it are puzzling.”

  “Do you need us, boss?” Smear asked.

  “No, keep up your planning and decorating. I am fine for now. If I need you, I will yell. How are the preparations coming along?”

  “We are doing fine here, Rayph. Keep your head where you are,” Dreark said.

  Rayph nodded and pulled his hand away. He walked into the kitchen. The coppery stench of rotting blood hit him again. He glanced about the shelves and pantry, finding decaying food and full barrels. Those who had fled had not taken any food supplies with them. Rayph filed this bit of information away and stepped outside.

  He spoke a word before whispering to Sisalyyon and letting a slight puff of wind carry his words to her ears. “Anything else you can tell me, Sisa?”

  “Lots of trees have been cut down recently, debarked and cut into boards. The mass grave is strange as well. The hole has been dug, but no dirt remains.”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “There is no dirt covering the bodies, and none piled up beside the hole. The dirt that was displaced is gone. No sign of it anywhere.”

  Rayph took in a deep breath and steadied himself. His mind drew him a picture of what was happening, and a kick of panic rocked his chest. He ran to the nearest house and pulled back the leather sheet that worked as a door. The light from his spell blazed before him, tossing the house in a riot of light that exposed every secret it fought to hide.

  Blood had been thrown in all directions. There were signs of a struggle, but no bodies, and most of the belongings had been left. Rayph looked over the door where a sword and hunting bow hung, and his heart broke out in a run. Food sat uneaten and rotting. Bloody footprints trailed out the door. Rayph spoke a word, the air ripped open, and his sword dropped out. He left the house and made for the mill.

  He stood outside the mill and screwed up his courage. “Call for them,” he muttered to himself. “Summon the team and storm this place.” But the preparations were important, and
Rayph knew he could handle this by himself. “I faced you once before alone. I can do it again,” he said.

  “Tristan the Sour, come out here and face me!” Rayph’s voice held a calmer tone than he felt, and it reassured him.

  A spectral face showed itself in the door. Still housed in darkness, it was pale and gaunt, and Rayph knew it hadn’t fed in a long time. He pushed the light closer, exposing a naked creature, twisted with emaciation. Its hair hung lank and filthy, its crotch betraying it female.

  “So, he left you behind to clean up any messes that came along?” Rayph said.

  “Messes like you.” The creature stepped forward, and Rayph let it. Its steps were graceful, though it looked near death. Its long, ragged nails snapped and scraped at the air as it came, and it opened its mouth, exposing fangs and a black tongue. “My master told me you would be coming. He meant to give you this message.” It curled its legs and prepared for a leap. “He has woken her, and with her rousing, the nation of Lorinth will bleed and sour.”

  “I took her once. I will take her again.”

  The creature let loose a howl that sounded as if it came from some demon, and jumped forward, springing at him, leading with its claws and mouth.

  Rayph stepped aside, casting fire at its body, hoping it was not strong enough to withstand it. The beast hit the ground screaming, and he kicked it on its back. Its arms thrashed as it fought to claw him, and Rayph sheathed his sword in the creature’s forehead. He pushed, shoving the blade into the dirt, pushing until the sword hilt rested on the beast’s forehead. It pulled at the handle of the sword and screamed as the fire devoured it.

  The carcass smoldered as the creature, little more than a skeleton, fought to pull out the sword that nailed it to the ground. Rayph watched all night, waiting for the morning sun.

  As the sky lightened, the creature loosed an unearthly howl and fought with renewed vigor. It almost, in its panic, pulled the blade free, but Rayph planted his boot on the sword, keeping it in the ground.

  The first kiss of sunlight to fall on its form harkened a scream, and it burst into white fire. Rayph watched it burn until it was no more than dust and ash before he pulled his sword from the ground and zipped it back into the air. He touched his fetish, and the group pulled close.

  “Tristan the Sour is here. When the break of Mending Keep happened, I thought he fled the country, but I was wrong. He has dug Kataenar up and woken her. This village has fallen to his darkness.”

  “You should have killed him when you had him,” Dreark said.

  “I tried, but he wielded a magic I had never seen before, and I couldn’t lay him low. We are going to have to find out how to do it. His infection is devouring the nation.”

  “They were all turned?” Trysliana asked.

  “Every one of them, and they are gone.”

  “How many do you think there were?” Smear asked.

  “At least one hundred vampires now roam the nation. There will be more. A lot more.”

  The Rage of the Slave

  “I lead you now into peril,” Peter said. Aaron looked up at the City of Nightmares, and he knew the words were true.

  Jordai looked up from the oars, as he rowed them all silently into the harbor of Bladesport, and nodded grimly. “And we follow willingly.” Jordai looked at Aaron and could sense his fear. Jordai could always read Aaron’s fears. “One nation at a time.”

  “One battle at a time,” Aaron said. He let the moment play out between them. He looked back up at the darkened streets of Bladesport and shook his head. Three nightmares gripped this city. The first they would face was the slave trader. Long ago, he had taken over the docks. Now he seized and ransacked every ship that came into the harbor. Every free man was shackled and bound and sold. No one escaped him. Aaron reached for his dagger, just then remembering he had not brought it.

  He looked at Gralton, and back to Jordai, seeing no weapons on them either. He turned his gaze back to Peter and gritted his teeth.

  He let his eye stay on Peter Redfist, let himself see the thing he saw every time he looked at his king—a powerful face, red hair, and a gleam to the cold blue eyes, a hunger for justice, and wisdom simmering just below the surface. Peter was the greatest man Aaron would ever know, and he thanked The Pale for allowing him to serve the king of the Nation of Four.

  They pulled up to the dock, and Jordai stowed the oars. He looked up at Peter, who scowled.

  “Am I doing the right thing?” Peter asked. They stood now on the boat. To step out was to wake the wrath of the slave trader. They could turn back now, but not a breath from now. The moment before the plunge stretched out before them, and Jordai cleared his throat.

  “Father said it doesn’t matter the steps to be taken for a righteous act. They must be tread,” Jordai said. “We go, for we have no other choice. Duty demands this of us. You have only to possess the nerve and recklessness to lead.”

  Peter grinned and stepped off the boat. He pulled his men out and turned. They stepped away from the dock and onto the streets, then heard a howl, and the streets were flooded. Wretched-looking, half-starved grunts rushed from the shadowy corners of the streets. They were blackened with filth and wearing patches of armor and leathers. Most wore no shoes. Most carried no weapons. But all seemed driven by desperation, lustful in their wrath.

  “He starves his forces,” Gralton said.

  The grunts snarled at them with black and chipped teeth, and Aaron searched within his heart for pity for these beasts but found none. He curled his fists and stepped forward, but Peter’s warm hand on his shoulders stopped him.

  “Peril,” Peter said.

  Aaron cursed. He opened his hands, and a bony knot of a fist punched his temple. He swooned as the grunts surrounding them pounded him into the ground. Aaron clenched his jaw and let the pain in. He curled up on the streets as he saw his compatriots being beaten. He growled but did not retaliate.

  They beat him for a long time. He sank into the hole within himself where he spent times like this. It was dank and humid there. No air or breeze, the smell of a rotting body and the hard steel bars in his grip. He was back there, in that hell of a cell, and he smiled. Aaron closed his eyes as the impacts blended into one another, and he went to the back wall of a cell long ago left behind and to the arms of the woman he loved, with whom he had shared it. Within his pain he found her, and he was happy.

  They bound him in chains, and he heard them snap tight as the shackles bit into his wrists. He was being dragged down the street. He cursed and got to his feet. He smiled with bloody teeth at the beasts around him, and they pulled back in horror. Behind them, the grunts were dragging his king up the path. A blazing fire of hate suddenly shot through Aaron as he watched the line of men pulling his brothers along the paving stones.

  “Get down!” a beast beside him grunted. He swung a splintered spear shaft, and Aaron caught it. He ripped it from the man’s hands and flipped it. With a grin, he tossed it back at the startled beast. They fell in on Aaron then, beating and clawing at him. They whipped him with his chains. They jerked him up the street by his hair. Aaron cackled his maniac laugh and cursed them all.

  They entered a tunnel that plunged under the city. They were taken through a system of curves and turns, coming out into a vast room filled with a bustling crowd. Stalls stood everywhere, and in them, men, women, and children were being sold. Aaron saw a tiny baby ripped from its mother’s arms and placed in the hands of a fat, sweating merchant. The man stared at the baby and licked his lips. Aaron growled.

  They were taken through the marketplace, up an avenue lined with buyers. They were gawked at and yelled at. Aaron snarled at them all. He spat and he cursed and he laughed, and when they grew too close, he kicked out at them. Aaron heard Jordai laughing from behind him, and Aaron joined him. They threw trash at Aaron, but he held his arms out wide to the crowd.

  “Come, you bastards. Hate me if you will. Get close if you dare.”

  Something moist and
warm hit his face and stuck there. He raked his hand through it. Someone had thrown feces at him. He sneered and laughed, calling out to them all, jeering them as much as they jeered him.

  When they had been taken through the entire marketplace, they came to a great gate and were ushered through it.

  They were splashed with water and scrubbed by children who looked hungry and scared. Aaron was lined along a wall with all the men, and an older man with tufts of white hair standing up on his head and a ragged scar across his face walked before them. He carried a bucket filled with blue powder, pulled out fistfuls of it, and tossed it against their bodies. He dusted his way up the line, then stopped before Aaron and tossed the powder.

  As soon as the dust went into his nose, Aaron weakened. His muscles went slack. He felt the room sway. He covered his nose, but his hand had been dusted already, and the noxious powder filled his lungs. With every drawn breath of air, he grew weaker until he could barely stand. He looked down the line, at all his brothers dusted with the horror, and all but Jordai dropped to a knee. Jordai Stonefist stood glaring, unfazed and undaunted by this poison. He nodded at Aaron. Aaron dropped to his knees, helpless.

  They sank him in a crate, and children filled it with clay. They dropped the clay in by the buckets and mashed it in around his ankles. He could only stare and hang from the ropes that held him. They packed the clay in until it filled the crate and covered his legs up to his thigh. Aaron had just enough room to shit and piss and no more. He could not move his legs, no matter how he tried, and he realized he was locked fast. All the slavers pulled out of his arm’s reach, and with poles put under the crate, carried him out of the darkness and into the marketplace.