The Seven

by Robert J Power

  “They are monstrous hounds,” Denan hissed. It was he who led the three riders, as he knew these parts and its threats.

  She thought of him confronting Mallum, and she smiled bitterly. This was where he was at his best, throwing caution to the wind and thinking little of his actions, only his ability to complete his task. He was every general’s wish—a fierce fighter willing to listen and to overcome where he saw an issue.

  He had been a capable enough leader until Heygar’s rat had disappeared. Until that moment, he had believed himself capable of that mantle, but when the most accommodating and loyal servant fled with no explanation, so began Denan’s downfall in confidence. She wondered if he had lost his nerve sooner. Was it too much to lose Heygar, having taken his best friend’s lady to bed a few months before?

  “They are the hounds bathed and born in the blood of demonic forces,” he said, and she nodded in agreement despite herself.

  Poor, brave Denan. Cherrie was aware he thought there was more to their illicit dalliance. He believed himself capable of her heart. He was a fine lover with a warm touch and generous ability, and she had kept with him and enjoyed the thrill and excitement of a young buck. Yes, he made her laugh, and he listened to her woe, but part of her did it so that she might hold it over Heygar for his own whoring ways—for there were plenty.

  Had she known Heygar would perish as he did, she might have ended their relationship sooner than she had planned. It couldn’t be helped now, and when the dust settled and Mallum’s head lay upon a silver platter, she would rightly take Denan aside and delicately rip his heart out. He would be fine. She was capable of easing a lover away without disaster. It took a whore to know these things as well.

  “They have sharp teeth,” she whispered to herself and shuddered.

  The hours passed, and though exhaustion was their companion, they never slowed their charge. They pushed the horses to near death, yet neither one of the three thought it prudent they rest. Night engulfed them, and with the many hours passing came tenfold the volume of rain. However, even when the path had turned to a steady stream, and their beasts struggled in the unforgiving terrain, they refused to stop their night march. Nothing else mattered. Even when thunder and lightning struck down fiercely on the deathly grey trees on either side, and the sweet smell of burning oak filled the air, they kept their eyes on the path ahead.

  By the tenth strike, Cherrie had stopped noticing the explosions of nature altogether. Beneath the shield, no natural entity like this would stop them on their way. The fires erupted and died in the torrential rain, and still they brought their mounts forward.

  Then they heard the threatening, guttural growling of hidden beasts all around them.

  33

  Memories From The Fair

  It was Denan who reacted first. He pulled on his horse’s reins fiercely and brought it to a sudden halt. After a pulse, Iaculous and Cherrie slowed their own mounts and brought them alongside.

  The growls were low, threatening, and barely audible above the driving rain, the hooved thuds of their horses, and her own panting breath, but still they were very much there. Bile churned in her stomach. She looked to either side of the dark path, into the tree line, and she counted several distinctive sounds. She recognised the growling, as she knew she would. For just a moment, she was no longer Cherrie, legend of the Hounds. Instead, she was a little girl facing a monster again.

  She remembered the travelling fair even now—when it had settled itself upon land at the outskirts of Dellerin. The entertainers knew well how to draw a crowd. They had paraded through the city’s bright boulevards and dark alleys and everywhere in between, advertising their amusements loudly. It hadn’t taken long before the streets were littered with promotion slips, colourful posters, and pledges of wonder.

  Cherrie couldn’t remember the name of the fair thirty years gone, but she remembered it announced itself in bright golden lettering. She remembered images of trapeze artists, flying fireball shows, and drawings of fierce exotic beasts she had never seen nor heard of before. She remembered running her fingers along printed letters she could not decipher, and it had excited her. A break from the dreariness of grey and gloom was rare to one so unfortunate.

  An unnaturally tall man in a green suit and a black top hat had walked the streets magnificently and spoken excitedly into a large wooden cone. His voice had magnified unnaturally, much to her cautious amazement. He had promised her and all who listened the world, with the “purist of performers,” “the furriest of freaks,” and so much more.

  Cherrie had been mesmerised and drawn to the collection of tented buildings, like so many other children and adult alike. She had wandered unaccompanied towards the transitory constructs and thought little of the gathered families laughing, enjoying, and paying for wonder, for that is what a child of eleven was prone to do while her mother earned their food. She followed the sounds of jubilee until she had been among the shimmering tents, with stripes of gold, white, red, and blue. Her young mind thought it was the most beautiful, enchanting place she had ever seen.

  She had walked among the entertainers as they weaved illusions that made her gasp in awe, and she had giggled with wild jesters who juggled fire and turnips and sometimes even turnips on fire. She had never wanted to leave—until she came upon the last monstrous construction of tarpaulin farther away from the rest.

  Someone had called it the tent of “The Forbidden Beasts”. Tragically, it was a copper a visit, which was far too rich for her blood. But Cherrie couldn’t resist the lure of the unknown, and as young as she was, she was equally brave. Swift as the wind and far from watching eyes, she had slipped beneath the heavy canvas wall and into a dark, wondrous place of terrifying delight.

  Like every other tent, there was enough room to hold a tavern within. This tent was full of massive cages, each with a separate flavour of wild, exotic animals, like those promised to her on the posters. The unusual, acrid stench was unfamiliar to her nose, and she loved it even more, for she was careless, alone, and excited. These incredible animals of all shapes, colours, and sizes hissed, spat, roared, and panted, all for her entertainment.

  Cherrie was most entertained with this part of the fair—until she heard the growl. Low, heavy, and menacing, it was not of this world. She recoiled yet could not help following its call. If asked, she would have said it was one of the seven fabled demons of the darkness stolen by a burly warrior hunter who had ventured into the source one full-mooned night with nothing but an iron mesh net and nerves of steel. She had imagined him thieving himself a monster as evil as the night, with a growl as twisted as a knotted loomis tail.

  She had foolishly stepped farther into the tent, searching for this creature. She had searched with eager ears, past countless cages. Then, as far from any other pen as possible, the growl grew in volume and intensity. Though Cherrie doubted there was a wild animal running throughout the tent, she had instinctively felt she was its prey. The growl never seemed to break or pause to take breath. She remembered needing to release her bladder from fear of the sound.

  Even though the exit called to her, she searched farther in, for that is what foolish children of eleven years of age were prone to do in tales of old. Then she came to a cage bigger than any other, twice the size of her and thrice as long, with bars as thick as molten candlesticks. She couldn’t see within, for a large, woollen tarp covered the massive enclosure. She remembered her hands quivering as she split the covering when curiosity overcame fear.

  She remembered little else but the releasing of water down her legs. She knew the beast had leapt forward, and glimpses of dry, grey skin remained in her mind for years after. Mostly, she remembered the finger-long incisors snapping at her throat, trying to dig into her flesh and tear her apart.

  Years later, she had discovered which beast she had met that day. Though she had seen none of its kind since, she had never forgotten the haunting growl. It had vibrated in her chest, and she had felt an unholy fear that fo
llowed her for thirty years. It wasn’t a reasonable fear, like that of dying. It was far worse and shared only by the children who had the misfortune of meeting a demonic monster beneath the stairs or in a webbed, dusty cellar.

  She had felt it then, and now, in the middle of a forsaken island of ruin and starvation, where monsters roamed freely, Cherrie felt this familiar fear once more.

  Denan fought his horse as it reared, for it knew the danger it found itself in and thought it better to flee without a heavy load upon its back. “Keep the light upon us, Iaculous, or we are doomed.”

  All three horses formed up beneath the blue glow of Iaculous’s light as if a little blue light could save them from the things of nightmares moving around them, behind the cover of trees.

  “Night hunters. They fear burning light and little else.” Denan looked to rear and break like his horse. He knew these beasts better than most, even more than she did. He had a right to show panic, didn’t he?

  Cherrie felt her bladder scream in protest, and a cold question appeared in her mind. Was this how she would die? She heard the things of childish nightmares spread out and surround them, and she looked into the night, expecting to see teeth leap forward, snapping for her throat. She saw nothing in the wave of the leaves as they caught the wind and rain around them. The only suggestion of their presence was the growling.

  Cherrie took hold of her dagger and waited for movement. Any movement, any place she might focus her defence upon. Her horse spun in a circle, fighting her control. She hissed for it to obey her, and finally, after a hastily taken breath, it relented.

  Denan’s horse nearly threw him, sensing its rider’s panic. “This makes no sense.”

  To his exhausting credit, Iaculous raised his arm and their illuminating orb rose into the air and doubled in size. This time, she caught sight of the effort in his face, and she was grateful for his calm bravery. Perhaps there really was greatness in him.

  The world turned to a hazy blue version of day, and though it was only a light, Cherrie felt braver. Then she realised holding the illumination was more than Iaculous could take. With every passing breath, he grew weaker and weaker.

  The light gave away the monsters’ concealment, and what she saw was terrifying. They were walking sacks of crude muscle, with limbs that were twice that of any man’s. Their furless skin was grey like the forest, and they were exactly like she remembered. The shackled beast had towered over her cherry red curls that day at the fair, and as a woman, they only reached her waist, but it still did not diminish their threat. They were as if a god had forced a mountain lion upon a wilding wolf and produced a vile spawn of the source. Their teeth gnashed with hatred, rabid hunger, and spitting saliva.

  Venandi night hunters roamed in packs of four or five, but Cherrie counted dozens on each side—too many to fight. The light flickered, and all beasts as one looked upon its struggling glow. Iaculous leaned on his horse, suffering a fierce strike to his will.

  “Stay strong, little one,” Cherrie called. It was an order and a request. The sweat on his brow streamed down his grimacing face.

  “They are in a pack like I’ve never seen before,” Denan cried, shaking his head. Iaculous’s light flickered at hearing his panic.

  Come now, Denan. Find your nerve.

  “Possessed by a dark hand,” he cried, and she hissed him to silence. He calmed his horse with a firm grip and looked into the night, towards their ambushing beasts.

  “We are fine in the light of Iaculous,” Cherrie said, feigning a confidence in him that only Arielle would have suggested possible.

  “Iaculous creates imitation sunlight and nothing more,” Denan countered warily, and the beasts turned from growling to barking.

  If the growl was threatening, the bark was truly terrifying. They roared, and the forest became a deluge of noise. It sapped most of her nerve. Cherrie remembered the tarpaulin and the snapping teeth but also the loud roar and the sound of bending metal bars as the monster thrashed itself against the cage to get to her.

  There were no bars to protect her this time. She felt like a pathetic little girl needing to relieve herself all over again, and her fear turned to deep anger. The roars grew, and Iaculous brought his orb higher and brighter. Perhaps he was powerful enough that he could bring an entire day to them and send the beasts on their way.

  “I can bring fire too,” Iaculous moaned. The light spread out and shone well enough that she could see each beast as they circled them on both sides. She wasn’t sure if the child could keep their way lit until dawn.

  “Can we outrun them?” she whispered to Denan, lest the beasts be clever enough to speak their language.

  “On a clear night, we could, but in this rain … I don’t know, Cherrie. I really don’t.”

  Cherrie imagined the beasts listening and understanding. She looked up their path, and one of the night hunters sauntered across the muddy surface from one set of trees to the next. As it did, it snarled menacingly. It was moving to the other side to get a better angle of attack. She had seen that same casual demeanour in a thousand cats back in Dellerin, in the quiet moments before they pounced upon the unassuming rat and tore it to shreds.

  She really didn’t want to be torn to shreds. Who, then, would kill the dark weaver and rescue Arielle from her prison? Bereziel would, she thought and hated her self-deception. He had never loved her. He had charmed her. Emptied himself in her a few times and desired little else—especially a wedded bride and child.

  She cursed the unwelcomed thoughts, and as Iaculous cried out in fatigued pain, she tried desperately to form a plan. Any plan. Anything better than running. Where was there a good rodenerack to cut deeply and leave in the mud as they fled from death?

  “I am failing,” Iaculous moaned.

  He held the sphere’s light high, and the beasts leapt back from its spread. He dropped his reins and held both hands in the air, and his fingers glowed brightly. Cherrie could see him lose his grip on his ability. He was not ready for such power.

  Without warning, the sphere fizzled away to a delicate spark and then that, too, fizzled to nothing. The reaction was immediate. All around them, the night trembled with terrible howling as the beasts realised the untimely daylight had returned the dark to its rightful place. Cherrie knew the next part to their concerto. They charged from both sides as their quarry presented themselves.

  “Go!” she screamed and kicked her beast blindly forward.

  34

  The Venandi Night Hunters

  Cherrie thought for a horrible moment she had left them behind to their doom or, worse, separated herself from their pack and invited the beasts to strike her from both sides. She could see nothing but a dimming outline of the world, so she gripped the reins tightly and prayed that the gods of the source bless the next few moments of her life. Mostly, she prayed for speed and a clear road. What she received for her prayers was the snapping of nightmarish fangs on either side of her.

  “Charge through, Pageant,” she screamed to her horse as the monsters blocked the path and attacked from all sides.

  The world seemed to slow down to allow her some worrying questions. How long would it take for the beasts to flail her skin? And would she be alive when they did? Would it be easier not to see them as they tore her throat from her neck? Would she take many with her into the darkness when she fell? Would Heygar have done better?

  Pageant knocked the wind from her as the horse thrashed itself into the wall of snapping beasts and almost threw her from her saddle. The harsh sound of their beastly vanquishers filled her ears with melodies of hissing, spitting, snarling, and barking, and she cried out in fear and frustration. They were everywhere, and she lost any momentum between the writhing masses of muscular bodies as they blindly battered themselves against her horse, each other, and her companions.

  A brutal shape of menace leapt higher above the others and dug its massive fangs into Pageant’s front leg. On her left side, Cherrie felt another monster clasp dow
n upon her boot and bite hard. Her horse reared in the beast’s bite. It pulled her back in the saddle until, with a sickening rip, she was suddenly free.

  Her foot fell away from torn stirrup, and she knew this liberation had come at a terrible price. Though she couldn’t see, she could still feel the absence of two toes and a generous segment of her foot. The wet agony was horrible. Cherrie screamed into the dark again and felt her horse’s struggles in the clasping hold of the snarling night hunter. The monster bit deeper, and she swung wildly with her dagger and struck the beast across the eyes. Somehow, it relinquished its prey, and they broke free.

  Fear and a will for survival drove them both forward, and suddenly, they were clear of the line of ambushers and charging forward. It had taken only a few breaths, yet what occurred in moments could never be undone and would have dreadful consequences to them all.

  Cherrie charged through the storm and felt the warm spray of rain dash itself upon her face, then realised it was blood. With each stride, Pageant bled openly from the gash. Cherrie knew well the horse would not last long with her upon its back. She kicked the beast forward, and behind her, she heard both riders flee from the ambush.

  Behind them came the low rumble of the chasing pack. Shrill barks of primal frustration filled the night; she knew death followed with relentless fervour. She knew the Venandi would never stop until the sun rose and burned them back to their caves. A cold thought occurred to her. With herself and her mount leaking aromatic blood all over the path, the hunters would not give up. Instead, they would frenzy and soon enough, they would catch up with a lame horse.

  Cherrie ignored her own injury despite its maddening grip. Pain was pain, and she could manage pain in the quiet with a few bandages and no monsters in pursuit. If Iaculous could not regrow a couple of toes for her … well, there were worse injuries to bear. That was the future, however. For now, she needed to escape and race the horse to its doom while she could.