Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  Aliyev and one of his Crown Prince counterparts in another city-state, having a duel of sorts between their blood witches? To what end? Is one doing and the other undoing, or is it more subtle than that, putting things in motion and then diverting them? I’ll have Hanson see what he can learn.

  “Keep your eye on it,” he ordered. He held up a hand to forestall Wraithwind’s objections. “I know you say that you all cloak yourselves to keep other witches from seeing your magic clearly. Spare me the details. Find out what’s being done and by whom, and I might allow you an extra night with your lover.”

  “As you wish, m’lord,” the blood witch replied, with an expression suggesting he had been given an impossible task. “I’ll handle it.”

  “See that you do.” Or else.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Shit. Those are hancha,” Corran muttered as he, Rigan, Trent, and Mir eyed the creatures heading their way.

  “At least it’s not ghouls,” Trent replied.

  Corran hated hancha and ghouls the most out of all the infernal creatures they hunted. Hancha had the saving grace of being dumber than ghouls, since they were corpses possessed by vengeful spirits, and their decomposing brains did them no favors. With blackened skin like a rotting corpse and yellow eyes, fingers drawn up into claws and an insatiable hunger for flesh, hancha made up for in ruthlessness what they lacked in intelligence.

  And they never hunted alone.

  “How many?” Mir asked quietly.

  Rigan concentrated, casting out with his grave magic, trying to sense the spirits that animated the creatures. “At least a dozen.”

  “Are you sure?” Corran asked, giving Rigan a worried look. Rigan had proposed some changes in their fighting style should they come up against hancha again. Aiden and Elinor could not read from the ripples in the magic what type of monster plagued an area, only that creatures of some kind had been summoned nearby. Rigan’s magic had made him suspect hancha, and seeing his hunch proven correct emboldened him.

  “Yeah. I think it’ll work—and if it doesn’t, we fall back on the tried-and-true.”

  Corran gripped his arm warningly. “It’s not worth a thread of your soul.” Neither Aiden nor Rigan had determined exactly how much pulling hard on the magic cost a witch, but the poetic description sounded too dire to Corran for his liking.

  “It won’t come to that,” Rigan reassured him. “I can ground myself better. And if it works, the rest of you are in a lot less danger.”

  “They’re getting closer,” Trent warned. “Make up your minds!”

  “I’ve got it,” Rigan said, and stepped forward. “Cover me.”

  The old graveyard sat on a hill overlooking the Talerth River, on the outskirts of the fishing village of Cold Rock. At this hour of the night, few lights glimmered in the village, and the ships in the port lay still at anchor. But the dark shapes that advanced on the hunters were anything but peaceful.

  Rigan unfurled a piece of oilcloth on which he had already drawn the banishing sigils. It took less than a minute to lay down a protective circle with the salt mixture, with Rigan standing in the center of the cloth. A “portable” banishing circle was one of the new things Rigan and Aiden had been toying with, and while it had worked well in tests, this was its first use under fire.

  Rigan pushed doubt from his mind as he sank his power down into the ground and called to the energies around him.

  As he called his power, he felt Corran’s grave magic in the background, ready to join with his if need be. But Rigan knew that Corran’s real strength lay in fighting off physical threats, and he resolved not to draw on his brother’s reserves unless he had no other choice.

  The hancha closed on the hunters, hungry for fresh meat. Rigan chanted under his breath and focused his attention on the spirits that had locked themselves within the walking corpses. Usually, he and Rigan dispelled angry or trapped ghosts that refused to move on or lacked the ability to go to the After on their own. These spirits had elected to remain for vengeance’s sake, and as his magic touched their essence, it felt as putrid and decayed as the rotting flesh they inhabited.

  “You are no longer of this world,” Rigan murmured, willing his power toward the approaching creatures, suffusing his words with intention. “You do not belong here.”

  He expected the violent response, an outpouring of anger and bitterness that washed over him, scalding in its intensity. “You have no claim on these bodies. Your time here is at an end.”

  Rigan anticipated resistance. In all the haunted homes and graveyards he and Corran had cleansed over the years, none of the angry ghosts had gone willingly to their rest. This felt different. In those other cases, Rigan had no doubt that the spirits that remained behind either chose to do so or got lost, somehow, on their way to the next realm. Now, part of the anger that pushed these souls to madness and violence lay in the sordid power that bound them, unwilling, to their mortifying hosts.

  “It’s not working,” Corran warned as he and the other hunters stepped forward, weapons ready for a fight.

  Rigan dared not stop his chant, though his mind searched for reasons why the hancha seemed resistant to his magic.

  “Rigan, do something or get out of the way!” Mir said.

  “Spread out,” Corran ordered. He might not know what, exactly, stymied Rigan’s magic, but he knew his brother well enough to understand that Rigan had no intention of giving up until he had exhausted all his options. Even if this time, it didn’t completely keep them out of a bloody hand-to-hand battle.

  Rigan struggled to regain his focus, convinced that his magic could wrest the spirits from their bodies. Most of the spirits we banished before remained by their own will. Pretty sure hancha are conjured monsters, so they’re not… natural. Whatever magic brought them here is keeping them tethered, and driving their madness.

  The hancha surged forward, and Rigan narrowed his focus. Twelve hancha, four hunters. As Corran and the others ran with swords raised to meet the onslaught, Rigan bit his lip, willing his magic to force the spirit free from the hancha running for him with clawed, outstretched hands.

  His magic always did work best when his life hung in the balance.

  Rigan’s power swelled, and he brought it all to bear on the wretch scrambling toward him. He searched for what did not belong and found a strand of tainted magic, whisper thin, that fettered the cursed soul to the decaying body. Rigan stretched out his power and snapped that strand, recoiling as he felt the foul brush of blood magic.

  The hancha’s body dropped to the ground as the imprisoned ghost tore free. Rigan did not offer it a choice; he thrust the sullied essence into the After. It took all of his self-control not to flinch away from the filthy residue of the blood magic that clung to the spirit. Later, he might have time to ponder the ramifications, to wonder whether the ghost’s soul would be denied its rest by evil thrust upon it. The thick of battle afforded him no such luxury.

  Now that he figured out their secret, sundering the blood bond felt like slipping a sharp blade beneath taut string. Rigan took down the next two hancha one after another. Three more of the monsters lay headless on the ground, their bodies decaying rapidly now that the animating magic had fled. Corran, Mir, and Trent each battled two of the creatures.

  Rigan turned toward Corran, who had set about with his sword two-handed. He saw the blade bite into the dead flesh easily, and heard the cracking bone within. The hancha felt no pain, so losing a hand or an arm did not slow their advance, although it did hinder their options for attack. Rigan narrowed his eyes, called to his power, reached for the filthy wisp of blood-soaked magic that tethered the hancha’s souls, and felt it part like cobwebs.

  Both of Corran’s opponents fell, mere corpses once more, and Rigan focused his attention on those near Mir just as the hunter managed to get in a beheading strike, eliminating one of his attackers. Rigan clenched his outstretched hand, and the other hancha dropped into a stinking heap.

  He thought he h
eard Corran shouting his name, but the voice seemed faint and far away. Rigan took a step toward Trent and staggered. Mir and Corran ran toward the two remaining hancha, as Rigan raised his arm. Trent’s blade sank deep into the chest of one of the hancha, and Rigan ripped its soul from its body as the monster slumped to the bloody grass.

  “Rigan, stop!” Corran shouted. Mir and Corran teamed up on the last of the hancha. Corran’s sword took off the creature’s head while Mir’s blade cleaved it shoulder to hip.

  Rigan swayed as he released the power he called. The magic flowed out of him, and pain replaced it.

  “Rigan!” Corran yelled, running toward him in time to catch him by the shoulders as his knees gave way and he sank to the ground.

  “You’re bleeding,” Corran said, wiping a hand beneath Rigan’s nose and at the corner of his mouth. His fingers came away bright with Rigan’s blood.

  He tried to answer Corran but managed nothing but a croak as Corran shook him, desperate for a response.

  “We’ve got to burn the bodies and get out of here,” Trent said, as he and Mir bent to the task, leaving Corran to support Rigan, keeping him upright. Rigan’s vision blurred, and his soul felt loose within his body as if it might float free and vanish into the night.

  “Don’t you let go,” Corran growled, fingers digging into Rigan’s biceps as if he sensed the struggle to hang on. “Don’t you leave us. Hang on. We’ll fix this. Just please, Rigan, hang on.”

  Fear and anger colored Corran’s voice, along with grief fresh from Kell’s death. Rigan clung to Corran’s presence, willing himself to keep body and soul together, but he felt his control slipping, and feared his will would not be sufficient.

  “I will not lose you,” Corran grated. “If I have to follow you into the After and drag your sorry ass back, I will not lose you. Do you hear me? Fight, Rigan!”

  The stench of burning flesh woke Rigan from his stupor. He still felt the filth of the hancha’s soul-tethers, but at least he could also feel his own body and his senses more clearly as well.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Corran said, getting a shoulder under Rigan’s arm. “Someone’s likely to see the fire and investigate.”

  They nearly made it to their horses before half a dozen rough-looking men blocked their way.

  “Step aside,” Trent said, bloodied sword still in hand.

  “What have we here?” A tall, broad-shouldered man with a scruffy brown bearded stepped forward. He held a wide sword with a wicked-looking blade in one hand, and his stance told the hunters that he knew how to use it. His belt and bandolier bristled with knives. The men behind him were equally well-armed, though their stained and worn clothing suggested that what money they had went into weapons.

  Brigands, Rigan thought, cursing himself for putting his friends at a disadvantage.

  “We mean you no harm,” Mir said. “Unless you try to stop us.”

  The leader gave a cold smile. “Can’t let witnesses get away.”

  The comment made no sense to Rigan. If anyone had witnessed anything, it might have been the brigands being privy to the sight of hunters fighting hancha. Then his gaze slid to the darkened harbor, and he saw a ship that had not been at anchor before, and the dim lights of lanterns guiding landing boats ashore.

  “Distract them,” Corran murmured quietly enough for only Rigan to hear.

  Sure he was worth little else in another fight, Rigan let out an agonized groan and dropped like a stone to his knees. Corran swung to his left, Trent to his right, while Mir gave an angry roar and ran up the middle.

  The newcomers met the attack, engaging with the cold, practiced moves of men who had seen more than their share of fighting. Four hunters against six brigands might have been almost fair; but with Rigan out of the fight, Corran and the others were at a serious disadvantage.

  The strangers—smugglers, Rigan thought—clearly had no intention of letting them leave alive. Corran and his friends must have sensed that, whether or not they noted the stealthy ship in the river’s port. They threw themselves into the fight with everything they had, and while their skill was evenly matched, the attackers were fresh and rested.

  Mir lamed one of the strangers with a deep wound to the leg that put the man on the ground and might have had him bleeding out. That enraged the others, who doubled the ferocity of their onslaught. The hunters had avoided serious injury in the fight with the hancha—thanks mostly to Rigan’s magic—but nothing spared them bloody gashes as they circled and parried.

  No one noticed Rigan, hiding in the darkness.

  Rigan knew he had overtaxed his magic, grounded or not, in the fight with the hancha. The remaining magic felt sullied by the noxious power that trapped the creatures’ souls inside their bodies. Drawing on more magic might kill him, but Rigan had no illusions about his prospects should the brigands win.

  He dug his fingers into the damp soil, as he plunged his magic deep into the ground. Rigan marshaled his strength, and felt the tug of grave magic, as his power touched the spirits of those villagers buried in the cemetery behind them. He doubted he had it in him to harness his newer abilities, but grave magic intertwined with his essence, his by blood and birth.

  He had no time to second-guess himself. Corran and the others were losing, fast.

  Come to me, Rigan called to the spirits in the graveyard. I will hear your confession. But first, I ask of you one favor—

  It might be blasphemy to require service of the dead before hearing their confession; if so, Rigan would face Doharmu himself for judgment. Right now, all he cared about was saving his brother and his friends, even if he forfeited his life and his soul.

  He called, and the spirits of the dead answered him. The temperature plummeted, growing so cold that their breath misted. Rigan felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, and even though the spirits came to his request, he sensed their anger. These were not vengeful ghosts, but they lingered, unwilling to move on. The unresolved issues that caused them to remain fed their frustration, and left unshriven, some of them would eventually become a danger.

  Rigan did not have to speak to direct the spirits. They roiled in from the graveyard like a wave of fog, cold and clammy, smelling of dirt. Faces appeared and vanished in the mist, stretched and distorted. Wind swept through the trees, clacking branches like bare bones, howling with barely contained fury.

  “What in the names of the gods is that?” the leader of the ruffians exclaimed as he saw the tide of revenants roll toward them.

  Corran, Trent, and Mir went on the offensive, as their attackers fell back in terror. One of the men bled badly from a deep gash on his belly, and another’s shirt clung to him, soaked with blood, where Trent’s blade had opened his flesh across his ribs.

  “They’re not here for us,” Corran said with a dangerous smile. “They’ve come for you.”

  A heartbeat later, the ghostly fog parted around the hunters only to coalesce once more as it bore down on the smugglers. The strangers cried out in fright. As the four uninjured men ran for their lives down the path and toward the bay, the spirits overtook the two gravely wounded brigands, obscuring them from view.

  Rigan heard a terrified man’s scream, and then the night fell silent.

  “You have my thanks and gratitude,” Rigan murmured to the ghosts that returned to surround him. “And now I will grant you your confession.”

  “What’s he doing?” Trent asked, fear coloring his tone. Corran caught him by the arm as Trent made to move forward.

  “Paying a debt,” Corran said. “Confessing the dead.”

  “Rigan did that?” Mir’s voice was awestruck.

  “That’s my brother,” Corran said, pride clear in his voice.

  The ghosts swirled around Rigan, making their last confessions, admitting the sordid secrets that followed them beyond the grave. Their cold touch sent Rigan’s teeth chattering, and his skin felt clammy. He found it hard to get enough air, and he wondered if there was truth to the rumors
about ghosts stealing the breath of the living.

  … did not pay the full dowry I owed…

  … stole a calf from the neighbor’s farm…

  … the son I bore was not my husband’s…

  … drowned my faithless husband’s bastard…

  On and on the voices droned, sapping the last of Rigan’s strength. Finally, they grew silent.

  “Enter into the halls of Doharmu,” he whispered, “and may your journey in the After bring you peace.” Rigan watched as the restless dead filed toward a darker space in the night, a portal that had not been there seconds before. When the last of the ghosts passed inside, the portal closed, and Rigan fell forward into the dirt, utterly spent.

  Rigan woke slowly and groaned as his aching head reminded him of how much energy he had expended.

  “It’s about time you woke up.” Corran’s gravelly voice came from near his shoulder, and Rigan turned his head to see his brother sitting on the floor beside his cot, head pillowed on his arms. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Scared the shit out of the smugglers, too.”

  Corran raised his head. “Smugglers?”

  Rigan closed his eyes and sank back into the cot, trying not to worsen the pounding in his brain. “Saw a ship… in the bay. Wasn’t there before. Why come… by night if not smuggling?”

  Corran sat up and ran a hand through his hair. “Why’d they bother with us?” He sighed, guessing at the answer. “They saw the fires. Probably thought we set them as some sort of signal that we were on to them.”

  “Maybe.” Rigan knew that if they were back in the hidden rooms beneath the monastery that Aiden had to have treated the worst of his injuries, which frightened him given how utterly spent he felt.

  “What are smugglers doing here, and why are they this far upriver?” Corran wondered aloud. “We’re a long way from the sea. How did they get past the patrols, and what are they bringing ashore?”