by Brandon Barr
A shout from behind spun her around. She drew her arrow, aiming it at a figure who stood in front of a portion of wreckage from the ruined ship. The figure waved at her, then stepped down into the sand and began to walk slowly toward her, both hands out and open at his waist.
She quickly noted the weapon attached to a bag on his back. A sophisticated type that she’d seen carried before when the mercenary ship had visited her master. But the young man did not look like a mercenary. In fact, he wore a Guardian uniform, and if that were the case, he would have a VOKK in his head. What was he doing on a mercenary ship?
In one motion Savarah reattached her bow to the quiver and slid the arrow into its fawn skin case. She had her knives at her hips still. They would be just as deadly at closer range.
“Hello,” she called out in the tongue of the west, unwilling to reveal yet that she knew the language of Praelothia, a language he would know if he had a VOKK.
In return, he spoke some words she did not comprehend. He tried to smile without fear, but she saw the nervousness on his face. Immediately she recognized he would be an easy kill—helpless and at her mercy. What his story was, she could only guess. His clothes looked dingy, and she saw blood stains against the white of the Guardian tunic. A smell accompanied him as he neared. Burnt flesh. She stood her ground, hands on her hips, allowing him to come to her.
He slowed as he neared, then stopped several paces away. He drew one hand to his back and seemed to point at his bag, then gestured with his fingers to his mouth.
Food, he seemed to be saying. And he was offering to share. His eyebrows raised, eyes uneasy as they watched her face for a sign.
Savarah let a sliver of a smile cross her lips, to help him relax, and then extended her cupped hand, to accept his offer. He unshouldered his bag and knelt, digging inside for something.
“So you have food,” she said in the Praelothian tongue.
His head snapped up, and surprise washed across his youthful face. Clearly, he did have a VOKK, and had understood her.
“Yes,” said the young man. “You speak, a...a known language. From a Guardian world.”
“I do.”
“How is that so? I was told this world might belong to a Beast…if you know what that means.”
She eyed him suspiciously, curious even more about his reason for crashing on Hearth in a mercenary vessel. She disregarded his question. If he was a Guardian, he should be oblivious to her master’s deception of the Guardian Order. Did he know there were Guardians on Hearth? And then, how was he involved with the mercenary ship?
“First, answer my question,” said Savarah, maintaining a warmth in her voice. “Guardians don’t usually travel on ships like these. What were you doing aboard?”
The young man pulled out a piece of wrapping, and looked up at her, but now she noted hesitancy in his eyes. He extended the wrapped food and she took it from his hand.
“Why won’t you answer my question first?” he said, almost sweetly.
She raised a thin eyebrow and pursed her lips. The young man was concerned how his answer would affect her, searching to discover whether she would prove a friend or a foe. She decided to relent. After all, if he proved any form of a threat, she could easily eliminate him.
“Yes,” said Savarah. “This is, in fact, a Beast world. And yes I speak a language known by the Guardians.” She paused, and tried to appear friendly. “Now, what were you doing aboard a mercenary ship?”
“I was captured with three other Guardians from my world. I was an Emissary.”
Savarah nodded. Her master had raised and trained some of the most impressive Emissaries to enter as spies into the Guardian order. Many had gone on to more prestigious positions. Chaveerel and Rueik came to mind.
“So you came here, against your will—do you know where you are, and why they brought you?”
The young man scowled for a moment. Tiny flecks of dried blood stood out like freckles on his cheeks. “They told me they were stopping off at a planet called Hearth. I assume that is where I am. They were going to hand over a Guardian named Zoecara. And also an enormous animal they had locked up on the ship. They were for a king. The Divine One, they called him.”
He took out a wrapped piece of food from the bag and opened it
“The Beast on this world is called Isolaug,” said Savarah. “He owns the king you speak of.”
The young man nodded, then looked out toward the foothills.
Savarah turned and gave a low whistle. Immediately her horse came trotting over. “You can take comfort knowing I am also an enemy of Isolaug.” She smiled thinly. “Would you care to share a fire with me tonight, I am filled with questions about you.”
The young man smiled in return, “I would like that very much.”
Savarah raised an eyebrow. “That large creature that was aboard your ship. Is there any reason to think it will return here tonight?”
A stony gaze passed into the young man’s eyes. “Yes. I think it will.”
CHAPTER 34
WILUIT
A heavy drizzle began to fall from the dark clouds as Wiluit silently stepped from the heavy underbrush into a sparsely treed vale. To his left, at the top of the vale, were denser woods. Winterfern wound thick around the sea of trunks.
He scanned the large ravine for movement. If he didn’t have the strong impression that Jauphenna was being stalked, he would call for her, but the quiet was his best weapon. He moved along the hilltop, beside the heavy woods, guessing that she would have gone similarly, toward where he and Meluscia had traveled.
Dread began to knot in Wiluit’s throat. Fear that he would find Jauphenna too late. She was near to his heart. The memory of his first finding her, filthy and in chains, was never far from mind. Though she was carefree now, she still carried wounds from her previous life. He could never forget what she’d endured for months, nor how she’d cried in his arms for hours that first day, clinging to him like a beaten and forsaken child finding shelter in a savior’s embrace.
Her mother and father had fled before him and Shauwby when they arrived. Why, he’d likely never know. Perhaps they’d been given sight to see the Aeraphim that surrounded the boy. Wiluit had put a rope down to Jauphenna and pulled her from the deep-dug pit beneath the house. In the weeks that followed, Jauphenna’s story came out in bits and pieces, or in fragmented whimpers in her sleep. She was fourteen when Wiluit found her, but was thirteen when the gift of prophecy had come upon her, and she immediately began to rain down dire warnings against her father and mother. And from all Wiluit knew, they deserved every lash from Jauphenna’s tongue.
Since the day of her rescue, Jauphenna had been unpredictable as a winter storm.
She had disobeyed him, not for the first time, wandering off by herself. But doing so while their band was pursued by a Praelothian killer, that was reckless beyond her impulsive heart.
Wiluit halted when he saw a wisp of smoke drift from the trees below in the little vale. He paused to strap the staff to his back and took out his bow and an arrow. He made his way slowly down with a hunter’s careful step, keeping to game trails and moving without sound. The trees were sparse and thin, but the undergrowth was abundant, covering everything but the most used game trails that wound through.
The smoke billowed just ahead. He stopped and searched through the trees. A fire blazed hot in a small clearing, and the dark column rose thick into the air, telling Wiluit that the fire starter had just placed more tinder on the fire, intending to draw attention. Wiluit concluded it was likely the man had seen him and wanted him to come. On the outskirts of the small clearing lay a body, half obscured by tall grasses. The sight of the long black hair tangled in the thin, green blades drew Wiluit forward.
He gripped the leather hold of his bow, eyes darting about the trees as he moved rashly forward. It was almost certainly a trap, but he had no other care beyond reaching Jauphenna.
There was no movement amidst the sparse trees, but the endless
sea of winterfern covering the ground could hide a small army of men. As Wiluit came to the edge of the clearing, something told him his arrow would be futile against the deadly criminal that lay in wait. He knelt and pulled his staff from his back and secured the bow and arrow. Rising, he walked defenseless into the knee high grass, making straight for Jauphenna.
At the back of his thoughts was the question of the staff he now held. It was enchanted in some way by the Maker, but its use had not been spoken. Whatever its power, he hoped it could help him now.
Jauphenna’s eyes opened as he came to his knees beside her. Her eyes made his skin crawl in morbid horror: two black ovals stared up into the sky, the irises and whites of her eyes either gone, or absorbed into the nightmarish dark.
“Jauphenna, what’s happened to you?” cried Wiluit in desperation.
Her lips parted, but the movement seemed labored, as if she’d been drugged. Then sound came from her mouth, barely comprehensible, but Wiluit made out the syllables well enough.
“Poison,” she said, her speech garbled.
Wiluit put his hand to the side of her face. “Hold on. I’ve got to get you back.”
She suddenly grew agitated, her black eyes blinking.
“Close,” she managed. “Kill us.”
Wiluit looked up from Jauphenna and turned, and there he stood.
--
The man waited beside the fire, black cloak flowing, caught in the wind that the great fire was stirring. His face was outlined by a short-trimmed beard, and a head of brown hair ran askew atop his unwrinkled forehead.
And then Wiluit saw the creatures behind the man. They glowed softly in the clouded daylight, and because of his gifting, he recognized what they were. A herd of Cherah. They were not untamed, nor were they like any he’d seen in the wild.
One of the little creatures ran over the man’s chest and perched itself on his shoulder. It bobbed its head like a bird, but its appearance was closer to a large rodent.
“So that is your gift,” said the cloaked man, gesturing behind him toward the creatures. “Your eyes give you away...you see the unseen. It is a wonderful gift.”
“What have you done to the girl?” demanded Wiluit.
“Her affliction will be short,” said the man. “The venom of the red orb spinner is powerful but lasts no more than an hour.”
“I remember your face.” said Wiluit. “You’re the woodcutter from Tilmar.”
“Most know me by the name Harcor,” he said.
Wiluit nodded. The familiar eyes were the same he’d seen on the man who’d nearly killed Meluscia’s sister, Savarah. But that such a man seemed to have a gift—it was incomprehensible. Wickedness blessed with the Makers’ power?
“You must love her,” went on Harcor. “Why else would you leave the protection of the boy?”
Wiluit stared at him, unmoved to give him a reply.
“I have an offer for you,” said Harcor. “You are powerful among men, and your service would be highly valued to my master.”
“I will not join light with dark, as it seems you have done.” Wiluit wondered at his own words. He’d never considered light and dark existing together until seeing this man and his Cherah.
The thought sent little legs running up his spine.
“You are mistaken in your concept of gifts,” said Harcor. “Your gifts come from the Makers, wicked beings disguised as light. My gift comes from the Beast, Isolaug, a brighter, better being, who is falsely accused as morally inferior to the gods.”
Wiluit leaned upon his staff, remembering the beautiful Maker who’d made it, along with the power of the scriptures and prophecies that flowed through him. His memories crystallized to a certainty that what Harcor believed was a lie.
Still, there was a formless fear at Wiluit’s throat. “How were you gifted with Sight and where did you come by those Cherah?” asked Wiluit.
Harcor laughed, an odd, friendly laugh. “The Sight was a gift from the Makers. Even in the realm of the Star Garden they are not quiet. Isolaug has had his share of trouble in Praelothia, rooting out the Makers’ weeds. I was one such weed, but I was a child, and Isolaug guided me from my deception. I still retain my gift of Sight. I see…spirit things.”
“And the Cherah?” pressed Wiluit, masking his surprise that Harcor had been god chosen.
“The Cherah are Isolaug’s doing,” said Harcor. “These you see here were the only ones he was able to capture when he took power in Praelothia so long ago. All the others fled from him like mice from a cat. He has made me shepherd of his flock. I have been waiting a long time to give my little pets away. I offer one to you—any pet of your choosing. Each has a special talent.”
Wiluit kept his eyes from drifting down to the Cherah, lest he feel more temptation than already assaulted him. There was a charm about the man, his words an enchantment to the listener.
“And what if I refuse your offer?”
“Why do that?” said Harcor. “The girl you came to save was wise enough to receive my offer.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Wiluit, but his tone lacked conviction.
“Look then,” said Harcor, and the man whistled a practiced tune, the melody at once eerie yet beautiful.
Wiluit turned to see a small creature crawl over Jauphenna. Its body was that of an enormous centipede, but it was covered in long fur, and instead of mandibles and antennae at the head, there were large black eyes. Double wings, like that of a dragonfly fluttered from the head
“She is under a curse,” said Harcor. “Her gift is conditioned upon your acceptance. You see, I have a second gift, just as she does. It is the gift of Blessings and Curses. She agreed to my condition freely, and thus, the curse is binding by your gods’ own power. If you do not accept my offer, then she will be enslaved to me and become my faithful follower.”
“You’ve tricked her somehow,” said Wiluit.
Harcor shrugged lightly. “I only leveraged her concern for your life against her, hardly a trick. I told her if she would embrace the creature, then I would not kill you. And I also told her that if you did not accept a Cherah from my flock, then she would belong to me indefinitely. You saw her eyes. They are not black from spider poison. That is the doing of my master’s power upon her Cherah.”
Anger coursed like fire through Wiluit’s veins. “You forced her to make a promise out of fear. That is a despicable way to gain one’s allegiance,” Wiluit growled. “Unbind her from her curse!”
“Would you rather her have declined and be presently dead?”
Wiluit did not flinch at the question. “Living is less important than whom one serves. I’ll die before I aid your master.”
Harcor’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Very well. She will serve me all her days, and you will suffer greatly because of it.” He left the fire and came before Wiluit. “You might yet reconsider. The offer to you will remain. You may yet free the girl from her curse one day. Either she feared death too much to surrender her life, or she loved you too much…more than you love her.”
Wiluit turned away from the man’s beguiling face and returned to kneel beside Jauphenna. “You romanticize the immaturities of a young woman very well. Is that the gift of your Cherah, to woo men and women with words that enspell them?”
“Yes,” said Harcor. “It is a wonderful gift my Cherah has given me.” He moved beside Wiluit. “Jauphenna chose wisely her Cherah. Would you like to know the gift it bestows?”
Wiluit remained silent against the obvious answer. Yes, he wanted to know. But he also sensed that knowing would make matters worse.
“She chose the gift of Resurrection. To bring life to the dead. A noble and good gift.” Harcor knelt opposite Wiluit and took Jauphenna’s hand gently in his. “Come my dear, our master has work for us. The orb spinner’s venom should be close to spent.”
Jauphenna rose shakily. Harcor whistled again, a different tune, no less captivating than his first melody. A horse came tramping out of the b
rush. The same mare that he’d stolen and the only one he’d not gutted. Meluscia’s mare.
Wiluit remained on his knees, his desperation growing.
The group of Cherah followed Harcor like hungry puppies pouncing after their mother. Jauphenna walked just behind him, as a servant would, only she looked back again and again at Wiluit, her pure black eyes seemed somehow sad despite their hideous appearance. If she wanted to turn and run to him, she didn’t—whether by her own self-control, or the control of the curse. The mare trotted up to Harcor and he mounted it. Then he extended a hand to Jauphenna and lifted her up to sit at his back.
Wild anger welled up in Wiluit.
He leapt up, springing toward the horse. “I care not for your promises and curses.” He made to reach for his sword but then remembered the staff in his hand. The Cherah began to hop at his approach like frightened whelps with soundless barks. Wiluit swung his staff at a small ferret-like Cherah with six legs that lagged behind the others. It shuddered as the wood passed through it, then ran frantically into the bush, as if it had again gone wild.
“You’re a dead man!” snapped Harcor, but Wiluit had swiped a second time, scattering more of his flock into the woods. Wiluit was nearly upon the horse when Harcor pulled back the bowstring. Jauphenna kicked weakly at the horse’s flanks and the mare agitated. Harcor loosed the arrow awry, but only slightly.
Wiluit felt the blow of the arrow strike him just above the heart, under his left shoulder. The pain blurred his vision for a moment and he stood dazed. Harcor jumped from the mare, drawing a sword.
“I nearly lost myself with you,” said Harcor. “If the mare hadn’t jumped, I would have shot you straight through the heart and the curse over Jauphenna would be nullified. She would have run and I would have had to kill her.” Harcor stopped before him, the remaining Cherah hopping quickly behind their shepherd. “I was going to leave you be, Seer, but instead I’m going to leave you maimed. Drop the stick now, and I’ll not hamstring your legs.”
Wiluit looked up past Harcor into Jauphenna’s black eyes. Something powerful flowed from the staff into his arm. A dark blue flame sparked to life within the knot at the top of the staff and Wiluit thrust it forward at Harcor.