by J. C.
"Leesil?"
The sound of her voice was weak, barely a whisper. Leesil turned about, almost as on guard as when facing the vicious beggar boy.
Magiere breathed heavily now, as if exertion and injury had suddenly caught up with her all at once. Her features smoothed as wrinkles of rage faded, and her eyes cast about in confusion.
"Leesil?" she said again, as if she couldn't see him. Then she sank to her knees, the falchion's blade thumping against the ground.
Leesil hesitated. A small fear knotted in his chest. One unknown danger had fled the camp only to leave him with another he'd unwittingly kept company with for years. He'd seen a boy move with impossible speed and strength and his own dog savagely rebound unscathed from vicious attacks. He'd seen his only companion of years get up from a blow that might have downed most anyone, then slowly twist into something… someone he recognized only in the barest manner.
Magiere slumped over, head halfway to the ground. She'd dropped the sword entirely. Her weapon hand bent backward against the ground, unable to turn over to properly brace her weight.
Leesil had never touched her, except during their mock battles for money. The thought of stepping nearer to her now made his insides tense. Instinctively, he lifted the crossbow, holding it tight and pointed at Magiere.
How many times had she been the last one to sleep as he drank himself into slumber? How long had he wandered from theft to gambling table before he'd tried to lift her coin purse by mistake? How many people had he known in his ambling life willing to let him share their dream, even if it wasn't one he particularly wanted? And he'd never before seen her need anyone.
He rushed over, dropping the crossbow as he caught her before she collapsed fully to the earth. Magiere crumpled and her weight was more than Leesil could hold in his half-crouch. He fell backward on the seat of his breeches, and Magiere's shoulders and head toppled back against his chest, nearly knocking him flat.
"I've got you," he said, pushing himself up as he steadied her, one arm around her shoulders. "It's all right."
He knew it was a lie. There was something very wrong with Magiere—about Magiere—and he was certainly not all right. Nothing was all right anymore. Now what was he to do? Would she come completely out of this—whatever it had been—by morning?
The heat of fear and fight was draining out of him, and the night air felt suddenly chill. He felt Magiere shudder, then go limp as she leaned against him.
As he sat there, trying to pull an old woolen blanket out of a pack and across her shuddering body, he thought he noticed a soft glow on her chest just below her neck. When he finished with the blanket, he looked again, but found nothing but the dangling amulets she wore half tucked into the top of her leather vestment.
* * * *
Ratboy didn't remember his journey back to Miiska. He only remembered growing pain and weakness, and wild bewilderment. Too injured to think or even rationalize, he felt the energy of his existence slowly dripping down his back and from his arm, weakening him. He'd been able to focus his will and remaining energy to closing the quarrel wound, but not his other injuries. The sword wound and teeth marks refused to close.
He'd been injured before, yet had never had a wound leech his strength like this, and lack of understanding only fueled his fear. Stumbling, he fell against the timber wall of a building, not even aware of what part of town he had entered. If he lost the last of his strength before reaching shelter, the sun would rise upon him.
In this early time before the day, the town lay silent. Rows of small weatherworn houses stretched out on both sides of him. He needed to get under cover before dawn, and he needed strength and life. He needed to feed.
A light feminine humming caught his attention, and the sensation of nearby warmth, flesh, and then blood filled his nostrils. Hunger and longing pulled him from his stupor, and he scrambled on all fours to the nearest corner of a house. There was also the smell of horse dung and metal, as well as coal and wood ash. It took a moment for him to piece together what his eyes saw. There was a woodpile to his right, and to the left around the corner were stable doors. In the rafters of the overhang hung horseshoes waiting for fitting.
Ratboy's eyes widened as recognition came upon him. He was outside Miiska's only blacksmith's shop. Following the humming voice, he crawled to the woodpile with a fence behind it. He was as careful as possible while climbing the stacked wood to peer over the fence.
A girl of about fifteen years knelt by the family wood stack on the opposite side of the fence, her silky, mouse-brown hair tousled as if she'd risen from bed only moments ago. She wore only a white cotton night shift that Ratboy would have found enticing at any other time. Now all he needed was life, blood to strengthen him until he could find some way to close the wounds caused by the hunter and the dog.
The girl hummed gently again and then said, "Misty, come out of there. You're the one scratching at my window to be let in. Stop playing games and come in the house."
A soft meow answered her and a young tabby popped its head from out of the woodpile on the girl's side of the fence. Ratboy saw her make a mock frown at the cat, trying hard to seem angry.
He did not weave into her thoughts with his voice, lulling her into forgetfulness so he could take what he needed and then disguise the teeth marks. Instead, he lunged.
The cat hissed and retreated into its hiding place.
Ratboy was over the fence and on the girl before she saw him at all. With one hand, he snatched her hair and pulled her head back to expose her neck, and with the other he held her body up against his. His open jaws snapped across her throat and bit down, tearing through the skin. Any cry she might have made was cut off as he crushed her windpipe. There was no time for her to struggle. Her hands merely shook, unable to act.
The first few seconds of warmth and life did not register, but soon his mind began to clear.
Red liquid covered his face and hands and shirt, but he didn't care. The only thing on his mind was the pain in his back and wrists fading to a dull soreness as he dropped the dead carcass on the ground, leaving her there.
Cold never bothered the undead, but the luxury of warmth inside after feeding was a pleasure he never grew tired of, no matter how many times he felt it. It burned through him now, filling him up. It was more pleasure than he could ever remember, even when he'd been alive. And it washed away the hunger, killed the burning of his wounds, and he no longer felt his strength seeping from his body.
Sated and euphoric, he nearly lost track of the time, until a less pleasant tingle ran down the back side of his body across his skin.
There was a glow above the skyline to the east away from the ocean. Sunrise was coming.
Ratboy fled along the dock side of the town toward the warehouse. There would be a lot of explaining to do. Perhaps a little lying as well.
* * * *
Leesil had managed to toss stray pieces of wood into the fire and kick it together, but it did little more than sputter a few small flames for the rest of the night. He couldn't afford to drink now, so that also meant no sleep. Not that he could sleep, as this night's events had been almost as unsettling as his never-ending dreams. It was not a hardship, as he'd gone as long as three sleepless nights before fatigue caught up with him. He remembered his mother could go even longer when the need arose, and likely his own ability was inherited from her. Something to do with her elven heritage that she'd so seldom discussed.
Chap had changed quickly back into his cheerful self, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Having found a comfortable spot on the ground near his master, he'd spent the night silently grooming himself and napping for short periods, only to stir occasionally at the forest sounds only he could hear.
Sitting quietly with Magiere sleeping in his lap, Leesil passed long, tense hours in the dark before he could look at her face without imagining it transformed into what he'd seen earlier that night. He had checked her for wounds, but she was uninjured as far a
s he could detect. By the time he could look at her face without flinching, morning twilight was just beginning. There should have been a black-and-blue patch and conceivably split skin with dried blood on the side of her face. He now saw only a light bruise on her left cheek. Instead of relief, he felt another surge of fear and confusion. As the sun rose just high enough that he could feel its warmth on his back, Magiere's eyelids quivered and opened.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," she answered hesitantly, then added, "My jaw hurts."
"I'm not surprised," he said. Then he remembered she hadn't been hit in the jaw but on the side of her face.
Before he could ask another question, he felt her body tense. She blinked wide as she stared up at him, apparently now realizing she lay in his lap.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"Good question," he said, raising his eyebrows. "I like that question. I might even ask it myself."
Magiere rolled to sit up as quickly as she could without leaning on him for support, but her scowling eyes stayed fixed upon Leesil.
"You dropped in a heap last night and started shaking," he explained. "I didn't want you to get chilled in the night from exhaustion."
"I'm not exhausted," she muttered angrily, then climbed to her feet.
Her hand went instantly to the side of her face, and she wavered slightly where she stood. Leesil retrieved his wineskin and, taking a tin cup from his pack, he filled it with red wine.
"This is all we have for the pain. Drink it. All of it."
Magiere seldom drank anything besides water or spiced tea. She grabbed the cup too roughly and slopped part of it on to the ground. She sipped it, winced, and then rubbed at her jaw. Leesil watched suspiciously.
"Do you want to tell me what happened last night?" he asked.
She shook her head. "What is there to tell?"
Leesil crossed his arms. "Well, let's see now. We were attacked without reason. I shot him, and he pulled the quarrel out as if it were a splinter. Then he acted like Chap's bite was a mortal wound. Not to mention he seemed surprised that your sword could actually hurt him. And then you…" He paused only a moment, waiting for a response, but none came. "Let's see… loss of the power of speech, kicking a man into the air and onto his back almost faster than I could see… not to mention your drooling maniacal expression. What exactly do you think—"
"I don't know!" she shouted at him.
Magiere dropped to the ground next to the cart and leaned back against its wheel. Her head drooped until Leesil could no longer see her eyes. She let out a deep, angry sigh. Then a second sigh, weak and heavy.
In the years he'd known her, many words occurred to him that would have adequately described Magiere—strong, resourceful, heartless, manipulative, careful—but never lost or vulnerable.
"I don't know what happened," she said, almost too quietly for him to hear. "If I tell you something crazy, Leesil, you mustn't laugh."
"I wait in suspense," he said, not understanding why he suddenly felt angry instead of more sympathetic. He was worried about her, but still angry. Perhaps it was the long, edgy night of sitting with no answers.
"I think we've been on the game too long." She lifted her head, but did not look at him. "What's real and what's false are becoming blurred in my head. I don't want to fight anymore… or at all or… I don't know. All of this can stop if we just make a peaceful life. We'll run an honest business, keep to ourselves, and this will all go away."
"That's it?" Leesil's frustration was quickly fueling his anger.
"That's all I know." She finally looked at him, then away, shaking her head. "I don't know what else it could be."
That was no answer, just another evasion. She'd told him nothing. Or had she? Leesil's past had erased all desire to protect anyone besides himself. He wasn't certain now if he felt protective or simply puzzled. He only knew that Magiere's demeanor was at least changing back into the cold and moderately pleasant countenance he'd come to know and depend on. Perhaps it was just the years of living in lies and playing games that had finally caught up with her. That would have to be relief enough for now. But there would be more questions when another opportunity arose.
"All right," he said, throwing up his arms and letting them drop. "If you've no secrets to tell, we'll mark this one as another mad thief on the road. By midday, we'll be in Miiska."
"Yes." She half smiled. "Good enough for a new life."
"I'll make the tea," he grumbled, kneeling down to collect and fan the last embers of the fire. He looked at her and nodded. "A new life."
* * * *
At the break of dawn, Rashed dragged Ratboy's bloody, struggling form into the underground drawing room and threw him up against a wall.
Teesha's eyes rose from her needlework in near alarm. "What is going on?"
"Look at him!" Rashed spit.
Half-dried blood covered Ratboy's chin and upper torso. Although Rashed thought the youngest member of their trio to be an impatient upstart, he'd never considered him a complete fool—until now.
"This witless whelp left a dead girl lying in her own yard with her throat torn open!"
Teesha stood and smoothed her blue satin dress. Her chocolate curls bounced slightly as she approached Ratboy, who was sprawled against the base of the room's back wall. She looked him over, and her head tilted ever so slightly to the side as her small face took on a disappointed expression.
"Is this true?" she asked.
"While you're staring so hard, take a look at my back," the dusty urchin answered, finding his voice. "That blackish stuff isn't human blood. It's my own." He held his wrists out. "And these scars were open wounds not long ago. You ever see one of our kind get scars before?"
"Impossible," Rashed hissed, but his brow wrinkled when he leaned over for closer inspection. Jagged white slashes resembling teeth marks covered Ratboy's forearms. "How?"
"That hunter!" Ratboy screeched back at him in frustration. "She truly is a hunter. I've seen few of our own kind move so quickly, and her sword sliced my back as if I were living flesh."
"Nonsense," Rashed said in open disgust, stepping back. "The charlatan used her earnings to buy some warded blade, that's all. You obviously rushed in with your usual naive confidence and failed. You got cut for your own recklessness and ran away like a coward. And to make matters worse, you didn't bother thinking about us, did you? Instead of coming back here to face the slow process of healing, you consumed a young girl to death not twenty houses from your own and then left her body to panic the town."
Ratboy's jaw dropped as if Rashed's accusations were too outrageous for defense. "But I have scars!"
Rashed paused only a second, then turned away in disgust.
"You sent him," Teesha said gently, eyebrows raised with her eyes half closed, as if to spread the guilt properly. Her tiny red mouth set in a position of chastisement. "He isn't experienced enough to battle a hunter, charlatan or legitimate, and you know it. And none of us were certain how real or false she was. You should have seen to this matter."
If Ratboy had made such a statement, Rashed would have shaken him like a rag doll, but Teesha's words rang true. The tall leader glared down at Ratboy again, but did not continue his assault.
"When will she reach town?" he asked.
Still petulant, Ratboy answered, "Sometime today. She's traveling with a half-elf and… that dog." He turned to Teesha. "Edwan was right about the dog. His teeth burned me. I wasn't ready! If I'd known, I could have won. I would have broken that hound's neck in the first blink."
The wax rose candles flickered around them, and Teesha patted Ratboy's shoulder. "We need to go down to the caverns and sleep. Take off those rags and let me see your back. I'll find you another shirt."
Teesha's attention washed all the anger from Ratboy's face, and he allowed himself to be led away like a puppy.
Rashed frowned at their backs. Ratboy's injuries were his own fault, scars or not, and Teesha's
motherly kindness only encouraged further carelessness. That little leech of an urchin should sleep all night in his own crusted blood.
But for now, such petty thoughts were minor concerns. Rashed had built this home out of nothing. His small family had reasonable wealth and safety, the likes of which normally came to only the older of the Noble Dead after years of planning and manipulation. While he slept this day, a hunter—charlatan or no—was coming to take it all away. She must be removed quickly and quietly. Teesha was right. He should have handled this affair himself.
Rashed began snuffing out the candles, one by one. Keeping the situation away from Miiska was no longer possible. Parko, his fallen brother, must have let something slip before he perished, otherwise why would this hunter come here? There was no question she came looking for the three of them. So he would wait, perhaps a night or two, and allow this hunter to become comfortable. And then he would deal with her personally.
Chapter Five
Magiere caught her first glimpse of Miiska late that morning and felt a twinge of uncertainty. She had literally banked everything on finding peace in this small port town, and dreams by a campfire were often a far cry from reality.
Leesil showed no similar apprehension "Finally," he said, and his step quickened until he moved out ahead of her. "Come on."
Like him, she had become fond of clean, salty air. Unlike him, she could not express such appreciation. His habit of speaking exactly what he thought often confused her, but now she hurried to follow, jerking on the donkey's bridle. She was glad of Leesil's open curiosity. He might make this easier.
Chap no longer rode in the cart, but trotted along beside Leesil, head high as if he knew exactly where he was going, a hound on his way home after the morning run. After so many years trying to perfectly fit their parts in the "hunter of the dead" game, Magiere was struck by just how peculiar looking a trio they were. She wondered what the townspeople would think of them.
"I wish we could have cleaned up first," she said.
"You look fine," Leesil answered, sounding ridiculous in his torn, oversize, untucked shirt and dirty breeches. He hadn't bothered to don a scarf or even to tie up his hair so that the tightened, smooth sides of his ponytail would cover the tips of his ears. Perhaps now that he was arriving at his new home, he didn't see the need to blend in anymore.