The Moroi Hunters Read online

  The leader felled another nosferatu, before a tawny warrioress destroyed the last attacker as it fed upon a screaming human. The tribe unsure if the battle was indeed over and the danger past, a nervous quiet, broken by the moans of humans and the cries of terrified livestock, fell over the camp. The ground around the eastern edge of the camp was muddied by blood and innards and spotted with bodies, whole and dismembered. Younger humans gagged and retched at the gore, and some adults crinkled their noses at the permeating smell of iron-scented blood blended with bodily waste and cloying musk. Spontaneous, jubilant cheers erupted throughout the encampment; some thrust fists into the air while unleashing shouts of victory.

  Despite the humans’ victory, a mere handful of my personal guard could exterminate the camp in a matter of minutes, Shayala mused. Still, their defeat of over twenty nosferatu without significant loss is praiseworthy.

  She recalled the concern, raised at the Noble Conclave, of the increased nosferatu activity in the western Court—an increase due to the growing frequency of her secretly ordered raids, with the intention of disposing the humans to her arrangement.

  Under the direction of the tawny warrioress, the humans began to assess their casualties: fifteen lost and five grievously wounded against twenty-two nosferatu. The deceased, human and nosferatu, were piled separately and set ablaze. Of the five wounded humans, two seemed to be beyond recovery. The leader stood over these and offered words of appreciation and remembrance for their sacrifice. With a single blow to each, he ended their suffering, and their remains were thrown upon the pyre.

  To the other three, a choice was offered: banishment or a swift death. Two chose death. The condemned knelt with heads bowed. The leader offered a eulogy, extolling their bravery while defending the tribe, even in their acceptance of death. As he spoke, a tribesman approached and handed the leader a ceremonial dagger. Upon concluding, he offered the condemned the opportunity to speak their final words. The first, struggling to steel himself to meet a dignified death, refused to speak. The second raised his head and, with a choking but defiant voice, said, “If my death means the tribe survives, then it is a worthy sacrifice.”

  Without further circumstance, the leader plunged the dagger into the base of one’s skull, then the other’s. Both died instantly. Their bodies were added to the pyre before they could rise as monsters.

  The last casualty, who had chosen banishment, spoke quiet parting words to several others before accepting a silver-bladed dagger and a bladder of water—the only items she was permitted to take. Many cast a hard, disapproving stare upon her, for she would likely soon perish, only to return to threaten the tribe as a monster. Sobbing, she took her stumbling leave of the camp, passing beneath the tree upon which Shayala perched.

  The burly human assigned sentries to posts around the camp and dispatched pickets to forward positions along the forest line. Most of the humans returned to their tents and the comfort provided by the nearness of close relations. Alone at the eastern fringe of the encampment, the leader sat and held vigil of the pyre until the first rays marked the coming light.

  Day 12: Light

  Under the brightening sky and a chorus of birdcalls, Shayala watched the leader rise and walk toward his pavilion, losing sight of him among the tents. The sentries had not returned to their arboreal perches. Sensing that the exiled human had not strayed far, Shayala determined she would make a final use of her. She dropped from her perch and followed the exile.

  The human leaned against a tree not one hundred feet away. With melancholy and longing mixed with anger and resentment in her expression, she stared back toward the camp, though the heavy woods blocked her view. Shayala approached the woman from behind and was nearly upon her before the latter was even aware. At the intentional crinkling as Shayala pushed aside a low branch, the human, with pained effort, turned. Shayala raised her arms disarmingly.

  The woman, leaning heavily against the bole, brandished her dagger in a shaky hand. A vicious, clawed wound lay open down her inner right thigh. Her left shoulder was shredded and likely broken. The left side of her neck was so coated in blood that the wound was not even visible. Innumerable scratches crossed her face, torso, and arms.

  Shayala was nigh impressed the woman yet lived, let alone stood. Although the human’s fear and blood smelled ambrosial to the strigoi, Shayala had fed recently enough that her discipline was not taxed by postponing the draining of this human’s life.

  The woman coughed blood. “Who…who…are…you?” She lowered the dagger, for she no longer had strength to even keep the blade upraised.

  “I am no enemy,” Shayala replied, lowering her arms as well, though the human appeared dubious. “You were banished after the nosferatu attack.”

  The human gave her a confused look, underlain with pain. With a flash of insight, the importance of choosing her words carefully among these feral humans impressed upon Shayala. She was not accustomed to giving chattel any consideration when she spoke, yet a careless word could result in undue suspicion. Shayala rephrased, “After the attack by the feral creatures.”

  With heavy breaths and a pain-contorted expression, the human only nodded.

  “How many are in the camp?” Shayala asked.

  “Please-please help me,” begged the woman, coughing up more blood.

  “I will see your pain ended,” Shayala promised. “But first, tell me the number.”

  The woman’s pain-addled mind could not recognize the implicit threat, nor did she understand the relevance of the question. “Near two thousand. Please help…help me.” Her back slid down the trunk, and she slumped to her haunches.

  “All will be well,” Shayala assured her. “How many warriors? Who is the leader?”

  The woman summoned the remnants of her strength and shouted in a coarse, weak voice, “What does it matter? Help me!” She grimaced as spasms wracked her body. She hacked and spewed blood freely.

  Recognizing she would obtain no more information, Shayala sprang and drained the last of her life.

  Using the woman’s water-skin, Shayala washed away the blood from her chin and lips before casually discarding the container. She did not bother to separate the corpse’s head to prevent its return in true life, as the woman’s transformation into nosferatu would appear as the normal course of her wounds, and would thus not arouse suspicions. As confidently as if she walked the halls of her castle, Shayala strode toward the camp.

  Just beyond the pale of the camp, a guard intercepted her. “Who’re you, and what’s yer business?” He ran dark eyes over her, appraising her suspiciously but lecherously. His stringy, greasy black hair fell in strands over his forehead and ears, and his mouth seemed to curl into a perpetual sneer. He wielded a heavy, broad shortsword, known as a seax, and wore a gorget and a surcoat, both of leather and studded with short argent spikes.

  Shayala noticed a crinkling of the guard’s nose. He must smell the musk from my feeding. I shall have to be more careful with the timing of my meals. The guard appeared as if he would comment, though apparently decided against it.

  Shayala quickly considered her response. Although she doubted her name had reached these feral humans, she saw no reason to take the chance. And she was not about to explain herself to this miserable creature. “I’m Shenla, and my business is with your chief.”

  Although the guard’s expression reflected some incredulity, he smiled lewdly. “You mus’ be searched.”

  Before she could halt her impulsive response, Shayala said in a cold, ominous tone, “You will not touch me.”

  “You canno’ enter th’ camp ’til yer searched fer the mark o’ th’ monsters.”

  Although she needed no weapon to end this vile human, her hand went instinctively to the sword at her waist. The guard’s eyes followed and widened in surprise before he raised his seax.

  “If you like it rough, I can oblige you.” His voice was filled with hopefulness of cruelty to come.

  Shayala did not deign to glance a
t his sword, though its silver blade would pierce her skin. She took a moment to calm herself and to consider the notability of this day: she could recall no other time when a human had ever spoken to her in such a manner. She vowed, inwardly, she would feed upon this human’s lifeblood before destroying him. There will be time enough for that later. For now, I must gain the cooperation of these humans.

  “Very well.” She removed her cloak, unfastened her belt, and unlaced her tunic dress, pulling it over her head and keeping it in hand.

  With relish, the guard regarded her body. He put a hand on her shoulder to turn her around. Shayala’s arm shot upward, knocking his touch away. He chuckled. Her nakedness did not trouble her, though allowing a human to put his hand on her was intolerable.

  Upon scrutinizing her back, the guard took a step backward. “How ’bout we head among the trees fer a more thorou’ search, huh?”

  Shayala made no response, re-donning her tunic dress and refastening her belt. As she relaced the garment, the guard grabbed her wrist and began to speak. However, before he could utter more than a single syllable, her hand shot out, knocking his head to the side and dropping him to the ground.

  Shayala continued to relace her tunic without another glance at the fallen human.

  The guard lay with the left side of his face throbbing, blood flowing from his nose and lip. His sword had fallen from his grasp.

  Shayala began walking toward the camp proper. The guard retrieved his seax and scrambled to his feet, moving to bar her passage, his sword leveled at her neck. “You’ll regret that.” He spat blood upon the dirt.

  In that moment, Shayala wanted nothing more than to pulverize his skull, to grind his face underfoot until nothing remained. Against her every inclination, she answered in words rather than with violence. “Be thankful you yet live. Move aside.”

  “You have amends to make,” the guard said in embarrassed anger. “And you’ll no’ pass withou’ my leave.”

  Shayala laughed inwardly. This endeavor may die in its infancy. How could I have formed my plans around these feral humans? She clenched her fist, preparing to strike. This male seems intent upon ending his life.

  “Dorn, who is this?” asked a second guard, who had taken notice of the interaction and approached the pair. His sandy brown hair was balding, and he had a round, jolly face, upon which the seriousness of his expression seemed out of place. He similarly bore a seax and wore a studded leather gorget and studded armor, the latter tight around his ample midriff.

  Annoyed at the interruption, Dorn looked from his counterpart to Shayala and back to other guard. “She attacked me and mus’ answer fer it.”

  The guard laughed at Dorn’s blustering frustration, obviously intent on congratulating this beautifully sculpted, fierce woman. “She has been checked for a mark?”

  Shayala answered before Dorn could reply. “I have. I’m here to speak to your chieftain.”

  Dorn spat again; this time his saliva was only slightly pinkish. “Don’ think we won’ finish this.”

  The second guard said, “I’m Ronth. You are?”

  “Shenla.”

  “What is your business with Sar-Kyul?” Ronth asked.

  Although this human was slightly less objectionable, Shayala still would not deign to explain herself. “It is a matter of some importance.”

  “Of course,” Ronth responded. He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, then beckoned Shayala to follow.

  As she passed, Dorn cast her a malicious glare, though the strigoi paid him no more heed than she did the forested backdrop.

  With a glance at the smoldering remains of the pyre, Ronth spoke, his emotion evident. “You arrive at a bittersweet moment. We were attacked in the night by a large group of the monsters. Though they were destroyed, our losses were significant.” The air about the pyre still possessed a smoky tinge.

  When Shayala said nothing, Ronth continued, “As is our custom, Sar-Kyul sat vigil as the dead burned upon the pyre, so he may not yet be available.”

  Still Shayala said nothing.

  The camp was closer in size to a village, though without permanent structures. It had the feel of a hastily erected bivouac, its arrangement without plan or forethought. The path, widening or narrowing purposelessly, meandered between arbitrarily placed tents. Shayala observed humans engaged in numerous mundane tasks—cooking, pottery, sewing, woodworking—as well as sparring and training. The panorama of activity, with its accompanying sights, scents, and sounds, recalled to Shayala a time from another life, a time of fear and weakness.

  To the strigoi, the fetor of so many humans was an olfactory assault, a physical wall constructed of myriad odors—sweat and other excretions, prepared meat, baking bread. Fortunately for Shayala, she could not experience nausea. No other creatures created such a variety of emanations. Enduring another attack by an ursine moroi would be preferable to this stench.

  “I’d watch out for Dorn,” Ronth warned, drawing Shayala from her thoughts. “He won’t forget that slight.”

  To this, Shayala did respond with a single, derisive chortle.

  As the two traversed the camp, all eyes turned to Shayala. Not only were the denizens familiar with their tribemates, at least by sight, but her darker complexion was conspicuous even among the sun-darkened humans, and her bearing and presence would prove prominent among any crowd.

  “They seem to have taken notice of you,” Ronth said, observing the unabashed ogling. “Where are you from?”

  As her silence did not seem to prevent this human from continuing to speak, Shayala hoped a short answer would prove more effective. “The east.”

  As he prepared to launch into a multitude of additional questions, Ronth’s expression resembled that of an excited child offered a bag of candy. However, at a glance at Shayala’s sullen look, he recognized her reticence and remained silent, albeit somewhat dejectedly.

  They arrived at a common outside the entrance to the pavilion. Ronth said, “Please wait here while I inform Sar-Kyul. As I said, he may yet be recovering from the events of last night.”

  Shayala offered no reply as Ronth continued toward the pavilion. Several children played in the common. No sooner had Shayala paused than she was approached by a child, who stared wordlessly at the newcomer. Shayala glared back, concentrating upon his unusual scent.

  Some passersby paused along the edge of the common to gawk. A blond woman, who appeared to be the chaperon of the children, came to stand behind the boy. “Welcome, I’m Hyular.”

  Shayala held no interest in conversation and ignored the woman, who was not to be deterred, for she asked in quick succession, “What are you called?” “Where are you from?” “Have you any news?”

  Shayala thought, I escape one gossip only to be harassed by another.

  At that moment, Ronth returned. “Sar-Kyul will see you.”

  Still silent, Shayala passed beyond the pavilion’s flap, held open by the guard. He gave a respectful nod to both occupants before withdrawing.

  Shayala allowed her gaze to roam the interior of the pavilion. A human male stood in one corner before a pallet of furs and a nightstand. The ground was covered with coarse rugs. A vellum map of the vicinity hung upon one wall. A wooden table, layered with various documents of parchment and vellum, filled the center of the room. A number of stools were scattered throughout.

  However, most egregious were the dozen or so heads of ruža vlajna—likely all nosferatu—hanging as trophies from the conical ceiling. Of some heads, only the skull remained, while others still retained various amounts of flesh. Three heads that rested upon the floor appeared and smelled to be fresh, from the battle yestereve. The eyeteeth of the suspended heads had been removed and adorned a necklace worn by the burly leader.

  Shayala seethed at such treatment of ruža vlajna, be they strigoi or nosferatu, at the hands of a human. It violated every tenet of natural law. Still, she respected power, and this was an effective show of strength. He will answer for this tr
ansgression in due time.

  “Greetings, Shenla. I am Sar-Kyul.” His voice was baritone. Despite his size and appearance, his tone conveyed a hearty nature.

  Shayala realized that, while she appraised the room, he had appraised her. She was suddenly aware of the same scent from him as from the boy who spoke to her, though it was marginally more pungent from the man. Shayala replied, “Greetings, Sar-Kyul.”

  Sar-Kyul motioned to his cephalic trophies. “Impressive, are they not? It’s not for nothing that we survive and thrive.”

  Shayala set her jaw; sometimes it did seem an impediment that she could not inhale a calming breath. She did not trust herself to respond and, so, remained silent.

  Sar-Kyul shrugged. “Ronth did not go into detail, but I hear you’ve already made an impression.”

  Still simmering, Shayala managed to say in a tight voice, “That fool of a guard was fortunate.”

  “Ah, yes, a most regrettable occurrence. But I—”

  Weary of the idle chatter, Shayala interrupted, “Chief Sar-Kyul—”

  Cutting her off in turn, Sar-Kyul said, “We don’t stand on such titles here. I do not so much rule as guide the tribe at their sufferance. They follow my guidance because of my demonstration of strength and judgment.”

  Although annoyed at the interruption, Shayala mentally acknowledged that his clarification could prove useful and remarked it for later consideration. She nodded. “I bring a proposition.”

  “I would hear of you first.”

  “That can wait,” Shayala said in the curt manner a noble would speak to a servant. “What I propose will prove beneficial to not only you but to all of the fe—to all the tribes.”

  “How can I judge your proposal if I know nothing of you?”

  Shayala considered for a several moments. Perhaps it will be easier to persuade him if I weave the proper tale. “Very well.”