Huntress

by Elizabeth Hartwell

  Part of it, of course, is how so much of the information is one-sided. The gods came in and stirred the pot, but it’s clear that they aren’t all on the same page. They never have been. But because of that, they’re also not telling us mortals the whole story. We’re just pieces in their game, and the rules aren’t very clear.

  “So, what about your ah . . . lineage?” Cerena asks. “Why isn’t the world filled with the offspring of Loki and Tyr?”

  “I usually don’t play well with others,” Lance replies with a grin, looking Cerena up and down. “But then again, maybe my ancestors just didn’t have the proper motivation.”

  Cerena rolls her eyes, but I can see in the way she does it that she doesn’t mind Lance’s constant flirtation. She’s even more than her reputation described her. She’s just as fit, just as blunt and tough as any Hunter, but she also has that undercurrent of rebellion to her. Something about her life in Solace grates at her nerves, and while she isn’t going to say anything about it, it’s all Lance needs to make a connection with her.

  It’s not that she’s unfriendly with me, but . . . she smiles more with him. She laughs more at his jokes.

  Stop it. She’s a Hunter, and you’re the grandchild of Tyr.

  Still . . . she glances over at me as we walk, and she’s so beautiful, it makes even the Scorched Earth look good. “So, what about you, Tym?”

  “My . . . weaknesses are a problem for my bloodline,” I reply after a moment. Cerena tilts her head, obviously questioning, and I glance at Lance. He’s shown one of his, while I haven’t said anything of mine.

  But revealing your genetic weaknesses is a risky move here in the Scorched Earth, and so far, it hasn’t been a problem. Still, we’ll have to face it eventually.

  Cerena seems to understand my reticence, though, and changes the subject. “Tym, why were you chosen for this mission? I don’t normally . . . play well with others.”

  Her use of Lance’s words is like a little jab to my stomach, and I wonder what it is that has me so jealous. Perhaps it’s just how beautiful Cerena is, or maybe it’s something else. Maybe I see in Cerena the dream that I’ve had for a long time of a quiet, peaceful . . . maybe even happy life inside Solace.

  “I’ve got connections with some of the different gangs that control Bane,” I answer, thinking back. “Lance as well. It’ll help.”

  “I’ve never been to Bane,” Cerena admits. “What’s it like?”

  I look over at Lance, who nods. He’s the man with the silver tongue, but he also knows that right now, my point of view and style might be more useful. Still, he’ll have his own little things to add.

  “There is as different from Solace as you can imagine,” I begin. “There’s walls, but the walls aren’t just around the outside of the city but also between the sections.”

  “Why?” Cerena asks. “Wouldn’t that make defense more difficult?”

  “Depends on how you define defense,” Lance says.

  “The city is controlled by a confederation of gangs,” I explain. “There’s a city administration, of course. They’re the ones your Elder’s probably talking to, but they turn a blind eye to the city being . . . a chaotic anarchistic feudal system.”

  “Like you’d expect any different from a city devoted to the god of death and strife?” Lance asks.

  “I’m . . . I don’t really understand,” Cerena admits, which raises her estimation in my eyes. Only a fool says they understand when they don’t.

  “The city administration are all disciples of Bane,” I explain, “and are rumored to look mostly human. I’ve never seen them. But underneath them are the gangs. Each one controls a section of town, and the numbers are constantly shifting. Smaller gangs get absorbed by bigger gangs, and big gangs are divided by infighting.”

  “It sounds like anarchy.”

  “Which is just what the city rulers want,” I reply. “Paranormals of various types rule through usually racially-linked street gangs, and they have divided the city up into sections. Those are the internal walls, and they’ve built of . . . well, anything they can get their hands on. Regular humans, weaker paranormals, or those who just don’t have the numbers quickly find themselves doing anything they can to survive. Guerilla warfare, street warfare . . . that’s daily life in Bane.”

  “Why doesn’t someone put a stop to it?” Cerena asks, and it’s my turn to chuckle. “What?”

  “Like I said, the rulers of Bane want things like that. They believe that iron sharpens iron, so all the fighting just makes the survivors stronger. Besides, Lucian likes it that way.”

  I shiver as I say his name, my inner alarm bells already going off, but Cerena’s never heard of him. I can tell by her face. “Who’s Lucian, the boss?”

  “The boss of the biggest gang,” Lance says for me as I try to keep myself under control. “He runs the werewolves.”

  Cerena growls suddenly, her lip lifting in a sneer of disgust and hatred that tells me something’s happened to her in the past with the wolves. I can understand that feeling, at least. “How many Hunters are there?”

  Cerena stops and purses her lips. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  Lance laughs. “Okay, Miss Open Secrets. If you mobilize every Wall Guard, every Team Hunter, every Solo Hunter like yourself . . . hell, even if you empty out the Hunter Academy and put a weapon in everyone’s hand, you’d have a group that maybe, just maybe, equals the forces that Lucian controls if he does the same. He’s got more than wolves, although that’s most of what he has. He’s got some regular humans with nasty fucking attitudes who might be more dangerous than the wolves. At least, their bites sure as fuck are. Werewolves at least brush their teeth.”

  “So, the only thing holding them back from taking over—”

  “Is that Lucian is holding off his other enemies within Bane. He can’t send everything against Solace, not until he has his dark throne fully under his control.”

  We stop for lunch, and as we do, Lance groans when he puts his hand down wrong and puts stress on his healing arm. “Shit . . . and I jack off left-handed too,” he complains as he wiggles his fingers. “Unless someone’s willing to lend me a hand?”

  “Don’t look at me,” Cerena quips, but still, her tone’s lighter than I would hope. “You’re just going to have to deal with it until you’re fully healed.”

  “Tym?” Lance asks before laughing. “Never mind. Come on, I’m fine.”

  It’s obvious as we keep going that Lance isn’t fine, as his face is even paler than normal and he walks with a tender, more deliberate pace than normal. He won’t admit a thing, however, and an hour later, I drop back to talk quietly with Cerena. “He needs rest.”

  “I know,” she whispers back. “But we haven’t passed any place that looks safe to stop. I’d even go for an abandoned hulk.”

  I nod, knowing what she means. There are still many buildings from before the war that dot the landscape. If you’re lucky, you can find a night’s respite in the concrete remains of the old society.

  “Hey, up ahead!” Lance, who’s pulled ahead of us a little, says. He’s standing at the top of the shallow hill we’ve been climbing for the past twenty minutes, and when we join him thirty seconds later, I see what he means.

  “It’s a village,” Cerena notes, looking at the map in her pocket. “I don’t see a current settlement marked, but the survey’s a little old. Says here it was an abandoned pre-war town . . . Canyon City.”

  “No canyons around here,” Lance notes, looking left and right, “but that looks like a tavern.”

  “Come on,” Cerena says, unsheathing one of her swords. “Stay alert. Villages like this tend to be . . . provincial.”

  Lance nods, reaching behind his back and unslinging his most powerful weapon, his Gauss rifle. I reach for my hammers, and we move on. “You sure you can shoot that thing right now?”

  Lance looks down at the rifle, which is resting over his bandaged arm, and shrugs. “It’s not about using r
ight now . . . it’s about looking like we’re nothing to fuck with.”

  “But don’t look like an invasion force,” Cerena adds, keeping her sword carefully resting on her shoulder in a nonaggressive manner. “Just ready to react.”

  It takes us fifteen minutes to enter the town, which isn’t much, maybe ten buildings in total. The biggest is a concrete building with a large tower in the front and what looks like a cross of some sort engraved in the façade. It’s worn and chipped, but if I remember correctly, this used to be a church.

  It’s quiet in town, the breeze blowing up dust devils as we pass the first building, and my eyes dart from building to building, anticipating a threat. I see signs of settlement, so there’s someone living here. In the window of one building, there’s laundry hanging from a line, and in front of the big building, a horse is tied up. It’s a decent one, too, four legs and only one stunted flap of something hanging from its belly to show its mutated heritage. If it’s a mare, I bet it could produce pure-strain foals.

  “I didn’t expect a big brass band, but this is . . . what, people taking the day off?” Lance asks, but before he can open his mouth to say more, a man steps out of the big building, approaching us.

  “Howdy, travelers,” he says, adjusting his dark glasses. “Sorry, today’s canning day and most everyone’s downstairs in the Hall, making sure the rhubarb’s taken care of. If you don’t mind putting away the weapons, we don’t want no violence.”

  “Nor do we,” Cerena says, taking the lead. She sheathes her sword while I lower my hammer to rest the head on the ground. “We were just hoping for a place to sleep.”

  The man looks us over, warily eyeing Lance’s Gauss rifle before nodding. “We can do that. You have anything to trade?”

  Cerena reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a small bag, opening it up. “Holochips from Solace . . . say, two chips for the night?”

  It’s not raw materials, but holochips are a good bartering system for use around the Scorched Earth. Lightweight, transportable . . . and let’s face it, entertainment’s hard to come by out here.

  The man’s eyes light up, and he nods. “If you got some family-themed chips, we can make a deal. Got two children in town, and they’re getting mighty tired of what we’ve got. Come on in.”

  We follow the man, who looks like he’s entering middle age, into the main building. I take a moment to look around and realize what we’ve walked into . . . a conclave of neo-hippies.

  They’ve sprung up recently, burnouts who have gotten tired of trying to scratch their way in and around the small cities that are spread all over the Scorched Earth. Instead, in some breakthrough that some might call total delusion, they pull out to places like this, where they pull together a hardscrabble life through farming, a little bit of scavenging the wastelands, and usually a little pharmaceutical production. I knew them around the outskirts of Bane. They’d come in with a wagonload of vegetables, and underneath the vegetables, a few twenty-pound bags of Flight that’d take away anyone’s worries about the state of the post-Apocalyptic world for awhile.

  Cerena’s still wary, but I don’t think Ringtown has the same problems with drug dealers that I’m used to. “Cerena—”

  “It’ll be fine,” Cerena assures me quietly. “Lance needs the rest.”

  I look over at Lance, who is practically weaving on his feet now, and nod. “Fine . . . but if you can, scan his arm again and give him some pain medications. It won’t bother his system.”

  Cerena nods and goes over to Lance, who’s leaning against the wall on unsteady legs. She talks to him quietly while I reach into my own pouch of holochips and pull out two of my own small stash. Cerena can reimburse me later.

  “Here,” I tell the man as he approaches. Seeing I need to distract him a little with conversation, I start asking questions. “So, what’s your name?”

  “Name’s Dwight,” he says, offering me a hand. “What about y’all? We don’t get too many travelers through, just trade runs over to Ringtown from time to time.”

  “My name’s Tymond, and that’s Lance and Cerena,” I reply. Dwight looks at us warily, his eyes searching our faces for something. “What is it?”

  “You all paranormals?” he asks, and I can hear it in his voice. He doesn’t mean are we purebred human, but are we certain kinds of paranormal . . . the type that tends to be violent.

  “Sorry, just regular people,” I reply, and Dwight’s face lights up. “Guess you don’t mind that?”

  “Mind? Hell, boy, let me go get the rest of the folks. Like I said, travelers are rare in these parts and we’re just about as starved for news as the young’uns are for new holochips. Wait right here.”

  He disappears into the back, and I head over to Lance and Cerena, who’s finishing up her scans. “He seems to be much happier now. How’re you doing, Lance?”

  “Nothing a nice, long three-day beer bender couldn’t cure,” Lance says with a grin. “Know anywhere we can get some?”

  “Doubtful . . . and we’ll have to settle for just overnight,” I reply, helping him up. “Time to be sociable. Dwight there is coming back with the rest of the town.”

  ‘The rest of the town’ turns out to be about fifteen people, although there’s only one child. “Sorry about that, but Lilly’s just shy around new folks,” Dwight says, handing Cerena and me cups of pinkish fluid. “Rhubarb juice, with a little hint of honey in it. Roger over there has a hive. It’s a treat we have once in awhile.”

  I sip the juice, and it’s tart, with a hint of something underneath that tells me the juice has been fermented at least slightly since it was pressed. I give Dwight a grateful nod and lean over to whisper in Cerena’s ear. “You taste it?”

  “Yes,” she murmurs back. “Be careful, I don’t want anyone with a hangover tomorrow.”

  “How’d you folks like some food?” one of the women offers, and before we know it, we’re sitting at a large communal table with plates of vegetables, rustic breads, and pitchers of the fermented juice passed around freely.

  The first tingle happens as I finish off the last bite of my bread. It doesn’t feel like much at first, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Cerena start to get up before plopping back down to the bench, her eyes owlish and wide. Lance stumbles, and I try to get to my feet, but my legs feel rubbery. The world spins, and before I know it . . . darkness.

  I don’t know how long I’m out, but I can hear before I can see.

  “Are you sure they’re regular humans, Father?”

  “Yes, my son. The woman is a Huntress, even. Her blood will be most pure.”

  There’s an evil, childlike giggle, soulless and greedy. I slit my eyes, opening them just enough to see what’s around me. Instead of the fifteen members of the village we saw this afternoon, there are five new faces, pallid and drawn, their long fingernails and fangs gleaming.

  “V . . . vampires,” I murmur, struggling to sit up. One of them, the child, laughs happily.

  “Oh, Daddy, a strong one! His blood will be the sweetest!” the little vampire, who looks like she cannot be more than seven or eight years old but probably is much older, gloats. “I shall drain him first!”

  The little vampire comes toward me, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see my pack, my hammers lying next to them. All three packs are lined up, and one of the other vampires squats down next to Cerena’s, sniffing and poking at it.

  “No . . . no,” I rasp, feeling panic enter my bloodstream. Lance and Cerena are still out, although Cerena’s starting to stir as well. Of course, Lance would still be out. With the pain drugs Cerena gave him along with whatever was in the food, he could be out for days.

  “Get him to his knees,” the little vampire says, snapping her fingers like the princess of the village she most likely is. “I want to give our weary traveler a kiss goodnight.”

  A pair of hands jerks me to my feet before someone stomps on the back of my knee, sending me back down to the floor. The young vampire giggles
again and at the end makes a slurping sound. “Mmm . . . I do like big dinners. Hold him.”

  Anger floods my body, and as the world starts to turn whitish bright, I only hope I can maintain control long enough to get my hammers.

  Chapter 7

  Cerena

  The scream of terror snaps me out of the darkness, and I open my eyes to see Dwight go flying through the air. A roar of rage follows, and I look to see Tym fighting.

  But it’s what he’s fighting that makes me roll, looking for something to fight with. At least five vampires are near him, their speed and strength certain to overwhelm him even as he swings a hammer like it weighs nothing. He’s already crushed one person, and as he bellows, a vampire darts in, claw-like fingernails raking across his back.

  It just enrages him further. Screaming, Tym spins, the flat face of his sledgehammer turning the vampire’s head into black jelly. It’s one way to kill a vampire I’ve never seen before, although it makes sense. The two ways to destroy a bloodsucker are to pierce the heart or remove the brain from the body . . . and as I see my pack, I can’t help but grin at Tym’s remarkably efficient method of doing so.

  Grabbing one of my swords, I’m on my feet, a little woozy but able to move. One of the villagers sees me and raises a hand toward me, but before I can figure out if they’re armed in the dim light, I slash with both hands, my sword lopping their arm off at the elbow.

  “Get her!” a childlike voice yells, and the crowd splits in half, about five or six people approaching me. My legs still feel like two-foot chunks of rubber, but these people, whether they’re human or vampire, aren’t armed. They must have drugged us and didn’t realize we’d wake up in time.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tym grab a vampire by the throat, lifting it high into the air before slamming it headfirst onto the hard concrete floor of the room, again showing a great penchant for turning heads into mush.