Blood Magic

by Matthew Cook

A few, Massers among them, leave the firelight unhappy and unsmiling. I will need to watch them.

  Childers approaches, and takes my hand in his, steering me gently away from the fire.

  "You're sure about this, Kirin? You're sure the Mor haven't beat us there?"

  I blink, surprised he has only now thought to ask me this. “I can guarantee nothing. But the Mor have shown no interest in any human concepts of shelter, save in their desire to burn them to the ground. Since you say it is abandoned, it should be clear. But I will scout ahead, of course."

  "But, you can't!” he says, shocked. “What of the child? You should ride in one of the wagons, and leave the trail blazing to the menfolk."

  I give him a long, lingering look. He seems serious. Then I laugh.

  "Pregnancy, despite what you may think, isn't a disease, Ben. I'm quite capable of doing my job. If the gods are kind, we will be sheltered behind stone walls long before my belly forces me from the road."

  "Then let us pray that the gods are indeed kind,” Childers says.

  * * * *

  I rise before the sun, gathering my things in the feeble moonlight that penetrates the clouds. Lia walks me to the horses. Before I mount, I grasp her hand in a silent promise. She nods, then pulls me into her arms.

  She is warm and soft, and smells of smoke and clean skin. The aroma of sunshine still lingers in her hair. The embrace steals away my breath. Her lips brush my cheek, and she whispers something in the impossibly beautiful language of the air elementals. Then she is gone, hurrying away towards the mercy tent.

  I watch her go, then swing astride my mount. Soon, I am alone, cantering across the fields. If my maps and my hazy memories are accurate, I should be able to reach the valley and the manor by mid-day tomorrow. As I travel, I watch for impediments that will slow the refugees: bogs that might trap the wagons; groves that could conceal an ambush.

  Always I am alert for traces of the Mor. The signs of their passage are everywhere. Where they have walked, their heavy, clawed feet have churned the earth into muddied tracks, which stand out, stark, against the grass. They do not seem to know how to walk softly, to conceal their movements. They do not know, or they do not care. Most of the tracks are days old, but a few are very fresh.

  I pass two other farms, both burned. One is deserted but the second is littered by the sad, sorry bodies of the family who once lived here. The crows and other scavengers have left little to show who they were.

  I almost open my secret eye, to see if their shades still linger, but stop myself. Nausea twists in my belly, and I wonder if the sensation is simply morning sickness or my body recoiling viscerally from what I almost did.

  I cannot. Never again.

  My instinct is to press on, but my horse needs rest and food and I find that I cannot leave them there, exposed to the unforgiving sky. I drop to the ground, wincing at the pain in my leg and lacerated thighs.

  There are tools aplenty in the shattered barn, and I find a shovel that has not been too badly damaged by the blaze. I chose a likely spot, on a hill overlooking the valley that they had made their home, and begin to dig.

  Afternoon is deepening into night when I am finally done. My wounded leg and blistered hands ache, the dressings spotted with fresh blood. I limp towards the row of mounds, my hands clutching something soft and wet.

  I lay the charred doll atop the last grave, final resting place of a girl who could not have been more than four or five. The fire that killed her reduced her to a small, shrunken thing, almost weightless when I picked her up and laid her in the shallow pit. The doll sits on the stones I have piled on top of her, a sad, broken guardian, soaking in the mist and rain.

  I cannot stay; the shades may still be here, clamoring soundlessly for someone to avenge them. I swing back into the saddle and ride west. An hour later, the blue dark is thick. The horse stumbles on an unseen rock. I cannot risk it twisting a leg, and decide to wait for the dawn.

  A fire would help push back the damp and the chill, but the Mor may be near. I sit and shiver, wrapped in my damp woolens, thinking of Lia. I wish she were here, but she would only slow me down. Still, a kind word, or one of her smiles, would doubtless warm me better than even a hot meal.

  In the morning, I make better time, despite the morning sickness that plagues me and the burning ache in my thigh. I ride at a brisk canter amongst the scattered scree and boulders that litter the mountains’ skirts, stopping occasionally when the nausea threatens to overcome me. The overcast endures until mid-day, although, happily, the rain does not return.

  Later, the sun breaks through the clouds, warming me, casting its radiance over the peaks and valleys.

  I remember when I came here before, with Jazen Tor, not so very long ago. He went on endlessly about the glow from the chill snows high above, about the dance of sunlight on this stream or that. I remember he made me a necklace of flowers and laughed when I told him that I did not wear such things.

  "Yet,” he had said, plucking a fallen blossom from the grass and tucking it behind my ear. “You do not wear flowers yet."

  But you did. You wore them for him eventually, did you not? On the night you first gave yourself to him, yes? mysister asks. The sound of her voice in my head sends a fresh spike of nausea through my viscera.

  "You will not speak of him,” I say, shaking my head. “What Jazen and I shared—"

  Was the rutting of animals. Passionate, true, but nothing more. You know that you did not love him. He was a convenience; a pair of strong arms to hold you through the long night. To warm you when the darkness grew too lonely and too cold. Do not let the fact that he happened to fill your belly with his seed change what you know to be true.

  I ride in silence for a time, framing my denial, but inside I know she is right. I desired Jazen. Sometimes, too often perhaps, I even yearned for him, but I did not love him. Does that mean that I cannot, that I will not, love the child of our union?

  Lost in thought, I almost miss the fact I have arrived. I stop at the crown of the rise, my breathing labored in the thin air, and gaze at the valley laid out before me.

  It is long, its far end blue with distance, a narrow cut, nestled between towering peaks. A lake sparkles at the valley's center, the water so deep blue that it is almost black.

  A river snakes its way along the valley floor, a pale line of glimmering light amongst the verdant greenery. Beside the river runs the ghost of a road, long abandoned but still visible to the eye that knows what to look for.

  Thickets and copses dot the valley floor. As I watch, I see a herd of deer, almost a score of them, emerge from the tree line. They begin to graze, cautiously, never straying from the security of the shadows, watched over by an attentive buck.

  Near the valley's far end the manor sits. It is the same pale gray as the surrounding stones, the only clue to its existence the unnaturally geometric shapes of its towers and battlements. From here, it is impossible to judge its fitness.

  I sigh and start down the slope. Shadows have already begun to pool in the valley floor, but if I hurry I should be able to make the walls before full darkness falls. The abundance of water and the sight of the deer fill me with hope; this would be a good place for the survivors to shelter.

  The deer raise their heads, alerted by my far-off presence, then meld into the shadows. I stop my horse and swing down from the saddle, then take down my bow and set the string into its notch. I push aside the pain in my leg, trying to move quietly despite my limp. Gods willing, I will feast on hot meat behind stone walls tonight.

  Smiling, I move to stalk my prey.

  Chapter Twenty

  Eight days after we left to stalk the bear, Rory and I returned to the small, nameless village. I grinned when I saw it below me, and tightened my grip on the travois.

  "Not long now,” I panted, struggling to pull Rory's bulk over a patch of stone.

  "Thank the gods,” Rory replied, his voice barely a whisper.

  I looked back, over my shou
lder, at where he lay. All I could see of him was his wan face, the skin red and blotchy in the biting wind. He had lost a frightening amount of weight. He lay beneath the bear's skin, shivering. Taking the hide was the first thing Rory taught me, after waking from his fever.

  I started down the long slope, hoping that someone would see us against the snow and come to help. The afternoon was almost gone, the dark of night pooling in the mountain's folds and valleys. Lights glittered with the promise of warmth below.

  "Not long now,” I repeated, heading down.

  We were nearly to the village's single street before someone saw us. A herdsman, attending to his flock, started as he came out of a barn, nearly colliding with me. He scrambled back, his eyes wide.

  "Go get help,” I commanded. “He's been sore wounded."

  He blinked at me for a moment, then nodded. He pelted off, his feet splashing in the muddied road.

  Free of the snow, the travois bearing Rory became too heavy to pull, so I waited, breathing hard, as voices floated to me. Soon, we were surrounded, as the villagers came out to see the source of the commotion.

  Hands reached out, stroking the bear's soft, gray fur, muttering talismanic prayers to this god or that. I was pushed gently aside, as other hands took the poles and began pulling Rory away. We walked, a tiny parade, towards the sign of the horse.

  * * * *

  Rory cut into his third meat pie. He shoveled the bite, steaming, into his bearded face and rolled his eyes comically with relief. Good-natured laughter filled the smoke-filled tavern. As news of the bear's demise spread, others arrived at the inn, filling the room with a mass of boisterous, laughing faces. The bear's hide hung on the wall, so large that the rear paws trailed across the dusty floor.

  I sat in the corner, a bowl of stew before me, sipping the thick, brown sauce. It was delicious, even more so after a week of eating nothing but tough, fire-charred bear meat. I bit into a carrot and closed my eyes as a sensual ripple went through my body.

  I did not care that Rory's story of the fight with the bear was wrong. He did not cut the throat of the beast, as he was telling the pretty bar maiden and the rest of the onlookers, nor had he delivered the killing blow that had laid the bear to rest. In fact, the only time that he mentioned me at all was when he spoke of his convalescence.

  "Aye, the bear clawed me deep,” he said to the lass, raking his hooked fingers down his side to illustrate. “My juice was leaking all over the snow in a red stream, it was. After the bear finally dropped, I followed, near to swooning.

  Kirin there,” he pointed at me, and the many heads of his audience swiveled to face me, “Kirin, she patched me up right pretty. Kept me from freezing to death with the warmth of her own body. A not unpleasant fate, lads, let me tell you!” He winked and the crowd laughed.

  I shrugged. It was true. I had lain beside him, as the fever coursed through his veins, his body shivering uncontrollably, rank with fever sweat. I dared not leave him that first night, even long enough to gather firewood, lest the shock stop his heart. Together, we lay in the bear's cave, on the freezing stone, until morning. If not for the cave, we both would have certainly perished.

  Let Rory have his ribald fun, I thought. We both knew who had slain the bear, as we both knew he had been far too busy struggling against death for amorous advances. Let these oafs clap him on the back and wink, and leer at me if they liked.

  "What of Jim Baggett?” a voice called from the back of the room. “Did you find any sign of him?"

  I turned, along with all the others, and saw a small woman at the door. She pulled down her muffler, her eyes wide and beseeching.

  Rory coughed, dropping his eyes, and muttered, “Goodwife Baggett. Aye, I found him. Lass, can you fetch my pack?” he asked me.

  I nodded, rising and walking to the meager pile of goods that had been brought inside. I drew out a long bundle, and walked to her.

  I saw her eyes flick up and down what I carried, shaking her head in denial of what she already knew to be true. When I flipped aside the covering, exposing the rusted hilt set with agate, her face crumpled.

  "I'm so sorry, mistress,” I began, then stopped as her keening wail split the air. She crumpled, slowly, to her knees, reaching out for the ruined blade. I put it into her hands and she held it to her breast, like a lover.

  I resumed my seat, awkward, wanting to say something to salve her grief, but I did not have the words. The room watched, looks of triumph changed to embarrassment, as Jim Baggett's widow cried for her dead husband.

  * * * *

  We sheltered in thr tavern for two weeks, as Rory healed and recovered his strength. On the fifteenth day, he met me in the common room downstairs. He was still a trifle thin, and wan, but plentiful food and drink had done much to restore him.

  "Top of the morning to you, lass,” he said, blearily, gesturing for the tavern maiden to fill his cup. The night before, like too many others, had seen him drinking until he was too unbalanced to stand. I frowned; I did not care for his habit of taking mead, or even wine, in the mornings. Marcus and, later, Urik, had done the same.

  The lass looked at him as she poured. Her eyes were as red as his, but for different reasons. Her face was blotchy and swollen from crying.

  "I think we should talk about leaving soon,” I said in a low voice. “Your wounds are nearly healed and I know you can walk when you—"

  When he's not staggering from the effects of wine, my sister hissed, venom dripping like acid from the words.

  "When you want to,” I finished.

  "Aye, we'll leave soon enough,” he said. “I think I've taken the measure of this town.” He looked at the maid for a long moment, a leer splitting his thick lips. She turned away from him and hurried to the end of the bar, busying herself with wiping down the already clean counter.

  "But, like it or no,” he continued, “I was wounded in service to these people, and they owe me compensation."

  All true, my sister whispered, spitefully, but that does not give him license to take what he likes.

  I nodded, agreeing with her. Rory had indeed been difficult to live with over the past several days, with his never-ending demands for this or for that. At first, the people had been eager enough to reward their savior, but as the days wore on, and Rory's demands increased, I watched as their open smiles turned to something more forced, their open mouths more snarls than grins.

  Any who hesitated were treated to yet another rendition of Rory's brave deeds, of his terrible mauling. This had worked, so far, in weakening the dissenter's resolve, but I could tell that the villagers’ patience was wearing thin.

  The bar maid walked over to refill his empty cup, shooting him a look of mingled spite and longing. Rory had taken her into his bed on our third day back, pulling her under the covers one evening as she helped him to his room. She was young, barely old enough to bear a child. Seeing her beside Rory, watching his eyes roam freely over her body, filled me with a gut-deep chill.

  All men are beasts, my sister said. Animals. Give them the barest scrap of encouragement, and they show their true faces. This one showed promise at first, true, but he is like all the rest.

  Rory drank deep, his hairy throat working, then sighed deeply in pleasure. I looked over to where the maid, matron now, I supposed, was tending the bar. Her father, the proprietor, stood behind her. His face was full of sick rage.

  There were others in the tavern, sitting in groups of two and three, unusual for such an early hour. These were working folk, not the type to frequent drinking houses in the morning. I realized that almost none had food before them. They exchanged glances with one another, from table to table.

  "We must go,” I said, pushing aside my plate and rising. Something felt wrong. Years of gauging people's looks, of watching for peril in the eye of an overly pious zealot, had made me alert to such things, and now that instinct told me to get out. Now, before whatever the townsfolk were planning could come to pass.

  "But, lass, I'
ve not yet had my meat and eggs. Even if we were to leave today, I can't set out until I've eaten."

  "We can and we must,” I hissed, bending so that only he could hear my words. “Come outside with me. Now. I mean it."

  As I said these words, I felt something warm and slippery shift inside me. Rory opened his mouth to protest, then stopped as his eyes met mine. He sat, mouth working, for a long moment, then nodded. Like a man in a dream, he rose and stumbled towards the door. I gathered our packs and our weapons from their place by the door and followed after. Whatever we had left in our rooms would stay there.

  The whole town was outside the door, waiting in the freezing rain. Some looked worried, or near sick with guilt, but most had the same look of hard anger in their eyes. I heard men moving behind me, following us out through the door.

  The village elder walked forward, a small leather purse in his hand. He looked scared, but resigned, as he approached. Rory, still befuddled, blinked at him.

  "We appreciate all you've done, but now you must go. We've our own families to feed. Here's your pay, just as we promised."

  He put the sack into Rory's paws, then backed away. The hunter scowled at it, blinking, as if he did not know precisely what it was. He looked at the elder, and I saw Rory's waking resentment and anger, struggling to break through his lethargy. I stepped forward, putting a restraining hand on Rory's arm, praying that whatever I had done to him would last just a few moments longer.

  "We thank you for your hospitality,” I said, pulling Rory along the street. There was nothing more to say. We walked down the mud street, the town's residents watching us as we went.

  I did not fear them. I knew that, should they be foolish enough to attack us, they would run, shrieking, at the first signs of my blood magic. Any resistance would be swiftly eliminated if I should call forth even a single sweetling. But I did not want to hurt these people. They had done nothing save show their displeasure at Rory's impositions, a displeasure I myself shared.

  As we approached the street's end, a figure walked into the road. She had a long bundle clutched to her breast. Goodwife Baggett.