Bloodwalk w-2

by James P. Davis

  "Take it away!" The voices returned fully to their fear and Morgynn saw the foliage at the perimeter of the grove shifting and crawling, the razorvines and bloodthorns responding to the sylvan call of the oaks' inhabitants. Their crimson eyes disappeared, folding closed and melting back into the security of the white bark and the wooded flesh beneath. Sensing their intent, Morgynn called a sphere of force around herself, snapping the words of the spell out like a whip, just as the animated plants lunged, uncoiling their greenish black tentacles. They thrashed against the sphere's transparent surface and the grove grew darker as the living forest enshrouded the unbreakable magic. Only Morgynn and the three oaks stood within her sphere, with her threat still pulsing in the palm of her outstretched hand. "This tiny stone will shrivel your roots, bleed you dry, and reduce this forest to a wasted desert. This is the relic sought and rarely found, a sample of that old magic that ruled kingdoms and laid them to rest." Morgynn turned the stone over and grasped it between her thumb and index finger. "Shall I plant it here with you?" Only the serpentine wall of vines and thorns made any sound, creaking and rustling against the barrier, growing thicker and darker. Quietly, almost conspiratorially, one soft, dry voice spoke without the others, "Your tower will be exposed. Your threat still rings hollow." The other two voices hissed from within their trees, attempting to silence the third. "True, but I will be alive to deal with the consequences. You three will be dead, along with your oaks." Several branches moved then and Morgynn tensed, prepared to punish them again for further defiance, but the white limbs shifted, entwining in each other's embrace. Their horrible whispers were quieter now, directed at one another, the sound of dry leaves blowing in a winter wind on a barren field. As they conversed, the animated plants surrounding the grove retreated, falling away to their roots and shadows, resuming their passive roles and hungry waiting. A blood-thorn snapped behind her, ensnaring a screaming animal flushed out by the commotion. Its cries weakened as the thirsty plant drained its tainted blood. Sensing growing wisdom in the strange discussion between the pale oaks, Morgynn lowered her arm but still held the stone in her fist. She had no desire to drain the artifact at that moment. She would sooner destroy the three with her own power than waste such a treasure. Finally, a consensus reached, the branches untangled from one another and returned to their natural positions.

  The pale eyes appeared again, shyly from behind the trees, hiding themselves as they once again spoke in unison. "We will comply. The pale sisters are at your service, but we keep our loyalty to ourselves." Morgynn smiled and returned the stone to her pouch, removing its chill from the already cool air. "A wise decision, ladies. Enjoy your forest for now, and hamper not my minions. I shall call upon you when the time comes." She turned her back on them and returned to the deeper forest, still wary of treachery but trusting her instincts. As her shell of force dissolved, the winds of the storm rushed back to life in the grove. The treetops swayed as fallen leaves mumbled and spun in the pull of greater forces.

  "Elisandrya! Stop!" Rhaeme strained to be heard above the pounding hooves of the galloping steeds and the furious thunder overhead as they rode farther north. Eli had heard him the first three times, but had spurred Morningstar even faster. This time, though, she'd glanced back and caught his eye, banishing her attempt to pretend otherwise.

  Reluctantly, she reined her tired horse to a stop, gripping the leather tightly and dreading what she knew would come. Rhaeme pulled alongside her with concerned eyes. Of all the hunters, she'd been closest with him, but like most of her relationships, it had fizzled from her own lack of commitment. She felt too much danger in being involved, being too close. She raised her voice to be heard over the wind and rain. "What is it?" He waited, looking at the other seven hunters who sat stoically in their saddles, puffs of steam rising around their faces. She had no desire to hear his arguments, but he was persistent and stubborn, much like herself. She looked up at him.

  Her eyes were set, her face a mask of resignation and hesitation.

  Rhaeme was handsome, as handsome as any man to whom she'd been attracted. Chestnut brown hair flowed to his shoulders and deep brown eyes cast perfect reflections of her own. His dress and ready bow reminded her too much of her father, though that face had blurred with time. His dark eyes regarded her knowingly from beneath his hood and she looked away, at the pommel of her saddle, to the ground and the heavy splatter of constant rain. "We're going. You know that." Eli didn't reply except to lift her head and stare north. Rain streamed down her face and she resisted the urge to shiver. "I know what you seek, Eli, but the rest of us… the rest of us don't have your faith, such as it is." Rhaeme's tone was firm, but understanding.

  "We're going into the Qurth. Beyond all prophecy or oracle's madness, something is there!" "I know," she answered, still not meeting his familiar gaze. "I have no doubt." "Then come with us! Prove your own fears! Sameska is lost, you said so yourself." His voice became urgent and insistent, almost angry with her, which dredged forth her bottled anger. "What I said was not meant for you, Rhaeme! I've slept alone ever since then, if you remember correctly. What I feel about Sameska is my own business. You have no idea…" "Exactly Eli, I don't have any idea! Whose fault is that?" He shook his head and looked away, clearly regretting his words. He continued more calmly. "Come with us, Eli. There's nothing for you to find this way." Elisandrya's lip quivered with emotion, but she mastered it, refusing to let him think he'd affected her. "No. I have to prove something else first, and that lies to the north." "What's that?" She looked him in the eye, at once thankful for the rain. "That I'm right." Rhaeme pursed his lips and looked to the others, anxious to be on their way. Looking back, he said, "You'll find what you're looking for, then. We'll miss your bow." He nodded to the remaining hunters and turned his mount west to face the forest. Over his shoulder, he called back to her. "Farewell, Elisandrya Loethe. Despite all, I hope you find him." He spurred his horse to meet the others. The Qurth yawned as a black silhouette before them, a splotch of waiting darkness. Eli watched him until he disappeared behind sheets of rain, where even the lightning could not show him to her.

  From a distance, the surviving tower of Jhareat pointed like a jagged bone into the black vortex of flashing thunderheads above. It rose from the center of a bowl-shaped depression, surrounded by the forest, which sloped steeply downhill toward the crumbled bits of stone, all that was left of Jhareat's once strong outer walls. Whether the slope was natural or some ancient crater made during the city's fall, Morgynn could not tell. The strange tales of the ruin of the once mighty city were sketchy and fanciful at best, so she hadn't pressed her contacts in Derlusk for more than its location. She'd grown tired of sagelike explanation and speculation. From behind a large stone, Khaemil appeared, slowly and deliberately making himself visible as he approached. He had learned not to surprise Morgynn, and made all effort to ignore his primal instinct to remain quiet and unseen. Patiently, for the moment, she waited as he came closer, noting the grim look of bad tidings on his ebony face. Her mood froze in midswing, somewhere between her recent success with the pale sisters and whatever nerve Khaemil might choose to strike in the next few moments. Chaos boiled in her mind and she closed her eyes to take a deep breath, dreading her own wild emotions. "My Lady Morgynn,"

  Khaemil bowed slightly at the waist, his eyes never leaving hers.

  "Yes, Khaemillenthranux, I hear you. Speak." Her use of his true name caused him to wince as if jabbed by a dagger. A fiend's true name held power for those with the proper knowledge, and Morgynn's tone conveyed her growing impatience clearly. She knew something was wrong. Sweating in the chilly air, he obeyed her. "Talmen and his followers have detected a presence in the forest, east of here." He swallowed and gritted his teeth, but kept his eyes level as he reported. "Hunters from Brookhollow have entered the edge of the Qurth. They seek us even now, just past the fringes." Words failed her and rage bloomed in her heart, racing through her body. Outwardly, she showed no signs of her turmoil, but Kh
aemil stepped back a pace. She could almost see his pulse beating in the air, fluttering to escape her anger. Morgynn looked to the east, sniffing the air and searching for those wayward heartbeats, foreign to her. She would know them. "Hold still," she said, walking purposefully toward him as one might approach a door.

  Such was her purpose. Her hands entered his chest, splashing crimson as they disappeared. Her arms and torso followed, racing along his veins and through his body. A vast plain of red opened before her eyes, crisscrossed with corridors and tunnels. This was the void of the blood's magic, one river leading to the next, the connection known only by those of her kind. Distance meant little here, and time even less. Instantly she was drawn to those faint heartbeats she imagined and could now see. Beacons of pulsing red light called her to their corridors, their tunnels.

  As he felt Morgynn's presence pass into him then leave him, Khaemil gasped for breath. He was winded, but otherwise none the worse for wear. It was never pleasant to be the portal that initiated the bloodwalk, but it was a far less fearsome fate than befell the recipient.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The forest felt like a living, breathing beast, fighting the hunters' efforts to penetrate its depths. Rhaeme's curved blade hacked ceaselessly through the thick undergrowth of twisted vegetation. They marched in a sideways gait, their armored sword arms bent to push forward, wielding the curved blades typical of Hidden Circle warriors.

  Their shield arms held thick ironvine cloaks tightly to protect against lashing razor leaves and the seeking tendrils of bloodthorns.

  The rain had eased since they'd passed beneath the almost-solid canopy of branches. Rhaeme was glad for the gloom of the sky beyond that wooded ceiling. In sunnier times, he'd witnessed the effect of the trees in silhouette. He knew they looked like giant arms and fingers, interlaced and huddled together like conspirators over their victims.

  The image was unsettling, as was the way the canopy moved as a single organism when the wind was strong. He put such thoughts out of his mind and focused on the task at hand, locating an easier passage so the group might search in a more stealthy manner. The only saving grace of the heavy rain was that it covered the sound of their movement. Their noisy approach echoed in his ears. Better to get in, discover the source of the region's troubles, and get out, he thought.

  Easier said than done. The hunters were growing nervous. The improvised path they'd left behind them would soon begin to close itself as the forest's predatory foliage reset its traps and vicious intentions. Rhaeme stopped and waved the man behind him ahead to take point. He needed a moment to rest his weary arm and take stock of the situation. Direction was a problem inside the Qurth. Landmarks were few, and, when found, were well hidden. He'd hoped to find a small clearing, some overgrown ruin or sign of intrusion, perhaps even the sound or sight of an enemy encampment. His prayers to Savras had so far yielded only confirmations of his own fears. The Hunters of the Hidden Circle were not as receptive as the oracles to visions and prognostication, but they were gifted with a sense of insight, usually manifesting as flashes or images. Each time he'd attempted to focus his awareness on this ability, he'd smelled blood, stronger and stronger as they moved inward. He closed his eyes and again raised the small ring of dried fethra to his lips. The scent came again, this time accompanied by a warmth that covered his skin like a wave of fever. Sucking in a quick breath, he opened his eyes and looked past the men ahead of him. He sensed that they were being watched. The feeling of distant eyes on him was chilling. The darkness of the forest revealed nothing, but he was innately aware of something getting closer. The three men at the rear recognized his alarm and froze. The four ahead continued moving. A young man called Laen, a hunter for barely a year, whispered, "What do you see?" Rhaeme did not answer right away. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that whatever they sought had found them first. As he prepared to alert those in the front, the point man who had replaced him moments ago lurched to a stop and groaned. The man's sword fell from his hand and he turned around, wide-eyed and clawing at his stomach furiously. The groan became a gurgling scream as blood streamed from beneath his leather breastplate. Then it was pushed outward violently, torn apart from the inside.

  Though she had ridden Morningstar hard, Eli knew she might not reach Littlewater by morning. A frantic urgency had infected her since parting with Rhaeme several miles back. She had other means of travel, but she was always distrustful of magic, even when used for great benefit. She also knew that sitting in the rain, sinking in the mud, and cursing the road ahead would do nothing for her dilemma. Magic it would be then, she thought. She took a small pouch from her belt.

  Shielding it from the rain, Eli untied the leather thong to sniff the mixture of herbs and other unknown ingredients. She'd obtained the dry potion from the druidic shamans who lived around Brookhollow, in the wilder parts of the Shandolphyn. Practitioners of the wizardly arts, they were a natural sort, loyal to the old traditions of the Shaaryan tribes. This appealed to Eli's love of the open grassland. Her father had introduced her to them when she was young. Many nights she had camped with the Ghedia, as they were known, a name meaning "grass witch" in the old Shaaran tongue. One of their number, Lesani, had been like a second mother to her ever since. She missed Lesani's stories, songs, and practical wisdom and wished she were with her, but the nomadic Ghedia were difficult to locate. She focused on Lesani's lessons as she continued her task. From another bag, Eli pulled half a handful of sugar and carefully poured it into the mixture. Tying the pouch tightly, she shook it and began to hum an old song whose origins lay in the wide plains of the Shaar. She stroked Morningstar's soaked mane and neck as she hummed the tune, leaning close to his ear to be heard over the storm. The effect was almost immediate. Morningstar's shivering stopped and she felt his tense neck and back relax as the familiar tune soothed him. Eli knew that the potion would take effect immediately, possibly unnerving her mount. Calming him first could save her a broken neck when the magic took hold. Finally, she loosened the knot around the bag and leaned forward, proffering the contents to Morningstar. He licked suspiciously, but then the sugar caught his attention and he ate the mixture quickly, shoving his muzzle deep into the pouch as Eli gripped her saddle horn tightly. She let the empty pouch fall, and though Morningstar had been calmed by her humming, his relaxed muscles began to move, taking him from a trot to a full gallop. Gritting her teeth, Eli lay against Morningstar's neck and tightened her legs at his sides. Gently, she kicked his flanks and his sudden, jarring leap forward tossed back her heavy hood, turning the lashing rain into a hail of needles on her skin. After adjusting to the horse's unnatural speed, she pulled the hood back over her head and watched as the world flew by in a dark, wet blur. She recalled the first time Lesani had allowed her to use the mixture and remembered the bruises she'd received falling off the racing horse, in those days, Lesani had been quiet about Eli's past, content to enjoy her company and show her the charms of the wild. When Eli grew older, they spoke about her parents. Lesani's wizened voice had not spoken the affirmations that Eli wished to hear. The older woman had not told her to ride forth with bow and sword to claim justice. Eli hadn't even been sure there was justice to claim, but she had bristled at Lesani's caution and patience. She regretted that argument, and though forgiven for her youth, had never forgotten it. She rode now for Lesani as well, with bow and sword, to discover if justice did indeed exist.

  Soon, she made out the walls and watch fires of Littlewater in the distance. The worst of the storm was behind her and she breathed a sigh of relief as the potion wore off. Morningstar slowed. Wild-eyed and prancing like a colt, he trembled excitedly in the aftermath of the magical swiftness. Raising her head, the first thing Eli noticed were dark figures approaching, long spears held out defensively. The soldiers spread out in a line before her, blocking her path to the city. She held her hands up to show she was unarmed and meant no harm.

  The commander approached from behind the line of spears, a rapier at his side. E
li resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The man was almost the spitting image of Lord Hunter Baertah, right down to his manicured hands and the heady scent of perfume. "Who are you and what is your business here, Savrathan?" His voice was high and nasal, his tone practically sneering the final word as he looked down his sharp nose at the fethra ring hanging from Morningstar's bridle. Elisandrya raised an eyebrow and nodded in the direction of the city. "Are those of the Hidden Circle no longer welcome in Littlewater?" "When profitable, but plague bears little profit unless one holds the cure.