Forced to rethink tactics, Bradir shuffled backward. With his back pressing against Radbod's, he no longer had to keep an eye on multiple angles.
"These two aren't bad, are they?" Radbod said as he angled his head, narrowly missing a swipe.
Bradir grunted and lunged for his opponent. He grabbed the warrior's arm and sunk his fangs into the bare flesh. Power surged through him, the lifesoul giving him energy. Snarling, he stretched his fingers. Suddenly, the talons grew as long as daggers, skewering the man with ten blades. That was new. The new abilities he gained day by day never ceased to amaze him.
Blood leaked down his bone-white claws as he lifted the warrior aloft. His claws bent with the man's weight, but then they hardened, as though adapting to the steel that had worn at them moments ago. He turned his head and saw that Radbod had also killed his opponent. He was feasting on the man's throat, his eyes white with the rapture of the feed.
The man suspended by Bradir's claws gargled blood. "You're skinwalkers." He looked into Bradir's eyes without fear. It was the first time Bradir had seen someone wear that defiant expression when faced with a skinwalker's true nature.
"That we are," Bradir said.
"You're going to die. More of us are coming."
Angered by the soldier's defiance, Bradir snarled and tore his claws from the soldier's chest. He took great pleasure in draining one of the best fighters he'd met in life. A week ago, Bradir wouldn't have stood a chance.
Eosor's Horns, he'd never felt so alive!
"You think the pack should be troubled by this band of hunters?" Radbod asked.
Bradir looked again at the warriors' crumpled corpses. Aernheim's Army had been the militia that had almost routed Lamworth military forces. King Beorhtel had defeated them and gained control of the region, but that had only been through the sorcery of his mages. If veterans in the militia were hunting the pack, there could be problems.
"It's best we take them by surprise," Bradir said. "These two didn't know they were looking for the pack. They were after rabids. They find out about us, there'll be trouble. They'll be more careful and watchful. They think they're safe in the day. Let's follow their trail and see where it leads. Don't do anything stupid. We're just looking for information, not a fight."
"Yet," Radbod said. "We'll need to deal with them eventually."
"Aye, that we will." The wind carried the musk of another skinwalker. "Olsten has returned. Three will do a better job of finding these hunters than two."
4
Fryda
Smoke billowed from the cottage chimney. Fryda swept the rain from her eyes and smiled. Gillian was still alive.
She urged Flight into the stable beside the cottage and tied her reins. The horse had been an excellent companion since leaving Indham yesterday. Fryda stroked the horse's neck and then went to the house.
The puddle at the doorstep soaked her boots as she rapped on the front door. It opened slightly, revealing a rheumy eye. The eye locked on to Fryda before the door opened completely and a woman stepped outside. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her dress was stained and torn at the hems. Her white-knuckled hands massaged a hatchet.
"Fryda?" the woman said, shutting the door behind her. Despite her poor appearance, she had to be Gillian. In an instant, the hatchet hit the puddle with a splash. Tight arms wrapped around Fryda. The smell of unwashed flesh was overpowering.
Gillian pulled away. "You're probably wondering why I'm in this state." She looked warily around before she picked up the hatchet, heedless of the mud covering it, and opened the door again. "You best come in."
Fryda removed her mud-sodden boots and stepped inside. The change in the room's furniture was astounding—in a week, Gillian's cottage had become an armory.
Gillian ignored the spears and shields on the floor, stepping over them to get to the hearth. Even the greatsword that had hung above the fire now lay on the floor beside a tower shield, arrayed in a soldier's manner, as though in preparation for battle.
After a day of riding in the cold, Fryda welcomed the fire's warmth. She'd been unable to find a suitable place to sleep the night before, so she'd continued traveling in the rain. Guilt accompanied the fire's soothing of her aching muscles. Flight had done as bidden, continuing when she ought to have rested. Fryda glanced out the window with pity at the horse in the misshapen stable.
Fryda knew she needed the rest, but Alfric was outside, his body controlled by a skinwalker. She should be searching for him, but she didn't know where to look. Aernheim was large, and she couldn't possibly search everywhere. So she'd recalled the way to get to Gillian's village and set out for it. Now that she was here, she wasn't so sure it had been a good decision. The woman had undergone a change that made her look half-mad. Fryda could only hope it was just appearances.
Gillian sat by the hearth. Despite her disheveled appearance, something had enlivened her, and though Fryda couldn't tell what, the vast array of weapons and shields must have had something to do with it.
"I'm sorry I stole your horse," Fryda said.
"Snow?"
Fryda realized that must have been Flight's name from before. Feeling all the more foolish for having named a horse who'd already possessed a name, she blushed. "I called her Flight."
"A much better name, anyway." Gillian waved her hand. "Did you bring her back?"
"She's in your stable."
"While I appreciate the thought, you can keep her. I never took her out enough. She's of better use to you, I'm sure. Now, would you like some tea?"
"Please."
The kettle whistled as the water boiled, preventing any further conversation. Gillian sprang about the hut from one set of weapons to the next, counting with her fingers. She picked up a short sword, frowned, and exchanged it with a double-edged sword.
The kettle finally boiled, and Gillian handed Fryda a tea and some sweet bread.
"So, why do you have all these weapons? It looks like you're preparing for a battle." She forced a laugh, hoping to bring some levity to a confusing situation.
Gillian sat in her chair and took a long swallow of tea. "When I met you last week, you suggested I go elsewhere because something dangerous was coming. What did you mean?"
"Crimson mists. The wraiths." Fryda recalled the terrible day she had first sighted the red mists in the sky. It had only been a week, but so much had happened since then that it felt like months. She sipped from the tea. It left a bitter taste, as though it had been boiled repeatedly. The sweet bread, however, tasted delicious, if a little stale.
Gillian sloshed her tea about as she put it done with shaking fingers. "I don't know about wraiths, but something has come. Something terrible. I visited my niece Cyne in Urd, this morning. She was a bar maiden in the tavern there. She wasn't a kind girl. Never visited me once. Even so, I—" She stopped and swallowed. "No one survived in Urd. Something went through and killed everyone. Their throats were torn open, their bodies ravaged. I couldn't tell the women from the men. No human weapon could have committed such savagery."
"Skinwalkers," Fryda said. Before leaving Indham, she hadn't thought much about what it would be like outside the town, but where there were wraiths, there would be skinwalkers. In the last day, she'd encountered none, but those people she had seen hadn't hailed her as she passed along the road. That wasn't all that unusual, but they'd also been openly carrying weapons, and they made a point of showing them. Nor had the road been laden with travelers as it ought to have been. Poor weather could only account for so much.
"You've seen this happen before?" Gillian asked as she studied Fryda.
"The wraiths came to Indham. It was terrible. They possessed people and turned them into monsters. We were able to stop them eventually, but we don't know for how long. Mother Superior of the Daughters of Enlil warded the town."
"Those marks on your face are wards?"
Before she knew it, Fryda was recounting everything that had happened since the afternoon when Aern's orb sh
attered. She spoke of the warriors' quest and how she had followed Alfric, only to find him a skinwalker. How Indham's Council executed the man supposedly responsible for murdering Aern. The conversation turned toward the person who knew more than anyone else did, who might even be capable of saving Aernheim permanently—the tattooed mage, Peoh.
Gillian observed Fryda with a curious expression. "So he was the one who gave you these . . ."
"Wards," Fryda said. They still produced a strange sensation, but because it was constant, so she easily forgot about them. "They prevent the wraiths from taking me."
"Then they are powerful beyond measure. It's not often that someone does something without fair payment. What did this tattooed mage want?"
"He said the skinwalker I'm searching for is important. He didn't say how or why. At the time, I didn't care to ask more. I only wished for him to ward me so I could leave Indham."
"You did well to get yourself those wards. I thought I would live out my days in peace in this cottage. Never thought I'd be taking up arms again. Especially against skinwalkers." She scoffed and smiled, though her eyes still sparkled with tears. "The Guardians have strange ways of rewarding us, don't they?"
"What do you intend to do?"
"Not all the villages in Aernheim have been ravaged by the monsters. Skinwalkers," she corrected herself. "Many villagers wish to fight back. Only a few of them have the weapons and training to be any good. I can help arm those without weapons, but training them will take too long. But I cannot begrudge them their vengeance. I'll fight, but I don't imagine this old body will do much. Better to die for your land than remain inside while everyone else fights."
"Where did you get all of this?" Fryda looked again at the weapons. She counted a dozen pairs in all. They wouldn't be enough. How could she tell Gillian that she didn't stand a chance against the skinwalkers, even with all these weapons?
"My husband was once a general in Aernheim’s Army. And I was captain of the shieldsisters. These weapons are some of the trophies we won."
The shieldsisters were legendary fighters, renowned throughout Aernheim for their prowess with shield and spear. Fryda had often dreamed about these women when Jaruman taught her how to fight with a spear. Knowing this, she thought Gillian might stand a chance, but against how many skinwalkers? They were stronger than regular men, and ten times as vicious. Fryda would never have survived fighting them in the spire had it not been for Peoh and Jaruman—and they were empowered by magic.
"If you're going to fight the skinwalkers," Fryda said, "then it must be during the day. If you kill them at night, the wraiths inside them will possess you."
Gillian smirked, and her eyes shone with pride. "Who was Fryda when she was a regular girl in Indham? I know for a fact that there are no shieldsisters there."
"I was a novice with the Daughters of Indham. But a man taught me to fight, the same man who came to fetch me last week."
"He seemed like a good man. Looked like a warrior, too."
"He was once a Madukai in the North."
"That explains how you lived after fighting these skinwalkers. Where is he now? We could use a man like him. A Madukai . . ." Gillian held her head aloft.
Jaruman hadn't spoken much about the Madukai. He'd only said that the training was grueling and that they didn't allow women to join their ranks. He'd said that was a mistake, for a woman was capable of enduring the intense pain required longer than a man could. Although men had a natural advantage physically, those advantages meant nothing when fighters could use magic. Fryda had hoped that one day he might show her how to use the power of the Madukai.
That might never happen now. She'd left Peoh to tend to Jaruman. Would Peoh's magic bring him to full health, or would he live out his days as a cripple? She didn't want to think about the real possibility that he might die. The green tunic she wore beneath her cloak, pinned at her back and tucked into her tights, belonged to Jaruman. It had been his favorite piece of clothing, so taking it with her on the journey had been like taking a piece of him.
"This man you're searching for," Gillian said, "you love him, don't you?"
“I do.” Fryda realized what Gillian implied with the question. "I know he's different from the others who've become skinwalkers."
"Are you sure you don't think him different simply because of your love for him? I have known love, and it can blind you from the truth."
Fryda let out all the air in her lungs. "His name was . . . is . . . Alfric. A mage residing within Indham saw him through a scrying crystal. She said that his spirit remained inside his body. When a wraith takes someone, their spirits are destroyed. And yet Alfric's wasn't. He is different."
"And you think you'll be able to find him all by yourself?"
Painfully, Fryda shrugged. "Probably not. Aernheim is a big place. But I have to try. He would do the same for me." She looked at the weapons lying on Gillian's floor. What if she spent some time helping these people hunt skinwalkers? She had experience fighting the skinwalkers in the spire, and that was bound to be useful. Would they then help her find Alfric in return?
No, Fryda couldn't take that risk. Gillian didn't seem convinced Alfric was still alive, and the other hunters would think the same. They'd be likely to kill Alfric if they found him.
Fryda would have to complete her quest alone. But if there were men hunting skinwalkers, then she needed to find him before any of them did.
Someone knocked at the door.
"That'll be them," Gillian said. "They're a little early, but they're probably eager to start fighting. A lot of friends and family have become victims to the—" She gasped as she opened the door, staggering backward before falling. Jutting out from her chest was a fist-sized hole. She gargled blood, and her eyes widened as she tried to breathe. A crimson pool slid out from beneath her.
In the doorway, a figure stood obscured by shadows. In his hand was a dripping, still-beating heart—Gillian's heart. He tossed it into a giant mouth.
Tearing herself from the horror, Fryda kicked up a spear from the ground and clutched it in her right hand. She took aim, threw the spear, and impaled the figure. He gripped the spear protruding from his chest, dropped to his knees, and collapsed beside Gillian. Fryda's heart stopped as she took in the dead man. Black hair covered his body, and his face was overly large. Dagger-like teeth filled his gaping mouth.
Fryda glanced up at a gigantic man, at least seven feet tall and monstrous like the dead one, standing in the doorway. He bowed his head to avoid hitting it on the doorframe and entered the cottage.
She grabbed a sword and immediately realized that she would be incapable of wielding it. She used all her strength to raise the sword in two hands, though she could barely lift it above her knees. The sword's point teetered as her muscles protested.
A hissing sound came from the dead man. A trail of red mist floated from his chest. It wound around the spear's shaft like a serpent, before vanishing.
Skinwalkers. These two men were skinwalkers.
Holding the sword with two hands, Fryda stared at the remaining man. Bright orange hair poked out from his head at odd angles, connecting with his braided beard, which ran down to his navel. At first glance, he appeared to be wearing a tunic the same color as his hair and beard, but as he strolled toward Fryda, she saw that it was fur. He smiled with confidence, twin fangs poking out from his mouth, bone-white against his orange beard.
He looked more human than the skinwalkers she'd seen in the spire, but he certainly wasn't human. He seemed caught between the change.
The barbarian stared at her with wild, leering eyes. "You've got decent aim. Are you the shieldsister? No, you can't be her. You're too young." He jerked his thumb, the end pointed in a claw, back at Gillian. "That was her, wasn't it? That was much easier than I'd thought it'd be."
Fryda bore her teeth and snarled. With a bout of furious energy, she ran at the barbarian. Her sword dragged along the floorboards, and she put everything she had into her swing.
The blade's end lifted as it cleaved the air. In a flash, the barbarian's claws caught the blade, sending reverberations down Fryda's arms, and she dropped the cumbersome weapon. An elbow slammed into her head, and she fell. Her vision blackened. She couldn't move a limb, but she could hear another person enter the cottage.
"What happened to Olsten?" the new arrival said.
"This girl threw a spear at him," the orange barbarian said.
"Then let's deal with her. She looks tasty."
"She's coming with us."
"But—"
"No. The shieldsister's band of merry men will be here soon. Best we be on our way before that. Take what's pleasant, though I doubt it'll be much, and then string her up. Give the hunters something to look at."
The last Fryda heard before she blacked out was Gillian's corpse dragging across the floorboards.
5
Alfric
"There are no boots big enough to fit your feet," Gos said with a smile, "so you'll have to go barefoot."
Alfric grimaced and lifted up his feet. The villagers were bound to notice a man with giant feet. And what of his clawed hands and beard that grew a little too high? Surely they'd think he was a monster when he came to warn them—or an insane urchin prophesying of false doom.
"No smiling, either. Those new fangs of yours will give you away."
Grumbling, Alfric pulled the cowl over his head. The cloak barely reached down to his backside, and he wore no tunic. "Perhaps they'll think me a giant's grandson."
Gos scoffed. "You'd better hope so. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"
Alfric shook his head. Gos was much further along in the change. If they both strolled into the village, they'd frighten the villagers half to death. "The point of this is to save the villagers, not kill them after they attack us."
The Dragon Soul (Vagrant Souls Book 2) Page 3