Hammer and Bolter 3

by Christian Dunn

  He couldn’t hear the soft thump of his shaky footfall as he moved. He couldn’t even hear the blast of his breath, gusting in and out of his lungs. All he heard was a strange buzzing.

  Like flies gathered on a carcass.

  She fought a rising thrill of panic, straining to see out into the void-black darkness.

  Nothing moved. There were no animals out here, tonight. The familiar rustle of fallen leaves as the nocturnal foragers came out to hunt was an absence she sorely wished wasn’t there.

  There wasn’t even a breeze. Not even slightly. The treeline was a collection of pale silvers and dark greys, unmoving and soundless in the moonlight. It was an unreasonably close night. The air spoke of thunderstorms yet-to-be, which was hardly ideal, given the situation they found themselves in.

  She clutched her boy closer to her waist.

  ‘We are lost.’ He stated this simple truth without a trace of fear, in a matter-of-fact voice that reminded her painfully of his father.

  The father that should have been here. Now. At this very moment.

  ‘Hush.’

  The silence that met this gentle scold told her everything she didn’t want to hear. The boy was young – an infant, even, but he was perceptive beyond his years. She knew that he knew she was scared. But then wasn’t his father always saying she was so easy to read?

  ‘Where is he?’ This, not so blunt. A tremor of doubt crept into the boy’s voice, making him sound like the child he pretended he wasn‘t. She squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know, dearest. Just keep walking. Please.’

  Their feet whispered over the rocky outcrop, their slow advance defined in the soft swish of a silk dress and the gentle creak of the boy’s handmade shoes. The moonlight was dim and worthless, spilling weak silver light across shoulders of jutting rock, casting shadows that made leering faces of mundane features.

  They stuck to the line of trees because it was a point of reference. Her instinct was to turn the other way, and be as far from the shadows under the canopy as possible – but that would make them more lost than they already were. She knew that they would find shelter if they walked for long enough, but walking in the dead of night, blind, unarmed, scared…

  ‘He said we shouldn’t leave the house,’ the boy whispered. She heard his fingernails scrape along the wooden token that hung around his neck.

  ‘I know he did. But if anyone can find us, it’s your father. You know this.’

  He was silent for several moments.

  ‘What if he doesn’t?’ This question scared her, spoken from the lips of her own son.

  ‘I said hush. He will. I promise you.’ To her own ears – city ears, as her husband called them – these words sounded empty.

  The need to blame someone for this nightmare was a tingling in her fingertips. Her husband, for not returning home tonight. Her, for leaving the house regardless of his absence. This Kurnous-damned wilderness, for its silent promises of danger.

  He had enough money. This was what he had told her, yesterday. He had enough money to move them into the city, away from the pointless harshness of life out here. Years of guiding outsiders through the safe trails of Chrace had paid off.

  One more errand. That was all he said it was. One more errand, for a wealthy outsider, and then they could leave.

  But he had not come home tonight. Why did she leave? Why did she drag her child into this?

  ‘There is something over there.’ The boy pointed towards the trees.

  She squinted until she saw. A gleam of something white moved on open ground, a ghost something big made small by distance.

  It looked like it was… running. Bounding, on muscular legs. Straight for them.

  ‘What is that?’

  She clutched him tighter, her slender hands grabbing his shoulders white-knuckle tight.

  In the dead silence, she thought she heard the droning of flies.

  The lion was galloping.

  His claws sought purchase on rock that the great lion prides had claimed as their own for generations. He had run across this very same plateau years ago, before the world had become varying shades of danger and pain. The females of his pride had shed the blood of countless prey, hooved-creature and elf-creature alike, across this highland of rock and tall grass. The land was fat, nurturing his cubs into strong hunters, almost without exception.

  Good land. Rich land.

  His prey was no different now, even if he hunted for reasons other than hunger. A female, scared and alone with her cub, had spotted him. He didn’t need to see this to know it was true. Prey-scents were rich in the air, the usual cocktail of fear-laced sweat and… something else. Something that stung his nostrils. A curious musk that females often had coating their skin. It would taste vile, but that was not what this was about.

  They were running, and he savoured what all but one of his senses told him. He was still deafened by the constant dirge inside his head. He was denied the patter of running feet and the rapid gasp of filling lungs.

  He quickened his pace, a bound lengthening into a sprint. Flecks of drool stood at the corners of his mouth, spraying behind him in sour ribbons as he began to close the distance.

  He was probably close enough for them to smell him with their blunted and clumsy senses. The blood that caked his filthy hide was nearly four days old, the gory dappling blighting a mane that had once shone silver under the moonlight.

  His moment came all too soon. The female looked over her shoulder as he leapt, his finger-sized claws flexing in predatory menace. Their eyes met before the kill came, as he widened his jaws and bared his leonine fangs.

  With hunt-kill came blood.

  And with blood, there came relief.

  My axe is in my hands.

  The haft is two yards of Chracian oak, carved with a screed of flowing Asurii script. The names of my forefathers are tiny grooves against my fingers, reminding me of the weapon’s legacy every time I shift my grip.

  The head is a work of art that could shame princes. Subtly enchanted steel catches the dawn’s first rays as I turn the weapon over; as light as a walking staff, and in the right hands, as deadly as dragonfire.

  A weapon Vaul himself would be proud to wield.

  A blade that could one day save the life of my king.

  I bring the weapon to bear because there is something up ahead. The shapes that lie across the rocks tell an ugly story. I know a kill when I see one.

  The flies alone are enough for me to be wary as I approach.

  The woman’s dress would be pretty if the body it clothed wasn’t lying in a dozen pieces. Her hair is black. Her skin is pale, paler even than mine. There is literally nothing else I can see that identifies her, save for the ring that adorns a hand that would once have been long-fingered and slender.

  I blink sweat from my eyes and turn to look at…

  No.

  Blood of Kurnous, no.

  That is a child.

  I cannot – will not – look at the ruins of what was once a mother and son. I have seen enough. My boots whisper over grey stone as I stalk around the edge of the killing, my jaw hardening, my eyes watchful for clues.

  These bodies are hours old. They died in the hours before dawn. Why they were out here at night is anyone’s guess, but the clues are arrayed before me. I see recent gouges in the earth where something huge propelled itself forward. I see a scattering of tracks that speak of a lethal sprint from the forest. I see bloody paw-prints leading a meandering, drunken path back to the line of trees.

  Still new. Still fresh.

  Charandis is scant hours ahead of me. I can waste no time.

  A burial for the dead is not even an option. I will not touch what this tainted beast has defiled. I will not be surrounded by those fat-bellied flies. I will not draw another breath of this sickly air, blighting my lungs in the name of ceremony.

  No, mother and child can lie here, in the first minutes of dawn‘s pale light. My quarry is too near. M
y glory is too close.

  I break into a run, leaving the mounting drone of feasting flies behind me.

  IV

  The lion was afraid.

  He paced in wide circles, his fear manifesting in strangled whines coughed up from the back of his throat. The Wind was back – the Wind that had brought this sickness to him, blown down from the ephemeral peaks – but this time it was… everywhere.

  Literally, everywhere.

  On every moon-drenched leaf, on every fallen branch, even on the ground he walked upon, the Wind had settled. It was a filmy substance, sticking to his claws; a slime that squelched between his toes and burned his skin like acid.

  He could feel himself becoming sicker by the minute. His consciousness waxed and waned, coming and going like a red tide. He couldn’t focus. The buzz of flies had become all-consuming.

  He made a sound, something between a yelp and a roar.

  He saw creatures watching him. Their eyes were the pale yellow of dying suns, leering from every shadow, bright with the promise of yet more pain, yet more agony… The predators from his dreams. They had come with hunt-kill on their minds.

  His own eyes felt like they were aflame. They burned in their sockets, making the predators little more than phantoms, escaping his vision.

  But he knew they were there. And he wouldn’t let them drag him into prey-sleep. Ever.

  Tonight is a night of ill omens.

  I have tracked him for a day. I have followed his trail without rest, tailing him deeper and deeper into the forest. My cloak is unrecognisable under the inch-thick layer of grime, earned from the tireless chase through mile after mile of endless nothing.

  My braided hair falls about my face in dirty ribbons, sticking to my sweat-slick skin. My heels burn with hot blisters, and I bleed from a dozen minor cuts and scrapes on my cheeks and forearms.

  That is not why my confidence has fled me. That is not why I am certain I am going to die tonight.

  It shows through a crack in the clouds, staring blearily down at the world below. It colours everything in its own sickly shade of venom-green, staining the skies noxious.

  Tonight, as I set my gaze upon the tainted lion I must kill, the Dread Moon waxes.

  Fear is my guts turning to ice, and my skin crawling with each moment I linger out here, in the open. I should be indoors, hidden from the Dread Moon’s baleful gaze. Not risking my life for a glory that could see me dead.

  Charandis howls again, and I rise to my feet. I am being ridiculous. I have come this far. At this point, I would rather die than turn back.

  My axe leaves its sling in a whisper of motion, its weight a balm to my sudden doubts. The subtle enchantments laced within the age-old steel shines bright in the insidious glow of the watchful eye above me.

  I step from my hiding place, emerging from a thorny bush.

  I am ready. Charandis must die.

  As it moved from the shadows, the lion flinched.

  He knew what it was. Pale-skinned and baleful-eyed, it stalked forward with something lethal clutched in its hands, hunched and feral. It flashed its leonine fangs in angry challenge, a territorial roar hammering from its throat.

  Maybe it walked upright like an elf-creature. Maybe it clothed itself like an elf-creature.

  But he knew that the pride leader of the dream-predators was coming for him.

  The lion’s reply was thunder of his own, a hoarse bellow torn from ravaged lungs. They stood at opposite ends of the clearing – aggressor and defender, challenger and challenged.

  The lion wasted no time.

  He charged.

  My eyes widen as this… thing… comes for me.

  I do not even recognise the beast as a lion. Haggard and sunken-eyed, it is wreathed in flies. Patches the colour of sour milk show through what little isn’t a chittering, buzzing carpet.

  Its mane hangs loose on its ravaged frame, sagging with each leaping bound. As it tries to barrel me to the ground, I leap sideways, moving fluidly into a painful roll over jutting stones.

  Charandis moves fast. He is nearly on me by the time I have regained my footing, his stinking, fetid breath a hot blast in my face. My axe howls in a blistering arc, thumping into the lion’s side.

  I wait for the scream of anguish. I wait for him to back away from me, bleeding from his crushed ribcage, mewling in his last moments of defeat.

  But none of these things happen.

  My axe bounces from Charandis’s hide as if it were made of rubber. This is unthinkable. I have felled trees with a single swipe of this weapon. That is their purpose. That is what they were made to do.

  He does not bleed, nor does he back away.

  Instead, he nearly kills me.

  The lion’s claws tasted the flesh of his tormentor in a flash of venomous fury.

  Blood, salty and stinging, flecked the lion’s face in spattering droplets. The dream-predator staggered backwards, clutching his ruined visage.

  Three bloodied canyons ran from cheek to brow, raining waterfalls of crimson down the aggressor’s front. The predator roared in anger, futilely lashing out again with the gleaming blade it held in its clawed hands. It was useless.

  The lion was the dominant one here.

  He went for the throat, even as it screamed a meaningless screed of guttural sounds.

  Even as I circle around Charandis’s lethal bulk, I roar in pain. My vision is painted arterial red, my face a bleeding mess snagged by filthy talons. I will have these scars for the rest of my life, even if that life is measured in minutes or years. But at least he didn’t take my eyes. At least I can still see.

  We pace around each other like dominant males sizing each other up, gazes locked and teeth bared. My axe is useless, here. The taint must allow him to endure the blessings wrought into the steel of my blade.

  He comes at me for a third time, his matted fur flashing acid-green under the fell light of the moon as he thumped forward. My life is saved by throwing up my hands, letting his claws scrawl against my axe’s haft. Countless names of my bloodline vanish under his talons, buckling my knees with the force of impact.

  As his sword-like talons lock with my weapon, he begins to push down.

  I do not know how I manage to even begin resisting. Ropes of drool hang down in foul-smelling strands as I push back against the lion’s strength, the muscles of my arms and legs burning with slowly faltering effort. He is slowly forcing me to the ground.

  What I do next is out of desperation. I do not know what I am trying to achieve, but my life at this point can be measured in painful seconds.

  I drop to my back.

  My hands fasten around the small stone as if it were as precious as the Phoenix Crown itself. It leaves my fingers in a blur of motion, just as the lion sweeps down.

  I hear the thok of impact, and close my eyes.

  Death does not come.

  The lion could not breathe.

  Something cold and hard lodged deep in his throat, filling his windpipe with a painful lump. It was as if a band of iron had been placed over his chest. His lungs could not move.

  He could not even roar in pain.

  His heart – wet and thumping – began to beat faster, soaking his blood in adrenaline. The fight was bleeding from him rapidly. He leapt away from the predator under his claws, trying to choke and gasp.

  Soon he was writhing on the ground. His lungs were burning. The desperation to draw breath was a need that sang in his blood. He rolled over onto his back, writhing in fear.

  He was not aware that the predator had gotten to its feet.

  I toss my axe aside. It has failed me here. My walk is a purposeful stride, my features bloodied and ruined. Charandis is on his back, like a dog rolling in mud, swiping gamely at imagined assailants. He makes no sound. He can’t even choke. I bare teeth, wet with my own blood, in a triumphant smile.

  But I am not finished yet.

  My fingers are not slender, delicate things. When they wrap around Charandis’s t
hroat, they squeeze with vice-like strength. I climb atop this Chaos-maddened lion – thrashing and biting – and I throttle him in the light of the Dread Moon.

  I know he would die if I just left him. He would choke to death on the stone I picked up in desperation, but that is not enough. That is not how I want this to end. A legend dies under my hands, caked in the filth of his own corruption. I will throttle the last vestiges of life from his ravaged body.

  And I do.

  The lion was dying.

  He did not feel sick. Not any more. There was still pain, settling on every bone, biting into every muscle, but this ache was an absence of affliction. It was… gone. Just like that. It vanished, as if it had sensed he would soon be gone, fleeing his body.

  He was still going to die. He had stopped fighting his impending demise – that was pointless. He had been sick for too long to even think of surviving beyond these next minutes.

  The predator was on him, and with the sudden passing of the sickness, he saw what was truly there. No fangs. No hunched shoulders, overgrown with a mane that had no place there. No claws. No bleak yellow eyes.

  It was just an elf. Blunt, rugged features; maybe brawnier than most elf-creatures, but one of them all the same.

  As prey-sleep took him, he still looked upon a predator.

  V

  Valeth spat the pulpy remains of a bitter herb onto the fire.

  Two days, he had said. Two days, and the White Lions would hunt the beast themselves. That was his promise to Korhil. That was the terms upon which he allowed the woodsman the honour of this hunt.

  The Khaos Moon had set over the distant Annulli Mountains, the jutting peaks that knifed up from the faraway horizon. The sun took its place in a rising curtain of ruby fire, bathing the trees in warmth, banishing the moon‘s corrupting influence.

  The woodsman had not returned, and that meant he was probably dead. Who knew what last night could have done to creature like Charandis?

  No, he had said a prayer for him this morning. That would have to do.

  Alvantir was twitchy, and had been this whole time. He kept on mentioning how he should get home to his wife, but Valeth bade him stay. The tracker was phenomenal, he had a nose like a wolf’s, and eyes like a hawk’s. He would be useful when it came to finding the beast.