Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2)

by Chris J Edwards

  I kicked out at Ta’ali but she withdrew. Ayurda was on the ground moaning, holding in her guts. She would die soon.

  My shield arm was rendered all but useless. Every movement was agony. Blood streamed down from the wound, turning my arm slick with my own blood.

  I heard the sound of hoofbeats thundering away; two of the elves were fleeing on the same horse.

  Ta’ali let herself be distracted by the retreating riders – I took the opportunity to slash at her. She parried, stepped back; Vash-turel lunged forward, and I parried her.

  “I’ll skin you alive for what you did to Ayurda,” Ta’ali growled, scimitar held up defensively.

  “You’ll never get a chance,” I huffed.

  “Bold words from a bleeding, outnumbered whore,” Vash-turel spat.

  I did not respond. Not with words.

  I renewed my assault, focusing on Ta’ali. She parried my first blow, my second; she weakly tried to riposte after my third.

  With a flick of my shotel’s curved edge I caught her under her ribcage; her eyes widened, white with shock. I plunged it upward, driving it into her lungs; there was no air left for her to scream.

  Like a baleful shadow Vash-turel materialized at my side. I tried to defend myself with my buckler, but my collar bone was broken; I was too weak, too slow.

  She plunged her dagger, aiming for my exposed ribs; but instead she caught my arm. Her dagger ripped through the back of my arm and stabbed into my side.

  I released my grip on my shotel as Ta’ali fell backward, holding it with both hands as if she could stop it from killing her if she just held on. With my newly freed hand I punched Vash-turel across the jaw, sending her sprawling back.

  I stood there, bleeding and broken. Vash-turel got back to her feet, wiped her mouth. Blood gathered between her teeth, between her lips.

  Suddenly The Slave appeared beside me. His back was wet with blood, his shirt sticking to him. He had one of the long staves in his hand.

  He leapt for Vash-turel; she rolled to the side as the stave crashed into the ground. Then she jumped back up, knives out, and stabbed The Slave twice in the stomach.

  “No!” I cried, reaching for my shotel.

  Ta’ali’s eyes were glazing over. I tugged on my shotel’s hilt and pressed my foot against her chest in an attempt to free my blade.

  Vash-turel disengaged from The Slave; he wavered in place as she crouched, predatory and feline, in the grass.

  I freed my shotel from Ta’ali’s corpse and tried to run toward my hated foe, but stumbled from my wounded hip.

  Vash-turel saw me coming and turned to engage me, snarling.

  “I’ll kill you!” she raged, daggers ready.

  She never got the chance.

  The Slave, despite his grievous injuries, managed to take back up his stave. He raised it over his head and brought it crashing down on Vash-turel’s right arm. It snapped like a brittle twig beneath the blow and she shrieked in pain.

  I staggered toward her; she tried to withdraw. But The Slave fell upon her, trapping her against the ground beneath his bulk. She wailed and stabbed at him with her good arm; he reached out drunkenly and took hold of her hand. Her eyes went white with horror as he squeezed until her wrist broke. Her dagger clattered into the grass.

  Her breath was laboured; The Slave let his head fall against the earth. She was trapped from the waist-down beneath his hulking shoulders, a still-breathing mountain of scarred and bloodied muscle.

  I stood over Vash-turel.

  She looked me in the eye, hatred still swirling black as a winter storm. Blood welled up between her teeth as she sneered at me.

  “Gol-Gorom was going to send you to a harem no matter what,” she wheezed. “That was always the plan.”

  “That’s a lie,” I said, trembling with pain and rage.

  She smiled hatefully.

  “It’s true. We all knew. Even Avna’a knew.”

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell, I wanted to say that it wasn’t true. I wanted to say that it was all a lie.

  But then I realized – I didn’t care.

  I didn’t care what Gol-Gorom thought.

  “Damn him,” I said, voice trembling. “Damn Gol-Gorom.”

  Vash-turel sneered at me in an attempt to cover up her surprise. It was mutiny; it was madness. But it was the truth.

  “Damn Gol-Gorom. And Damn Ashrahaz! Damn the whole Empire, and damn the Empress herself most of all!” I shouted triumphantly, my grief and anguish fuelling my cries, tears flowing freely down my face.

  It was blasphemy of the highest order. But I didn’t care; I didn’t care at all. I looked down at The Slave’s bloodied form and black anguish flooded my very soul. The scarred mountain really had delivered me from evil.

  He was never really a slave.

  And neither would I be any longer.

  “And damn you, Vash-turel. I hope your soul ends up in the Void with all the rest,” I seethed, tasting my own tears as they slowly trickled down my cheeks and onto my lips.

  Vash-turel tried to scurry out from beneath The Slave’s bulk but her broken body was too mangled. I pressed the curved tip of my shotel into her neck.

  She opened her mouth to say one last thing, to spit her final dose of venom – but I did not let her. I flicked the blade across her neck and tore open her throat. I looked away as she gurgled her final breathes, as the light at last died in her eyes.

  It was over. It was all over.

  I knelt over The Slave’s body. He was still warm to the touch. This noble son of the east – his fatherly kindness. All bled out into the ground.

  But he was not dead. I grit my teeth and tried to roll him onto my shoulder. He was not dead. I would not allow it!

  I grunted with effort, straining every muscle I could to lift him off the ground. But he was too heavy, and I was too weak, too broken.

  With my right hand I grabbed the back of his soaked tunic and dragged him off the lifeless corpse of Vash-turel. I would not have one so noble be desecrated by one so cruel.

  I dragged him as far as I could; I barely made it halfway down the slope of Retker’s Knoll. Then, the world rocking and hazy around me, I collapsed.

  I lay beside The Slave’s bleeding body. I bled too. Tears ran down my face. I choked out a pained sob.

  The late summer sun beat down; I let my head drop to the earth, too exhausted to even hold it up. I leaned against the body of my fatherly friend as I watched the long, golden grass wave in the warm breeze.

  I watched the long, golden grass as my vision blurred.

  I watched the long, golden grass as all went dark.

  55

  Dawn

  “We need to go. Now.”

  I shot up in bed; Herace was already dressed and throwing open the shutters. The sun had only just risen. Ortham groaned and rolled over, shielding his face from the light.

  “What? Why?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  Herace didn’t respond. He grabbed Ortham with his good arm and shook him awake.

  “Hey, what’s the matter with you?” Ortham protested.

  I sat up and grabbed my cloak from the floor, still in a state of bleary unwakefuleness. After our long journey I was really hoping to get a little extra sleep…

  Herace slung his belongings over his shoulder – his other arm still in a sling – and walked out the door. I heard his riding boots clunking down the wooden steps.

  Ortham and I shared a bewildered look.

  “What’s gotten into him?” Ortham wondered aloud. “He’s usually not so energized after a night drinking…”

  I got up and started collecting what few belongings I had. Ortham did the same.

  We closed the door on the now empty rented room and walked downstairs. Assuming he was getting the horses ready, we went around back to check the stable.

  Just as suspected, Herace was already there, struggling to throw h
is saddle over his horse. Ortham went over and helped.

  “Herace, what’s going on? Why are we leaving so early?” I asked as he finished loading up his mount.

  He ignored my question and instead asked his own.

  “Where did you find the healer?”

  “Mm, not far, just up the street. He’s a carpenter,” I replied. “Why, is it your arm? Could you not sleep?”

  Herace tried, unsuccessfully, to mount up. It was a difficult process with an injured left leg and a broken right arm. I got under his foot and helped boost him into the saddle. With a few grunts he was mounted.

  “No, it’s not for me. I need you to show me where he lives,” Herace said, then looked me in the eyes. “Just trust me.”

  Whatever it was, Herace was serious about it.

  Ortham and I hurried and mounted up. Then I led the way to the healer’s house.

  It was just down the street, not very far. The town was small enough as it was, more of a local trade hub for the river and surrounding farmlands than a true civic centre.

  As soon as I pointed out the building, Herace slipped from his horse, landing unsteadily on his feet. He marched right up to the door and pounded his fist against it.

  A moment passed. Herace pounded again.

  After a time, the shutters on the second floor swung open. A familiar face poked out, eyes puffy with sleep.

  “All that’s holy, who keeps knocking at this hour?” the healer shouted from above.

  Herace took a hobbling step back from the door and waved up at him.

  “I need your help!” he called. “It’s urgent!”

  The healer didn’t hide his surprise; he ducked back into his house, leaving the shutters open. Ortham got off his horse and helped Herace back onto his.

  Eventually the healer came out of his house, his son right behind him. They were carrying all their supplies, just as before.

  “Alright, where’s the emergency, your princeship?” the healer asked good-naturedly.

  “Do you have a horse?” Herace asked.

  The healer was taken aback by his question – as was I.

  “A horse? Why, where’s this urgent matter?”

  I was wondering the same. Had Herace gone absolutely mad? I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking aloud.

  “Have you gone mad?” Ortham asked aloud.

  Herace ignored him.

  “I’ll pay you two week’s wages. Three, even four. Just get on your horse and come with me,” Herace pressed.

  The healer turned to his son and muttered something under his breath. The son ran off behind the house, baggage under his arms.

  “Herace, is everything alright?” I asked, concerned by his strange behaviour.

  Well, stranger than usual. Or at least, a different kind of strange. Herace could be erratic, given to bouts of passion, prone to too much drink, and had a hard time keeping his mouth closed when it really should be. But right then, his entire demeanour was… different. Very unlike Herace.

  After some time the son returned with an old horse in tow. The morning was passing, the whole town bathed in an orange dawn light. The healer got himself into the saddle with a grunt.

  “Alright. Where to?” he asked as he shifted himself in the saddle.

  “Retker’s Knoll,” was Herace’s only reply before wheeling about. He headed at a trot towards the wooden gates of the town.

  We had no choice but to follow.

  The four of us rode at a good pace around the walls to a swinging bascule bridge that spanned the river. The bridge was flanked on either side by small stone guardhouses, which we passed by without notice. One guard listlessly lifted his helmet off his brow to watch us ride by as he sat upon a wooden stool, spear leaning against his shoulder.

  The sun rose at our backs as we headed west. It was going to be a hot day; by mid-morning I had already shed my cloak.

  The landscape here was familiar now. Meadows broken by clumps of tall pine trees, the earth beneath our hooves mostly flat aside from the occasional dip and rise.

  The sun was directly overhead by the time the prominent swell of Retker’s Knoll came into sight. We had ridden in near silence since leaving the town; Herace set a hard pace. I had no idea why he was bringing the healer – or why he was offering him a month’s wages.

  Coming from the west we rode through the treed flank of the hillock. The summit was bare, but for the long grass that wavered in the warm breeze; Herace halted at the treeline. He stared out for a long time.

  “Hey… what’s wrong?” I asked.

  His eyes looked faraway, his mouth open slightly and brow furrowed.

  Herace frowned. Then he rode up, over the crest of Retker’s Knoll.

  We didn’t get far.

  “Maker above!” exclaimed the healer, following close behind Herace.

  He slid from the saddle and approached a grey mass; I dismounted too.

  It was a horse; a dead horse. Its front limbs were crumpled beneath it. Flies gathered around its still-wet eyes.

  “And there,” Ortham said, pointing to another form sprawled in the grass.

  We all approached; it was a shabby-looking elf, maybe a shepherd. His neck was at an odd angle, his lips discoloured. I drew back from it in horror.

  As we wandered around Retker’s Knoll we discovered a far grislier scene. Hidden in the tall, golden grass were three more bodies; blood soaked the ground. It was all still wet, in great gobs of ruby-red viscera.

  “Disciples…” muttered Ortham as he bent low to inspect one of the corpses.

  He rolled over the disemboweled form of a female Disciple with his foot. The bodies had yet to stink, yet to even dry; wasps and flies gathered around them. Ortham pointed to the back of her head; it had a dark tattoo, proving their profession.

  Herace dismounted clumsily. Arm still slung he checked the faces of each body, never uttering a single word. He searched the hillock’s summit until he found a path of flattened grass leading down the eastern side. It was streaked with blood.

  He disappeared from sight as we turned back to the carnage. I stayed close by my horse, not wanting to marvel at the dead. I couldn’t help but wonder what had occurred here, leaving four folk so mangled.

  What disturbed me more was how fresh their wounds still were. Had we been any sooner we may well have heard their dying cries…

  “Over here!” came Herace’s voice from down the slope. “Hurry!”

  We ran toward his cries. He was kneeling in the grass; I could only see his shoulders above the vegetation as he hunched over.

  The healer stopped before him.

  “Maker above…” he muttered.

  I gasped and put a hand to my mouth.

  Before us lay two bodies; one was a massive uyrguk. His shirt was soaked in glistening crimson; it stuck wetly to his unmoving chest.

  Lying beside him, head propped against his bloodied waist, was a familiar-looking Disciple. Her eyes were closed; she was bleeding from her shoulder, her ribs, her hip, her arm. She was a mess.

  Herace looked up at the healer with intensity in his eyes.

  “Heal her,” he said fervently. “You must heal her.”

  The healer got to his knees and inspected the body; he shook his head and mumbled to himself. He wiped his hands on his leather apron.

  “Look, your princeship… I don’t know if there’s much I can do…”

  Herace grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “Please, you have to try! You have to do something,” he urged.

  “I would, but I’m not sure I can. I’m all but out of magick; I spent most of it on you yesterday. And these wounds…”

  Herace rose to his feet and grabbed onto me. His eyes were wild, desperate.

  “Dawn! Dawn, you can power it! Let him use your reserves.”

  I looked down at the bleeding figure. I thought she was already dead – in fact, I thought I had already killed her bene
ath the Blighted Tree.

  “Herace…” Ortham began, voice sombre, “I really don’t know if it’s possible. Or if we even should. These are sworn enemies - fanatics. Even if we did save them, there’s no guarantee they’d talk. We can get more information from better sources.”

  “No, no! You idiot, that’s not why I need to save her!” Herace burst.

  He turned back to me, looked to the healer.

  “Please, just do it! My entire estate just for you to try!” he insisted.

  The healer threw his hands up and relented.

  “Fine then. I’ll do what I can. But her breathing’s shallow as it is…” he said.

  The healer got to work. He staunched her wounds with clean linens. The bleeding had slowed already as she had fallen into a deep unconsciousness. I didn’t have the stomach to watch; the wounds were gruesome.

  “Alright, your highness,” The healer said at last, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I’ll need you to hold onto my shoulders. I’ll do my best to draw on some of your reserves.”

  Herace also put his hand on the healer’s shoulder and looked to me.

  “Your energy might be too much. Let it pass through me; I’ll dilute it,” he said.

  “That’s clever,” Ortham said. “Where did you learn a trick like that?”

  “I’m not sure. It just came into my mind,” Herace shrugged.

  I placed my hands onto Herace and opened my soul. I felt all my stored energy pass through me and onto him. I was unsure how to regulate the flow; I still knew so little, was so untrained. Herace grit his teeth against the rush of magick. But he did not let go.

  Ortham took one of my hands in his, and completed the circuit by touching the healer’s other shoulder. Even one so practiced as he winced as the energy passed through.

  “Good, I can feel it. Keep it even; can’t have any spikes. Delicate work…” the healer said under his breath as he began closing up the most grievous wound.

  I tried to focus solely on the task at hand. But my mind was swirling with questions… how did Herace know to bring a healer? Why had he been so urgent this morning? Was there some way he had known about this? And why was he so determined to heal the very being who had almost killed him?