by C. Greenwood
That done, he sat down, shivering before the fire, even though the night was not cold. His damaged forearm throbbed, and when he touched his cheek where the hound’s teeth had torn the flesh, his hand came away wet with blood.
It was a long time before he settled down to sleep that night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Geveral spent the following day traveling quickly through Blightwood, rarely daring to stop for food or rest. Although he saw no sign of the surviving hunger hound, he knew it was still out there somewhere, following him and waiting for the right moment to strike.
He kept his sturdy staff in hand and stayed close to the trees, thinking he could use them for his defense again should he need to.
A light drizzle had begun early in the morning and turned to a steady rain by midday. He didn’t stop to take shelter and wait out the storm, instead walking on through the deep puddles forming in hollows in the ground. The path grew slippery beneath his feet, and he shivered at the cold water falling on his bare head and running down his collar. His hair and clothing soon clung wetly to his skin.
But he was encouraged to see the trees thinning out, suggesting the end of the woods was near. Although he would be sorry to leave behind the protection of the forest, maybe when he put Blightwood behind him he would finally be free of his fierce enemy. He hoped the hunger hound would lose its courage when it no longer had the forest shadows to hide within and it would give up its pursuit.
It was late by the time Geveral reached the edge of the forest. The downpour had turned into a wild storm, bringing on early darkness. Wind lashed at the tree branches and the ground shook with every crash of thunder.
He was exhausted from the long march. His injured leg ached for rest as he stumbled toward the flatland beyond Blightwood. The landscape ahead was eerily lit by streaks of lightning zigzagging ferociously across the sky. It illuminated a long stretch of open ground that lacked natural rises or hollows, trees or boulders. There would be no shelter out there, either from the weather or from the creature that stalked him.
Geveral clung to the last tree of Blightwood, leaning against its thick trunk for a moment to catch his breath and ease the weight off his bad leg.
That was when he saw it. From the corner of his eye, he caught a movement behind him, a stirring in the undergrowth of the forest. Then a pair of fiery eyes were blinking at him out of the darkness.
Pulse racing, Geveral debated holding his ground or gathering the last of his strength in an attempt to outrun the hound. He felt strong enough for neither option and remained frozen to the spot.
A flash of lightning ripped across the sky to stab the ground a short distance away.
Geveral was startled into action. He abandoned his shelter and dashed out onto the stormy plane.
In the space of a few steps, he knew he had made the wrong decision. Pushed to its limits, his injured leg now screamed in pain with every pounding step. He wouldn’t be able to run long before it would give out.
He risked a backward glance and saw the hound galloping after him, its burning eyes and bared teeth drawing ever closer.
Suddenly, to his horror, his leg buckled under him and he tumbled face first to the ground.
As thunder crashed and the earth shook beneath Geveral, a memory flashed through his mind of another night like this one. The night Asincourt fell, when he had summoned winds and hurled lightning bolts for the first time, aiding the defenders of the seclusionary.
A heavy weight descended on him now, and the hound’s sharp claws raked his back while its teeth sank into his shoulder.
The world was suddenly lit up by a streak of lightning directly overhead. From his position, Geveral could see nothing but wet grass and muddy earth. But instinctively, unthinkingly, he reached out toward the lightning with his powers and drew the bolt down to him.
There was a quick searing jolt, like being struck with all the force of a fiery hammer. Then the world dropped away.
* * *
Geveral awoke to the smell of burned flesh and singed hair. He lay on his belly in the mud, something heavy on his back pinning him down. Memory returned to him in a rush. Memory of fleeing through the storm with the fierce hunger hound at his heels. Of falling and feeling the hound leap onto him, its fangs piercing his skin. Of believing his life was about to be ended.
Then had come the lightning strike.
Groaning, he dragged himself from beneath the motionless weight crushing down on him. He scooped up his walking staff where it had fallen to the ground nearby and climbed to his feet to survey his surroundings. Last night’s storm was over, leaving the tall grass of the flatland wet and beaten down. The cold light of early morning revealed what was left of the lifeless hunger hound, a smoking heap of bone and hide. The creature would never hunt anyone again.
As Geveral had hoped, the hound had absorbed the worst of the lightning strike, leaving him sheltered beneath. But it was a miracle he himself had emerged scarcely harmed by the contact. As far as he could tell, only the back of his shirt was scorched.
He took a moment to assess his injuries. His forearm was still lined with shallow puncture marks from his first encounter with the hunger hounds the previous day. His cheek had suffered worse damage during that attack and was still tender. He suspected he might wear a permanent scar where the hound’s teeth had raked his flesh. His back and shoulder throbbed from the more recent wounds inflicted last night. But these were shallow abrasions. He was more concerned about the way his right hip and leg ached, as if much of his time spent healing in the back of Janya’s wagon had been undone.
Beyond this, there was something more difficult to explain. An unidentifiable heated sensation across his forehead as if the skin had been lightly burned. A result of the lightning strike, perhaps?
He searched the area with his fingers but found nothing. No blood. No cuts. Only the continuing warmth like the discomfort of a sunburn.
He tried to examine his reflection in a nearby puddle. The murky image looking back at him was indistinct, but there was one thing he could make out. A softly glowing blue light radiating from a strange design traced across the skin of his forehead. At once he recognized the forked pattern from his dream. The mark of the greatest and most ancient storm summoners.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Parthenia
Parthenia scowled at the greasy-haired, grubbily dressed man walking beside her. He looked out of place in the clean marbled halls of the Temple of Tranquility. She could not imagine what the oracle might want with such a man. Despite his oily smile and the easy way he had surrendered his weapons—and his shoes—at the temple door, he was no person of honor. The manner of work he lived by made that plain.
“You will address the great oracle as ‘Your Wisdom’,” she instructed coolly as she escorted him toward the oracle’s chamber. “You will not gawk at her appearance, although it may seem unusual to you, and you must not ask any questions. Be conscious of the honor done you, for it is rare for the oracle to invite an outsider into her presence. Even more so, one who is no true pilgrim.”
“Never you worry, mistress. I’ll do nothing to offend her greatness,” the man said lightly, not quite succeeding at hiding his unfortunate baseland accent.
Parthenia flipped her pale braid in annoyance. “You may call me Server Parthenia, not mistress.” She corrected his impertinence.
They had reached the end of the corridor, and she nodded at the pair of female attendants standing guard on either side of the thick granite door ahead. Wordlessly, the attendants dragged open the heavy door, revealing a shadowed interior beyond. Parthenia steeped quickly inside, her grimy companion hurrying to catch up to her before the door was closed again.
She noted with satisfaction that some of the man’s self-assurance faded as he surveyed his stark surroundings.
It was chilly inside, the great braziers at the head of the room standing cold and empty. There were no windows for light or ventilation. Only torches along the wal
ls provided scattered pools of light, leaving the center of the room in darkness. Had the space been better lit, it would have been seen that there were no furnishings save a chair atop a dais in the middle of the chamber. With its eerie resemblance to a dungeon, this was not the sort of place one would think to find a great oracle.
Clearly it was not what her companion had expected, Parthenia thought, watching him remove his three-cornered hat and straighten his travel-stained tunic, while making a transparent attempt to hide his nervousness.
“Where is the oracle? Is she even here?” he asked after a moment’s silence.
At the same instant he spoke, another voice came to them out of the darkness. “This is the thieftaker?” it asked. “The one we have heard rumor of?”
The man fixed his beady eyes toward the shadowed heart of the room, although it was impossible to make out who sat there. “If you search for a thieftaker, I’m your man,” he said with what Parthenia judged to be forced cheer. “You sent for me, Your Greatness—er, Your Wisdom—and here I’m come. Samuil Tracker is my name, and I’m at your service.”
The oracle ignored his introduction and asked Parthenia, “You are certain this is the same bounty tracker who has pursued the barbarian traitor?”
As Parthenia answered in the affirmative, the man’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Barbarian traitor? If you speak of the betrayer of Endguard, I have surely been on the trail of that villain for many days.”
The oracle’s voice echoed again out of the darkness. “Then you will be pleased, thieftaker, to know that he will soon travel through the riverside town of Towbridge. If you hurry, you may manage to capture him there.”
Samuil looked startled. “With all respect, Your Greatness, how can you be sure where the barbarian is to be found?”
“Perhaps you forget you speak to an oracle?” the oracle answered dryly.
“Right. Of course you would know,” he agreed quickly. But a greedy look had come into his eyes and he asked, “As to terms, what am I to be paid upon the villain’s capture?”
“I am not hiring you.” The oracle’s voice dripped with disdain. “I merely do my duty in informing you where you may find this dangerous criminal should you wish to collect the kingdom’s reward for his apprehension. You may leave now.”
The thieftaker looked disappointed, no doubt seeing the possibility of collecting a double payment slipping away from him.
Still, he recovered quickly, and an expression of determination replaced the disappointment as Parthenia ushered him unceremoniously out of the chamber. He was probably already laying plans for hurrying with his hirelings toward Towbridge.
“Why do we deal with such a nasty little man?” Parthenia asked when he was gone. “Thieftakers and criminals are surely beneath Your Wisdom’s notice.”
“Do you presume to question my motives, Server?” asked the oracle.
She was right to ask. Once there had been a time when Parthenia would not have dared voice doubts or hint criticism of the oracle’s actions. But that was when she had served with absolute confidence. Before she had seen the oracle driven from the sacred pool by one of its water guardians. Much had changed since that moment.
Parthenia approached the dark center of the room where she could vaguely discern the dim figure of the oracle seated cross-legged on the floor of the dais. Although she could not now make out details of the four-armed figure before her, she knew what she would see if she could. Violet-hued skin, lightly tattooed with lines of gold, brass bands around arms, throat, and ankles, and a black veil that did little to cover the bald head or youthful features beneath it. The oracle’s eyes, when open, were solid black, like those of a night creature, and as deep and empty as bottomless pits.
Beyond all this, the oracle had begun looking weak recently. Of late, her eyes were sunken and what clothing she wore hung upon her loosely. She had not eaten in many days, leaving her without the strength to stand or walk about or do anything but sit motionless in the shadows.
It was not unusual for the oracle to punish her flesh in order to achieve greater closeness with the First Mother. But her current condition was extreme even for her.
Under Parthenia’s scrutiny, the oracle gave in to her silent prodding and said, “I summoned the thieftaker you are so curious about because it is time to remove the Betrayer of Blood from our way. Once I thought he would be useful to us. Necessary, even. But he clearly has no intention of bringing the scepter to me. He continues to rebel in all things, and I fear exposing Child Eydis any longer to such an influence.”
It was the first time Parthenia had ever heard the oracle admit to fearing anything, and she wondered if the confession was only offered now because of the incident at the pool. Because the oracle knew Parthenia had witnessed her moment of weakness, and that witnessing had entitled her to certain truths.
The oracle continued, “Child Eydis must not be swayed by the barbarian into pursuing personal goals, as he does, over selfless sacrifice. Do not forget that the mistress of masks must ultimately die for the survival of Earth Realm.”
Of course Parthenia remembered as much. She had been there when the prophecy had first been spoken. She knew Eydis must die. The only question was whether, when the time came, Eydis would remember it herself.
CHAPTER NINE
Eydis
Eydis did not like the looks of the overgrown swamp ahead. They had left Hedgecote behind earlier in the morning and had not been traveling long when Orrick had departed from the road, leading her toward wild marshland.
“I think we should stick to the road,” she protested, eying the drooping trees and thick vegetation mistrustfully. Anything—or anyone—could be hiding in such a place. They had had no further encounters with last night’s assassin, but it was not difficult to imagine him concealing himself here.
Orrick shook his head. “We’re losing time now that we travel without the ghost horse. You say you want to reach your oracle as quickly as possible. This is the surest way to do it. It’s a more direct route than the road.”
Eydis suspected he was less concerned with hurrying her to the oracle than with getting her to the settlement of Arneroche so they could separate and he return to his personal quest. He had seemed increasingly preoccupied lately with thoughts of Arik the One-Eyed. He continued to refuse her offers to mask his appearance so he wouldn’t be recognized in the towns. But she felt the price on his head had begun to weigh heavily on him.
“Are you worried about running into the thieftaker and his men again?” she asked as they waded through the tall grasses toward the marsh. “You said they nearly captured you at the stone circle. Are they the real reason you avoid the road now?”
Orrick frowned at her questioning but admitted, “The White Lady warned me I would soon be in danger.”
“The White Lady?” she asked, startled. “When?”
“When I saw her in the woods, before Hedgecote. At the ruins of the great house. She told me my doom was sealed.”
He threw her a sidelong glance. “Besides, we have enemies enough between the two of us to make it wise to hurry our journey. And the more unexpected our route, the more difficult it will be for your assassin friend to follow.”
His plan made sense.
That didn’t stop Eydis from grimacing, as she first set foot on the marshland. The ground was soft and her boots sank deep into the mud. Here and there were deep pools of foul-smelling water to be avoided. The air was heavy and thick with buzzing biting insects. It didn’t take Eydis long to work up a sweat and there were no gentle breezes to cool her. Not even the shade of the surrounding trees offered much relief from the heat. These were short, thick trees with wispy moss trailing from their branches. Between the trees, the ground was littered with fallen logs and boulders.
Clambering over rocks and logs alike was an abundant type of vegetation Eydis had never seen before. It was a climbing vine that grew as thick as her wrist and as strong as rope and was covered in red and gree
n leaves. Like a malevolent presence, the vine had taken over the marsh and could hardly be avoided, despite the unpleasant burning sensation it created when it came into contact with bare skin.
They trudged through the marsh until the sun began to lower in the sky, but no matter how long they walked, the scenery never seemed to change. Eydis started to suspect they were lost. Until now Orrick had always appeared to know the Lythnian countryside nearly as well as one born to it. She had never questioned his sense of direction. But in the wetlands, he seemed less sure of himself. Despite being not far from Castidon and the places of her childhood, Eydis was as unfamiliar with this swamp as he.
It was in the midst of these doubts that she first noticed the green mist. It had been there for some time, creeping up from the ground to swirl around their ankles. But now, for the first time, she really looked at it. This was no ordinary fog. It was unnaturally thick and failed to burn away under the light of the sinking sun.
As the mist rose higher, past her knees and above her hips, Eydis walked faster, as if to escape it. It was ridiculous to think there was anything dangerous about the drifting vapor, but its manner of following and clinging to her like an insistent living thing was unnerving.
Orrick too must be finding it a nuisance. “We should stop and wait for the mist to break up,” he said. “It’s dangerous to walk this uneven ground while we can’t see where we’re going.”
He made a good point. It would be easy to stumble over a vine or fall into one of the many pools of filthy water scattered throughout the soggy land. One of them might trip and break an ankle.
But Eydis said, “We’re not stopping.”
Coughing at the odd burning sensation in the back of her throat, she kept walking. She was driven by an inexplicable impatience to hurry along even if it meant risking injury needlessly.