Blood Magic

by Matthew Cook

  "She's gone,” Lia says, nodding to the child whose hand I hold.

  For a time, I thought she might endure, might be able to fight off the infection eating away at her bowels. When her house caught fire, her sister told me, she kept her head, helped her brothers and sisters out the window and down the smoking roof. Helped them drop, one by one, into the garden bushes.

  Then, the roof collapsed behind her, falling in a fountain of sparks into the house, showering her with burning embers, lodging chips of fire in her hair. She panicked then, and leaped bodily out into unforgiving space, as if she, in her need, could transform into a raven or an owl.

  Instead, she fell, crashing into the split rail fence, her small bones snapping one by one, ribs bending in to puncture lungs and lights. The gods, in their questionable mercy, at least had the kindness to shatter her spine, assuring she felt no pain below the tops of her shoulders.

  By the time I reached her, the sickly sweet odor of her death was thick in her chest, wafting to me before I could even bend to smell.

  I cleaned away the bloodied pus as best I could, but of course it was hopeless. All I could do was hold her hand as she slipped away from me.

  Lia shakes the bowl of stew beneath my nose once more, and despite myself, I feel my body responding. I cannot remember when I last ate, and even horse meat stew smells like one of the mythic feasts that my mother so often told us about.

  I close the girl's eyes and drape the body in her blanket, hiding her tiny, peaceful face. Someone will be along shortly to bury her. Or not. I do not know, or care.

  Ato could have saved her, my sister spits. He could have beseeched his Lady to intervene, and yet he did not. Why must this child suffer and die while he heals others? What right does he have to choose who lives and who dies?

  "Kirin?” Lia asks, and I realize, belatedly, that she has been speaking to me.

  "Cry your pardon,” I say, distantly. “What?"

  "I said that, for now, all of the wounded have been dealt with. Even Brother Ato has finally agreed to rest. You should too."

  I nod and allow her to lead me away. We sit under the branches of a towering oak, our backs nestled in the roots. The solidity of the wood at my back feels better than a stone wall.

  "Do you want more?” Lia asks, and I realize I have eaten the entire bowlful.

  I shake my head. “Just sleep, if I need not worry about someone slitting my throat as I slumber."

  "Of course not,” Lia says, shocked. “Why would someone do that?"

  "Brother Ato seems to feel that I'm a witch. That I have dealings with infernal powers."

  "Yes, well,” Lia says, looking down. She tears at the sparse grass. “But the people don't believe that. You helped a great many of them today. They are in your debt."

  "I did only what I could. Less than Ato, I'm sure."

  "I am not so sure,” Lia says. “Oh, he was wonderful, at first,” she adds quickly. “The power of Shanira flowed fromhim in a golden stream, like liquid sunlight, healing wounds and knitting bones. It was magnificent."

  "But?” I ask, hearing the equivocation in her tone.

  "But, after a time, the effort seemed to weary him. Before the night was done, he was using other skills, much like yours."

  I raise my eyebrow at this. “Your worldly skills, I mean,” she adds. “Setting bones. Sewing wounds. Cleaning infection away with boiled wine. He saved the power of Shanira for those that would otherwise have been beyond help."

  Like the little girl whose hand you held? My sister's voice is acid in my head, black as venom. Where was his goddess's power then?

  I shrug, already knowing the answer. Lia has voiced it—he was only one man, despite his goddess's favor. So many times throughout the endless night and day that followed, I wanted to hate him, to blame him for not attending to the people before me, but every time I was moved to rise and confront him, a scream or a moan from the mercy tent would reach me, or some assistant would be helped outside, weeping, or retching, covered with blood, and I knew that Brother Ato had his own price of misery to pay.

  "So, what now?” I finally ask, as the afternoon sky deepens into the cobalt of true night.

  "I do not know,” Lia says, softly. “The people here are lead by Ben Childers, the man who spoke in your defense earlier. I do not know why, but the others all seem to defer to him. We should ask him."

  "Whatever we do, we should be away from here. The Mor must know where we are by now. They will be coming. Why haven't they come already?"

  Lia shrugs. “There is much talk from those who live to the south that many Mor have been seen on the roads. Many believe the Mor are on their way to besiege the City and the fortress wall of the Armitage.

  Besiege the Armitage? A part of me wants to laugh at the idea.

  I have never beheld the great wall, but certainly I have heard the stories. A gargantuan structure, running along the great drop of the Northwatch Cliffs, a wall taller than ten men standing atop one another's shoulders, so thick that an entire city was said to lie inside. The Armitage was more than a wall—it was a fortress, running nearly ten-score miles from the shores of Lake Tywyn in the east to the coast of the Sundown Sea in the west.

  At its heart, the Armitage guards the vast sprawl of the Imperial City, home to the King of Wheels and his court. The City was said to be vast, home to tens of thousands, a crowded, magnificent place built into and athwart the Northwatch Cliffs, nurtured by the waters of the river Mos.

  All traffic between the fertile lowlands below and the highlands had to pass through the City, a never-ending river of food, timber, iron and humanity. If the Mor besieged the City successfully, it would be grave news indeed. It was simply unimaginable that they could ever breach the mighty walls, but certainly they could blockade the walls themselves.

  "Then we should flee north and west,” I say, “away from the Armitage. Making a run for the City will only bring us closer to the invading army. There are vast stretches of unspoiled forest to the North, enough to hide an army in. I should know."

  "Some of the men want to go to the City. Want to join the Imperial Army in its defense."

  "Fools,” I say, bitterly. My hands are still sticky and stained with the result of these people's laughable resistance. “Their best chance is to flee. To hide, and watch, and possibly harry the enemy from concealment. A face-to-face confrontation is simply...” I trail off, once more remembering the way that five thousand men were slaughtered like sheep by a force of rampaging Mor a tenth their number.

  "Then you must speak to Ben Childers. You were a scout in the Imperial Army, were you not?” I nod. “Then your counsel should be welcome. I fear that, for all the people look to Childers for leadership, he is still just a farmer."

  I nod and make to rise, then gasp as the ground seems to list beneath my feet. Lia grabs me, before I can topple.

  "After you rest,” Lia continues. “You are exhausted. Come, let us find you a nice place to sleep.

  She leads me back to my erstwhile prison cell. She makes a show of arranging the straw just so, as if she were fluffing the covers on a bed. When she is done, she takes my hand, leads me into the tiny stall.

  The smell of straw, of sawn wood and manure, is comforting after so much burnt flesh, so much blood. She settles beneath me, guiding me down, until my head is once more pillowed on her thighs.

  The song she sings is unknown to me, a lilting melody, diving and swooping like a kestrel on the wing. Her fingers stroke my pale hair, tracing along my brow tenderly, like a mother with her babe. Or a lover.

  I sigh, feeling my body growing deliciously heavy, and surrender to sleep's embrace.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I fled through the woods, pursued by Urik and his men. All thoughts of subtlety were gone; all my burgeoning woodcraft forgotten. The look of pure, hopeless love that I had seen in Urik's eyes, cut through with such spite, such rage and loathing, had completely unnerved me.

  So I ran, blundering thro
ugh the brush and undergrowth, leaving a trail that a blind man could follow. My breath came, harsh and panting, as I struggled up one rise and then another.

  Reckoning! Reckoning! The time has come! my sister crowed, triumphant.

  "If Urik kills me, then you, too, shall pass beyond,” I gasped.I was rewarded with her silence, but I feared I had not cowed her with my words. Her quietude had an arrogant feel to it. Soon I was completely lost. The trees surrounding me grew thicker, the ground hillier. I knew I must now be high in the hills surrounding the river valley. If I could get high enough, I thought to myself, then perhaps I could find a break in the forest. See the sky or, even better, the sprawl of Mosby below.

  I pushed aside a bush and stepped out into space.

  Then I was falling, rolling down the hill, my body careening into trees and branches in a cloud of leaves and breathless curses. I slammed into a rock, and the sickening crack of bone reached me. My scream was only silenced by my lack of breath. The world went black for a moment.

  I came to rest on the banks of a stream. I woke, my face pressed to the smooth stones. The taste of blood was thick in my mouth.

  Slowly, I gathered my hands beneath me, expecting the white hot stab of pain from whatever I had broken. Even prepared as I was, when I made to rise, the agony tore a fresh scream from my raw throat.

  I looked aside, and saw the wet, red bone protruding through the flesh of my forearm. Shock had kept me from feeling it until I tried to bear my weight on the useless limb. I curled around my injured arm, water slowly seeping through my clothes as I lay on the sodden bank.

  "It came from over here!” I heard a man say, followed by the crunch of sticks and leaves.

  I managed to get to my knees, scrambling towards the dubious shelter of a holly bush. My eyes scanned the ridge I had fallen down. Perhaps my pursuers would fall, as I had. My good hand found a rock. The smooth, water-polished weight felt good in my hands.

  "Here!” a second voice called out. I saw a face, Urik's, poke through the vegetation. His eyes scanned, back and forth, vigilant, hard as flint.

  I wondered where the gentle buffoon I had left had gone, replaced with this implacable hunter. His gaunt face was all planes and shadows, a barbaric war mask, so very unlike the soft, round moon I remembered.

  You should have killed him, my sister chortled. Now he will never rest until you are dead.

  "But, why did he follow? I left him alive, didn't I? Even after all he did to me, I showed him mercy."

  Mercy? Is that what you call it? she replied. Surely he had to explain many things in the wake of Marcus's death. Surely the townsfolk suspected him in his murder, and in your disappearance. And, they were friends.

  "Do you really think you can hide from me?” Urik called down. “From us? Why not come out, where we can talk? We have much to speak of, I think. You and I."

  I held my ground, and my tongue, biting back the bitter words that threatened to spill out. I remembered seeing Marcus's bow on his back. He could be holding it, even now, an arrow nocked to the string.

  He turned aside, and engaged in a whispered conference with his men. A moment later, he faced the ravine once more. I heard movement, through the trees.

  That will be his men, splitting up to cut off your retreat, my sister informed me, her self-satisfaction setting my teeth on edge. You should just surrender. Urik was your husband, after all. He doubtless means to kill you quick, rather than have you endure the humiliation of rape.

  "Silence, you spiteful bitch!” I hissed aloud, momentarily forgetting myself.

  Above me, Urik started at the sound. His eyes swept the bank.

  "She's still here!” he called, left and right. “Move in and cut her off!” He disappeared, the sound of his running feet, the crash and snap of the leaves loud in the sudden silence.

  I leaned back, just for a moment, and considered listening to my sister. My broken arm throbbed, a sensation that evoked a twinge of raw nausea in my stomach. Surrender would at least, I hoped, be quick.

  Then I recalled Marcus beneath me, moaning my sister's name—my name now—begging me to forgive him for killing me. Killing her. Remembered the pale limbs in the moonlight, Kirin's sightless stare. Remembered the blood caked on the knife.

  A howl of animal fury was torn from both of us. Inside, my sister thrashed like a beast in a cage, the memory dispelling her loathing for me, replacing it with the desire for red justice. I surged to my feet, nearly retching from pain, and stumbled upstream, along the bank.

  Thank you, sister, she whispered, her voice as cold as a wolf's howl. I forgot myself for a time, but now I remember. Beware; they will be close.

  I silenced my footfalls, stepping carefully from stone to stone, wary of snagging branches. With a thought, I reached inside and breathed across the sleeping power of my magic, shivering as it opened raw, crimson petals in my belly. In my mind's eye, the power was like a blood-thirsty plant, all fibrous, veined leaves and wicked thorns, black as the bottom of a well. It thirsted for the men's blood. For Urik's blood.

  I heard a sound, a soft curse. One of them was close. I stopped, cradling my injured arm.

  He stepped out from behind a tree, a brace of curved daggers held in a loose, knife-fighter's grip, perfect for the close-in work that the concealing foliage would necessitate. He was ten feet away. Close enough to see the whites of his startled eyes.

  A moment later, he was screaming, the dropped knives lost in the weeds as he slapped his hands over his streaming sockets. Where his eyes had been were now only twin rivers of blood. The crimson tide flowed around his hands, through his fingers, flying towards me.

  It pooled in my upraised palm, my flesh drinking in the fluid, and a bolt of sensual pleasure erupted in my thighs, in my sex. My broken arm tingled, like fire ants crawling beneath my skin.

  I clenched my fingers, and his screams were choked into silence. Then I yanked, hard. The sensation of his life tearing free sent a jolt of unrestrained pleasure through me, tearing an answering moan from my lips.

  He dropped, bonelessly, to the ground. His face was shriveled, like an old man's. His eyes were two yawning pits, eyeless and empty. Where they had gone, I knew not.

  My arm still burned, but when I looked down I saw that my flesh had healed. Where the bone had protruded was now a pale scar. I flexed the hand, gingerly. A childish giggle escaped my lips.

  The second man's knife took me from behind, slashing across my back. Suddenly, my legs had no strength, and I was falling, falling. I sprawled across the man I had killed, writhing.

  Before I could turn, I felt my attacker drop onto me. His knee slammed down, brutally, crushing down into my lower spine as his fingers knotted in my hair. He yanked my head up, and laid his dagger across my throat.

  "Just lay still, avuna,” the man breathed into my ear. “You've led us on a merry chase, but you're done now."

  The blade at my throat was a deadly promise, and I froze, lest I cut myself with my struggles. The knee at my back was excruciating, and I felt bone grate as he pulled my head back further. He laughed, a sound so full of spite and wicked amusement that it brought tears to my eyes.

  I opened my secret eye, and beheld the ghostly face of the first man. His milky eyes pled with me, but my need was greater than his fear. My wordless command sent him drifting back to his mortal shell.

  "Urik was right about you, avuna,” my tormentor whispered in my ear. His breath was rank and hot against my neck. “Don't fear, I'll not be killing you just yet. I mean to enjoy you before slitting your throat."

  "Stop ... calling me ... that...” I managed to croak. A short distance away, I saw the first man's corpse twitch and stir, heard the soft, tearing sound that I prayed would be my salvation.

  "What? Avuna?” he asked. “Perhaps you're not a whore, but you will be soon. We'll make you scream, oh yes we will..."

  His words faltered as the body flopped over, its back twisting, like a crushed snake. I heard the pop and tear of rippi
ng flesh, of tearing sinew.

  "Alric?” the man atop me said. “I feared the bitch had killed you. Come, let's..."

  The sweetling stepped from the undergrowth. Its compact body was mostly skinless, three feet of wetly gleaming muscle. Bone spurs sprouted from its bulging limbs like thorns on a rose. Its face was dominated by a vast, yawning mouth, filled with needle teeth, below a single, madly staring eye.

  My dark child paused, sniffing the air, the terrible head swiveling. Above me, I heard my tormentor curse. His fingers slackened their iron grip, and I felt the knife drop away.

  I screamed and rolled, pushing him off with my unexpected move. He crashed into a tree, cursing, scrambling forward.

  The sweetling moved like lightning, pouncing on his bent back. Long, barbed fingers encircled his throat, squeezing, cutting into flesh. My would-be murderer had time for one brief cry, before his neck surrendered to the awful pressure.

  My sweet one let fall the body, staring down at it impassively. I moved to a fallen log, and sat, gingerly. My back was afire, blood running down, soaking my thighs.

  There were two more with Urik, my sister warned. I nodded wearily, reaching out to the body with my blood magic. I needed his energy to heal my wound. No answering throb met my anxious probing. He was dead, his blood's vitality already gone. I cursed softly, and opened my secret eye once more.

  The second sweetling was awake a moment later, joining his brother at my side. This one was handsomer, retaining most of his fleshy cocoon's features. A set of horns rose from his brow.

  "Fetch me Urik's men,” I whispered. “Be careful not to kill; I have need of them."

  The pair looked at me for a moment, their opal eyes adoring, then, a moment later, they bolted into the forest. I rose and shambled after, the agony in my back tearing sobs from my chest.

  I followed the sweetlings’ trail through the woods, ripped plants and gouged tree trunks. My children were many things, but subtle was not one of them. The trail led me further upstream.