The Moroi Hunters Page 10

  As she walked through the sunlit wilderness, the ground began to incline, and the deciduous trees became interspersed with thin-leaved conifers. The incline culminated at a grassy hillock, topped by a stony outcropping. Shayala circled the tor and located, beneath a low overhang, a small, lightless opening, leading into a grotto.

  She focused her hearing and sense of smell as well as her vivisense—that capacity shared by strigoi, nosferatu, and moroi to detect the living—but could discern no human or other animal within. She entered the grotto, traversed a short, low passage, and reached an inmost cavern, which was as much midden as den, for skeletal remains fully carpeted the ground. The bones, most cracked or broken, ranged in color from gray to yellowish-brown, and remnants of flesh and hair still clung to many. Most appeared to be human, though were not from recent kills. The humans likely learned to avoid this hillock and its environs, driving the moroi to desperation and to roam farther from its lair.

  Healing would require several days, though that time could be expedited with a source of fresh blood. More importantly, however, she had not eaten for a day and would need to feed soon or begin to slip into ferality, a fate many strigoi considered to be worse than death. She would rest, lying dormant for only one day more, then, regardless her physical condition, she would seek nourishment.

  Day 10: Light

  For a day, Shayala lay perfectly still. Had anyone come upon her, that person would likely conclude that she was a recently expired corpse. Upon the dawning that followed her arrival at the hillock, she rose to renew her search for the feral humans. Although her bones had begun to mend, and her ribs no longer protruded, she ached throughout, and her recovery was impeded by a lack of sustenance. Her clothing was serviceable, albeit torn from the battle. Had it been a normal bear, it never could have damaged her as the moroi did.

  She emerged from the grotto and climbed atop the rocky formation, wet from the previous night’s cloudburst. Washed clean, the sky was a pristine blue, unmarred by clouds. From that height, she surveyed tens of miles in every direction. Roughly westward, she espied smoky columns, the nearest she estimated to be five miles from the hillock. Alighting from the formation, Shayala struck out at a quick, steady pace, for her unhealed and malnourished body prevented more exertion.

  In what she estimated to be four miles, she slowed to a walk. She did not have long to wait before she sensed the presence of humans. Not only could she smell their blood, her vivisense told of their proximity. Her thoughts became focused upon only nourishment, and a throaty growl escaped her lips. She had not fed for two days, and hunger framed her every thought, surrounding her consciousness and promising to consume her sense of self in its relentless, inexorable expansion. She could feel hunger’s fog begin to encompass her mind. So near sustenance, she found it impossible to maintain reason, and any single thought other than that of feeding would slip from her consciousness as easily as ether from a clenched fist.

  She inhaled the sanguineous scent, and the coppery essence entered her nostrils and seemed to permeate her body, beckoning and enticing her. As if on its own accord, her body bolted in the direction of the nearest victim, not yet in sight. In seconds, she came upon him, barreled him to the ground, and straddled him. With her fangs hidden by the effects of her necklace, the victim’s skin punctured before her teeth seemed to contact his neck.

  He had not the opportunity to even raise his blade, yet he struggled, convulsively, though he could no more force the strigoi from him than he could heft Castle Ky’lor itself. As Shayala gorged, his surprise turned to terror, subsiding as his eyes dimmed of life. A steel blade struck her back but slid harmlessly from her body. Shayala ignored it, then a second and a third blow as she continued to feed.

  She felt her strength returning and the fog surrounding her mind lifting. Shayala turned toward the ineffectual attacker, caught his descending steel blade in her right hand, and shattered his skull with a blow from her left. To her right stood a human female, immobile through shock and fear. However, Shayala sensed at least four other humans nearby. None could be allowed to escape and tell of her coming.

  The woman had just begun to overcome her paralysis when Shayala descended upon her and shattered her neck. As the body fell, Shayala broke after the next human, catching him easily and similarly ending him quickly. And so it went with the next, and the next. The last shouted and ran toward an encampment in a clearing. He had just broken the forest line when she reached him, clutched him by the hair, and crushed his throat. However, his outcry had managed to warn the sentries at the periphery of the camp.

  She had no alternative; all had to perish.

  Those who had not witnessed Shayala lacerate the throat of the fleeing human were slow to understand she was the threat, that she was not another fleeing tribemate, despite the cries of warning from the sentries. Thus, an organized defense was slow in forming. Some of the humans, men and women, did fight—and die—valiantly. Some even wielded weapons of silver, which inflicted minor damage upon the onetime queen. From the fallen, Shayala retrieved two steel swords of mediocre quality. The elderly and the young and the cowardly attempted to flee, though all inevitably fell. Shayala pursued a female child, who ran while her mother stood futilely to bar the butchering strigoi, and cut both down. She hunted the few who tried to hide among the trees or escape into the deeper woods.

  In the end, all would die.

  Rather, nearly all died, for, even during the tumult of the massacre, Shayala preserved four unconscious humans—two females and two males. After a quick search of the camp, she retrieved a coil of rope and trussed her captives, tying the slack to a tree.

  She then began a more thorough search of the wreckage, moving from one tent to the next. Bodies were strewn about the camp like discarded clothing, and Shayala fed upon the few humans who yet lived despite their grievous wounds. Where a tent had collapsed, she simply threw the covering to the side to reveal the contents. She acquired a haversack, into which she added two brimful waterskins, some dried meats, an argent dirk, several candles, a fire striker, a sheaf of vellum, and a pair of charcoal sticks. She also scrounged two argent swords, which, she determined through a cursory examination, were not well balanced but suitable. She placed the strap of the haversack over her shoulder, slid the scabbarded blades into her belt.

  From her feedings after the slaughter, Shayala felt stronger and more lucid, and in a day her body would be mended. Yet, come night, the musk from her consumption and the spilled blood would attract moroi and nosferatu for miles. Shayala hurriedly retrieved and piled the corpses in the center of the camp and set them ablaze. By the time the pyre raged, the four bound humans had roused and strained against their bindings. Shayala cut the rope from the tree, and one male ineffectually struggled to pull it from her hand. Nevertheless, when Shayala started back toward the moroi’s den, he, with the other humans, were inexorably drawn behind her.

  Once returned to the lair, Shayala bound the legs of the males and of one of the females; she fed upon the other female until the woman died from blood loss and placed one of the males beside the body. Then she rested and waited, trusting that the grotto was far enough removed to escape the notice of any moroi or nosferatu attracted to the gore of the ruined camp.

  Day 11: Light

  The female form stirred and, rising, emitted a feral growl. Its wild eyes alighted upon the unconscious male beside it. Instinctually, it descended upon him and eagerly sank its fangs into his neck. It drank thirstily and left the man a bloodless husk. Although lucidity returned to her eyes, confusion still remained as she looked from Shayala to the two remaining humans in the cavern. A single candle, set atop a skull, emitted a flickering yellow light, creating patches of shadow among the rough-hewn walls.

  The hair of the newly risen strigoi had changed from light brown to mauve; her eyes had lost their pupils, turning from dark brown to amber; her countenance, while recognizable from her human self, was more angular and fierce. Her complexion and fo
rm remained unchanged. She moved toward the second human male, but Shayala commanded, “Be still,” and she immediately stood immobile.

  Shayala appraised the whimpering, terror-stricken male at her feet. “You will serve me.”

  The human could not answer from fright; he continued only to shake and whine. The stench of his fear was a palpable thing to the strigoi. Shayala raised her foot slightly, fighting the strong inclination to put her booted heel through his miserably quivering skull. She continued, her voice as an icicle through his heart, “I offer you a choice: Become my agent among the humans or become nourishment. It matters not, but either way, you will serve me.”

  He still shivered, though quickly nodded his head twice. Shayala reached down and easily hoisted him. Retrieving the dirk from the haversack, she cut his ties, sat him down, and handed him the sack and dagger. He stood shocked, the blade pointed at this woman-who-was-not-a-woman. Some indecision played across his visage, though Shayala was utterly unconcerned. Rather, she looked to the other strigoi. “You will not harm nor feed upon this human male, though you may sparingly feed upon the female. I grant you freedom of movement.”

  Still with her back to him, the human reached a decision and lowered the weapon. What could he do? This creature had, after all, easily slaughtered his entire tribe.

  Regarding him, Shayala said, “Now, tell me, how many humans live in this region?”

  “I-I’m not-not certain. Thousands.” He glanced from Shayala to the floor. The estimates Shayala’s interrogators had extracted from captured humans put the number upwards of ten thousand.

  “How are the humans organized? Who rules?”

  “We have no king. Each tribe is governed by its own laws.” Then he said in a piteous whine, “The Moon Stalkers are no more. My tribe is gone.”

  A backhand sent the human tumbling. He dropped to the bony floor, his mind an abyss of suffocating terror. A stain spread upon the groin of his trousers.

  “You will not speak in vain,” Shayala calmly explained, indifferent to the violence.

  With tears in his eyes and blood running from his mouth, the human sobbed and nodded.

  Shayala continued, “Does each tribe rule a well-established territory?”

  “No. Th-the tribes roam as-as our needs and the danger de-demand.” The human remained kneeling, staring at the bones as if he could bore through them with his glare.

  “Which is the most powerful tribe?”

  “The-the Moroi Hunters, half a-a day to the south-southwest.”

  That was the name her agents had gathered.

  “Other than to gather food and water, you will remain here and await my commands. Do not be so foolish as to believe you can escape to where I will not find you.”

  “Yes-yes.” Still, his heart raced and his body shook to such an extent the bones rattled beneath him. If he had tried, he likely would have been unable to stand.

  To the new strigoi, Shayala said, “You, too, will remain here and await my instructions. If he tries to escape, kill him.” As Shayala departed, she said in afterthought to the human, “If you’re thinking to free the human female, remember you benefit from ensuring your companion is well fed.”

  Atop the hillock, Shayala paused and stared for some time at the sun. None of her kind had ever experienced its deadly resplendence as she did now. Despite its mortality to all ruža vlajna—whether strigoi, nosferatu, or moroi—she could not deny its beauty and grandeur, its raw, unrestrained power. Looking at the roiling orange disk, it was easy to believe it was insurmountable, unconquerable, its dominion absolute. But she had defeated the sun—it could not harm her—and this knowledge left her with the certainty she would triumph over her enemies, would vanquish any who stood opposed to her. She felt a surge of power, such absolute knowledge as she had never before experienced. She would be as the sun to her kind, burning away her adversaries. She would be a goddess.

  Gazing back into the forest, she spotted columns of smoke to the southwest, toward which she ventured forth immediately. As she drew close upon the encampment, twilight prefaced the night. Shayala reasoned the humans would be put most at ease if she approached during the day, and she thought it prudent to observe the humans before initiating contact.

  Her vivisense warned her of well-hidden sentries in the trees. She avoided these, rather selecting a large, tall oak beyond the eastern edge of the encampment, and ascended to its higher boughs, where she settled into the crook at the base of three ramified branches. From this roost, unseen herself, she could observe the happenings within the camp.

  Day 12: Night

  The moonlit encampment of the Moroi Hunters sat upon a great plain, where the scrubby grass had long ago been trampled by thousands of feet and hooves and paws, leaving only loose, muddy soil. It had no rampart or defensive wall, though sentries stood about the border, and pickets patrolled the perimeter with brands and argent swords. Hundreds of tents of sundry designs were raised, though a pavilion, at the northern end of the camp, was distinctive for its greater size. Many of the tents, including the pavilion, flew pennants depicting a fanged humanoid skull with a dagger protruding from one orbit and an arrow from the other.

  The camp contained many times the number of humans as the one Shayala had destroyed. Groups sat around fires, eating and drinking, conversing and dicing. The boisterous sounds of drunken revelers easily reached her ears, and the revolting smell of cooked meat assailed her nostrils. The males of the camp wore tunics, trousers, mantles, and either sandals or boots. The females wore similar garments, though, in some instances, with leggings and tunic dresses rather than trousers; the colors were primarily muted greens and browns. Both sexes wore colorful jewelry, primarily of bone or wood, though some sported pieces of precious metals. A number of horses remained secured to wooden posts; packs of canines roamed the camp or sprawled out near supping humans and, with hungry impatience, awaited discarded scraps. Folds of cossets, flocks of fowls, and droves of swine were corralled in scattered pens.

  Shayala heard the rider, upon his lathered horse, long before he came into view, passing from the forest line onto the plain. Once the shaken rider entered the camp, he raised the alarm, rousing many of the residents, who scurried in the firelight. Even the sentries, on foot and among the trees, quit their watch to hear his pronouncement. A burly, barrel-chested man arrived from the pavilion to speak with the rider. The man had bold, defined features, though his brown eyes suggested analysis and reflection, belying his fierce aspect. His scalp was shorn, and his voluminous black beard fell to his chest in two thick braids, capped by bone rings. Unlike other males, he wore an open vest displaying his hairy chest.

  The tribe was in an uproar. The rider relayed a message to the bearded, hirsute male, whose bellowing, commanding voice then called for quiet. Shayala could discern enough to learn the destruction of the other camp had been discovered, both by the human scout and by a murder of nosferatu, which, even now, came toward the camp. The burly human immediately began issuing commands. With practiced order, the very young and the very old moved to the center of the encampment, and a custodian of arms distributed weapons of silver among the combatants. Shayala could smell the copious amount of the metal. Individuals began setting fire to a circumference of tinder around the camp, and sentinels assumed positions at the single breach within the blaze.

  Shayala would not involve herself in the coming battle. As she was nearly whole, she did not wish to take any action to prolong her convalescence, and the capability of these humans to destroy the nosferatu would serve as evidence of their suitability for her purpose.

  The murder came.

  Shayala noted most of these nosferatu wore clothing that was not appreciably deteriorated, indicating many were likely wounded survivors of her massacre who had fallen victim to other nosferatu. Although she had destroyed most of the bodies, enough carnage must have escaped the conflagration to attract these mindless ruža vlajna. This conclusion was further supported as the massacre occu
rred a day-and-a-half prior, and such a period would account for their current state if they had not fed since their transformation.

  The humans met their attackers with all the courage and proficiency that could be expected from such primitive creatures. The loping forerunners of the murder made for the breach in the flame wall. That passage became clogged by stalwart defenders and thoughtless attackers. The encircling fire proved to be no hindrance to the trailing nosferatu, who charged through the low line of flame without hesitation.

  Once the attackers breached the fiery barrier, the humans attempted to form some semblance of an organized defense. Fearful screams, angry cries, and commanding shouts emanated from the camp. The defenders at the breach fell under the press of invaders. Nearby, a lone nosferatu, engulfed in flame and bellowing in pain, fell upon a human and began feeding as they both burned. Neither stood again.

  Within the first several minutes of the battle, seven nosferatu were destroyed, though twice that many remained. No less than ten humans had fallen, though their losses would have been significantly greater had the nosferatu exhibited any intelligence. The feral ruža vlajna were heedless of their own safety and, once begun to feed, ignored all other activity. The defenders could attack a feeding nosferatu unimpeded.

  Shayala’s attention was captured by the burly male, whom she presumed to be the leader. He wore bladed battle gloves—cestuses—and fought with two sickle-like swords called khopeshes. His strength and confidence attracted other fighters to his side as surely as blood attracts nosferatu. As she watched, he viciously decapitated an enemy before directing the others around him to reinforce the defenders engaged in other clashes. Soon, as the number of attackers dwindled, the pace of the battle waned.