The Moroi Hunters Page 18

  As soon as Shayala crossed the forest line, she became aware of six pairs of clomping hooves and the accompanying dank equine smell approaching from behind.

  “You cannot so easily escape,” Ryz’k called.

  As inclined as Shayala was to put her pursuers down, she was not so far lost in hunger that she failed to realize that disappearances, especially of one who so vocally opposed her, would draw far too much suspicion and eliminate any of her remaining credibility. I am now too invested to shift my course. Yet she would have to evade them before reaching the moroi’s lair.

  Shayala increased her speed to outpace them in the serried trees. Some distance from the camp, the forest became less dense and the undergrowth less thick for a space. A twang and a low whistling alerted Shayala to the oncoming quarrel. She threw herself to the left, falling hard atop a protruding root, though she felt no pain and had no breath to lose. With a crack, the bolt embedded in a trunk just beyond her position a moment before. It was a steel barb. Three pursuers reined their steeds and dismounted, weapons already in hand.

  The woman whom they knew as Shenla rose, swords in hand, and stood calmly before an ancient oak. Regardless the necessity of the human tribes, refusing to answer such an attack by a feral human went far beyond all bounds of acceptability.

  Without prologue, Ryz’k gestured for his companions to attack. One placed a foot into the stirrup of his arbalest and began cocking the heavy crossbow; the other drew a greatsword from his waist scabbard. The latter advanced, wearing an overconfident smirk.

  “This lil’ lass be hardly worth the trouble,” said the greatsword-wielding man, whose strapping size was well-suited to his heavy two-handed weapon. “Ryz’k, what you say to us havin’ sum fun wit’ her ’for we kills her?”

  Shayala recognized his voice as belonging to one of the loudest protesters during Sar-Kyul’s speech.

  “Just kill the bitch, Hurin,” Ryz’k said, sounding almost bored.

  The warrior shrugged and continued to advance. Shayala fought to control the hunger and rage within her; the urge to kill and feed was becoming undeniable. The scent of the humans’ blood threatened to overwhelm all other sensations. With effort, she refocused upon her ultimate goal; these humans were irrelevant in comparison. To allow them to prevent me from regaining my throne would be the ultimate defeat.

  Shayala’s mind snapped back to attention as Hurin came into striking range. Considering his opponent all but defenseless, he wielded his sword, despite its heft, in the easy though inelegant style of a ruffian. He brought the blade in a downward, diagonal slash toward Shayala’s right flank. She parried the strike with her nearer longsword. Flakes from her shoddily silver-gilded blade flecked off and stuck harmlessly to her tunic. She leapt forward to drive the pommel of her other sword into his jaw. Already unconscious, he fell backward to the leafy carpet. Another snapping twang sounded, and a steel bolt struck Shayala in her left shoulder, though it bounced harmlessly from her body.

  “Vorn, shoot her!” Shayala heard Ryz’k shout.

  Without hesitating, Shayala charged. The three horses bolted. In frightened surprise, the crossbowman dropped his weapon and fumbled for the sword at his waist. He had time only to cry out and raise his arms in a futile defense before a punch to his temple sent him to the ground, senseless. A flash of recognition in Shayala’s blood-starved consciousness told her this human was also an outspoken voice against her proposal.

  Shayala turned her attention to Ryz’k. Gone from his face was the smug expression, replaced with uncertainty and fear. He held a silver vial in one trembling hand, his scimitar in the other. She could have rushed in and put him down quickly, but Shayala wanted him to try the blood. Were he to understand its power, it would quiet his objections. His expression hardened and he downed the liquid. He hunched over, gagging, perhaps as much from the taste as from the knowledge of the source of the blood. Still she waited, despite her relentless hunger, until he recovered enough to fight under the blood’s influence.

  Shayala attacked with a low, throaty growl. Her initial strike was thwarted by Ryz’k’s buckler, raised more by instinct than in a conscious effort. Her next attacks came in a flurry. Although Ryz’k managed to parry or deflect each, Shayala knew it would not be long before she penetrated his defenses. He did not have Sar-Kyul’s skill or discipline to overcome the unexpected distraction of his own eyes, ears, and nose due to the blood.

  To Ryz’k’s obvious surprise, Shayala broke off the attack and stepped back, standing with blades raised. Ryz’k seemed too preoccupied with settling his overloaded senses to attack.

  In her hazed state, Shayala could not continue the fight while considering the possible paths and potential outcomes of each. Killing Ryz’k would not be the prudent course. Yet if she defeated him too quickly, he may conclude the blood was of limited utility. Still, if—

  Shayala’s internal discourse was interrupted by a suddenly sobered Ryz’k, hoping to find her unprepared. Yet even in her diminished state, she was far too experienced to be taken by such a tactic. She parried his thrust and returned with her other blade, which deflected from his buckler. And so it continued; the longer they sparred, the more capable Ryz’k became in mastering the new sensations.

  Shayala needed to end the contest. Eschewing all finesse, she charged to fight in close; with a head-butt to the bridge of his nose, she unleashed a spray of blood and stunned Ryz’k. The smell of the splattering blood nearly drove the last of reason from her. She had to escape quickly. With an elbow to his cheek and a kick to his groin, Ryz’k went down and Shayala broke away, heading northeastward.

  She sprinted toward the grotto, licking what blood she could from her hands. She detected no sign that Ryz’k gave chase. As she approached the lair, her mind barely registered smoke rising from a fire atop the outcropping of rock. Shayala rushed into the grotto, through the tunnel, and into the larger cavern. Oblivious to all else, she fed upon the human female, who was already near death.

  Once satiated and her mind again lucid, Shayala tore the head from the woman’s body to prevent her from returning in true life. The corpse clattered atop the bones of the cavern. She had not succumbed to such hunger in a long while; yet now, within mere days, she had twice faced its effects.

  Both Ronla and Azark stared agape at the whilom queen, saying nothing.

  Shayala recalled the smoke atop the tor and noted Ronla’s presence. Without an explanation regarding her hectic arrival, Shayala asked, “What is the message?”

  “She said to tell you, ‘It will be done.’ They only await your signal to strike,” Ronla replied. “And she said ‘the enthronement will occur on the next full moon.’”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No, but she did say to give you this.” Ronla retrieved the sack that Lyan had given her and set it before Shayala.

  Within, Shayala found a supply of silver vials and argent weapons. Her spy marshal was efficient. She removed her scabbarded blades and exchanged them with two longswords from the bag. Although the humans’ blades were adequate, they were of inferior quality to those forged by the strigoi of the Court.

  With just short of a month for all to reach fruition, I must speak to Lyan directly. Shayala turned her attention to the male. She scrutinized every scar, bump, and blemish upon his face, every line and wrinkle and angle. Is he sufficiently cowed to be sent alone upon a task?

  Azark withered under her gaze and touched a hand to his heart as if she had indeed pierced his chest. He clenched his eyes and bowed his head.

  Shayala spoke. “I have a task for you. You will deliver this bag to the camp of the Moroi Hunters.”

  Azark looked up, his hopeful expression easily read by Shayala.

  “Dagger,” Shayala said to Ronla, who provided the blade.

  Shayala lit a candle and put the tip of the blade over its flame. The small fire would not sufficiently heat the blade for a proper brand, but the mark would serve its purpose. The smell of heating metal slowly
diffused within the cavern.

  Azark’s eyes went wide and his breathing intensified.

  “Hold him, and pull up his tunic to expose his back,” Shayala instructed Ronla, who moved to obey without any conscious effort.

  Azark whimpered, but his struggles were fruitless against the strength of the strigoi. Shayala crouched above him and, with the heated tip of the dagger, branded a rune upon his left shoulder; the sizzle and greasy smell of burnt flesh was immediate. Azark screamed and his body shook violently, though he was helpless in Ronla’s grasp.

  Shayala glanced at Ronla’s impassive face and thought, Perhaps she is learning to be strigoi.

  The rune inscribed was gibberish; she did not possess the ability to form a true rune that would allow the human to be tracked. She pulled Azark upward and met his eyes. “You are now branded. Wherever you go, I will find you. And if you think to betray me to the tribe, you know very well what they do to those who bring such a brand to the camp.”

  Azark nodded, tears running down his cheeks. He bowed his head, sobbing, defeated.

  Shayala retrieved a charcoal stick and scribbled a rough sketch of the route to the Moroi Hunters on a sheet of vellum. She dropped the sheet by the still-sobbing human. “You will leave at dawn. Tell them these are from Shenla. Say it.”

  Azark looked up slowly, chest heaving and tear streaks upon his dirt-smeared face. “They’re…they’re from Shen-Shenla.”

  Shayala’s restraint in inflicting violence upon him was the only indication his response did not displease her. To Ronla, she advised, “You will need to find more nourishment.”

  Without further delay, Shayala departed the grotto.

  Day 16: Night

  Shayala ran with the supreme confidence of one who was keenly aware of her primacy, arriving at the dracosphinx-adorned bridge without incident, well before daybreak. Crossing the bridge, she absconded from the road and moved through the bordering woods, alert for others in the vicinity.

  She experienced confused emotions at her return to the—to her—Court. She was home. However, the sense of homecoming was tarnished and tempered by the knowledge she no longer ruled. Even once she regained her throne, the governance of Duke Munar would, for some time, leave a taint—an inarticulable but perceptible sense of disquiet—throughout the Court.

  These melancholic thoughts passed quickly as she approached the waystation and focused on present concerns. Concentrating upon the impressions of her senses, she detected, through vivisense, the presence of two humans in the structure. The fact they had not yet died of thirst indicated that strigoi were likely present as well, though she could hear no sign of them within. Likely, they roamed about. She moved deeper into the woods to await the day, when she could be sure any strigoi would be sheltered within the waystation.

  *****

  Duke Munar paced within his study. He had crucial responsibilities and loathed to be kept waiting. Three walls of the study were replete with rosewood bookshelves housing sundry hide-bound tomes. The leathery smell of the books permeated the room. The fourth wall, facing the door, held a tapestry depicting a map of the North from the Western Ocean to the Eastern, and from the Northern Inland Mountains to the Southern. In front of the map sat a high-backed chair and a bare-topped writing table. A branched chandelier of whitewashed bones shone from the center of the study. The overall impression of the room was one of extravagant disuse.

  As Munar contemplated abandoning the appointed meet, the crystal sphere in his hand began to glow with a soft, internal light. He moved to a bookshelf and slid a book slowly from its place until hearing a click. He did the same with two other books; after the third click, a bookshelf adjoining the tapestried wall swung outward, revealing the waiting figure of Spy Marshal Yah’l.

  Munar glared as Yah’l stepped into the duke’s study. “Forgive the delay, Your Grace. There are certain matters upon which I must stay apprised and could not disengage sooner.” Despite the conciliatory words, Yah’l’s tone did not reflect the sentiment.

  Already put out by the delay, Munar asked, “Our prisoner?”

  “She progresses nicely. We will reengage her in twelve hours and reassess her susceptibility.”

  “Very good. I will certainly wish to witness her divulgence.”

  Yah’l gave an assenting nod.

  “Now, what of King H’shu?” Munar asked.

  “Regrettably, I have been unable to place any spies within his immediate circle of attendants.” Munar glowered in response. Yah’l continued, “He allows within his retinue only those whom he himself has given true life. Even during his audiences, he is separated from the petitioners.”

  “Are you saying you cannot complete the task?” Munar asked with a threatening undertone.

  “As long as the king remains within Castle H’shu, he is unassailable.”

  Munar took no effort to hide his displeasure. Still, he knew few would have spoken so truthfully to him, rather stammering out weak excuses and assurances; Yah’l would not admit failure, unless he had exhausted all possibilities. “Very well,” Munar said, “make the arrangements for the attack to occur during his journey to my enthronement.”

  “The contingency is already in place. I need only give the order to my embedded agent.”

  “Employ the same means which proved so effective against King Thyse,” Munar instructed.

  “It will be done, Your Grace.”

  “Now go.”

  Yah’l gave a slight bow and withdrew down the passage. Munar replaced each of the dislodged books in reverse order and the bookshelf swung closed.

  Day 16: Light

  Azark neared the encampment of the Moroi Hunters at midday. He rode a nag that he and Ronla had filched from a patrol of the Silver Arrows tribe during the night. The patrol had fled and left their companion, who did not survive Ronla’s feeding. The clinking from the bag slung over the saddle caused him to shake his head and wonder how his life had come to this: siding with a monster, once herself someone he knew, against humans. And now, he was himself set upon a task given to him by another monster.

  His self-pity was interrupted by the stinging brand on his shoulder. The pain was a constant flow down his arm; every time his tunic brushed against the inflamed skin, the left side of his body felt as if it had caught fire. Not for the first time, he considered whether a quick death would be preferable.

  However, in his rare moments of comfort—or, at least, minimal pain—the thought most prevalent in his mind was whether he should risk flight. He discounted begging the help of the Moroi Hunters, for he knew the punishment for carrying the mark into the camp. I will find no mercy there. His own tribe would have done the same to him.

  Could he just flee into the wilderness? I could likely survive, unless I encountered any of the wondering monsters. But even so, could I remain alone for the remainder of my days, never to return among the free tribes? And he did not doubt for a breath that the beast of a woman, who had exterminated his whole tribe like so much vermin, would hunt him to the edge of the world and beyond.

  A high-pitched warbling, similar to a birdcall, seemed to precede his passing. As Azark entered the vast clearing of the camp, he found waiting for him a trio of guards, all armed with simple swords and armored in leather cuirasses. Two arboreal sentries trained their arrows upon him.

  “Your name and your business,” barked a guard, his hand upon the pommel of his sword as he approached Azark.

  As he surveyed the guards, Azark considered, one last time, his predicament, though no new alternative came to mind. Inhaling against the pain in his shoulder and injecting as much confidence as he could into his voice, he said, “My name doesn’t matter. My business is this.” He pulled at the knot holding the sack, and it dropped upon the ground with a clatter. “These are compliments of Shenla.” Wishing to be away before they thought to search him, Azark wheeled the horse around and retreated into the forest.

  *****

  With the first light of dawn,
Shayala set about gathering branches of softwood, which would burn with an abundance of smoke. She placed the tinder upon the remains of a previous signal fire behind the waystation. From beneath the roots of a gnarled willow, she retrieved a dirt-encrusted canvas bag, containing a block of flint and a fragment of steel with which to set the tinder alight. Once the fire blazed, she withdrew from the sack a container of pitch, a packet of sulfur, and several chunks of coal. She added these to the fire, turning the smoke black, indicating she wished to speak directly to Lyan. A scout, positioned at some distant, concealed location where she could observe the smoke—beyond the range of the crystal summoning spheres—would relay the message to the spy marshal.

  Shayala drew her swords and entered the structure. The three male strigoi within, one feeding upon a human female, leapt in startled fear to avoid the deadly sunlight. Two female strigoi, fettered to the back wall, pressed themselves against the stone. The lone human captive, a different one than present during Ronla’s visit two days earlier, started in surprise at the male strigoi’s abrupt leap away.

  Shayala stood in the open doorway, taking stock of the scene. Two strigoi huddled in the corner to her left, and one stood at the right. The females were bound by argent shackles and showed obvious signs of recent torture: severed digits, mutilated breasts; the fangs were removed from one, an eye from the other. The trembling human female was also chained to the wall, near the captive strigoi. At the center of the room was a plain wooden table, and a bowl-shaped oil lamp hung from a hook on the wall. As with most safe houses, this one smelled of dank stone and musk and soiled human.

  To those within, Shayala appeared as a silhouette against the light. Whereas the strigoiic prisoners focused on Shayala, the human cast anxious glances among all of them.