Oathtaker

by Patricia Reding

  She crouched low behind the oak, its branches bent nearly to the ground. Its full summer shroud already displayed a dry fuscous brown cast. She grasped hold of a low hanging branch, found a notch in the trunk for her leather-booted foot, and boosted herself up. Dressed in simple free flowing garb, she easily melded into her hiding place. She glanced out.

  “Great Creovita!” she muttered. Grut. There must be an entire pack of them! A shiver ran down her spine. Her heart raced. Her hands shook and her stomach clenched. A single scratch from a grut claw, fang, or tail, would infect, causing a painful death within hours. The victim’s skin would begin to burn away and his—or her—throat would close. She watched below.

  Ten or more muscle-bound beasts paced outside a small wayfarers’ hut. At first glance they resembled wolves, but they were larger, nearly four feet high at the shoulder, covered with hair, smoky black in color and coarse as wire. Each sported a spiky spine and a razor sharp tail. Their bulging red eyes oozed thick black mucus. As they howled, the beasts’ three rows of teeth, curved slightly inward, became visible. Like a snake, Mara thought.

  As though to punctuate the truth of their nature, the grut emanated the unmistakable odor for which they were known: the smell of death, the smell of Sinespe.

  She struggled to breathe as the air became more putrid. Feeling assaulted by the odor, she covered her nose briefly with a portion of her tunic.

  The wayfarers’ hut stood at a distance of about twenty long strides. Branches of the great oak in which she sat reached out and over the hut, which was old and nearly hidden among the surrounding brush and trees. Something over ten-foot square and about as high, the building sported a dilapidated exterior. Its lower walls were made of mottled red-brown river rock packed together with clay from the nearby riverbed. Moss covered, it had begun to decay from a combination of age, weather, and neglect. Ivy surrounded the structure, holding to it tenaciously, as though it intentionally, maliciously, pursued the building’s demise.

  The hut had no windows, only a small opening near the roof that served to allow smoke and heat an escape, and a single low door, rounded at the top, likely barred from the inside. Though wayfarers traditionally used such huts in days past, few of the cabins remained standing. This one had withstood the test of time—if only barely.

  Nearby, lumbering between the surrounding brush, sting weed and rock, several grut spread out in a ring around a fine russet gelding, imprisoning the animal. Repeatedly darting and withdrawing, teasing and taunting, the grut toyed with their captive. Its eyes wide in terror, it snorted, then screamed. Coming up on its back legs, it dropped down upon the beasts, but they continued their attack. They tore at the equine’s flesh, hideously delighting in their torture. In short order, a killing grasp brought the animal to its knees. It went still.

  Pulling and ripping, the grut quickly consumed the gelding’s remains, leaving only scattered bloody bones and tufts of hair that drifted in the air, then settled down upon a few travelers’ bags of coarse burlap that littered the ground, their contents tossed aside.

  The smell of blood filled the air.

  Mara took count. One, two, three . . . seven, eight. Noting a group coming from around the backside of the hut, she continued: Nine . . . twelve, thirteen. Dear Good One! Thirteen? A single such beast was a formidable foe; a full pack was extreme.

  A path ran between her hiding place and the hut. The underworld beasts filled the space, pacing, panting, howling, with the gelding’s blood sprayed across their backs and saliva the color of urine running from their fangs.

  “My lucky day, thirteen grut,” Mara muttered. She pondered how she might get around or through the pack and to the hut.

  Notwithstanding the pervading foul odor, the Oathtaker could make out, now and again, the same sweet scent she’d noticed earlier. It reminded her of an exotic combination of jasmine, sandalwood and heliotrope. She wondered if it could be the fragrance of one of the Select. Although trained for their protection, she’d never encountered one of Ehyeh’s chosen, each of whom, after reaching the age of accountability and having found the Good One’s favor, began to emanate his own unique and exquisite aroma. As the scent made for an easy trail to follow, it left the Select open and vulnerable to pursuers.

  Now and again, through a break in the gruts’ screaming, Mara thought she heard moaning coming from inside the hut. She had to hurry.

  She opened her bag to check on her supplies: a rope, hooks, a torch, some dried food, and various herbs suited for an assortment of purposes—from healing, to sleeping, to killing. Also, she carried small utensils, a sack of gold coin good in any of Oosa’s seven provinces, blankets, and extra clothing. Two canteens hung from her belt, as did a hatchet and two blades. Attached to the inside of her boot was a third blade. On her back, she sported a bow and a dozen arrows. Finally, and of course in its carefully hidden sheath at the back of her neck, she carried Spira, her Oathtaker’s blade, the physical sign of her training, a blade infused with magic that would live for so long as she did.

  The Oathtaker climbed higher, scratching her knees and forearms along the way. From this height she had a better view of the hut. Weather had worn through the roofing in some places.

  I could hang my rope from a branch and drop in. Maybe?

  She contemplated. No, that wouldn’t work. She’d need space to maneuver. Also, she’d need to escape the hut eventually, and she might need to help someone else to get away as well.

  Trained for emergencies and dangerous situations, Mara willed herself to breathe slowly and steadily, to take in all of the features of the problem before her, to concentrate, and to formulate a solid plan. Even so, it was becoming increasingly apparent that she’d have to act quickly.

  The beasts grew more insistent. Those that had been gnawing on the dead gelding’s bones lost interest in their pursuit and resumed pacing with the rest of the pack. Occasionally one snarled or snapped at another.

  She was grateful she’d taken along that morning, her bow and a quiver of arrows. Of course, to bring the beasts down, she’d have to hit the grut in any one of three small, but particular targets: the space right behind the grut’s ear to go straight to the beast’s brain, the center of the grut’s chest to reach the place where its heart would be—if indeed it had one, or the grut’s eye to take out its link to the underworld, although in that case, death might not be instant.

  Although considered a sure shot, target practice on a warm summer day was an entirely different matter from her taking aim under the pressure of a pack of stalking, growling beasts. She had to take her time and use care. When her dozen arrows were spent, she would use her hatchet and knives, though she preferred not to use Spira unless absolutely necessary. Removing it from a grut—even a dead one—could expose her to the beast’s deadly poisonous blood or saliva.

  Mara climbed to a position high enough that no beast could reach her, but low enough to get a clear view of the vulnerable targets she sought. She checked her balance. Nocking her first arrow, she whispered, “Ehyeh, Lifegiver, let my aim be true. Help me to bring destruction to these minions of the underworld.” She looked at the howling mass below.

  There, that one that just turned to the side.

  She loosed her arrow. It sang through the air, moving straight to her intended target behind an ear of one of the grut. On impact, the beast stopped short in its tracks, howled, and then fell. Instantly, and to the Oathtaker’s surprise, it went up in flames—and disappeared.

  That’s curious.

  The stench of sulfur infused the air. She tried to rid her nose of it.

  Her second arrow nocked, she took careful aim, then loosed it. Another perfect shot, this one to the center of the beast’s chest. A flash of fire and smoke, and the second grut vanished.

  The next four shots were just as true.

  Six down, seven to go, with six arrows remaining . . .

  The young Oathtaker’s kills agitated the remaining grut. They stalked warily, hauntingl
y.

  She readied her seventh arrow and shot. “Blast!” she muttered. “Missed.” Now only five arrows remained while seven beasts prowled.

  Steady.

  She took aim for the eighth time. She loosed the arrow. It hit her intended target. The seventh grut disappeared.

  The next three shots also found their mark.

  One arrow to go and three grut standing . . .

  Mara paused, watching the manner in which the remaining beasts paced. She took her time. She found an opening. She aimed. She fired. Another grut went up in flames.

  With her arrows spent and two grut standing, she reached for one of her three knives.

  Each grut’s disappearance reduced the noisy wailing. Now more consistently, but still only sporadically, came the sounds of moaning from inside the cabin. She hoped the grut had not touched someone or surely, he would die.

  She tested the weight of her knife, then scooted further out in an effort to get a closer shot. Momentarily off balance, she paused to steady herself, wiped her brow of sweat, shifted her weight, and then took in a few calming breaths.

  As she turned her attention back to the grut, one turned and looked directly at her. She loosed her knife. It spun through the air, end over end, and landed—nearly as intended—not straight in the beast’s eye, but right between its eyes. Imbedded deeply, the weapon looked like a horn protruding from the creature’s face. The grut yelped and pawed at it. Then it let out a shrill whine and dropped to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. The wound attracted the attention of the other remaining grut. It stopped screaming and approached its injured pack mate.

  Is the burning away of each grut intended to keep the others from being lured away from the target they were sent to destroy?

  Seeing an opening, she readied the second of her knives, took aim, and then let it fly.

  Curse it. Another miss.

  Finding the as yet uninjured grut in a position that made for a perfect target, the Oathtaker grasped the last of her three blades, took aim, and then threw it. It was a good shot, but not the best. It stuck between the grut’s shoulders, full to its hilt. The beast howled and bolted.

  The grut wounded between the eyes staggered toward its pack mate and pounced. The two beasts snapped and snarled, each seeking the jugular of the other. With teeth gnashing, each sought to shred its adversary. Tails lashed, leaving bloody gashes. The grut struggled and screamed in their battle.

  Shortly, the grut wounded between the shoulders dealt a fatal blow to the other. It burst into flame and vanished in a flash.

  One grut remained. It was wounded, but not ready to give up the battle. It tottered, panting. Its scream became an intermittent, monotonous whine. Its coat was mottled with blood, black and thick as pitch. Its yellow saliva ran to the ground.

  Pant . . . Pant . . . Pant . . .

  Seemingly with a second wind and a renewed commitment to destroy, it approached the hut. Dust spiraled upwards behind its every step. It stood on its haunches, then threw itself against the cabin door. Again, the beast rose. Again, it fell. On the grut’s third attempt, the door shook in its frame.

  It’s about to give!

  Quickly Mara scrambled down. As her feet hit the ground, the grut looked her way, then turned back. It resumed its pouncing . . . pouncing. Splinters around the latch broke away.

  The door could withstand little more. If Mara didn’t kill the creature and do so quickly, it would be inside the cabin in seconds. Rushing forward, she stumbled on a root. The grut glanced at her as though considering whether to pursue her instead of whoever was in the hut, as though daring her to come nearer, to attack.

  Dear Good One, don’t let it pounce!

  Catching herself before falling fully to the ground, the Oathtaker continued toward the wounded beast.

  It turned away, once again rising up on its haunches and dropping down on the door. Its feet back on the ground, it staggered, it heaved, it stumbled, but it did not stop.

  Near death but with furious intensity, the beast focused its final efforts on its intended target.

  It would only take a touch, a single drop of blood . . .

  Another pounce rattled the door. Wood splintered, then cracked. The door swung open. It hung barely on its hinges.

  Again the grut glanced at Mara. It seemed to laugh at her feeble efforts. Wheezing, it raised one foot, preparing to step inside.

  A scream from within rent the air.

  Mara sprinted forward as the grut’s foot landed on the threshold. Just as the beast prepared to take another step, she threw her hatchet. But for Spira, it was her last weapon. It slammed into the center of the back of the grut’s head.

  The beast went still.

  Mara jumped back.

  The grut’s legs gave way. It shuddered, it shook, then flames consumed it. The blast of heat singed the hair on the Oathtaker’s forearms as she instinctively covered her face. A second later, the fire was gone and with it, the last of the thirteen grut and all trace of their ever having been. No hair, no blood, no saliva remained.

  She staggered, breathless. Tears stung her eyes. When she reached the doorway, she leaned against its frame and peered inside.

  The rotting stench and the burning smell of sulfur disappeared with the grut. In its place, Mara again could make out the same sweet floral scent that had first moved her to follow the forest path she’d taken. She breathed in the heady perfume, closing her eyes for a moment to delight in its luxurious depth, then entered the hut and closed the door behind herself as well as she could, given its condition. She sought to be cautious against another possible grut attack, or from an assault by a stalker of any other sort. She glanced about, quickly taking in her surrounds.

  On the cabin’s walls hung shelves upon which sat simple earthenware jugs with faded, pocked exteriors. Likely they were for carrying water in from the river that ran behind the building, its gurgling once again audible. The surface of the simple dirt floor, packed down over many years, was smooth and shiny in spots. Scattered about were piles of dry decomposing leaves, various shredded linens, and a cape of the whitest, softest cashmere—a clear sign of extravagant wealth. Mara assumed the items belonged to the woman she found before her.

  Great with child, she lay on the floor, a tattered moss green blanket mottled with grime beneath her. Blood spotted her clothing. Of an undetermined age—past the start of her third decade, but clearly not having seen the dawn of the first day marking her fourth—she boasted exquisitely flawless skin. It gave her an almost unearthly quality, though so wan, it nearly matched the white of the cape. Her face showed signs of great strain. Her breathing came short and perspiration stood out on her face and throat.

  Fear in her brilliant green eyes, she turned her head to the side, waving her hand weakly, as though resigned to take whatever might come. Then she cast a furtive glance toward the door before settling her gaze back on the Oathtaker, a question in her eyes.

  Mara edged closer, bending down, hands forward. “I’m an Oathtaker. I killed the grut, but I see I arrived too late. I’m so dreadfully sorry that they harmed you.” She hung her head. “You know, there’s nothing I can do now—except perhaps ease your pain and bring some comfort to your last hours. I’m so, so very sorry.” She reached down and touched the woman, seeking to console her. “Here, I have some herbs with me and—”

  “No,” she whispered softly.

  “No?”

  “Not the grut.” She placed her hand upon her midsection as her body tensed. She was in labor.

  Trained to assist with injuries and illnesses, Mara had attended numerous birthings in the past. But what she saw before her now was unlike any birthing room she’d ever seen before. Quickly, she turned businesslike.

  “What’s your name?” She seemed to know instinctively that the woman needed to rely on another so that she could concentrate her efforts on the birth of her child. Mara’s arrival, if it had been any later, would have been to no avail. As it was, she could o
nly hope to save one of them—the mother or her child.

  “I am,” she began. Her voice broke. She gasped as another contraction took hold. When it passed, she continued, “Rowena.”

  “Good, Rowena. I’m Mara. I can help. Just relax. You’re going to be fine. Now, let me take a look here.” She removed Rowena’s coverings, then touched her tentatively. “Just relax now, you’re safe.” She examined her. “The child is near. I need to go to the river for water, to get some supplies, and—”

  “No,” Rowena interrupted. “Please, listen . . . carefully.” She struggled with each word, each breath.

  “I’m listening. Take some steady breaths. That’s it. Relax.”

  “I . . . will not survive this birth.”

  “Hush! Hush, now. Don’t you say such a thing.”

  “I must tell you . . . Please, listen,” she sputtered out between chokes and gasps. She grew ever more agitated. Though weak, she grasped Mara’s wrist with urgency.

  “What is it? You tell me, and then we’ll see to this new gift from Creovita, the life giver.”

  Rowena loosened her grip. “I am a . . .” She winced with the pain of another contraction. “I am . . .” She cried out. Tears spilled. “A se—” She struggled to catch her breath. “I am a—”

  “You are what?”

  “Se—seven.”

  “You are seven. Seven what? Leagues from home? That’s not so far. I’ll help you to get there afterwards, or to get word to whomever you like if you can’t make the journey right away. That needn’t concern you. Now let me see what I can do here.”

  She shook her head again. “This child is—” She sucked in a breath. “This child—”

  “Surely, this can wait. Yes? You need to save your strength. We have some work to do here.” Mara pressed her hands against her shoulders to lay her back again.

  She rested for a moment, then her eyes opened large. “Listen, I haven’t much time. I’m a . . . seventh. She is a seventh.”

  “A seventh? A seventh! But that can’t be!” The Oathtaker pulled back. She thought for a moment, then looked at Rowena closely, her eyes narrowed. “Oh, dear Good One, are you the Rowena? Rowena Vala? The ranking member of the Select?”