by Matthew Cook
I ignored her taunt, even as the cruel barb set itself. Why was I acting this way? Perhaps my newfound powers over blood had made me overconfident. Perhaps I did crave his approval.All concerns and self-doubts were pushed aside a moment later as Rory started back up the slope. He checked the fit of his arrow on the string, then plunged over the top of the rise.
As we approached the lip of the cave, we split, each taking a side. My eyes roamed across the dark hole, seeking a target. The reek of dead, rotting things, mixed with the pungent tang of the bear's waste, was thick in my nose.
I caught Rory's eye, waiting for his signal to go inside. He nodded, and I rushed forward, the light at my back, sighting along the drawn arrow. A dim tunnel led further back, into the dark.
An ear-splitting roar echoed through the cave. We exchanged a look and moved further in, every scraping footfall and muffled breath echoing from the walls.
The bear roared again, sounding closer now. I heard a clinking, like dead men's finger bones being tapped against the stone, realized that it must be the sound of its claws. The sound grew louder, but still I could see nothing.
The clicking, and the shuffling of its paws, increased in tempo as the beast rushed forward.
"Rory?” I began, my treacherous feet moving me backwards of their own volition.
"Steady, lass. I know you can hit the target when you must."The bear charged out of the dark, transforming from a dim, gray smudge into a terrifying, shaggy apparition in the space of three heartbeats. Even on all fours it was huge, taller at the shoulder than either of us. Its snarling mouth was filled with ivory teeth, the saber-like canines longer than my forearm. They glittered in the dim blue light.
"Now!” Rory yelled. The bear screamed as a shaft appeared, as if by magic, in its open mouth. I let fly a moment later, then cursed when I saw the arrow protruding, uselessly, from the great shaggy hump rising behind its ears.
I drew a second arrow from my quiver, willing my hands to be still, and took aim again. I would not get another shot before it was on us.
This time my aim was true. The bear stopped, howling, as my second shot struck it in the eye. It reared up, smashing its head on the rocks above. Rory finally readied his second shot and fired, striking the bear in the throat. The barbed head bit deep, burying itself to the fletching in the thick fur.
The beast coughed and turned towards him, incredibly fast for something so large. It dropped back to all fours and moved towards him. Its cuff sent Rory spinning, slamming him into the cave wall. He went down, gasping, his bow flying away into the darkness.
"Rory!” I screamed, nocking a fresh arrow to the string. Time slowed.
With stately grace, I saw the bear's terrible claws swipe across Rory's prone body. Blood burst forth from rent leather, accompanied by his scream of pain.
Blood.
I dropped the useless bow; the beast was too large and too close. My best weapon now was a different kind of attack. I rushed forward, my hands outstretched, as red magic uncoiled in my belly, roused by the scent of Rory's blood.
What are you doing? my sister said, alarmed. You can't! It will rip you limb from limb. Forget him; it's too late. He's dead already.
"No!” I yelled again, answering her. I leapt.
I sprang upon the bear's back, hands scrambling for purchase. The beast's fur was coarse and greasy, its musky scent overwhelming. Under the thick hair, I felt the play of unimaginably powerful muscles as the bear turned to see who had dared to assault it.
My fingers burrowed down, through the fetid hair, seeking skin. All I needed was a touch.
The bear rose up again, its head once more scraping the ceiling. Its roar was deafening. With a mighty shrug, it sent me flying. I rebounded from the icy stone wall and fell, sprawling, to the floor.
I scrambled back as the bear's claws scraped across the stones. Panic tightened my chest. I looked into the beast's one remaining eye. The amber orb burned with rage and pain, rolling madly above a mouth full of knives. I saw movement behind it.
Rory, bleeding from a score of wounds, stabbed the bear with his knife, burying the long blade to the hilt in the beast's side. The bear roared again, a whistling note of agony in the sound now.
"Outside!” I screamed. I turned and ran, not waiting to see if Rory followed. In the close confines of the cave, the bear had every advantage. I needed to get above it.
The sound of Rory's footfalls behind me was sweeter than any bard's music as we ran back out into the sunlight. I did not pause to consider what I meant to do.
"Draw it out!” I yelled, cutting hard to the side and scrambling up the rocks that ringed the cave mouth. Fear lent my limbs unexpected agility and strength as my fingers scrambled for purchase.
I looked down, and saw Rory, kneeling in the snow. Everywhere he was crimson, his life leaking away through the rents in his leathers.
I reached the apex of the cave opening, then gathered my legs beneath me. I heard the bear, moving inside the cave, alternately roaring and whimpering in pain. Rory's last cut must have been deep.
We could run. Let time pass, and allow the wound to stiffen. Maybe the beast would even bleed to death.
No. Rory was done, I could see that. He would be running nowhere. And, even it we were to escape, the frigid night would freeze us to death.
I heard the beast moving along the tunnel, the scrape of its claws marking it for me. Just another moment.
Beneath me, I saw the blunt muzzle emerge, then the tips of the rounded ears. My arrow still jutted from the ruined eye socket. The shaggy shoulders followed a moment later.
I dropped, landing on its back with a whuff. My thighs gripped either side of the thick neck desperately. The bear roared and rose up, trying to throw me off once more, but I was ready for the movement, one hand knotted in the coarse fur.
I reached forward, until my fingers touched the wet ruin around the arrow fletching. They probed further, deeper, until I felt the jellied remains of its eye, the jagged hardness of bone.
The blood magic flowed down my fingers, threading itself into the bear's body like hooked lines, twining through veins and arteries. It buried deep, deep, reaching for the mighty heart.
The beast froze, still upright, a tiny whimper passing through those terrible teeth. The hooked barbs found the heart, twisting through the powerful muscles.
I pulled, and the bear's blood came pouring forth in a crimson rush, spilling from mouth, from nose and ears, from even the ruined eye socket, like water from a fountain.
I laughed as the hot liquid sent a ripple of heat and life through my body, the sensation a dozen times more powerful than anything I had ever felt from a man. Only the gepar's life force had been more intense, and that energy had nearly killed me.
Not the bear's. No, the bear's blood was life, raw and unadulterated, hot and bursting with vitality. Again I threw my head back and laughed, my clenched thighs tingling, riding the former lord of the mountains as it trembled beneath me, the sensation somehow more inviting, more arousing than anything I had ever experienced.
Then it toppled forward, its limbs unhinging with the departure of its life force. I tumbled across the snowy ground, rolled easily to my feet. The bear's life filled me to overflowing, thundering in my veins. My head pounded, as if the bear's mammoth heart now beat in my chest. A small noise reached me, and I turned back.
It lived. Despite the terrible thing I had done to it, it still clung to life. Its single eye rolled, mad with pain, fixing me with its terrible gaze. There was no malice there, only a dull, animal rage. It struggled to rise, but its limbs were powerless, flapping things.
I drew my knife and approached. I knew its desire to rend, to crush the life from me in vengeance for what I had done, for that same desire filled me as well, a lingering gift of the bear's sacrifice.
I thought of Urik, and of how I had, at the end, shown him mercy. His gaze, too, had been filled with the same animal hatred. The thought awoke a red rage in my breas
t.
With a grunt I slammed the knife down into the ruined eye socket. The bear gave one last spasm, as the blade cleft deep, then fell still.
I turned back for Rory. He was still unconscious, his blood staining the snow around him in a widening circle. The bear's vitality still sang in my veins, the blood magic spiraling alongside it in a near-deafening duet. The sight of Rory's blood filled me with a bone-deep hunger.
I struggled, then pushed it aside. No. I would not let him die.
I bent and lifted him, as a mother would pick up her overtired child, so easy to do with the bear's strength in me, and carried him inside the cave.
I would not let him die.
Chapter Nineteen
It is dark once more when we finally stumble back to the farm. We walk down the center of the road, making no attempt to conceal ourselves, yet still our sentries only give warning when we have nearly reached the camp's perimeter. I must speak to Ben Childers about that.
Lia's face is grimed and streaked with crusted blood, and I cannot bear weight on my injured leg. We limp along, clinging to one another like drunks. All the way back, Lia has insisted that the wound Hollern gave her does not trouble her, but the way that she occasionally stumbles and sways worries me.
She will hear nothing of seeing the healers before me, despite my protestations that, besides the injury to my leg and my seared palms, I came to no harm from Hollern's attack. I know what concerns her, so it does not surprise me when Livinia, the midwife, appears.
In the privacy of my stall in the barn, Livinia examines my belly and my female parts, while Lia stands outside, guarding the door. I smile at her dedication. The thought of her, standing out in the barn with blood in her hair, evokes a feeling of warmth deep in my belly.
"And there's been no bleeding, nor cramps, you're sure?” Livinia asks for the third time. “What about a ringing in your ears? Or the taste of metal?"
"No. No and no. I'm fine, Livinia, really. I, too, know the signs of bleeding inside the chest or belly, and of ... of miscarriage. And I have had none of them."
The midwife nods and gestures for me to get dressed. As I lace my breeches, I hear them, whispering outside the stall door. When I emerge a moment later, Lia's look of worry transforms into a radiant smile. She reaches for me, hugging me tight.
"Thank the gods,” she mutters into my hair. “I was so worried about you and ... about you and the baby. I was so scared that the lightning—"
"The lightning saved us both,” I say, awkwardly patting her back. A part of me yearns to return her embrace, but years of solitude and the certain knowledge that my sister is still inside me, watching from behind my eyes, makes me awkward.
Finally, I pull away, and steer Lia towards the stall. “Come now,” I demand. “I'm fine, just as I've been saying all day. Let's have a proper look at that cut. Livinia, can you fetch me some water, the hotter the better, and some clean rags?"
"Bandages are rarer than a banker's charity right now,” Livinia complains. “But I'll see what can be found."
"No matter. I've extra shirts in my pack that are little better than rags, so they might as well be put to use. The water will suffice,” I say, rummaging through my bag for my sewing kit and a length of gut. Livinia hurries out on her errand.
I clean and sew Lia's wound, my bandaged fingers clumsy on the needle. When that is done, Livinia wraps her brow with strips torn from one of my ruined shirts. She shows no signs of concussion, thank the fickle gods, and already her youthful vitality has her on the mend. She will have a scar—I did not lie about that—but she is in no danger.
Lia and Livinia finally leave, in search of food, and, at last, I can rest. I lay back and am asleep moments after my head touches the clean straw.
* * * *
"No, that won't do at all,” Ben Childers says, peevishly. “Surely that's not the best answer you can give?"
I hold his eyes with mine until he drops his gaze. “It is, Mister Childers, I'm sorry. I've spoken with the refugees that came this way from the south, and I believe that the Mor are headed to the Armitage. Many were seen moving along the road. We cannot move towards them; the danger is too great. Nor can we stay, for we are too exposed here. These people have heart, I grant you, but they're not soldiers. The farm is indefensible if we are attacked."
We sit around the main fire, a dozen landowners, those whom the people have come to look on as leaders, and I. Lia is with Brother Ato. I wish she were here; I have no talent for pretty words and compromise. I know what these people must do if they want to survive; the trick will be to convince them.
"But what of our wounded?” Ben complains, the same argument he has been making for an hour. “What of the children and the old folk who cannot go any further? Should we just abandon them?"
Yes, he should, my sister says. Best to leave behind those who would perish on the road. The Mor will linger; will take the time to put all of the infirm out of their—
"We shall leave none behind,” I assure him. “We have wagons enough to carry the injured and the sick."
"But few animals to pull them with,” he says. It had not taken long for the hungry, scared people to turn to their beasts of burden for sustenance. Now all were gone, save for a few precious horses.
"People can pull wagons just as well as animals,” I say. “And they must, or else some must remain behind. That is something I will not tolerate."
Childers ponders this, then nods. “Aye, it might work,” he allows.
"But, begging your pardon, m'lady, there's still the issue of where we'll go,” a goodwife says. Days of hard living have melted the fat from her face, leaving her with bulldog jowls and bruised eyes.
"I still say we stay here!” another man says. He has voiced this opinion often. “We can, I don't know, build a wall or something. Plant stakes. We've plenty of able-bodied folk here to do the work."
I bite back the laugh that threatens to burst from my lips. Build a wall? Against the Mor? And out of what? Why not try barricading a storm with a wattle fence?
"I know you've lost everything, Massers,” Childers says, calmly. “We all have. And I know it took you and yours four days to walk here."
"Almost five,” Massers says, brandishing his spread-fingered hand. “My littlest one ... my littlest one died of her wounds on the way. I've three other children to think of, Ben!"
"All the more reason to flee,” I repeat, for what feels like the dozenth time. “You cannot build a wall out of timber that the Mor cannot breach. They are masters of fire and flame. And even if you managed to get these people organized and willing to work, it will take weeks to build a proper post wall, weeks in which you are vulnerable, and exposed."
"So goodwife Jordan's question is a good one. Where shall we go?” Childers asks.
"Fleeing south is no good,” I say, then hold up a hand as Massers tries to interrupt once again. It seems as if no idea I have is good enough for him, the fool. “Fleeing south is no good, I say!” I shout over him. “The Mor are sure to be on the roads, and as we get closer to the Armitage, there will be more of them. We must go in another direction."
"But what if the army comes, looking for refugees?” Childers asks. “Shouldn't we stick close to the road, so they can find us?"
I think of Gamth's Pass, think of the bodies laying strewn across the trampled ground, limbs missing, heads gone. The burns, and the smell of charred horse and human flesh. The unearthly keening of the Mor as they invoked the fire slumbering in their weapons; the sound of their thundering feet as they pushed forward in a wordless rush.
"The army has other priorities at the moment than looking for refugees,” I say, pushing down the horror the memory evokes. “I fear that they will not come, not for a while in any case. Until then, we must care for ourselves."
"So where shall we—” Goodwife Jordan begins.
"West, into the mountains,” I say, pointing at the snow-covered peaks. “There is an abandoned manor up there, beside a lake.
I remember it from before, when the army passed through the highlands. It's remote, but it does have a wall. There was fresh water and game aplenty, if memory serves."
Childers and the others ponder this. “I know the place you speak of,” Ben says finally, nodding. “In the spring and autumn, I hunt for deer near there, as do many others. The manor though,” he shakes his head, “is a ruin, abandoned for years, with tumble-down walls and a rotted gate."
"I know the place as well,” Massers says, scowling. “That's where Martin Dupree once lived. That's no good at all. The walls were broken by the Emperor's troops thirty years ago. My family used to have relations with the Dupree family, but when they began to give shelter to rogues and highwaymen, well my father told my mother that they—"
"You were ready to build a log palisade with your bare hands a moment ago,” I interrupt, shaking my head. “Surely a thick, stone wall in need of repair is better than no wall at all? Surely a rotted gate is better than no gate at all? We will be safer there than here, in any case, and the manor is far from any road."
Fort Azure had thick walls as well, my sister reminds me. They did you no good. Or have you forgotten that already?
"Lia was not at Fort Azure,” I mumble under my breath, the words lost in the babble.
Ben Childers allows the argument to rage for several minutes, then holds up his hands and waits until the voices subside. When all have fallen silent, he says, “I know that I can't speak for you and yours, but I think Kirin's plan has merit. I mean to go to the Dupree manor and all who care to follow me are welcome to do so. We shall hold out there until the King's army can push back these invaders. Who will accompany us?"
It is as simple as that. Childers's quiet confidence and decisiveness seem to spread, like fever, to all sitting around the fire, and soon most are nodding and smiling in approval.