“If he doesn’t turn up on this little quest,” Slayne said, “then as soon as we’re done with Kala I’m going to find that son of a bitch and take care of him once and for all.”
The dancers and whores faded into the background, and Gess’s Veilcrafted shell kept the music and smoke at a distance.
“I’m sorry, Marros,” Gess said. Slayne nodded. The Veilwarden knew about his past with Dane.
“I’d buried it,” Slayne said quietly. “But ever since he showed up again all I can think about is her.” His eyes were glassy with tears. “I have to kill him, Toran. It’s as simple as that.”
“Fair enough,” Gess said with a nod.
“You said Argus’ team will be assembled within a few days?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make sure the Black Eagles are ready to go,” Slayne said. “I’m still not happy about this. I prefer working with people I know and trust.”
“Which is why you don’t like working with me,” Gess said with a laugh.
“We’re getting there,” Slayne smiled.
Gess dismissed his magic, and the noise of the room rushed back in on them. Slayne called for the serving girl and ordered them another round of drinks.
Fourteen
Vellexa’s skin chilled in the evening wind. She stood at the crest of a steep hill surrounded by thorny briars and shallow streams. Ebonmark was many miles to the north, just a dark stain of blood red shadows in the light of the setting sun.
She looked out over a crude graveyard bordered by rune-marked stones. The grave markers were simple and inelegant things: planks of wood or rock with the names etched or burned on, simple crosses tied together with cord, pieces of shattered statue that had been unceremoniously shoved into the soil.
Strong wind blew through the trees, carrying the salty taste of the Moon Sea. Dirt and pebbles flew down the hillside, and Vellexa watched the grave markers shift and wondered how many of them had blown away over the years, leaving those buried anonymous and hidden.
It doesn’t matter, she thought. We’re all just food for the worms in the end.
Vellexa carefully moved down the hill, holding her cloak tight to fight off the cold. She could have Breathed the Veil to warm herself – she’d done it before, especially when she was younger – but she was too old for such frivolous uses of her power. Every time she utilized magic she shaved a few more seconds off her life. When she’d been young and naive she used the Veil with abandon, but now that she was thirty-four she worried about such things.
Those last few seconds of my life may be the ones I need the most.
She came to the clearing and stood over a grave marker she’d placed there many years ago. Markus never would have wanted to be buried in the city – he’d been a wild spirit, more barbarian than man, born to the Hill People but sold as a slave when he was very young and raised by the Black Guild to be an assassin and enforcer. His talents as a Bloodspeaker had been unparalleled, but no matter how much time he spent in Ebonmark the savage never completely left him. Even his appearance bespoke of something untamed, with his long brown hair and stony jaw, his trim beard and broad shoulders, the bladed bracers and studded leather armor that made him seem more gladiator than mage. Markus had always been happier outdoors, whether he was hunting, killing or making love to Vellexa under the moonlight, which was why she’d left him there in that clearing, to rest in the company of unknown travelers and farmers.
I miss you, My Love. She’d vowed to make the Phage pay for taking him away from her, for leaving her alone with an infant son who’d never know his father.
The Jlantrians had her child. True to his word, Slayne had moved Kyver to a secure location...only Velexa didn’t know where, and it was driving her mad. Were they holding him hostage? Would Slayne give him up if she turned herself in? Somehow she doubted it. To make matters worse, the Black Eagles had seized her manor, leaving her with no place to hide from the Jlantrians or the Guild.
Memory of that night in Black Sun haunted her. Though she’d used her magic to heal her face it still burned where Slayne had slashed her. She’d tried to kill him for what he’d done, but she’d come up short.
Next time I won’t miss. The loss of Sammeus had affected her much deeper than she’d expected. Between his death and Kyver’s disappearance she knew there was little she wouldn’t do to take some measure of revenge on Marros Slayne. Unless Cronak beats me to it.
Cronak perched on a large rock at the edge of the graveyard. He went heel to haunch, looking like a stone gargoyle. He’d nearly been torn to pieces by Jorias Targo, and though he’d survived the attack he hadn’t come through the ordeal unscathed: Targo had transformed Cronak into a creature like himself, half-man and half-wolf. He looked human, but was far from it. Cronak’s flesh had taken on an unnatural pallor, his eyes were blank white slates without irises or pupils, and his fingernails had turned sharp and claw-like even when he wasn’t in his half-lupine form. In many respects, however, he hadn’t changed since his “rebirth” – he was quiet and brooding, kept his distance unless he was needed, and stared out at the world with cold and distant eyes. He’d developed a highly protective attitude towards Vellexa, watching her every move and constantly staying alert for signs of danger. It had been going on ever since he’d gotten her out of Black Sun, and it was starting to unnerve her. She had no idea how Targo had concocted his “werewolf drug”, so she didn’t know how to help Cronak escape his new condition, or if he even wanted to. She’d only asked him once about how he felt, if he was in any pain, and he’d just smiled and looked off to the horizon. A few seconds later she’d heard wolves, and decided she wouldn’t be asking him again.
Vellexa looked at Markus’s grave. She remembered him as he’d been buried, wrapped in the rune-covered cloak she’d given him on their wedding night. By now it would hold nothing but bones and rotted remains.
The night grew cold and dark and the gritty wind sliced right through her cloak.
I have to get Kyver back.
It didn’t matter that he hated her, or that she’d never been much of a mother. He was her son. Everything she’d worked so hard for, all of the sacrifices she’d made to try and build Kyver a good life…all of it had come unraveled the night Slayne and Blackhall turned her against the Black Guild. Even though the organization was in shambles the Iron Count wouldn’t go quietly, and she feared that in spite of the Jlantrians pursuing him he’d still find a way to take revenge on both her and her son.
What can I do? It would be all but impossible for her to rescue Kyver. She didn’t know where he was, and with Ebonmark’s heightened state of alert and news of her betrayal spreading like wildfire she knew she’d be snatched up the moment she set foot in the city. Even if she could find her son and somehow get him away from Slayne’s thugs they’d both be in terrible danger as long as the Count was still alive.
What if I can appease him somehow? she wondered, and then the answer came to her: the Dream Witch.
If she could find Ijanna Taivorkan before Dane did and give her to the Count, maybe he’d let she and Kyver go. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was far from impossible, especially with Cronak’s help. In the week they’d spent hiding he’d already proved to be a faultless tracker with incredible strength, and his powers of regeneration were incredible.
All of a sudden Cronak stood and howled. The sound raced up Vellexa’s spine and iced her blood.
Tuscars from the camp came crashing through the trees, their eyes wide with alarm and their hands clenched around the hilts of their morningstars and shek’taars. There were nearly forty of them, a band not affiliated with any of the other raiders in the area – they were loyal to Vellexa, who’d bought their services for the Guild several years back, and they and their leader Fan’skar considered their contract with her, not with the Iron Count. Their dark leather armor made them melt into the budding night. Each Tuscar stood nearly seven feet tall and stank of meat and musk. Vellexa heard their drad’mont mounts stamping and snort
ing just out of sight.
As soon as the tusked and grey-skinned humanoids realized there was no danger they sheathed their weapons and turned back to their cold meals. Even after his cry was done Cronak stood perfectly still, his claws stretched to his sides, his chest heaving.
“Cronak?” she said cautiously. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing,” he said, his voice nearly inhuman. “There aren’t many of us left. I have to be ready.”
“There are more of us than you think,” Vellexa said. “We have nearly a score of Tuscars…”
“Not us here,” Cronak said. “The wolves. I can hear them.” His dark hair blew in the night wind. “We shouldn’t have killed Targo’s men,” he said. “Now there are few of us left, and I’m the only one who’s answered the Calling. The others fight it, even though they’re not aware of what’s happening.” He seemed to forget about Vellexa and the Tuscars as he stared at the northern sky. “One of them has left – I feel him, but he’s far from this place now. The other is still in the city. He’ll be drawn away soon…he’s already thinking about the coming journey.” Vellexa stood there in shock. She’d never heard Cronak string so many words together in his life, and the way he talked, like he’d literally been possessed, froze her inside. “I’ll speak to him through his dreams of the Calling,” Cronak said. “By the time he’s ready, he’ll be mine.”
Wonderful, she thought. Cronak has lost his mind.
A few of the Tuscars still lingered about. They understood little of the Jlantrian tongue, but they watched Cronak warily. Bone fetishes and iron wires dangled from their armor, and their bald grey heads were covered with crude tribal tattoos.
“Who is ‘He’?” Vellexa asked Cronak. “Who are you talking about?”
Cronak gave her a wicked smile.
“We’ll soon have an ally in Slayne,” Cronak said. “Whether he knows it or not.”
Vellexa thought on that, and after a moment she understood.
The serum. Targo’s werewolf drug.
Targo had nearly killed Cronak while he was in his transformed state, and Cronak had done the same to Slayne. He’d told her how he’d attacked Azander Dane, as well, and Vellexa could only surmise that the fallen Dawn Knight was the “other” Cronak spoke of, the one who’d traveled far from Ebonmark.
We’d thought Targo’s drug had to be imbibed for it to affect people. Apparently the bastard could spread it himself, and like a disease it’s moved from Cronak to the men he’s injured but not killed. The wolf form was like a plague, and now Cronak was the carrier.
“Cronak,” she said slowly, “are you telling me you can sense their whereabouts…hear their thoughts?”
“Yes,” he said. “But only if they’re close.” Vellexa was about to ask something else, but Cronak put a finger to his lips, and whispered: “Quiet. I’m listening.” He turned his head and looked to the sky. The moon floated low to the east. More wolf calls sounded in the distance, and Vellexa wondered if they were speaking to Cronak.
Fan’skar approached. He was a brute of a creature, with knotted grey muscles and a broad and solid chest. His tusks were nocked with slashes representing his kills, and he painted his scalp with his enemies’ blood. Like most Tuscars he wore dark armor, and his battered breastplate and bracers denoted his authority. A wickedly serrated claymore was slung across his back, its hilt-guard laced with spikes. Fan’skar spoke only halting Jlantrian, but since Vellexa spoke Tuscar she usually conversed with him in his slimy and slurred language.
“Your man is insane,” Fan’skar said plainly.
“Perhaps,” Vellexa said. “But he can still be of use.”
“How? Look at him! He’s been cursed by madness! He’s not the man he used to be.”
No, Vellexa thought. He’s more. And what he’s become is frightening.
“Cronak,” she said. He didn’t respond. “Cronak!” He turned towards her, but seemed half-lost in trance. “You told me you can find Ijanna.” He nodded. “How?”
“Through Slayne,” he said. “I’m connected to him in a way I don’t truly understand. I don’t know his destination yet, because he doesn’t know it, but I can follow him when he goes to find her.”
Vellexa nodded. She couldn’t comprehend how it was that Targo’s Veilcrafted narcotic could establish a mental link between its victims, but it was the best option they had. They’d follow Slayne to Ijanna, kill him, and take her trussed and bound to the Iron Count themselves.
And maybe, just maybe, that will buy Kyver’s safety.
“How long before Slayne transforms?” she asked him. “Before he becomes like you?”
Cronak shook his head.
He doesn’t know. The thought was disheartening. If Slayne turned too soon the Jlantrians would realize he was dangerous and likely exclude him from their mission. Damn it.
“Fan’skar,” she said in Tuscar. “Make sure your warriors are prepared. We have to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
“We hunt the Dream Witch?” the Tuscar asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Among others.”
Fifteen
Until she’d actually encountered the Chul, Ijanna hadn’t believed the stories about them. Few did. It was easy to accept the idea of giants and dragons and Tuscars and even werewolves, but people weren’t so quick to embrace the notion of the worst kinds of monsters: the human ones.
The Chul were a veritable cult of outcasts and refugees who’d chose to shed their human identities and become beasts, scarred killers who preyed upon humanity’s weak and believed they’d be rewarded with a place in the new world order once Carastena Vlagoth returned. They were insane and troubled people who filed their teeth to canine edges, bleached their flesh and riddled their bodies with fetishes and jagged piercings. They were led by the cruel and manipulative Witch Mother, Voice of the Blood Queen, who promised them that when the day of reckoning arrived they’d all return to their rightful place inside the sealed fortress of Chul Gaerog. They lived in the shadows, infiltrating polite society to prey upon its citizens and terrorizing the wastes between the city-states.
“So why the hell are they after you?” Kath asked.
They’d moved double-time for nearly an hour to put some distance between themselves and the Chul. Luckily their pursuers were still a ways off, but it wouldn’t take long for them to close the gap.
“The Witch Mother,” she said. “She wants me dead.”
They approached a long but narrow rift between some rocky hills. The trench was over a hundred feet long but only a few feet wide; they could position themselves on the hills to either side and gain higher ground against their pursuers. Dozens of waist-high stones covered the area like grave markers.
“Why?” he asked. He glanced over his shoulder.
“How far back are they?” Ijanna asked. “How long will it take for them to reach us?”
“If we can keep us this pace, maybe they won’t,” he said. “How far to Corinth?”
“Too far,” Ijanna said. “They’ll be using the Skull of the Moon to push themselves. They won’t need to rest.”
“The what?” Kath asked.
“Magic,” Ijanna said. “The Chul are excellent trackers. We won’t be able to lose them, not while they’re this close.” She looked down into the shallow rift and up at the jagged rocks. “Damn it.”
“Wait…you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you?” Kath asked.
“We can’t outrun them, Kath. You know that.”
Kath looked around, his chest heaving.
“Goddess. Ijanna…”
“How many are there?” she asked. Cold wind stung like the touch of sharpened ice, and the murky green moon made the ground appear sick.
The Chul had their scent, and while Ijanna could Breath the Veil to mask their presence she wasn’t sure if it would be enough to counteract the powerful magic used by the cannibal warriors. Besides, they were close enough now that they wouldn’t need the Witch Mo
ther’s sorcery to locate their prey.
The dark of night was clear of stars. Broken hills lie in every direction, and if she and Kath kept running there was a good chance they’d stumble upon another canyon like the one they’d just found, only the next one might not be so shallow. Dying by falling into a pit while running through the dark might have been a better way to die than at the hands of the Chul, but it was still death, and Ijanna wasn’t ready for that just yet.
“We make a stand,” she said. “We’ll take cover, and ambush them when they get here.”
Kath looked at her like she’d grown a third arm. Ijanna loosened her cloak and took off her pack. She saw the Chul, just shadows on the horizon. Goosebumps prickled her flesh, and her spine tingled with fear as she checked her short blade and adjusted her vambraces. For as many times as she’d faced death she’d never gotten used to it.
“You’re insane,” Kath said. “There are at least eight of them. I thought I was supposed to keep you alive – the two of us don’t stand a chance against a whole band of warriors!”
“What you’re supposed to do is help me,” she said. “They’ve been hunting me for a year, Kath. I know them. I know how they work. When they get this close, when their bodies are being pushed by the Witch Mother’s magic, there’s no outrunning them. Especially out here.” She looked up the slope of the closest hill. A steeply angled path led between rows of sharp stones. “We’ll have to face them sooner or later.”
“I’d rather it was later,” Kath said angrily, and he looked back in the Chul’s direction. “I can barely see them,” he said, squinting. “But they’re getting closer. Why does the Witch Mother want you dead?” he asked. “Because of what you are?”
“Silencing their enemies is how they keep their existence a secret,” she said. “They strike from the shadows, kill only when they know they can do so without getting caught.” She took a breath. “And yes, Kath, they’re hunting me because I’m one of the Skullborn.”
And they know how much power they can acquire by consuming my flesh.
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