Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  “Then if you’re quite finished,” Corran said, hiding his relief, “we need to get out of here. Someone might just notice part of the street collapsing into Below.”

  “AFTER ALL THAT, let’s see if what we hauled out of there was worth the excitement,” Rigan said when they finally made their way back. “We didn’t have much chance to look at the books before we had to grab and run.”

  Aiden turned up the lantern and, together, they carefully unpacked the books, manuscripts, and scrolls from the rucksacks.

  Rigan looked at a roll of parchment and tugged gently on the thin string holding it closed. Carefully, he placed the fragile old paper on the desk and smoothed it flat. The faded ink was legible, and carefully scribed lines of text covered the pages, interrupted in places by diagrams and drawings.

  “Can you read it?” Rigan asked, bending closer and squinting. The lettering was neat but cramped, and he blinked, trying to make out the words.

  “Looks like an account of the last days before they abandoned the monastery,” said Aiden. “From what I can make out.”

  Rigan frowned. “Why hide something like that?”

  Aiden shrugged. “Won’t know until we read it.”

  “So was it worth it?” Corran asked after Rigan and Aiden had spent a few more candlemarks reading the manuscripts and arguing about their meaning. “Did you get something worth running into all those ghouls?”

  “It’s another piece of the puzzle,” Rigan replied, sitting back in his chair. He ran a hand through his hair. “According to what we found, in the final days before the priests abandoned the monastery, there was a big surge in monster attacks. The attacks convinced the priests that the warlords were controlling the monsters, sending them in as advance troops, maybe even summoning them from the Dark Places.”

  Corran grimaced. “So you were right,” he said. “The attacks back in Wrighton weren’t accidents.”

  “No, they weren’t.” Rigan’s voice was just as cold, and Corran heard the same longing for vengeance. “My bet would be the Lord Mayor’s behind them. Nothing happens in Ravenwood without him knowing about it. I just can’t prove it yet.”

  Corran closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “It would make sense,” he said after a moment. “Why the guards don’t seem to do anything effective against the monsters. They wouldn’t, if their boss was sending the creatures in the first place.”

  Rigan nodded. “I don’t think the Guild Masters are in on it. We’ve lost too many Guild members to the monsters. And I doubt if the higher-ups above the Lord Mayor can find the city on a map, for all they care. Can’t imagine them bothering with something so dayto-day. Or if they knew about it, they’d hand it off to someone else to do their dirty work. Which brings us back to the Lord Mayor.”

  “If Machison is behind this, I want to kill the bastard,” Corran said, his voice deadly quiet.

  “So do I,” Rigan replied. “But we’ve got to be sure.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “WE’RE GETTING CLOSER.” Rigan bent to examine a dark pool of old blood. For the first time in his life, he was outside the walls of Ravenwood, trying to liberate another abandoned monastery from a monster to retrieve more precious lore books.

  “It’s a real shame these buildings have been left to rot,” Corran said. “They must have been impressive in their day.”

  Rigan shrugged. “From what we’ve learned, once the League got more powerful, the Crown Princes didn’t want anyone challenging their power, and they feared the monks serving the old gods as much as they did the witches they couldn’t control. They were a threat, so they had to be eliminated.”

  “So why did they leave the temples in the city, if they were afraid of people worshipping the Old Gods?”

  “Politics,” Rigan said. “Regular people don’t care about a bunch of monks cloistered away in the country somewhere, but they would have put up a hue and cry if the temples at their doorstop were knocked down. The League left the temples intact, with a few minor oracles, and then pushed the Guild gods on the people, to give themselves money and influence.” He shrugged. “At least, that’s my theory.”

  “So the Crown Princes got the King’s backing, and laid siege to the monasteries,” Aiden finished. “Captured the monks and scholars, stole everything valuable that the monks didn’t hide, and that was that.”

  “Nice history lesson, but before we can go after more scrolls, we’ve got a monster to evict.” Rigan bent down to examine a dark stain on the ground. “Looks like blood.”

  “So she’s wounded?” Corran said.

  “According to the lore,” Rigan said, “this is part of what a strix does. It feeds on the blood of children, and then regurgitates it to mark its territory.” He dropped six silver coins into the goo and turned them with a stick, staining them reddish-black.

  “And you’re doing that why?” Ross asked, looking as if he might be sick.

  “Protective charm,” Rigan said. He set his jaw and teased the coins out of the blood, laying them out on strips of cloth. Then he added a sprinkle of salt and made a mark with soot on each cloth before rolling them up and twisting them into long strands. Rigan handed one to each of the others, and took the sixth for himself. “Tie it on your right forearm,” he instructed.

  “We’re going to kill a vampire witch with a bloody coin?” Corran asked incredulously.

  Rigan shook his head. “We’re going to kill her with our blades and an iron stake, and then set her body on fire. Then we bury what’s left with salt, aconite, and amanita powder, and seal the cairn with charms. The coins are extra protection.”

  “Can I just mention that I liked the kinds of monsters we fought back in Wrighton a whole lot better?” Ross replied, tying the rag around his arm.

  “You don’t hear any of us disagreeing,” Corran said. “But Aiden and Rigan need information, and we can’t get to the library without going through the strix.”

  “Do you think the strix is controlled by this blood witch we’re after?” Ross asked.

  Rigan shook his head. “Doubtful. Most of the monsters you fought inside the city were beast-like. Vicious, but dumb. The ghouls aren’t smart, just good at hiding and tracking prey. Even the hancha aren’t clever—they’re relentless. A strix is more powerful. They’ve got their own type of magic, and all the old books say they’re wily. Pretty sure it’s operating independently—which makes it even more dangerous.”

  Aiden had uncovered references to the old monastery in the books he and Rigan had liberated Below. His foresight warned them about the monster, and the healer and Rigan had spent days poring over their growing library of forbidden lore and old grimoires, trying to figure out the nature of the creature; everything had matched the description of a strix.

  “This one is double trouble,” Rigan reminded them. “Vampire and witch—and nasty as the Dark Ones.”

  “I found something,” Trent said, and Rigan looked down at the body of a girl, perhaps about twelve years old, her throat a bloody, open wound. The ground beneath her was dry.

  “She’s been drained,” Corran noted quietly.

  Rigan sighed. “Come on. We want to be done and gone by sunset.”

  Tall trees towered above them. Even at midday, their sprawling canopies blocked out much of the sunlight. Rigan and Corran led the way, with Aiden, Mir, Trent, and Ross behind them.

  “I don’t like this,” Trent groused. They were a candlemark’s walk into the forest, and the sunlit fields were far behind them. With every step, the woods grew darker and colder. “Too quiet.”

  “Yeah. I noticed that, too,” Ross replied A few minutes before, the woods had bustled with life. Leaves rustled overhead, small animals skittered out of their way, and birds twittered in the branches. They they’d forded a small stream, and the woodland sounds had stopped altogether. Even the breeze stilled, no longer swaying the canopy overhead. “Darker here, too,” he added, glancing to either side, gripping his weapon.

  “M
eans we’re getting closer,” Aiden replied. “Can’t be far now.” “Your foresight show you anything else?” Corran asked.

  The healer shook his head. “The only thing I’m reading now is danger, and I don’t really need magic for that.”

  Moss and bare dirt gave way to a rocky, narrow pass between huge boulders. As they pressed forward, thorn bushes snarled the trail, close enough to snag clothing and skin. We’re being herded. The strix doesn’t want to be surprised.

  Rigan took reassurance from the weight of the iron blade in his right hand, and the rucksack on his shoulder filled with the essentials to lay the strix to rest. Until now, he had used his magic against beasts or brigands, but never against another witch, except in his practice sessions with Aiden or Damian.

  He glanced at Aiden. After all their studying, he and the healer had found hints that the authoritative texts on the kind of magic they needed—summoning, banishing, and creature control—were kept at the chapterhouse at Bordwin, now abandoned.

  “I think we’ve found it.” Corran nudged Rigan and pointed toward the ruins ahead. The main section, made of carved stone, listed to one side, fire-scarred, windowless and partially collapsed. The outbuildings looked worse, including a wooden barn—the thatch roof sagged, and its weathered wood walls seemed barely capable of sustaining their own weight. Shutters hung akimbo, and the door stood ajar.

  A warning prickled at the back of Rigan’s neck. Every instinct screamed for him to turn back, and a glance at Aiden confirmed that the other witch felt the same. Rigan set his jaw. “We know the plan. Let’s get to it.”

  Corran and Trent led the way, and Rigan and Aiden followed with Mir and Ross, all of them holding their blades at the ready. Rigan and Aiden lit torches. Rigan rehearsed the banishing spells he and Aiden had memorized to keep the strix at bay until they could rid the ruins of the monster. Both Rigan and Aiden carried empty rucksacks for the manuscripts they planned to retrieve, and another bag with the salt-aconite mixture, protective powders, and the items needed to work the banishing. Rigan hoped their preparations would be sufficient.

  Rigan’s breath misted in the cold air. His skin rose in gooseflesh, and he was certain they were being watched. She knows we’re here.

  Rigan glanced at Trent and Ross. The rucksacks slung over their shoulders were filled with bags of salt, sage, and hyssop to make a warding circle, along with pentacle amulets made from the bones of pigs and chickens to seal the protective ring. All part of the banishing he and Aiden had prepared—but first they needed to find the strix.

  “Can you sense her?” he asked in a low voice.

  Aiden closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and stood completely still for a moment. “She’s not in the stone tower. She’s in the barn. That’s where she stores her kills.”

  Rigan moved to tell Corran and the hunters, who eyed the barn warily. “Do it,” Rigan ordered in a low voice. Trent and Ross nodded in acknowledgement. They pulled what they needed from their sacks and walked away from each other, spilling a line of the warding mixture behind them as they traced the circle around the barn. Just in case, Corran traced a thick line of salt across the wide porch around the stone building, enough to keep anything inside from venturing out.

  A shutter thumped against the warped wall, though the air was still. “She’s waiting for us,” Rigan murmured. He glanced at Corran, who stared at the half-open door, lips pressed together in a tight line. Rigan’s amulet could not shield him from the strix’s notice, nor could Aiden’s deflection spell, and the bloody coins offered scant protection. Not this close, not on the threshold to her lair. His heart thudded, and his stomach twisted into a tight knot.

  Aiden began drawing the binding sigils in the dirt around the barn, and then moved to set the candles and wards. Rigan and Corran made ready to go inside, while Mir, Trent, and Ross stationed themselves around the barn.

  “Time to move,” Corran said. He carried an iron sword as well as a staff made of rowan wood, which Rigan had painted with sigils for greater protection. A stolen crossbow hung on a strap across his back, along with the quarrels that Aiden had made especially for this hunt, marked with pigment and carved with runes.

  “Done,” Aiden said behind them, closing the salt circle and starting to chant. Ross moved to hang the bone-stars on the thorn bushes, making a second ring around the salt. If their research was right, the circles of salt and bone would trap the vampire inside.

  Trapped animals fight the fiercest, Rigan thought.

  He stepped through the doorway into the dark interior. The single room smelled of blood and dirt, with the sickly sweet undertones of rotting flesh. Light filtered in through gaps in the boards and holes in the battered shutters. Old blood stained the floorboards and the walls. Dirty, guttering candles flickered beside a large, gleaming knife and a filthy mortar and pestle on a wooden table scarred with cuts and burns. A rusty chain and manacles hung from a beam overhead. The barn’s huge single room stretched out before them, empty.

  Rigan brought the heel of his boot down hard on the wooden boards and listened to the hollow echo. “There’s a room beneath us,” he said quietly. “It’s probably got a dirt floor.” That was why the strix had chosen the barn over the tower: proximity to fresh dirt to anchor her magic.

  An unseen force threw Rigan against the wall so hard that he expected to crash through the warped old boards. A moment later, Corran went flying in the opposite direction, slamming hard against a beam. Rigan expected Trent, Mir, and Ross to come running, alerted by the noise. When they didn’t, it occurred to him that a witch who could remain invisible could likely silence sound as well.

  Rigan staggered away from the wall, raising his blade, eyeing the empty room. He caught a glimpse of gnarled hands and long, sharp nails, there and gone in the blink of an eye, but not before five bloody gouges ripped down his left shoulder. He swung, aiming more from instinct than magic, and heard a shriek as his blade bit into something substantial.

  “Corran, watch out!”

  Corran had his feet under him, but he looked dazed. Again Rigan caught a glimpse of their attacker as bony fingers scratched long, deep slashes across Corran’s back. Corran swung his staff and nearly lost his footing when he hit nothing but air.

  Rigan sent tendrils of his magic down, grounding himself. The earth beneath the barn was foul, polluted by the strix’s lair, and he recoiled at the touch. He was already moving forward as Corran swung again, looking for a chance to block her next strike.

  There. The strix’s form shimmered for a second as she lifted her arm to strike at Corran; a wrinkled old woman in filthy rags. Rigan swung his blade two-handed, aiming for the witch’s midsection, feeling the tip of his knife find purchase. The strix screamed, and his blade came away wet with old blood.

  “Can you see her?” Corran asked, ready with his staff and sword but unable to get a fix on the enemy.

  “Glimpses,” Rigan replied, scanning the room. “How in the name of the gods can something hide in a room this empty?”

  The air shimmered to Rigan’s left and he dove toward it, knife leveled to slide through ribs and take the strix through the heart. He stumbled and fell as his blade met no resistance, wheeling just in time to see Corran thrown against the wall, hard enough to shake dust from the old thatch.

  “Come and get me!” Rigan roared, trying to draw the strix away from his brother. Crazed laughter filled the room.

  Corran lashed out with his sword, and the cackle faded to a hiss as his point drew blood. The witch’s fist appeared and disappeared just long enough for a vicious backhand strike across his face, snapping his head to one side and making him stagger. He reeled, but his body reacted from long practice, catching his balance and letting him pivot to bring his staff around with his full strength. This time, it connected with a bone-snapping crack.

  Rigan ran for the spot where the witch had to be, only to feel strong, bony hands shoving him, sending him stumbling in the other direction. He turned in time
to get a glimpse of the strix’s full form just as one hand clawed down his brother’s arm, tearing away the protective charm and slashing through the strap that held his crossbow and quarrels. In the next instant, the witch’s sharp nails dug into Corran’s shoulder, fixing him in place, while her head ducked and her mouth opened wider than jaws should stretch, sinking sharp, stained teeth into Corran’s throat.

  “Corran!”

  The strix raised her head, mouth covered with Corran’s blood, and grinned at Rigan, using his brother’s body as a shield. Her claws sank inches deep into Corran’s shoulder, while blood flowed down his chest from the gaping wound in his neck. The strix shook Corran like a rag doll, sending his weapons flying.

  Rigan started forward, but the strix tightened her grip and Corran’s eyes flashed as he bit back a cry of pain, struggling against the witch’s grasp. “Run the bitch through,” he ordered.

  The strix laughed. “Go ahead, Rigan. Put that blade right through your brother and into me, and I’ll have all the blood I need.”

  “Leave him out of this,” Rigan replied, advancing slowly toward the strix, trying not to look at the blood staining Corran’s tunic. “Fight me and settle this, but leave him out of this.”

  “Rigan, don’t—”

  The strix laughed and dug her nails in tighter, making Corran wince. “As you wish.”

  Reality twisted. Everything changed.

  Between one heartbeat and the next, the ramshackle barn vanished, and with it, Corran and the strix. Rigan stood alone in the front hall of a grand manor house. Doors opened on both sides of a corridor, and a sweeping stairway led to more floors above. Gray light filtered through dirty windows, providing just enough illumination for Rigan to get his bearings. Dust covered the parquet floor, and cobwebs hung from the huge candelabra. Rigan’s eyes fixed on the spot where the strix had held Corran captive. A fresh pool of blood marked the floor. Next to it lay Corran’s staff, crossbow, and sword.