The Seven

by Robert J Power

  Both comrades caught up with her, but their reunion was no happy occasion despite the dwindling sounds of their hunting pack. Both riders charged along with her for a time, but neither man said a word, for their eyes were on the ill-lit road ahead and their ears upon the beasts behind. They raced the night against their hunters, and her brave horse kept up its miserable charge as best it could. Perhaps with the other two beasts running alongside, it drew in the last of its will and raced its last ever race, determined to make it its best.

  Soon enough, she fell a mount’s length behind her brethren and swiftly a length beyond that. Cherrie willed her beast forward, but dreadful exhaustion affected her every move. She realised, like Pageant, she was bleeding herself to death with this charge.

  She called to them, but her voice was weak. She felt dizzy and fought a precarious tumble from her saddle to the mud below when the horse bounced her over a dip in the ground. Up ahead, the path turned slightly into a corner. Both riders went ahead, but when Cherrie took the turn, she took it too widely and struck a branch as she did. Miraculously she did not fall, but she wavered and dropped the reins, relinquishing the hold on her horse.

  “No!” she screamed, feeling the beast embrace the respite.

  Cherrie whipped her hands down and caught the leather straps once again. She charged her horse forward as the blurred world of darkness slowed to resemble a deathly forest of grey at the witching hour.

  “Not yet!” she cried, watching her comrades charge off into the darkness ahead. She didn’t want to die alone. “Wait!” Her head spun and she felt weak.

  They left her far behind.

  She kicked Pageant fiercely in the ribs, and the horse answered with an exhausted snort before running forward, though only for a few steps. The damage was done. The beast had forgotten what hunted them, and it came to an agonizingly slow trot, gasping loudly, for whinnying was too difficult a task. And then it stopped altogether.

  Not like this.

  “Oh, please,” Cherrie whispered and patted the horse, but it was barely listening.

  She dared not shout out for her comrades again, so she allowed her horse to move at its own pace. She shook the reins gently. Slowly, the horse walked forward, but as before, it slowed, stopped, and snorted loudly between desperate gasps. Then she heard something else in the wind's turn, something beautiful and hopeful. She heard the rushing of a river and hoped once more.

  “Be swift, Cherrie,” she whispered to herself and dropped painfully to the ground, moaning as she did. She pulled a rag from her pack and wrapped it tightly around her ruined foot. “Take the pain, little girl.”

  She pulled tightly and almost fainted from the fresh shards of agony shooting up like fiery bolts through her foot. She pulled her pack and her weapons after but little else from Pageant’s back. In the distance behind, she heard them again. The pack was on the hunt, howling as they raced down upon her. The blood would drive them wild; she knew what last horror she needed to endure.

  She could have taken a moment to tend to the horse’s wound as she did her own, but instead, Cherrie held her reins tightly. She pulled at the horse’s wound with her dagger, drawing further spillage down its smooth, brown skin. The horse cried out and reared but trusted her hold and did not flee her master. Cherrie felt worse as the fresh river dripped down onto the path.

  “I’m sorry, Pageant.”

  She dragged the horse around and smacked it fiercely on the rear. Without her weight and following its bolting instincts, it charged back down the path they had taken, towards its doom. She knew it a cruel thing to send such a magnificent, trusting animal to its death, but a girl had to do what she needed to do. She had to survive the night, kill a dark murdering weaver, and recover the beautiful soul of a lost daughter.

  Cherrie turned from the road and hobbled into the tree line in search of the river. The thundering hooves had already faded. She found herself less graceful than usual, and her feet caught on the marshy ground. She prayed to the gods of the source that her scent dissolve in the rain. She struggled to keep balance but used branches as support as she crept into the forest. She kept going, swallowing the pain of every step in grim determination. Then, somewhere far away, the howling rose into a shrill, excited cry, and she felt shameful as she stumbled down a slope towards the sounds of nearing water.

  “I’m so sorry, Pageant.”

  By the time she had reached the bottom, Cherrie heard something else, which broke her spirit. It was a low, recognisable hum. It grew, thundered and tore the night apart. She recognised it as a magnificent retreat.

  “Oh, to the thurken fires with you, Pageant.”

  Somewhere along the road, the horse she had sent out as sacrifice had realised its erroneous charge and spun away from the threat. As it raced by without a burden upon its back, she realised it could easily outrun the Venandi. There was only one more scent for the monsters to follow, and she was the easiest of prey.

  With panic threatening to consume her, like a Venandi would an injured legend, Cherrie charged towards the river, ignoring all pain and weariness. Unforgiving branches snapped and stung her face, and her foot bled and blinded her with pain, yet still, she ventured after a phantom sound like a child searching in a fair.

  Suddenly, she broke through the clustered trees and unforgiving shrubbery and came upon the river. She caught sight of its black surface in the concealed glow of the moon and thought its glisten beautiful. It was fierce and deep, and without a thought, she leapt from the riverbank. Mercifully, she was carried from the edge, and for a moment, she believed she might survive. It embraced her in its icy grip towards salvation, and all the river asked in reply was a few feeble kicks to keep herself afloat as she surged away from monsters and easy trails. Drowning was a thing reserved for fools and children.

  After a time and a few floating miles, Cherrie swam towards the edge of the bank and lay among the reeds, attempting further attention to her ruined foot. She was no healer, but a lifetime of removing cuts and bruises from overly enthusiastic patrons had gifted her the ability of a steady hand, even while enduring terrible pain.

  For hours, she hobbled along the riverbank with the flowing water and the great southern star above as her guide. The rain ceased its fall, and the forest fell to reassuring silence. She feared for her missing comrades but focused most of her thoughts on besting the night. The only respite she offered herself was as dawn approached, when she allowed herself a time to brush her ruined hair, repaint her lips and eyes, and reapply a fresh shower of her perfume. It was the little things to make a girl feel like herself again, and she felt better.

  As dawn whispered its reassurances, Cherrie rested beside a large boulder and allowed herself a few precious moments, imagining how grand it would be to slay Mallum. Then a growl from somewhere in the surrounding trees shattered the last grip the terrible lure had upon her mind. Somehow, she knew, this was the end.

  35

  Day Five

  Cherrie backed away from the growling. She was not scared but merely numbed, as though the lure had finally diminished from her mind. With this clarity came an acceptance of death.

  She had lived long enough for any whore; she had lived her life well. It would end in the middle of a dreary forest in the middle of an evil land, but it was still a finer place to die than at the hands of a displeased patron who desired one more malicious sensation of ecstasy. Over the years, in a plethora of brothels, she had discovered dozens of friends, cold as stone with spent seed still inside them, lying naked upon silken bedding. They had been strangled, skulls shattered from nearby utensils, or their throats slit by a demented lover. It was common enough and an inexpensive consequence to those with eternal golden pockets or political influence.

  “Always be wary of the better dressed gentlemen, for they have no boundaries,” her mother had told her as a child. Then she, too, had fallen to the hands of a royal that very same month.

  All whores had an inescapable hourglass upon their
beaten and broken crowns. Cherrie thought it likely she would have met the same end, were it not for Heygar’s influence, so she was thankful for each day. She had nearly provided a brighter future for her daughter.

  Yes, it was a better life lived, and she knew it would end as the growling took shape in the form of four Venandi night hunters. Brave, betrayed Pageant had taken most of the beasts with her as she fled. Most.

  “Couldn’t shake all of you, could I?”

  She drew her mask from her pack and left the rest of her belongings where they lay. She thought about leaping for the water, but the deluge was nowhere as impressive as in the hours before. A weaker current would grant her nothing but a hindrance of movement, and they would easily rip her apart. So, she backed away and awaited her fate. Death was inevitable, for her last chapter was written. There would never be another tale of Cherrie and, like Heygar, this was one legend too big for her luck.

  She slipped the metal mask across her face and immediately felt more confident. She was one of The Seven Hounds, and a Hound never slipped into the source quietly. They screamed, cursed, cut and fought to survive, just to take that next breath and kill a little more. She drew her sword as the beasts surrounded her.

  The first rays of light appeared in the sky, and the world slowly turned from the darkest of night to the reassuring pink of a new day. But Cherrie knew well that she would be little more than shreds of meat and bone long before the sun’s burning light shone through the trees to drive them away. Her foot’s searing fire was blinding, but she ignored all but the growling. She crouched low, with the dagger in her left hand and sword in her right, waiting for the attack. She remembered that child in the dark with those teeth snapping, but her nerve held, and she pledged that she would make at least one pay for her downfall.

  “Come at me, you thurken curs.” They howled, snarled, and circled her, and she watched each beast. “Come on.”

  She leapt at one of her killers, who hissed in irritation and stepped away from her. Its ears flicked back and forth, and its furless grey tail swished like a cat tired of petting and ready to strike.

  “Come on!” she screamed again, begging them to dare end her life. Challenging them to face her blades. “Come meet your end!”

  As if her fear and hate were too much to hear, they attacked.

  The first came from the left. Two massive leaps and it was upon her, snarling ferociously and snapping at her throat. But Cherrie was no horse, blessed with nothing more than sprinting speed and a primal instinct to survive. She was fierce. She sidestepped the charge and plunged her sword through its ribs. It tore open the beast’s sternum, like a stuffed carcass of veal in a solstice feast, and it careened away from her.

  It was an easy counter in the most basics of combat. Even though the creature had such muscle and power, with skin as thick as leather, her blade went deeper than she had expected. With one shrill screech, it stumbled away from her, leaking blood and viscera until its heart fell still and the beast died in the long grass.

  Cherrie stumbled away on unevenly planted feet as the second caught her from behind and knocked her to the ground. All too late, she realised the first charge had been little more than a diversion. She desperately rolled away, but the beast took hold at her shoulder and gnawed through her leather and steel armour coverings as though they were nothing more than toasted honey bread. She felt teeth tear into skin, and she screamed. The remaining beasts howled in unison in their victory.

  Her vanquisher snapped its head back and forth, shaking the fight from her before slamming her to the ground as a dog would with a blooded beast. She cried out, feeling her shoulder rip open, and she fell free from the beast’s grip. It did not finish her but merely chewed on the bloody lump of muscle, skin and collarbone remaining in its mouth, leaving her writhing and leaking in the grass.

  “Oh, please, not like this.” She could hear the crunching of savoury bones. “Let me take one more with me before I die!” she screamed to any god or demon who was listening, but the deities were silent.

  The beast swallowed the mouthful and craned its head to seek the next succulent piece upon which to sate itself. It tipped her metal facemask in curiosity, then rested a massive paw upon her chest and took what breath she had with its casual weight. She felt the blade in her hand, but her body would not obey her will, for the beast’s breath was hot, and the stench of its meal stung her nostrils.

  “May the sun burn your kin to ash,” Cherrie cursed and felt burning tears stream down her face.

  She had only managed one kill, and it had been a tactic on their part. To be outsmarted by a primal monster’s strategies was a dreadful thing. She felt the impossibly heavy dagger; it had been with her from the beginning, and it was only right it be in her grip at the end. She was the little girl once more, alone with the monster. Her bladder released, and all she could do was lie in the grass and weep silently.

  A third beast snarled from afar and distracted her captor. It replied in a fearsome roar and stepped from her chest, lest its comrade seek an undeserved morsel of flesh. The show of force was enough to dissuade the newcomer, and it sat back down to wait its turn.

  Cherrie caught her breath and felt Bereziel beside her. She did not feel his love, nor his hope. She only felt an eternal sadness, and she almost cried out for him. For the regrets, for their child, for the terrible distance between.

  “I only ever loved you, Beezee,” she whispered as the blood loss caused her mind to wander towards defiance. He was not there. He never had been. She was alone.

  But she would never slip away silently. She summoned the last of her will and plunged her blade through her assailant’s throat, slitting the leathery skin open. Its blood showered her as it died, and she imagined Heygar would have liked this.

  “I still have a fight in me,” she challenged and climbed to her feet.

  Cherrie pushed the dead beast away from her and, once again, she took both sword and dagger in hand. The sitting night hunter leapt upon her, and she swung with both weapons. Her mind no longer recognised pain as a thing to fear or endure. She was beyond thought like that. She inflicted devastation on the hunter and sent it scampering away, yelping, with three long gashes across its face. She thought it fled from her like a terrified child in a fair after meeting a monster in the dark, and this last thought pleased her.

  The last night hunter circled her swiftly. She struggled upon her feet, matching its wide arc. Around and around, it charged. Then she stumbled, and like a crack of lightning, it slipped beneath her defence and knocked her to the ground one last time. She fought weakly, but it pinned her down and ripped her sword-bearing arm from its socket, leaving it to flap uselessly at her side. With a second bite, it ripped her arm free, and Cherrie squealed like the slaughtered swine she was. The beast was wise to spit her arm away, and it bit down heavily upon her mask. It knew a bite to the face was fatal to any man.

  But for its knowledge, it was not to know the metal mask Heygar had gifted her was from the heart, and it was the one gift she still treasured. Upon its impenetrable metal surface was a painted face of such misery and beauty, she named her Muillil, after a demon of the source. It bore a white face and a stunning red smile as alluring as a damsel with lust on her mind, and upon this mask, Cherrie added her own signature. She had painted a large tear for all her pain, and when she wore the mask, she felt more alive than ever before. Stories of Cherrie the Red among those mercenaries who knew her less suggested she was ugly underneath its surface, and the mask itself was her true face. Perhaps this was true.

  To a Venandi, however, it was a face to be bitten, and it lost three teeth upon its Venistrian metal. The beast howled in frustration and confusion, and a large piece of tooth fell free into her hand. Such brutal incisors, as fierce as any blade she had ever known. She struck from the side, through its leathery ear, and suddenly, there was no biting anymore. Instead, the monster fell away from her as the tooth penetrated skin, muscle, and brain.

 
; Cherrie gasped from the sudden weight falling away. She felt herself slip away, accepting death as she had seen brave souls before upon the field of battle. With little strength left, she attempted to crawl away from the dead beasts and pools of blood, but the simple act was beyond her, so she lay in the grass and slowly bled to death.

  Time stood still, however. The sun rose, and there was no release from her agony. Her heart was as stubborn as she was, and it refused to fall still, so she lay in ruination and allowed her mind to drift. She thought of Heygar’s attempts at bumbling romance, and she remembered, for a time, it had been nice. She had smiled and loved him in a way. She felt Heygar near once again, and this thought warmed her something wonderful.

  Dawn lit the land anew, and she gasped her last few breaths. Cherrie felt a great darkness around her as her life finally seeped away. She felt a terrible coldness of the soul. Blood-laden tears fell from her eyes, down her beautiful face, to join the blood-soaked ground underneath. And then she felt his hands upon her, and her eyes focused.

  “Hush, Cherrie. You are among friends,” Iaculous whispered, and she shivered from the cold.

  He held her remaining ruin of a hand and hid the horror of seeing her in such a state well enough. His hands glowed blue; they matched the sky behind him. How strange. She hadn’t seen a blue sky in an age.

  “You need to kill Mallum,” she whispered, and he nodded sadly. She felt so cold. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and death terrified her. She gasped again, and he hushed her.

  “I can’t heal you, though I try,” he said pitifully. His hands glowed so brightly, yet still, she felt the darkness. So close, she could touch it—or close enough that it touched her.