Blood Magic

by Matthew Cook

  She looked at us, at me, her face filled with some unnamable emotion. Her eyes were sunken and red from weeping, her lined face even more pinched than the day we had arrived. She stood in our path, blocking us. I stopped before her.

  "Mistress Baggett,” I said. “I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am about—"

  She spat in my face.

  Her action seemed to serve as a signal. A moment later, the air was filled with stones and flung mud. A chunk of icy slime splashed against my back as I turned to grab Rory. The big hunter roared as my tenuous control shattered. He reached for his knife.

  "No!” I screamed into his face. “We did not almost die killing the bear to slay these folk! Run!"

  A rock bounced off my shoulder, the pain flaring bright, then dulling into aching numbness. Rory looked about, as if seeking someone to attack, his teeth bared in a savage grin.

  I dropped my hand and ran, leaving him. Let him be dragged down by the furious townsfolk if he desired; it was no concern of mine.

  I ran. Ran until the breath burned hot in my chest, until the sounds of furious pursuit had dwindled to silence. I stopped and turned, and was surprised to see Rory running along behind me. There was blood on his face, a crimson trickle which ran down from his wounded brow.

  The sight of the red life awoke a pang in my belly as the blood magic responded. My sister growled low, like a cat with a mouse in its jaws. I felt her hunger and her rage.

  All women would benefit from that one's death, she whispered. He used that girl abominably, I'm sure. She was young enough to be his daughter. His granddaughter! It would be the simplest thing to—"

  "I still have things to learn from him,” I whispered back. “I will not kill him."

  Rory ran up, laughing. If the blood in his eyes bothered him, he gave no sign.

  "Well now, that was indeed a bracing way to spend a morning, eh, lass?” he laughed, blowing hard. “Who would have thought they'd be so upset over a few stolen caresses and casks of wine?"

  I bit back my reply, that any thinking person would have seen it plain. I reminded myself that, despite Rory's misogyny and his other questionable scruples, I still needed him.

  * * * *

  The weeks flew past as we wandered the highlands. Rory, away from the bottle's influence, was a generous and patient teacher. He showed me, over and over, how to best set a snare, or to back trail an animal to its lair. He taught me how to bait a proper hook and to properly dress and skin a deer. I picked up his skills swiftly, and soon no animal, no matter how light-footed, was able to elude me.

  Our solitude was pleasant enough, but I came to dread those times when our travels brought us near a town or village. Inevitably, Rory would find his way directly to the local alehouse or tavern, and soon would be reeling. When he drank, the gentle, patient man I knew was eclipsed by something else, something that lived inside of him, some spirit or devil, woken by the first few sips of liquor.

  The sight of his weakness sickened me, and, when we returned to the road, I took no pains to conceal my displeasure. His apologies seemed earnest enough, but all I could hear was Urik's voice, mouthing the same empty explanations and promises.

  I admit that I hid from him during those times, not because I feared him, but rather because I feared for him. If he were ever to succumb to the liquor's call, and come after me ... I knew only one of us would survive such an incident, and I knew who that person would be.

  I shall never forget the night I killed Rory. Such a waste. Such a stupid, stupid waste.

  We had just left the town of Ravenshire, headed west along the skirts of Mount Aden. Rory was ill-tempered, suffering, as usual, from the aftermath of too much revelry.

  I was simply happy to be back on the road. It had been a bad visit, and I had spent the better part of three days either in a hay loft, shivering and wanting to be away, or in Ravenshire's small market square, selling our stock of pelts. Hunting had been good, and the furs were of excellent quality. Business, at least, had been brisk.

  On the fourth day, with all our skins finally sold, we departed. Rory, as usual, had drunk the better part of our profits and gambled away the rest. I did not care; I meant it when I told him that money and riches would only serve to slow us down. Truth be told, I was beginning to loathe the sight of money; it gave Rory the ability to buy more liquor.

  I went to sleep that night, secure in the knowledge that, now that Rory was away from all that, I'd have back my wise, generous mentor. Until the next town, the next tavern.

  There was nothing more that I could learn from him, I knew that, but the rootless, wandering life we shared appealed to me. Soon enough, spring would arrive and with it new campaigns. He would re-join the army that he spoke of so often, but for now I was content. All I cared about was my next meal and my next dry camp site, and I had both. I slid into dream.

  I awoke to his hot breath in my ear, to the sensation of his rough hands on my body. The stench of wine was thick in the air.

  "Rory, what...?” I mumbled, already knowing what was happening, not wanting to believe it. He moved behind me, pressing himself into me.

  "Shhhh, lass,” he drawled, wine fumes reaching me as he breathed across my neck. “You're so fine you are, so very fine. I've dreamed of you."

  My blood became cold as winter river water. He would not betray me so, not after I had saved him in the mountains. He must not.

  "Rory, you're drunk. Stop this,” I said, despising the weakness in my voice. Inside, my sister writhed and snarled, wordless, enraged.

  "Shhhh, now lass. It will be so sweet. The two of us. I've seen you looking at me. I want this, too. It will be all right,” he mumbled, his hands clumsy, pawing at my breeches.

  "Rory, no, please stop this. You are my friend. Don't make me ... Don't make me hurt you."

  He pulled back and I rolled over. He looked down at me. In the dim firelight I could see his tousled hair, his stubbled cheek. Fresh wine stains splashed across his shirt. He must have brought the bottle with him, in his pack, when we departed.

  "Hurt me?” he said. Then he laughed, as if the very notion was somehow comical. He bent his head and, still laughing, covered my throat in rough kisses. His hand reached down and roughly stroked me, the sensation barely felt through my leathers, but still painful and humiliating. “Gods, Kirin, the sight of you! It makes my blood burn, it does."

  The sound of his laughter breathed across the coals of my blood magic, fanning the power inside into bright, crimson flame. My sister's growls of outrage shifted into a throaty chuckle.

  "Rory, look at me,” I said, the words pregnant with the power of command. They pierced deep, lancing through his stupor and his lust, dragging his head back. His whiskers scraped across my throat's tender flesh as he pulled back. His eyes met mine.

  I could feel the hungry tendrils of my power reaching for him, probing at eyes and nose, wanting to be inside of him. I grasped them. Despite his weakness for women and for drink, Rory was still my friend. I did not want to see his blood splash across me, see it absorbed into my skin. Did not want to see him convulse and die.

  "Your blood runs hot, does it?” I said, marveling at the sound of my own voice. It was deep and rough, filled with alien passions and lust.

  "No...” he said in a tiny, choked voice. “No, Kirin I—"

  The blood magic clamored for his life, as did my sister. Their mingled cries ascended in my head, swirling and spiraling like birds. Somehow, I resisted them, held them back.

  "If your blood is so hot, then perhaps you should cool off,” I finally managed to say through clenched teeth. He needed to be away from me, now, lest the temptation overwhelm me. “The stream at the bottom of the hill should do. Go there and sit in the water, until your ill-advised ardor passes."

  Mute, he lifted his bulk off of me, staggered to his feet. His eyes were sightless and glassy, his jaw slack. Whatever light was in him was subsumed in the tight grip of the blood magic's compulsion.

  H
e disappeared into the darkness. A minute later, I heard a splash as he dropped into the icy water.

  I lay back, trembling from the effort of holding back my power. My sister crooned in my ear. Well done, sweet one. Well done. He'll be so very miserable in the morning. Oh, so well done.

  She continued to sing to me, a lullaby, until I slipped into exhausted sleep.

  I found Rory the next morning, submerged to the chest in the stream. His open eyes were two frozen, gray stones. His lips were two ice blue crescents framing jagged brown teeth set in gums the dark, bruised color of berries.

  His blood is not so hot now, is it? my sister purred, then cackled. I sank to my knees, unable to tear my gaze away from his confused, lost face.

  Even dead, his gaze pierced me like a blade.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  One hundred and eighteen refugees set out on the long trek to Castle Dupree. For the three days that they travel I do not sleep. Instead, I constantly patrol, riding in widening spirals around the vanguard of their advance, always alert for any signs of the Mor.

  At midmorning on the fourth day, the refugees finally reach the valley. By the time they crest the valley wall, six have perished along the road, mostly the very old, as well as one woman whose wounds made the prospect of her journey dismal at best. A seventh, lying in one of the crowded wagons, looks like he will not last the day. His belly wound has been torn open by the conveyance's rocking and swaying, and his bandages are streaked with black blood and ominous yellow pus.

  I am weary, and sore, but I cannot stop, or rest, until I have led the people to shelter.

  Even as tired as they are, the refugees send up a cheer when they finally arrive at the manor. Many have fear in their eyes as they take in the state of the walls and the fallen gate, but none complain. Even as the wagons are being unloaded, I am riding through the people, Ben Childers beside me, organizing the work parties that will be our best chance at salvation and safety.

  When I was last here, I scouted out the things we would need. I have already drawn a map for the stone masons, leading them to the quarry that the original builders used. There was cut stone aplenty there, extra blocks and formed stones that they must have been saving for repairs.

  Next, we will need wood for the gate. I take a group, seven women and two men who claim to have knowledge of woodcutting, and ride out. “Aye, this will do right nice,” the leader of the woodcutters says, eyeing the stand of timber I have led them to. He is leathery and squat, as tough as an old stump. His knuckles are thick and swollen from a lifetime of gripping an axe. There are nine of them, with only six axes between them, but it will have to suffice.

  "Are you sure that you'll be all right out here?” I ask. “You must not become so focused on the work that you stop watching. The Mor—"

  "Don't fret,” a second woodcutter says, testing the edge of her axe with a thumb. “We'll be sure to hide if they come. We'll split up and make our separate ways back.” She says this with admirable calm, although I cannot help but see the way her eyes dart along the tree line. I recall that she was the wife of a woodsman, before the Mor. That she has left three children back at the manor, in the care of the community. I empathize with her desire to be with them, but the work must be done.

  I nod, gathering their horses and roping them together. The animals must follow me back; the scouts will need to remain mobile. I feel a pang of worry and guilt at leaving the work party out here, all alone, but push it aside. We are all at risk while the walls remain broken and the gate open.

  I return to find the refugees swarming the manor. Children run through the uneven courtyard, running in and out of the sagging main doors,orclambering up the uneven stairs leading to the ramparts. I recognize the game they are playing: the Ogre and the Maiden. The sight is bittersweet. Even amongst so much pain, so much horror, they can still laugh.

  I breathe deep, loosening the tightness that has settled across my chest. I commandeer some of the old folk, those too infirm to help with the unloading, and tell them to man the walls. Better their tired eyes on the lookout than no eyes at all.

  I feel better when I see my new sentries’ silhouettes. Nodding, I head off, in search of likely scouts.

  * * * *

  More die that first week. The man with the belly wound. A goodwife who, after losing her husband and four children, simply stopped eating and talking. No wounds mark her, yet the journey to the valley proves to be her undoing. Aman tumbles from the roof he is attempting to repair when a rotted tile breaks, pitching him to the courtyard.

  Ben Childers proves to be an efficient and tireless leader, always at the front of any work party, always selfless in his praise. He leads through example and not by intimidation. It is not the military way, but these folk are not soldiers.

  Any strong enough to assist with repairs are put to work, carrying stones to the top of the walls, or shaping the rough timbers brought out of the woods into something resembling a gate. Most of the refugees are women and children, unused to such hard labor, but the work proceeds.

  Those who cannot help with the work, the very old or the very young, are sent out in groups to gather nuts and wild berries, or to try their luck with hook and line at the lake. Soon, every nearby tree and bush is stripped to the bare limbs, but still it is not enough.

  I spend much time away from the castle, hunting. There are so many mouths to feed. I am used to leading men trained to forage as they travel, not a collection of refugees. The highlands are wild and untamed, grudging of sustenance.

  Luckily, game is plentiful and my aim is still as true as ever, and I return in the evening of most days with a fresh kill across my horse's withers. The herds are not large enough to sustain us indefinitely, but Ben is optimistic about the gardens that have sprung up outside the walls.

  I see Lia only occasionally, usually at night across the community fire. The trials that have left some gaunt and weary seem to agree with her. She has been working outside, as has everyone, and her skin has darkened to a rich nut brown. It seems to glow in the ruddy firelight. She has replaced her tattered white silks with simple homespuns. Her elegance and beauty shines through her rough garb like the sun through clouds.

  After the evening meal, I often find the presence of so many people around me uncomfortable. I walk then, through the nearly-completed gates, to the edge of the graveyard. Calling forth my sweetlings would ease the refugees’ work, and would give a measure of security, for they need no sleep, no rest. But, I cannot. The thought of summoning them sickens me now.

  I caress my gently-rounded stomach. I can still get into my leathers, but I can tell that I will not be able to for much longer. My breasts are increasingly swollen and tender. Morning sickness still assails me every day, bouts of nausea that sometimes last for hours. Between the miserable retching and the scarcity of food, I have lost weight, not gained it as I should.

  A small noise reaches me and I look up, my hand dropping to my knife's hilt. From across the graveyard, Brother Ato stares at me. He, too, has lost weight since we first met. The merry, round face I remember has shrunken, becoming harder, more angular. Bruises ring his weary eyes, beneath a haystack of unkempt hair. He leans heavily on his staff as he stares at me.

  "Kirin,” he says, deceptively mild, “fancy meeting you here. Come to do some work this evening, have you?"

  Even in the dim light of the watch fires I can see his eyes, sparkling dangerously. I bristle, and my sister growls, softly.

  He has power, too, don't forget, she whispers. For all his foolery, he is a priest, and his goddess is with him.

  "Brother Ato, I ... I do not know why I've come,” I answer, honestly. “I think it is because I find graveyards peaceful places. Here, the dead can finally lay aside their burdens and rest.” “Death is a failure,” he spits back. “A lost opportunity.

  The Lady grants me the power to mend broken flesh and spare lives. To hold death at bay."

  "And yet all things must die. It is part of
life itself,” I say. “Surely the gods know when a man or woman's time has come. How can that be a failure?"

  He regards me for a time, his fingers clenching and unclenching on his staff. His mouth is hard and uncompromising.

  "I know why you worship death, witch,” he finally says, his voice soft, yet flinty. “Do not try to confuse me with your lies, as you did with Lia. They will not work. I know that you serve the dark powers. That those that you call your children are abominations, the reanimated corpses of those that should rightfully have passed beyond. I will—I must—oppose you."

  I nod, dropping my eyes. Not long ago, I would have argued with him, would have reminded him that I have saved many lives since my arrival, possibly more than even he. Would have railed at him for speaking ill of my sweetlings, for denying me my only chance to experience something akin to motherhood.

  But things have changed now. Now I know what it feels like to shelter a growing life inside my belly. Now I know the sweet, sweet pain as my body changes, readying itself for what is to come. Soon I will know the searing, delicious agony of childbirth.

  I have changed so much, but I cannot tell him that. He has made up his mind about me, and I can sense that nothing I say will change his opinion. Even if I were to save a thousand lives, ten thousand, I would still be a broken, evil thing in his eyes.

  "Do what you must,” I say, ignoring the demands that echo in my head, my sister's shrill calls for his blood. “I will not try to stop you from claiming the justice your goddess demands."

  "I ... I would not hurt the babe,” he says with a scowl, seemingly surprised by my reaction. “For all of your crimes, it, at least, is still an innocent, despite its bastardry."

  The word lances through me, surprisingly painful. Of course the child will be a bastard. I will never marry; never be owned by a man, ever again. The babe will never carry his father's name, or share in whatever inheritance he might have from him or his family.

  I feel something on my face and brush at it. My hand comes away wet.