Blood Magic

by Matthew Cook

  "Some very well might die if they go outside the walls,” she whispers. “What if you are wrong?"

  "We always knew the horsemen would have to get outside to be effective,” I say. “The only difference now is that we pick the time. And, if the Mor are indeed waiting for reinforcements before attacking, I'd rather fight this smaller force first and then deal with the others later, rather than trying to defend the walls against all of them at once."She nods, the lightning spiking in her eyes. “I shall tell the leader of the scouts. Give us five minutes."

  I clap her on the shoulder before she can leave. She stops at the touch of my hand. Then she is in my arms, hugging me tight, so tight that for a moment I cannot breathe. I feel the slide and play of her muscles under her linen shift, the hard smoothness of her body pressed to mine.

  I breathe in the clean smell of her auburn hair, my eyes shut tight. She kisses me on the cheek, and whispers something in the wind-like language of the zephyr spirits.

  "What was—” I begin.

  "Ask me again, when the battle is won,” she says, then draws away. As she turns, I see the sparkle of tears in her eyes. Then she is gone, hurrying down the steep steps leading to the courtyard.

  I turn away, to face the leader of my archers. “Ready your strings,” I say. “Be ready to shoot on my command."

  The woman nods, grounding the tip of her bow behind her heel and bending the stout yew shaft. She slides the looped bowstring into the notch, then checks the pull. The other archers, nineteen strong, mirror her movement.

  I string my own weapon, then check the bag of arrows propped against the low stone railing, filling my quiver.

  "Don't waste a single shot,” I remind them. “We only have a few score shafts apiece, and the Mor's armor is thick. Aim for the eyes, or the joints. Even if you do not kill them, you will slow them, and slowing them might be enough."

  In the courtyard, the horsemen mount their beasts and turn to the gates. The crowd parts for them. Voices rise in a babble of questions.

  "Stay together,” the leader of the scouts shouts over the din. “One pass, and one pass only, then retreat to the safety of the gates!” The riders nod and fidget, their eyes full of fear. Their anxiety is picked up by the animals, who stamp and circle nervously.

  Lia stands beside the gates, looking up at me. I catch her eye and nod. She barks a command, and the refugees shoot back the bar. The gates swing open, accompanied by the riders’ desperate battle cry. The thunder of hooves fills the yard.

  The horses shoot across the smooth grass in a jagged line, headed straight for the Mor. I cannot see the enemy, but I hear their eerie, piping voices, raised in alarm, or consternation, or perhaps simple amusement, I cannot tell.

  The dim light glints fitfully from their burnished carapaces as they shift to meet the new threat.

  Each rider has been armed with several short spears, fire-hardened sticks little longer than javelins. I have trained them, every day, in their use, riding them past hay-filled dummies until they can skewer the target four times out of five. Before they ride past the ring of our firelight, I see the spears brandished in their fists.

  The charge meets the unseen line with a crash of splintering wood. Men and women scream battle cries; to Loran; to Ur, the red-handed god of battle; to the distant Emperor. I see inhuman knives flashing in the darkness, long, serrated blades shining with laval heat, rising and falling. A horse screams, then a second, and I hear the sickening sound of breaking bones, chillingly clear over the mêlée's din.

  "Fall back! Fall back!” the scouts’ leader shouts. I hear the horses, still galloping, see the indistinct black smudge that marks the mass of riders, sweeping left, then circling back. Occasionally, a horse goes down, whinnying, as it stumbles into some unseen hole. Behind them, I see a larger mass, moving like a black spear in their wake, pursuing. The enemy swiftly silences the fallen horses’ and riders’ screams.

  The Mor, it seems, have taken the bait.

  "Archers ready!” I shout, plucking an arrow from my quiver and setting it to the string. The riders are a hundred yards away, galloping as fast as they dare in the darkness for the gates. The Mor are close behind, as implacable as the tide.

  "Draw!” I say, pulling the feathered end back to my ear. Instinctively, I raise the tip, then shift to the right, into the rising wind. Below, the horsemen thunder into the firelight, then through the gates. I hear the boom as they are slammed shut and the bolt replaced. “Steady, now! Steady!” I call.

  The Mor are fifty yards away now. Forty. Thirty.

  The first form swims out of the gloom and into the firelight, the ruddy glow reflecting from polished, bone-like armor. I see the glare of emerald eyes, fixed on the fragile gates. See the massive, clawed upper arms, strong enough to rend mail like paper, to pluck a man's limbs from their body like a child pulling a weed. The smaller, lower limbs clutch braces of weapons, square hammers or sullenly glowing knives as long as swords.

  "Shoot!” I scream, aiming for the lead monster's face. Beside me, I hear a slithering whisper and a thrum as twenty bows sing out their subtle war cry. The darkness is filled with the whistle of death.

  Below, a Mor screams as a shaft finds a vulnerable place. Then a second, unnerving wail splits the night. I see a Mor warrior, staggering, its lower hands reaching up to clutch at the shaft sticking out of its ruined eye. My heart thrills at the sight.

  My hand reaches back and draws a second shaft, fitting it to the string, pulling and loosing all in one smooth movement. “Make every shot count!” I yell. My second shot is still in the air as I ready the third.

  The Mor surge forward, into the firelight. Arain of arrows bounce and skitter off their armor with a sound like stones hurled against slate. Several have shafts protruding from the softer joints, limping with pain, but still they come. I see one go down, an arrow jutting from its face shield, maybe the one I saw hit before, perhaps a second, I am not sure. The rest of the Mor trample it into the dust.

  They reach the door, upper limbs booming against the timbers. I lean down, searching for a vulnerable spot, but from above, all I can see is the smooth dome of their shoulder armor and the tops of their helmet-like heads.Around me, the archers rain down shafts, all of which bounce away harmlessly.

  "Save your arrows! Save your arrows!” I scream. “Help me with this!"

  I hurry to one of the piles of stone the masons have laboriously carted up onto the wall. The pile is secured by planks of wood, tied with rope across a five-foot breach in the stone rail. I pull out my knife and start sawing at one of the ropes.

  An archer, Natalie I think her name is, a young girl who already shows much promise with the bow, draws her own knife and attacks the other side. A moment later, the rope parts and the wooden slats tumble out, followed by a rain of jagged stone.

  The debris falls, a deadly hail that even the mighty Mor cannot withstand. The tiny avalanche crushes several of the inhuman warriors to the earth in a cloud of dust. The archers send up a ragged cheer as the Mor pull back.

  I wince as the baby kicks, hard, driving the breath from my lungs. I reach down and pat my belly, absently willing it to be still. It thrashes inside me, as if frightened by the din.

  Below, the rubble is piled four feet high before the scarred gates. Armored limbs protrude from between the stones, some still, others twitching. The stones shift, and I see with horror that several of the trapped Mor are already moving, struggling to free themselves.

  "Kirin!” Lia screams. I look over, and there she is, striding through the archers, lightning flickering in her eyes. I feel the hairs on the backs of my arms rise as the glow is reflected in the skies above.

  "Sssssath al'wazul, d'ssth kal tum!" Lia shouts in the language of the wind spirits, her arms upthrust, beseeching her elemental allies. The air is filled with the sharp tang of summertime lightning.

  A bolt of dazzling, amethyst fire lances down like the finger of an angry god, striking the mass of buried Mor. The thu
nderclap sounds in the same moment, stunning the ears of all present into silence. Even the Mor, usually implacable in the face of the worst that men can throw at them, flinch away from the bolt. Lia calls out again, drawing down a second, then a third stroke. In the dazzling brilliance, I see Mor scattering, flying through the air amongst a hail of stones and small boulders.

  When my eyes can once more focus, I see the pile below, glowing sullenly. Six of the Mor lie still, their armored flesh split and steaming. Others move, feebly, obviously sorely wounded. The archers give a cheer, which is swiftly picked up by the refugees in the courtyard.

  Even as the shout is echoing from the manor's stones, the Mor surge forth again, clambering up the stony slope to resume their assault on the gate. Their talons gouge chunks from the timbers and their fiery blades pry into the uneven cracks.

  I command the archers to let loose with our second and last rock fall. Again, the stones rumble down. This time, however, the Mor are prepared, and raise their powerful upper arms above their heads like shields as the rocks fall. Some go down, but many others are merely staggered as stones large enough to crush a man in an instant are pushed aside.

  Lia once more begins her chant, her arms reaching for the clouds. A fresh stroke of lightning pierces the night, scattering the Mor like leaves and tumbling them from their feet.

  I look over, and see a dark smear on Lia's face. A freshet of blood streams from her nose. She pants in exhaustion, leaning forwards against the stone rail. Below, the Mor stir once more, unburying themselves. More than a dozen lie on the ground, almost half of the attacking force, unmoving, hopefully dead, but more, so many more, are even now struggling to rejoin the fight. Gods, what will it take to finally stop them?

  "Archers, keep shooting!” I shout, putting action to my words. Shafts flicker out, seeking Mor blood but only occasionally finding it. I move to Lia's side, grasp her arm.

  "What's wrong?” I hiss in her ear.

  "Calling down the storm...” she pants, pawing at the blood on her face. “It is so difficult. My allies ... demand so much..."

  "How many more bolts can you summon?” I ask.

  "A few more,” she says, looking up at me, resolve shining in her eyes. “I shall do what is necessary, worry not. The Mor will not harm you or your child, I swear it."

  I nod, her vow drawing stinging tears from my eyes. I look over the wall. A Mor looks up at me, and, without thinking, I draw a shaft and shoot. It shrugs aside at the last moment, and the shaft ricochets off its face plate.

  My blood magic curls and twists in my belly, woken by the sight of the Mor's eyes boring into mine. Blood, it sings. Eternally blood. Blood, and death, and power.

  I frown and push the desire aside. Using the blood magic on the gepar in the mountains saved my life, I remember, but the alien quality of its life force nearly overwhelmed me. There is no telling what the blood of a Mor warrior will do to me.

  The Mor press against the gate once more, their claws booming against the planks, a sound like huge, infernal drums. A moment later, the barricade gives a last shuddering groan, then splits with a sound like a giant handclap. Clawed hands reach forth and grasp the edges of the breach, striving to tear the entire gate aside. Inside, people wail and scream, near panic at the sight of the timbers buckling.

  I look over, and see Lia struggling to rise. She once more begins her chant, but it is ragged and weak. I must do something, or they will come through. That cannot happen; Lia's power cannot be used, under any circumstances, while the enemy is amongst the refugees.

  "Look at me!” I scream as, inside, the blood magic shifts, somehow gargantuan, hotter than blood itself. The Mor, compelled by the power threaded into my words, look up. I lock my gaze to a set of glowing, opaline eyes.

  The first Mor dies, screaming, as my power flows into it. The blood magic rampages through the inhuman body, spread with every beat of the thing's mighty heart, exploding veins and arteries one after another. It staggers aside, black blood streaming from every joint and opening in a dark, jetting tide.

  A second Mor meets my gaze and jerks as the power hooks it. It has time for a single, piping gurgle before I stretch forth my hand. A river of black blood springs from its eyes and mouth, flying back to me, splashing against my alabaster skin and soaking through my shift.

  A moment later, the foul substance sinks into my flesh, leaving my skin pristine and pure once more. I laugh as the Mor's strength pours into me, setting my nerves afire with mingled ecstasy and pain. Inside, the baby jerks in time, responding to the influx of savage vitality, but compared to the enormity of the black tide, the sensation is a distant, feeble thing that I barely notice.

  Again, I reach out and thread the tendrils of the blood magic into a set of Mor eyes, relishing in the sensation of my power twining through the very root of its life before yanking it out, viciously, in a spray of midnight blood.

  All around me the archers are screaming and running, many covered with the same blood that now sings inside my own veins. I wonder what they see when they look at me, my black eyes shining like coals, clothes soaked with the blood that, even now, sinks without a trace into my body. I laugh at the idea. They do well to be afraid. Let them fear me, even as I save them.

  A fourth, then a fifth Mor jerks and falls before the mass of inhuman warriors begins to realize what is happening. They pull back, their visored faces swiveling upwards, seeking the new threat. A sixth warrior's strength flows into me with its blood, then a seventh. I am so strong now. I could rend their armored flesh like paper, if only I could get my bare hands on them.

  The idea sings to me, so appealing, too tempting, that I actually step forward, intending to step out into the air and fall amongst them. Distantly, I hear Lia scream my name, the sound insignificant compared to the blood tide thundering in my head.

  Inside, the baby thrashes and kicks, desperately. I scarcely notice. Then, a moment later, it gives a last, mighty push, and falls still.

  Instantly, a pain greater than anything I have ever felt rips through me, outwards from my belly. My legs twist, every muscle cramping at once, pitching me to the cold stones. I feel blood splash across my thighs as something inside of me lets go. I scream.

  Lying on the stones, I am suddenly myself again. The madness whirling behind my eyes withdraws. The power of the Mor still rages inside of me, but the terrible pain has, for the moment, pushed it aside.

  I look up, and see Lia beside me. She is splattered from head to toe with black blood. She says something, maybe my name, the words lost in the raging tumult.

  Then the pain returns, worse then a barbed sword, worse than fire, a sensation like claws rending my flesh from the inside out. I scream, scream until I taste blood in my mouth from my torn throat.

  The baby is still. A moment ago, it was thrashing and moving. Now, it is motionless.

  Motionless.

  "Oh, gods, what have I done?” I whisper. I meet Lia's eyes, and beg, “Save it. As you love me, save the baby!"

  Once more, the pain stabs through me, and all I can do is scream once more.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jazen Tor came to me on the first night of our journey to Gamth's Pass. As always, I camped apart from the men. He followed the light of my fire. Normally, I would have banked the flames, made them difficult to see, but that night, I made the fire a beacon in the darkness, drawing him to me.He had flowers in his hands, a rude bouquet of the tiny, sky-blue wildflowers that grew beside the road. I laughed to see them, imagining him gathering them, furtive, in the dark.

  We wasted no time with words. Our bodies, our hands and fingers and other, more sensitive things, spoke for us.

  The bouquet fell to the ground beside the blankets I had laid beside the fire. I yearned for him, for his touch, hurrying, almost tearing at his clothes and mine. I tugged down his breeches with fingers made rough with urgency.

  I turned, pushing him down, and stripped off my own leggings. I swung astride him and lowered
myself onto him. The sensation of him entering me, filling me, made me shiver.

  Jazen reached up, stroking my face, my throat. I growled and grasped his wrists, forcing them over his head and pinning them to the ground. I lowered myself and devoured his mouth with mine.

  He moaned, the sound traveling through our mingled breath into my own body. I pulled back, gasping for breath, then bent again to lick and nip at his throat. Soon my climax swept over me and I screamed, not caring if any man or beast heard me.

  It had been so long. Gods, so very long, since someone had held me, had touched me with desire, let alone tenderness. I collapsed on top of him, Jazen still moving beneath me, seeking his own release. I let go his wrists, felt his powerful, swordsman's fingers grasp mine. When he stiffened beneath me, breathing hard and whispering my name, a second shock rolled through me.

  I rolled off him, then lay beside him on our mingled blankets. The mountain air was chill, the fire a warm, welcome presence. I tasted the salty musk of blood in my mouth, and looked at Jazen. During our lovemaking, I had bitten him on the shoulder. The wound still bled, sluggishly, from the double crescent my teeth had left.

  "I'm sorry. I hurt you,” I whispered, tracing the wound with a fingertip.

  "It was worth it,” he murmured in reply, nuzzling me. I shivered as his lips brushed across the soft hairs on the back of my neck. I reached out and gathered up the scattered blossoms, twining them absently together into a princess's diadem. I remembered the times when Kirin and I had woven flowers into each other's hair. I sensed her, smiling inside of me, at the memory.

  "Besides,” he continued, pressing himself against my back, his arm tight and strong across my chest, “we northmen are hardy, not like those soft creatures of the lowlands. It will take more than a love bite to hurt me."

  I rolled away from him, onto my back, then pulled him on top of me, relishing the feel of his weight. I put the flower diadem on my head, watching Jazen look at me. His expression, so warm, so tender, a secret look so unlike his usual confident, challenging gaze, re-ignited the coals of my lust. I pulled him down.