The Hunter's Kind: Book II of The Hollow Gods

by Rebecca Levene

  ‘And a true one,’ Bachur said. ‘Then tell me what you know of the moon.’

  ‘He’s come back. You knew that already, but maybe you don’t know this: he was born the son of the King of Ashanesland.’

  ‘He was?’ Cwen took a step closer to him. ‘Strange we never heard of him before.’

  Jinn smiled bitterly. ‘You think I don’t know how you feel? He was born to the King but he wasn’t raised by him. A prophecy said he’d kill his father and a nursemaid stole him away – snatched him out of his ma’s own bleeding stomach, or so they say. He was raised a landborn goatherd in some mountain village where no one who mattered ever went.’

  Inside the tent, the Hunter’s golden skin looked the colour of leather and her eyes were dimmed. On anyone else, Cwen would have attributed the tightening of her lips to fear. ‘What is his name?’ Bachur asked.

  ‘Krishanjit. Krishanjit of Ashfall, heir to the Oak Wheel if his father would have him, which of course he won’t. There’s a great big golden prize on his head and every scrub in Ashanesland is searching for him.’

  ‘They will not find him,’ the Hunter said. ‘It begins so quickly and almost without a murmur, but it never finishes with such ease. When it ends, it only ever ends in blood.’

  Cwen woke with the dawn, as she usually did. Her body felt tense and her mind clouded, although she’d slept the whole night through. The daylight sliding through a slit in the canvas was tentative, as if unsure of the welcome it would get from her. She flung back the flap and found it a grey day, gloomy with the promise of later rain.

  She sniffed at her armpits and then shrugged into her jerkin. The smell wasn’t rank enough to merit a wash. A hawk didn’t want her prey scenting her before she approached, but a clean person didn’t smell of nothing, just of clean person. Better to cover yourself with the scent of other animals and ignore the upturned noses of the folk of the Spiral.

  A group of richly robed merchants watched her as she approached their wagons. They were Moon Forest thegns and she wondered for a brief moment if they knew her parents, if she might have met them herself in her youth. She studied their faces closely and their eyes dropped away from hers, perhaps fearing even so limited a contact would pollute them. Unseen, she sneered as she walked past. Maybe she had once known them, but what did it matter? All they saw was the bird mask over her face. It was all they’d ever seen, even before she wore it.

  She recognised another mask approaching, a red and black striped thing that was meant to be a woodpecker but looked more like a horse. Aesc said his mother had carved it herself, and that his mother could barely carve a carrot and make it look like a vegetable. Cwen smiled at him, knowing he’d sense the expression in the way she held her body, but the smile dropped when he ripped the mask off in plain sight of the Moon Forest thegns. None but another hawk was meant to see his bare face.

  His bare, crying face, she realised. His eyes were red-rimmed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, clasping his shoulders. His face was longer even than usual and the laugh lines by his mouth had been pulled into the service of a less cheerful expression.

  ‘It’s … go to the paddock, Cwen. I don’t – she said … Just go and see.’

  Cwen felt a twist of dread in her gut, a feeling she thought she’d left behind as a child. It was stupid. How bad could it be? She released him so abruptly he staggered back a step and strode towards the paddock.

  The smell of blood hit her first, blood and the hint of cinnamon that always accompanied the moon’s creatures. The field was awash with gore, the grass red and black where it had already begun to dry. This slaughter wasn’t quite recent.

  Every mount was dead. None of them had been left to suffer, there was that at least. The only sound was the muffled sobbing of a pair of the youngest hawks, crouched next to the corpses of their beasts.

  Cwen found Osgar at the northern end of the paddock nearest the forest. He’d crawled forward a few paces with the mortal wound in his stomach, trying to reach his old home. She could see the smear of blood across the grass and the unwinding guts he’d left behind. She crouched by his corpse, leaning her head against his until the Hunter came to her.

  ‘Cwen,’ she said, and Cwen nodded but didn’t turn round. Osgar’s tongue was hanging out between his scaled lips. In death it had turned a dull grey and she thought about the way he used to lick her face and how it had reminded her of her father’s hounds in the days when theirs was the only touch she’d known.

  ‘Cwen,’ Bachur said again. ‘Look at me.’

  Cwen obeyed; she always did. Bachur’s face was as stern as she’d ever seen it, exactly like the image of the unbending goddess painted on the side of every Wanderer’s wagon.

  ‘You killed them,’ Cwen said.

  ‘Because you could not. Rest easy, child. I understand you were not ready, though I warned you long ago this day would come.’

  ‘When the war was over.’ Cwen heard the note of anger in her own voice and didn’t try to suppress it.

  ‘When it was necessary,’ Bachur said with steely strength. ‘They had to die before they disobeyed us, not after. War is hard, Cwen, and the choices it puts before us are between evil and greater evil. When the time comes again, will you do what you must? You are my blade, the sharpest and best of them. Can I trust you to cut out the gangrenous flesh of the world, however much pain it causes?’

  Cwen nodded, the only reply she could give. But she looked at Osgar’s corpse and doubted.

  5

  The Salt Road stretched ahead of Alfreda, fifty paces wide and so straight its far end met the horizon, its crystals sparkling brilliantly in the sun. It had been there when the Hunter first brought the folk to the forest and it had remained unchanged in all the years Alfreda had travelled it. Rain should have washed the salt away centuries ago, but some power kept it as it was, straight and perfect and free of all vegetation. To either side of the road, the tall trees kept their secrets in their shadows.

  Algar dozed in the seat beside her, his thigh pressed against hers and his head resting on her shoulder. Awake, he was handsome enough to please any girl, his cheekbones high and delicate where hers were a little brutish, his fine curly hair the same chestnut as her own coarse mop and a wiry quickness against her raw strength. But right now a trickle of drool was seeping from the corner of his mouth. She smiled and wiped it away with her sleeve.

  They were a week’s travel from the edge of the forest and the Spiral where they’d spent the bulk of the winter. Alfreda hated the place. It was full of people, with nowhere to go for privacy. She should be glad to return to the Moon Forest, but perhaps the company of strangers, even such a great crowd of them, was to be preferred.

  ‘You’re thinking,’ Algar mumbled against her shoulder. ‘I can feel it.’

  She shrugged, jostling his head so he lifted it off her. ‘Not about anything important.’

  ‘Contemplating our future and not liking what you see?’

  She laughed, because he always knew her.

  ‘It will be fine, Freda, you’ll see.’

  ‘Fine for you, with all the pretty girls to court.’

  ‘Fine for both of us, with our new fire javelin to sell. We’re going to change the whole forest, I know it – put the Jorlith out of a job!’ His face was a little red with passion and she brushed a curl from his brow to calm him. He smiled, but still said, ‘It’s the Hunter’s will. She always told the folk to use our minds as well as our muscles.’

  ‘And a great lot of good it’s done us,’ she said gloomily, and to that he had no reply. The Maeng had been less than happy to find two Wanderers stealing the design of their fire javelins. Their departure from the settlement on the tribe’s lands had been hurried and not entirely voluntary.

  Algar scratched a hand through his curly hair as his eyes scanned the forest around them, always curious. In the quiet she could hear the meaningless chatter of the birds and the crick of smaller creatures in the undergrowth. Gr
adually, though, the noises died until the only sound was the rustle of the wind through the treetops.

  ‘Have you noticed …?’ Algar said.

  ‘Aye. Something’s scared them.’

  His ears were keener than hers and he reacted first, leaping from his seat towards the covered back of the wagon. Then she heard it too: a rumbling that was half vibration and half sound. She cursed and followed her brother. Unguided, Edred whinnied and stopped to scan the barren road for vegetation.

  ‘It sounds huge!’ Algar whispered. ‘But it won’t break out of the forest, will it? The sun will kill it.’

  ‘Not before it’s run right over us.’ Alfreda reached for her largest hammer, the one with the long handle and the hooked head, which she’d always thought could serve as a weapon – but she’d never really thought she’d need it to. She expected Algar to grab the sword she’d forged him, but instead he began frantically pushing against one of the wagon’s side panels.

  It took her a moment to realise what he was doing. ‘Oh, no. We haven’t tested it yet, Gar. The Hunt will be here soon, they’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Have you heard their horns? They’re not coming, Freda! And this is what we made the fire javelin for.’ With a final push the panel swung loose to slap against the wheel below. Algar’s creation lay inside, the strong oak tube and the spear it was made to fire. But the device took time to prime, and the pounding footsteps grew louder every second. She could hear the rustle and snap as whatever beast was coming tore through the undergrowth.

  ‘Where’s the black powder?’ Algar yelled.

  ‘There’s hardly enough for one spear cast!’

  ‘So? Are you saving it for a special occasion?’

  He was right. She pulled herself into the wagon and dropped to her knees beside the strongbox in its far corner. It was gloomy inside and it took her eyes crucial seconds to adjust while she fumbled for the container and turned the key to snap it open.

  The powder was inside, hoarded in a sealed leather bag. She grabbed it just as something very fast and very heavy struck the side of the wagon. The impact flung her into the air and then into the thin wooden slats of the far wall. Tools and knives flew around her, slicing her skin, while loose clothes tangled her arms and legs as the wagon tipped, teetered and then fell on to its side.

  The wind was thumped out of her; all she could do was gasp for breath while blood trickled into her eye from a cut on her brow. Then she heard a yell and a pained grunt and her mind emptied of any thought but one: Algar.

  Her legs shook as she rose. The cramped space was filled with the smell of pickled eggs from shattered jars. The broken glass cut her as she stumbled from the back of the wagon into daylight.

  The fall had cracked the wooden frame and the fire javelin was trapped between splinters and in folds of ripped cloth. Algar knelt, trying frantically to pull it free, but he’d only succeeded in wedging the long tube even deeper into the wreckage. Maybe it was because he wasn’t watching his hands. His eyes were fixed on their attacker.

  It was only twenty paces from him. There were scuff marks in the road where it had spun round after toppling the wagon. Now it stood watching Algar, breath huffing out of its nostrils in puffs of steam, its front leg pawing at the ground like a bull getting ready to charge – but ten times the size of any bull Alfreda had ever seen. Her hands were sticky with sweat as she raised her hammer and faced it.

  She could already see the gesture was futile. The creature was covered in grey overlapping scales as thick as her thumb. Twin horns stood out from its forehead, each bone white and wickedly sharp. The eyes beneath were silver and almost beautiful. It seemed to be assessing her just as much as she was studying it. Then it opened its mouth to reveal the double row of teeth inside, grey like its scales and cruelly serrated.

  ‘It’s standing right in the sunlight,’ her brother said. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘The scales must protect it,’ Alfreda said. ‘I think they’re lead. You need to unharness Edred and get away.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  She didn’t answer, and he smiled tensely and looked back down at his contraption.

  ‘Gar!’ she yelled, yanking at his wrist.

  ‘I’m not leaving you, Freda.’ He shook her off, more strength in his thin arms than she had given him credit for. His fingers worked to a little more purpose now and the fire javelin pulled free of two of the broken slats surrounding it. ‘I can do this. Just keep that thing away from me.’

  She tore her eyes from him to face the beast. It had moved closer while they spoke, and now it lowered its head so that the bone spikes of its horns were level with her heart while its eyes looked into hers with a sort of brutish hate. Its flanks trembled, the heavy muscles beneath its scales bunched and Alfreda bolted left as the creature charged.

  It was terrifyingly fast. Its massive head swung to watch her sprint down the Salt Road and its body swiftly followed. A deep growl grew in its chest as it galloped and she could smell its breath: fetid meat mixed with a strange hint of cinnamon.

  She was running too fast to change direction. She flung herself to the side instead, falling on to her shoulder and rolling clumsily to her feet.

  The creature was right behind her. She raised her hammer to her shoulder, braced her feet and then it was on her. The first snap of its teeth missed her shoulder by the breadth of a hair. She swung the hammer in return, catching the creature a glancing blow on the side of its jaw before the weapon skidded off its scales and thudded to the ground.

  The beast shook its head, snorting, and then fixed its silver eyes on her again.

  ‘Come on, you bastard!’ she shouted, backing away. Fifty paces in front of her, Algar worked at the wagon. Did he have his invention free now? She thought maybe he did, but it would be too late for her. The creature opened its mouth wide enough to take in her whole body, as a strange high-pitched scream came from the back of its throat.

  She braced her feet and her hammer and knew she wasn’t ready to die. Her sacrifice might save Algar but how would he cope in this world without her? The creature lunged, drool dripping from its needle-sharp teeth. Her shoulder muscles wrenched as she lifted the hammer and swung it again, straight at the beast’s mouth.

  It cried out in pain and so did she as its teeth shattered and fragments flew out to score her cheeks. Saliva spattered her and burned like acid. She flung herself back, expecting the beast to follow, but it had retreated too, roaring its agony and rage.

  ‘Alfreda!’ Algar screamed. ‘The black powder!’

  It took her a moment to realise what he meant. She’d taken the powder and left him with a weapon that was useless without it. When the creature had finished with her it would turn on her brother and her death wouldn’t even have a purpose. The monster glared at her, blood and drool oozing from its shattered teeth.

  She raised the hammer again, swinging it high above her head. The creature screamed in fury but flinched back, and in the second of its fear she threw the hammer at its head and then dived between its splayed legs. It was so tall she only had to crouch a little to pass beneath its belly. But the monster knew where she was and was already turning, its thick neck craned down to see her.

  She turned with it and looked up. Its belly was white and only thinly scaled, as she’d hoped. If she’d had a sword it might all have been over, but she only had a belt knife. She drew it and slashed upward. The pale flesh parted like butter and blood welled and fell from it, burning as it splashed her. Where it landed on the ground it hissed and a white froth turned the earth to mud and sucked at her feet as she tried to run from the beast and towards her brother.

  Behind her she heard the scrabbling of the creature’s claws as it turned. Then there was only the thump of its massive legs as it raced to catch her. It was very close and she was very tired.

  But she was only thirty paces from Algar and he’d finally freed his invention. Its thick wooden nose pointed towards her as he crouched beside
it, the spear in his hand ready to be inserted when the black powder was in. The creature roared behind her and she felt the heat of its breath on her neck. Its teeth were broken but its jaws were still strong. They snapped and she felt the sting in her scalp as it tore out a lock of her hair. She’d run out of time and Algar was still ten paces away. She pulled the pouch from beneath her shirt and flung it towards her brother, flinging herself to the ground at the same time.

  The beast landed astride her. One of its massive feet stamped down towards her head and she rolled desperately away from it. She inhaled grains of earth with each breath and the salty tang of them dried her throat. The beast roared in her ear and she knew its head must be inches from hers. There was another roar, deeper than the first, and a sharp smell in her nose. Then a crushing weight dropped on top of her and everything was black.

  She woke to the feeling of being shaken. It pushed needles of agony into her muscles and she muttered weakly in protest, but the shaking kept on and her name was repeated over and over in a voice that didn’t sound quite like Algar’s; too muffled and thick. She felt a droplet of water fall on her face, then another.

  Oh, he was crying. That wasn’t right. She groaned and forced her eyes open.

  Sunlight glared down into them and shattered into crystalline fragments when she blinked away her own tears of pain. ‘Gar,’ she croaked.

  He flung his arms round her, sobbing and squeezing hard. The pain in her bruised body was intense, but she didn’t mind because he was alive. They both were.

  ‘Is anything broken?’ he asked. ‘Can you move?’

  Her joints felt as if they’d been welded together and her muscles unwound, all the tensile strength gone out of them. Algar had to slip his arm under her and heave before she could sit up.

  The beast was dead. It lay sprawled across the Salt Road a few paces away, a carrion owl already perched pecking at the red wound round the spear in its throat. She wondered how Algar had lifted the corpse from her, then saw Edred near the creature’s head, a rope trailing between them.