by Mark E Lacy
“What?” came the irritated reply.
“Are you thinking what we're thinking?”
“Yeah,” said Crooked Teeth, still looking at the Saerani and his sword. “No damn reward. But, no krylaan telling us what to do anymore.”
“So, why are we still standing in this accursed place?” said Ale-man.
Bird looked around, wide-eyed, as if only now was it sinking in that they had pursued the Swordbearer, of all places, into the Yalventa.
“Because I haven't told you cretins to go yet.” He paused. “Let's go.”
Bird turned his mount so hard the horse almost stumbled. He kicked it into a gallop, Ale-man close on his heels. Crooked Teeth followed, cursing them and trying to catch up.
“Why were hudraii following us? Why would they enter the Yalventa?”
The musari had paused for a brief rest and a drink of water. Visylon waited on horseback. He looked Hyphos directly in the eye. “They were after me, Hyphos, not your people. I gave them an excuse to go back.”
“There is a story behind this,” said Hyphos, sounding more than a little annoyed. “A story I need to hear.”
“Yes, but there's no time for it now. We had better push on.”
Hyphos gave the order to move out. Once again shouldering their packs, the musari resumed their fast pace.
The play of shadows on the ground was almost hypnotizing. The quiet was only broken by the soft swish of boots through dry leaves. No animals scampered across their path, no birds glided from one bough to the next, no insects hummed or flitted away. In any other forest, it would be a sign of danger. It would be unnatural to see no animal life. In the Yalventa, however, it was the rule rather than the exception, and the holomusari had already grown accustomed to it. Thus, no one was prepared for the scene of carnage they came across in the early afternoon.
The line of musari had descended a gully because the underbrush was denser above, and the gully was unobstructed. As they left the gully, they came to a clearing and stopped.
Several mangled bodies lay scattered among red-stained leaves. Dark blotches showed where large pools of blood had soaked into the ground.
The holomusari spread out along the edge of the clearing. Their healing arts were useless here. The smell of carrion was overpowering. A few of the healers turned aside and retched. Bees and flies explored the corpses. Visylon swallowed hard. He jumped down and handed Cabellara's reins to one of the musari.
As he moved around the bodies, avoiding blood-damp soil, the Swordbearer tucked away the important details in his mind. A half dozen men, helmets, no armor. No weapons drawn, caught by surprise. Torn, shredded clothing. Long, parallel gashes. The work, it seemed, of large talons. Dismembered limbs, crushed skulls, incredible injuries that could only be caused by a creature with fantastic strength. The carnage appeared to be only hours old. Whatever had killed them had surprised them in daylight.
Two of the braver musari moved carefully through the massacre, making doubly sure there was no one who could be helped. Visylon asked one of the healers to gather up the dead men's weapons.
A few minutes later, one of the musari approached Hyphos and showed him a small flare. “We also found this on one of the bodies.” He handed his leader a packet.
Hyphos broke the wax seal. He unfolded a piece of paper and read quickly before turning to the Saerani.
“Apracian soldiers. They were ordered to break quarantine and provide us an armed escort through the Yalventa.” His gaze turned to the dead soldiers. “The letter was addressed to me, urging us to hurry.”
Visylon pointed out fresh hoofprints. “They were riding. Whatever got them scared off their horses. Or got them too.” A few moments later, he said, “Gather your strongest men.”
When the ones selected stood around them, Visylon handed out the swords collected by the musari from the dead soldiers. The Apracians' daggers were distributed to another group.
Hyphos slid his sword partway from its scabbard and examined its edge like someone who was more familiar with weapons than one would expect. Most everyone with a blade in their hand, sword or dagger, seemed to draw a breath and pull courage from wherever they could find it. Those still unarmed looked from one to another, wide-eyed and whispering.
“I've no time to train you in fighting,” said Visylon. “If we're attacked, I want those with weapons to get between what's attacking us and the others. It's that simple. If we're attacked from more than one direction, I want my fighters to form a ring around the others.
“Fighters, if whatever attacks gets close enough, strike at anything — hands, arms, face — but make it count. Do not miss. If you can, blind or cripple it. You don't have to kill to make it unable to attack.
“In the worst case, if our defenses break ...” The Saerani paused. “I want those without weapons to scatter. Some may manage to escape. Try to follow the path and get to Apracia without delay.”
“What about the ponies?” said one of the women.
Visylon turned. “If the animals are attacked, let them go. Just run.”
“But what about our supplies?”
“Grab what you can and run if you value your life.”
Chapter 38
The holomusari resumed their trek, keeping as fast a pace as possible through the afternoon, stopping only briefly to mouth a few swallows of water and press on. Some of the older ones, long past the point of fatigue, were falling behind. Visylon spent more time bringing up the rear. Only his fear that he would need Cabellara in case of an attack assuaged his guilt over not letting one or two of the elders ride in his place.
A short climb brought them at last to a bald from which they could see above the treetops for some distance. They spread out in a line, breaking their silence to exchange quiet words of relief, for the spires of Apracia stood a mile distant at the edge of the forest. The sun was setting, however, and the musari were not yet free of the Yalventa. Hyphos pointed to clouds that would soon plunge the forest into premature twilight.
A sharp cry of horror. Hyphos turned to see a group gathered around the nearest pedestal. He ran up and pressed through the musari and found one of the women with hands pressed to her mouth, tears running down her cheeks.
Hyphos knew what filled the stone bowl, but he couldn't help dipping a fingertip in it and holding it up for inspection.
“Good Eloeth,” said one of the musari. “It's blood.”
Hyphos wiped his finger on the ground. “Give me the flareburst,” he said, pulling flint and steel from a pouch.
One of the musari handed him the flare. In moments, he positioned it in the ground and lit the fuse. The flareburst streaked directly overhead, blazing like a miniature sun. Let's hope someone sees that.
Behind the musari, Visylon sat mounted on Cabellara. He scanned the woods around them, concerned that the shadows were deeper yet. The healers were all too exposed. He sensed something more amiss than a bowl of fresh blood in the middle of a quiet forest.
In the span of a couple of minutes, the wind at their backs had grown from a feathery touch tousling their hair to gusts that whipped their clothes and kicked up spirits of dust. As it gathered strength, the wind began to moan through the trees like a soul searching for release.
The musari looked up at the sky, but behind them, sticks and leaves began to swirl and rise from the ground.
The moan changed pitch and no longer sounded quite like wind. Visylon and some of the others turned around and watched as a column of leaves and branches took form. It stood on two limbs and raised two others to the sky. Leaves and sticks and mud gathered around the limbs and clung there.
But it was not the wind that moaned. It was coming from the apparition constructed from the detritus of the forest, and the moan was now a howl, the cry of a predator that had brought its quarry to ground. The head of the form solidified. Visylon saw the eyes first. Even as he remembered seeing one of those eyes watching them from behind a tree in the forest, the figure finished taking
on substance. It stood tall and muscular with patchy fur, its head marked by pointed ears and a long snout with fangs. Its fur was matted, dried blood around its muzzle.
“Fighters, behind you!” yelled Visylon, drawing his blade. “To me!”
The demon tipped its head back and howled again. Cabellara shied in terror. Visylon tried to dismount and lost his footing, landing on his back. Hyphos charged the creature with a yell, brandishing his sword, distracting the demon long enough for Visylon to get back to his feet. Angered, the demon lunged, and Hyphos backed up quickly. With shouts of fear and defiance, Visylon's fighters took blades in hand and formed a semicircle around the demon.
Among the rest of the musari, many scattered in fear. Some grasped one another and watched, unable to move. One of the healers took the halter of the lead pony and hurried the animals downhill toward Apracia before panic set in with them as well. Others chose to run after the ponies, praying they could cover the mile to safety. Two sisters stumbled and fell but struggled to get back on their feet. Cabellara, now riderless, passed them all and disappeared downtrail. Someone fell against the pedestal and screamed as it toppled and splashed blood across the trail.
Visylon shouted instructions, maneuvering the holomusari fighters. The demon roared but stood its ground, neither charging nor retreating. One man came around the side of the demon, approaching the beast with great care, hoping to strike while the demon's attention was on the others. Without warning, the creature turned and brought the healer down with a single blow, claws slicing through clothes and flesh. The others closed in while the demon's back was turned, but the beast whipped around and charged them.
“Fall back!” Visylon ordered.
Still, the demon did not press the attack.
“Visylon,” said Hyphos, “why does it just stand there?”
“I don't know, but I'm not turning my back on it.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“On my signal, we both attack at the same time. One of us should be able to get in a good blow.”
The two of them moved up a fraction closer to the beast, one on each side. The demon looked back and forth from one to the other.
“Now!” said Visylon.
Both men went after the demon. Hyphos's sword reached the demon first, but the beast backed up just enough to let the blade go wide and miss. A fraction of a second behind Hyphos, Visylon was stepping in to range when the demon turned. Seeing this new threat coming at him, the demon swung at the Swordbearer with a large, clawed hand. Visylon ducked and drew his blade across the back of the demon's leg, hamstringing it. The demon screamed. Even as it stumbled and fell, Hyphos stepped in and ran his blade through the demon's ribs.
Both Visylon and Hyphos backed away a safe distance. One of the other musari had gathered sufficient courage to advance, ready to deliver the deathblow, when Visylon stopped him.
“No, let it be. We're safe now. It can't follow. But if you get too close, you may die.”
The musara looked disappointed and confused, but he backed away. The demon lay back on the ground, dark blood pulsing from its chest. They all stood watching for a few moments.
Hyphos said, “Let's go. We must get out of the forest.”
As they started off once more, there was a sound behind them. Hyphos and Visylon turned back as the remaining healers started running in pursuit of their fellow musari.
“Healers ...”
The demon had struggled to prop itself up on one elbow.
“Hhhhelllppp.”
A few of the remaining musari also turned around.
“Please. Help me.”
One of the musari made a warding gesture. “It speaks!”
“Release me.” And the demon collapsed.
Hyphos ran back to where the demon lay on the ground in a pool of dark blood. He stopped several feet away.
The demon looked up at him. “Hu ... man.”
In a few moments, Hyphos had made up his mind. He knelt beside the beast.
Visylon ran up but kept his distance. “Hyphos, what are you doing?”
“It's a curse. This thing is cursed.”
“Cursed?”
“Yes. I'm going to help him.”
“Help 'him'? Have you lost your mind? The thing is almost dead. Why would you heal it?”
“Silence!” The leader of the holomusari swallowed his revulsion and placed his hands on either side of the creature's skull, fingers deep in the dirty fur. Hyphos closed his eyes in concentration.
The other musari watched, murmuring to one another.
Visylon pointed and said, “Go. Go on, hurry. We will catch up.”
With this permission, the last of the healers ran after their colleagues.
Hyphos looked up at Visylon. “I need your help.” When Visylon made no move, the healer continued, “The demon wasn't looking to attack us. It must have recognized we were holomusari. It was hoping for help.” Still, Visylon didn't move. “Please, what must be done here I can't do alone.”
“You want me to help you?”
“There's no time to explain. This thing will die, no matter what we do. But it may die in peace if we can free it from this curse. Come around to the other side. Put your hands on the beast's head.”
Visylon stared at him like he was insane. “Touch that thing?”
A strange crackling noise began to come from the demon's dying form.
“Do it! We're losing time. Visylon, trust me.”
The Swordbearer finally knelt above the demon's head and placed one hand above each of the beast's pointed ears.
“Close your eyes,” instructed Hyphos, “and don't let go, whatever you do.”
The moment his eyes were shut, Visylon felt like he was falling off a cliff. Vertigo and nausea hit him, and he fought the urge to back off and be sick.
Don't let go, said Hyphos in his mind. This will take more strength than I can bring to bear.
Visylon felt enveloped by darkness and stench. Where are you?
Here. A torch flared in the darkness. Follow me.
The torch began to move. Visylon moved close to it. There was no one holding it. It raced ahead of him, and he almost lost sight of it before moving to catch up. The torch changed course several times, but after a minute, it stopped in front of a small object that pulsed slowly. It looked like a human heart, but the color was wrong, and the heart was strangled with black vines.
Reach in and hold his heart. If it stops, give it a hard squeeze.
What are you going to do?
I've got to get rid of these vines. They're strangling his life-force.
Visylon made no move. He was gripped by revulsion, by fear of intimate contact with something so alien, so dangerous.
Visylon, we're almost out of time. Thrust your arm through the vines and take hold of his heart. We may not be able to save him, but at least we can try to remove the curse before he dies.
Visylon, if you don't hold his heart, I won't be able to pull these vines off it.
He knew if he didn't do it and do it now, quickly, he'd never succeed. Visylon reached in with his mind and took hold of the slowly beating heart.
Fear ... rage ... sorrow ... despair ...
He was jolted by a wash of emotions coming from the demon.
Pain ... emotional pain ... physical pain ...
The torch touched a vine. With a horrible screech, the vine charred and crumbled. The other vines tried to tighten around the heart. Visylon felt the heartbeat slow.
The torch touched another vine. When that one parted and disintegrated with a screech, the others tightened even more. Now, the heart slowed to a deathly crawl.
Visylon squeezed the heart and kept squeezing, urging it to keep beating, even as Hyphos continued to destroy the strangling vines. When the last black vine was gone, Visylon carefully quit squeezing the heart, wondering if it would continue on its own.
Come, said Hyphos. We've done what we can.
Open your eyes, Visy
lon.
The Saerani warrior looked at the musara and released the demon's head. Hyphos jerked, his body in spasms, but he kept his hands one either side of the demon's skull. His head turned away, eyes still shut, brow furrowed as if he could barely the stand the contact with this creature. At last, he seemed to relax and then collapse in on himself from fatigue, weary.
“You are released,” said Hyphos, eyes closed.
The demon's form began to dissolve and turn into that of a man, a naked, bearded man with a gaping wound between his ribs and a deep slice to the back of his leg. For a moment, a look of peace seemed to cross the man's features. Then, his breathing stopped, and his body went limp. Moments later, the body dissolved into ashes.
Hyphos stood with difficulty, Visylon taking him by the elbow.
“Why?” asked the warrior.
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
“For a demon?”
“For a human cursed to take on demonic form. A human who you helped, warrior, as if you were a healer yourself.”
Visylon considered that for a moment before asking, “Can you walk?”
“Walk? We'd better run. There may be others.”
And run they did, praying that they not misstep in the dark forest. The fleeing musari were nowhere to be seen. They could only hope the others had reached the city. Now and then, they saw a pedestal marking the way, and they knew they were still following the trail. After a few minutes, an escort of Apracian soldiers met them, bearing torches, and brought them to safety.
Chapter 39
Raethir Del woke to the sound of water lapping against wood.
He pushed himself up and gazed into the dark. He was sitting on the damp bottom of a longboat, surrounded by piles of blades, short and long, simple and ornate. The oars were racked, the benches empty. Though the sail was furled, he could hear the hiss of the boat gliding through the water. Green moonlight was filtered by mists.
Something about the boat seemed familiar. His gaze followed the curved sweep of the prow to the carving of a head. On one side of the face was a young woman with long tresses, while on the other side a fanged demon. And then he remembered.