by Matthew Cook
My sweetlings.
I come to my feet. My fingers fly across the fastenings of my gear.
"What's wrong?” Lia asks, frowning.
"I must attend to something,” I say.
The sweetlings. I left them in the ditch beside the road. I think of them laying there, corpses, yet terribly alive and aware, and a gnawing horror swells in my breast. Until this moment, the thought of my dear ones always filled me with a warm glow. Until now, they were my most cherished companions.
Now, the memory of their flayed bodies and ravaged faces fills me with a disgust so profound that, for a moment, it drives the breath from my chest. They must be dealt with. Must be released. Must be destroyed.
I hurry through the camp, ignoring the hails and greetings. Soon, I am on the muddy track leading back to the main road. Lia follows behind.
"Kirin, what is it? Is it those ... I will not call them your children. Not now,” she says.
I nod, then, realizing she cannot see the gesture, say, “Aye."
Unease swells in my breast as I approach the ditch where I left them. I realize that I dread seeing their skinless, horrible forms. Memories of other sweetlings, other men that I have destroyed, buffet me like dark wings.
I think of the dream, of the woman and the babe, so full of light and joy, and the memory fills me with a bone-deep horror. Dear gods, what have I done? What have I brought into this world? No matter that I had good reason at the time; I know better now.
Soon enough, I know I will have to face this strange, new life that the gods have seen fit to serve me. I can bear children, as other women can. I am not broken, not damaged. The thought is huge and overwhelming.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Time enough to think on that later. For now I cannot, I must not, think about it, lest I be turned aside from what I must do.
We round a bend, and I see a form in the road. I recognize its pale, torn skin and bloodied limbs even at a distance. I curse, a chill running through me.
The sweetling has left the ditch where I commanded it to stay. Even before I reach it, I can see that something is terribly wrong.
Its arm drags behind it, nearly severed, trailing in the muck. The other is missing altogether, leaving behind naught but a white stump of bone. Terrible violence has carved gouges in its tough hide, spilling the remains of its entrails to the ground. As I watch, it tangles its feet in the slick, gray ropes, stumbling to its knees.
It looks up at me, beseeching with its ravaged face. Laru, the man who, in his first life, died from a staved-in chest.
Now something even worse has added to its—to his—suffering.
I recognize the wounds at once. Only one thing, save the Mor, has the strength to inflict such terrible wounds. Could have so deeply cut my minion.
Hollern. My blood turns to snow in my veins, cold and thick.
"Oh, gods, Kirin,” Lia says, as Laru slips in the wet tangle once more, this time falling on its ravaged arm. The sound of bone grating against bone is indescribable. “End this. Please, make it to stop.” She turns away, her hand on her mouth.
I approach my swee ... my minion, and reach out, but cannot bear the thought of touching its leathery skin. The thing that was Laru looks at me, its one remaining eye pleading.
"Go,” I croak, turning away, not daring to look as his soul floats free. The thought of what I might see in his face, whether it be love or condemnation, it is too awful to bear.
Behind me, I hear the papery rustle as Laru's mortal shell succumbs. The body gives one final sigh, then all is still.
Lia's sobs reach me. She kneels in the mud, heedless of her silks, head bowed. Perhaps it is for the best; they are already ruined. Nothing will ever get them white again.
"Come on,” I say, helping her to her feet. “We have to find Hollern."
She nods and follows, scrubbing at her tear-stained cheeks. Her hand smears mud, black as sorrow, black as sin, across her cheek. The mark is livid, like a brand, or war paint.
Finally, I reach the place where I left them. The signs of a struggle are obvious: the mud is a trampled mess, filled with my minions’ taloned tracks. Laru's severed claw lies in the muck, half devoured. Two sets of tracks lead from the pit, one towards the road, a second back towards the dark woods.
"What does this mean?” Lia asks, peering at the tracks. “Where is the other one?"
"Gone. After it attacked its broth ... after it attacked Laru, Hollern must have headed off in that direction,” I say, pointing along its trail.
"Why would it do that?” she asks.
"I don't know,” I whisper, the words tumbling into me and through me like icicles. “They have always obeyed me in the past."
Before you decided to betray them, you mean, my sister whispers. Before you got it into your head that they were abominations, just like the priests say.
"They are abominations,” I reply. “I just couldn't see that before. Things are different now..."
Now that you're like every other woman, she spits. Weak and burdened with a child. Soft and helpless. Easy prey for the next man who takes a mind to having you. Shall you spread your legs for every dumb farmer and cowherd, now that you know they can plant a baby in your belly?
"Shut up,” I say, beating my head with my fists. “Shut up, you hateful, hateful thing. I should never have called you back."
"Kirin?” Lia asks, drawing back, her face full of fear. I barely notice.
You shall be like every other woman, toiling in the dirt to feed an endless chain of crying, hungry mouths. Always taking, taking, never giving. Taking from your body first, suckling until your breasts bleed and sag, then taking your love, like a rushalka, feeding on your own heart blood. Draining you dry, until there's nothing left. But, you already know what that's like now, don't you dear sister? Why, you're an expert on that red art, aren't you?
"Shut up!” I scream, my nails scratching at my cheeks, drawing blood, which runs down my cheeks like tears. “Shut your lying mouth! My baby is no rushalka. Nor am I! I'll kill you if you say that again!” I snatch the dagger from my hip, stare into the seductive glitter that plays along its edge.
Jazen showed me how to hone a blade like that. How to strop it against the stone just so, feeling for the right angle, until the edge was sharper than a razor, able to split a drifting hair.
The memory of his kind eyes, staring into mine as he moved above me in the half light of the camp fire, closing but never judging as my nails drew blood, like they always did, from his back, is like a cool mist against my fevered mind. My hand goes limp, allowing the dagger to fall.
"Vanessa was never like that,” I whisper. “She was never a burden. She was the light of your sorry life, sister. She was all you had to live for. You loved her more than anything. More than even me. She was the only good thing to come from your union with Marcus, and you know it."
Inside, my sister falls still, but I can sense that she is not at peace. I can feel her, coiled, like a snake, nearly trembling with fury.
"I shall not be as other women,” I say, louder this time. “No man shall ever own me, not now, not ever. Never doubt that."
I stand and look at Lia. She looks back, the lightning flashing in her eyes. I realize that, had I continued to rave, and tear at myself, she likely would have lashed out. If I say the wrong thing, she still might; she is terrified. The sight of my madness has unnerved her worse than any undead horror could.
"Lia, I'm sorry dear heart, I really am. A madness came upon me, but ... I'm better now. Really. Lia, please, put your hand down. I would never harm you."
I wonder if I will even feel the bolt as it sears my life away, then realize that I do not care. My only regret is for the babe. The innocent one that will never feel the kiss of the sun against its brow. The joy of a mother's embrace.
Then she is in my arms, saying how sorry she is for what she almost did. I shush her, stroking her dark hair, telling her that it's all right. That the madness has passed. We
cling to one another, as if the safety of our immortal souls rests in the hands of the other.
All the while, deep, deep inside, in her secret, black cave, my sister seethes and coils.
Later, when we have regained our composure, Lia and I set off along Hollern's trail. The bright morning is already hot, the pewter sky promising nothing.
Within the hour, we spot his first victim.
The bull must have charged him, must have smelled the wrongness that surrounds him like a pestilent cloud. There is clotted, vile blood on its horns, different from the crimson flood all around. The bull never stood a chance.
The sight of the torn entrails and sundered ribs evokes a fresh wave of nausea, twisting in my belly like worms. I need not approach to recognize the signature of Hollern's barbed hooks.
After killing the bull, Hollern must have tried to eat; there are gobbets of flesh all over, most bearing teeth marks, but this was a token feast. Most of the meat is still here, scattered all about.
"His hunger can never be sated with simple meat,” I say, shivering.
"What will appease him?” Lia asks.
"I do not know. Before now, my ... they always did my bidding without question. The few that tried to eat abandoned the gesture soon after. No, this was something else."
"Murder,” Lia breathes. “So much hate. So much pain. Who was he?"
I shake my head. Who Hollern was before he died does not matter. All that matters now is that one of my former children has, somehow, slipped beyond my mastery, and is roaming the forest ahead. The forest that people live in, and near. That shelters them and provides them with wood.
If Hollern finds any of them, they'll stand no chance at all.
It's not hard to see where he entered the wood. Hollern, in death as in life, is a very poor woodsman. A one-eyed child could follow his tracks.
Silently, we enter the trees’ cool shadow.
Chapter Sixteen
The three sweetlings I called from Urik's henchmen were my companions during the first few weeks of my long journey north. I wanted to return to my cottage, to my narrow, warm bed and dry roof and sturdy hearth, but that was unthinkable. Urik must have told someone why he had come, must have informed the authorities of my terrible crimes.
No. They would be waiting for me. Waiting to take me back, to pay for what I had done. Every desperate man from Mosby to the Armitage would want the reward that was doubtless on my neck. My only protection was in movement. Still, on many cold nights, as I moved higher into the mountains’ foothills, I would think about the crackling fire and the fragrant, drying herbs hanging from the rafters. I would remember the small, secret garden and the satisfaction I had felt in planting it, so full of the promise of comfort and healing, and would weep.
Spring in the highlands was wet and damp, full of icy rain and treacherous mud. I was grateful for the warmth of the thick woolen shirt and the oiled leathers that I had taken from Urik's men. Game, at least, was plentiful, the fields dotted with deer in the early mornings and evenings.
I wasted half of Marcus’ arrows trying to learn the rudiments of the weapon. Even after I could finally loose a shaft, I soon learned that hitting a moving target, like a fleeing deer, was harder still.
In desperation, I stalked and shot one of the slow-moving gepar that were also common in those parts. I had heard that their meat was poison, but my empty belly compelled me. The blood that streamed from its pierced belly was bluish black. I ended its suffering with my knife, gagging in the acrid reek.
I left the kill for whatever scavengers that wanted it. I needed to find a sick, slow deer, or any other animal with four legs. Those I knew I could eat.
I could have easily sent the sweetlings to run my prey to ground, but I knew that one day, not so very far from now, they would not be at my side to defend me. I needed to learn how to use the bow.
It was a joyous day, indeed, when I finally managed to shoot one of the thrice-damned deer in the neck. The animal ran off, my shaft protruding from its throat, but I knew it was done for. I commanded my children to go after it and end its suffering, and they staggered off, limping on their stiffening limbs.
That night, I feasted on roast venison, stuffing myself until I could eat no more. My children watched me while I ate, occasionally mimicking me, putting bones and other scraps into their terrible mouths and chewing, messily, fat and gristle drooling down their chins. Their desire to be more human warmed me, and I did not scold them for their foolishness.
I continued to practice, drawing targets on trees with charcoal and shooting until my fingertips bled and my shoulders burned. Eventually, the wounds hardened to tough calluses. Still I practiced, shooting again and again and again, until four out of every five shafts I loosed could hit a palm-wide circle from fifty paces.
Spring was ripening into summer when I realized that my children's time was near. Their bodies had grown nearly immobile, dried as old leather. Ever faithful, they tried their best to do my bidding, but they were so slow, so clumsy.
Watching them shambling, like old men, brought tears to my eyes.
The trials of the road had depleted all of my hard-won winter fat; my body was lean and tough, my hands the rough, callused paws of a working man. My breasts, never overlarge in the best of times, shrank until they were mere suggestions of womanhood. I did not miss them. What good were they? I would never suckle a babe. They would only get in the way.
On the night of the first summer moon, I sent their spirits on, apologizing to them for my selfishness. I should have released them weeks before, not held them in their decaying shells, watching themselves be reduced from the fierce warriors they had been to such pathetic, shambling things. I scattered their ashes on the wind and continued on my journey.
Summer was short and tumultuous in the North. The days were not the blistering, humid things I remembered from my girlhood; here they were pleasant, almost cool, usually preceding bitterly cold nights as icy winds flowed down the mountains’ flanks. Even in the height of summer, when the sun would only dip for a few short hours below the western horizon, the implacable stone teeth glimmered with snow.
Storms would arise, often without warning, as clouds dark as bruises scuttled out unexpectedly from behind the peaks, pregnant with the amethyst flashes of lightning. I learned hard lessons there: how to avoid being crushed in a sudden mud slide; how to read the wind and smell rain from afar. How to read directions from signs graven in the earth and upon trees when no celestial markers were visible.
I never stopped moving during those brief summer months; I wanted to put as much distance as I could between my past and my present. By the time the autumn storms filled the passes with snow, I had already staked out half a dozen likely camps, mainly caves, which I filled with whatever rude supplies I could find.
Even as tough as I had become, that next winter nearly killed me. Lacking proper provisions, blankets or proper winter clothes, I soon fell prey to a constant, wracking cough. I knew my body lacked the resources to sustain me if I fell abed for too long.
As I weakened, my sister grew more and more quiet, until she finally stopped speaking to me altogether. Even then, she still had the power to compel me, when I was deeply asleep. Sometimes, I would dream of her, nightmarish, fever dreams, filled with blood and darkly clotted knives. Upon waking, I would discover that I was outside, in the bitter wind, the cold slicing through my pathetic clothes. As I scrambled back to shelter, I would hear the ghostly echo of her laughter.
I feared that, if I did not do something, one night my sister would take over my sleeping body and walk it off a cliff. Or that she would lead me so far from the cave that I would lack the strength to return.
The nights grew longer, until the sun only showed its face for less than a quarter of each day. My food was nearly gone, and I was too feeble and scatterbrained to remember the route to my other, hidden caches.
"It looks as if you'll finally get your wish, dearest sister,” I croaked one nigh
t. The last meager scraps of firewood smoked in the shallow pit, throwing off fitful sparks. “I'm only sorry that I've picked such a dismal place to die in. I know you always hated winter, and now here I am, dying in a place where winter lasts for more than a year at a stretch."
Despite myself, I smiled, my chapped lips splitting, blood trickling down my chin. I licked the salty drops, greedily, my body responding of its own volition, as if I could get sustenance from myself.
I do not know how much later it was when I heard the sound. A strange bleating reached my ears from somewhere outside. I opened my crusted eyes and tried to rise. After many attempts, I finally managed to totter to my feet, the effort costing me the last of my waning strength. When I lay down again, I knew I would not rise.
Outside, blinking in the sudden glare of sun on snow, I saw the cause of the ruckus. A gepar, its shaggy winter coat spiked with icicles, struggled a few hundred yards down-slope. Two of its six legs were broken, on its left side, and it tottered, ungainly and barely moving, through the deep drifts. The beast's dark, blue-black blood trailed behind, up the mountain, doubtless to the spot where it had met whatever unhappy accident had crippled it.
My eyes snapped to the dark trail, fixing there as if pinned. Blood. Inside, I felt the first predatory tingle, as my power reacted to the sight.
"The flesh of anything with six legs is poisonous,” I mumbled to myself, half raving. I draped myself across an icy boulder, too cold to even shiver.
"To eat its flesh is death. Death. Dead death die. But what of the blood? Oh, what of the warm, warm blood? So warm and steamy ... warmth worth dying for?"
Groaning, I pushed off from my rocky island, praying that I could stagger close enough to the beast before my legs finally gave out.
* * * *
I do not know what I looked like to the people of the small village, but it must have been a frightening sight. People, gathered together to draw water from the unfrozen warm springs, scattered as I stumbled into the square, I remember that much.