The night air was cold, and dry.
Kalan Banecroft slowly worked his way across the forest, his eyes picking out the path before him. He held the big longbow lightly in his hands, the arrow notched and tight on the string. He sensed more than saw the buck across the valley, grazing on a sparse patch of grass.
It was only the third deer he had seen this week. The other two had been thin almost to the bone, licking the snow from the forest floor, trying to find some sort of feed on the bare ground. It would be a waste to kill them. He and Mari had plenty of hides. This hunt was for the meat.
Kalan had been away from the house for three days now, trying to find fresh meat. He had gathered a sackful of herbs and assorted vegetables, wild onions and carrots and mushrooms, but what he and Mari really needed was meat. They had run out almost two months before, and the traps Kalan had set stayed bare. His horse, Downer, had barely been able to find any grass on the ground. Kalan had been feeding him out of the vegetable bag for the last two days.
Kalan inched closer to his prey, holding his longbow in front of his body. He straightened slowly next to a large oak tree and took aim for the broadside. He knew his fingertips were going numb from the cold, but he blocked the sensation from his mind and concentrated on the target. He gently pulled the bowstring back as far as possible, and let the arrow fly.
The soft zip of the arrow seemed loud in the quiet morning stillness. The deer bolted from the patch of grass, moving about ten paces before dropping to the ground, dead. Kalan slowly let out the breath he had been holding. He walked over to the animal, pulling out his knife. He could almost taste the stew that Mari would make.
He was carving the best cuts of meat when he smelled it, the putrid odor of rotting flesh, long forgotten and left to decay. It was not a whiff, but almost an immersion in the smell, as if it were coming from all around him. He froze instantly, his belt knife held motionless in midair. It had been many a year since Kalan had smelled that smell, but he would never forget it. Shakzan.
The stench went away as suddenly as it had come, leaving only the cold, biting, odorless wind of winter. Kalan slowly lowered his knife to the meat, continuing his cutting. He finished his work, listening very carefully for any noise that was out of the ordinary. The only sound he heard was that of the wind blowing through the trees, bringing more snow. He was conscious of the fact that he had not heard a sound from Downer, his horse, since the smell. Downer knew the smell of Shakzan just as well as Kalan, and if the horse had smelled anything he would be raising a racket in the brush. Unless something had happened to him.
Kalan slowly folded the hide and wrapped it with rope, one hand near his knife at all times. He lifted the bundle over his shoulder and turned slowly, his knife held loosely in his right hand.
He scanned the tree line behind him. There was nothing. He knew that it was there, one of them, but he forced himself to start walking slowly, one foot in front of the other. The trees came steadily closer and Kalan slowly sheathed his belt knife, resting one hand on his longsword as he approached the forest. He stood in front of the line of trees, his eyes searching deeper into the thicket. He slowly stepped into the forest, past the trees blocking his view.
Kalan let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. Downer was picketed next to a great oak, just where Kalan had left him. The horse had pawed through the snow and found a patch of green grass, which he was munching contentedly. As he approached, the horse lifted his head to give him a wry look, then went back to his feast.
Kalan lifted the meat onto Downer’s saddle, watching the horse carefully. If anything was out of the ordinary, the horse would sense it before he would. He had learned to trust Downer’s instincts on the battlefield, where a moment of hesitation could mean the difference between winning a battle or losing it, between living or dying. The horse had not let him down yet.
He tied the meat behind the saddle with leather strings, making sure the bundle was secure. He put the remaining strings back into his saddlebag, using the movement to surreptitiously lift his sword an inch or two in the sheath, then set it back down. The cold sometimes made the blade stick to the scabbard, and he wanted to be ready for anything.
Kalan looked into the forest. The Magi had spoken of a second sight, an ability to see past what was in the forefront of your mind and delve deeper into the unknown, but he had never been able to reach that level. All he was able to do was reach past what was in front of his eyes, which he did now. He focused his sight on what was before him. There was the great oak, and past that a thatch of pines, and then sparse trees every few–
There. He found it. The Shakzan was not on the ground, but using the branches of the trees to slowly move toward him. Kalan did not let his gaze linger or give any indication that he knew where the beast was. He slowly ducked under Downer’s neck and turned toward the saddle, putting his back to the creature.
He grasped the small crossbow tied to Downer’s saddle, loosening the knot and putting pressure on the trigger. Downer’s ears went straight up, listening, then flat against his skull, a warning sign. The horse gave a low whinny and began looking around wildly. Kalan barely heard the whisper of scraping bark when he turned and lifted the crossbow, pulling the trigger.
The heavy broadhead bolt caught the creature in mid-jump, stopping it in the air and bringing it to the crashing to the ground. It struggled to rise from the forest floor, stretching out a hand bearing razor-like claws and slashing at Kalan. Kalan lowered the crossbow and drew his sword, moving toward the creature to finish it off. Red eyes stared at him as the Shakzan wheezed out of a punctured lung. A dark black almost human face, twisted by evil, sneered up at Kalan. Black blood, black as night, spread out on the snowy ground beneath it. No steam rose from the snow, though; Shakzan were cold-blooded, more reptilian than human.
Kalan stood over the beast and stared down impassively. The stench of rotting flesh was almost overwhelming, this close. Downer was struggling against his halter rope, trying to get as far away from the Shakzan as possible. The Shakzan tried to move away from Kalan, the razor-like claws again reaching for flesh. Kalan lifted the sword high and twisted it in the air, pointing the blade down toward the Shakzan. He adopted a two-handed grip lifted the sword higher, preparing to bring it down into the creature’s chest.
“Bane-croft . . . .”
It was the voice that made him hesitate, almost as much as the words. He had never heard a Shakzan speak Alari before; he had only heard the guttural screeches that they used as battle cries. That same rough, guttural speech applied to words was almost as jarring as hearing his name come from the Shakzan’s mouth.
“Bane-croft.”
The Shakzan spoke again, in a stronger voice this time. Night-black blood ran from the corner of it’s mouth and dripped down the side of a black neck. The face was not as dark as some that Kalan had seen; this must be a scout. The lighter-skinned Shakzan were the minority of the race, despised and treated as inferiors because of their lack of horrendous brutality.
Kalan leaned closer to the creature, sheathing his sword. He pulled his belt knife and knelt next to the Shakzan. He had never spoken with a Shakzan before, but he knew better than to take any chance.
“I am Banecroft.”
The Shakzan turned toward him and breathed in deeply, sniffing. The red pupils stared up at Kalan with an intense hatred. After a long moment, the Shakzan stopped sniffing.
Kalan almost did not move back in time. The black hand flashed out toward him with razor-sharp claws extended. The claws caught the back of his hand, sending the knife flying through the air to land ten feet away. The Shakzan dug through the snow, attempting to get as close to Kalan as possible, arm extended, claws flashing. Kalan kicked out at the animal, trying to pull his sword from the scabbard. The Shakzan lunged through the snow, grabbing Kalan’s leg.
Kalan felt a stab of pain from his leg. The Shakzan’s claws were sunk deeply into his calf. He kicked out with his other leg, striking the Shakzan in the head. He felt the claws let go and kicked again. This time, the Shakzan was knocked back and Kalan was able to draw his sword.
Kalan lifted the sword high above his head and brought it down. He felt a savage sort of pleasure as he saw the Shakzan’s head part from it’s neck. He slumped down in the snow, breathing heavily from the effort. The stink had begun to recede, as if now that the beast was dead, the smell of the evil had died with it. A thought took shape in the back of his head.
Mari.
He did not know how long he lay in the snow. He felt the blood dripping down his hand and his leg, coagulating and quickly freezing. He was conscious of Downer standing over him and heard a soft neigh, almost a question, and felt the horse nuzzle his face. The pain from his hand seemed to stretch up his arm, causing him to wince. He knew he had to move. He had to reach Mari. She was in danger.
Mari.
Kalan slowly crawled past the body of the Shakzan. He grabbed hold of one of Downer’s stirrups, trying to Block the pain away as he pulled himself slowly up onto the saddle. He tried to stand on his wounded leg. The leg buckled out from under him, bringing him crashing to the ground in pain. He had to tell Mari.
Mari.
He slowly started up again, grabbing the stirrup and pulling himself up the side of the horse. This time he was able to grab the pommel and haul himself up onto the saddle. He clucked softly and downer started moving forward. Kalan tried to grab the reins. The wound on his leg sent a stab of pain up his body. The world went black.
The Winds of Change Page 1