The Moroi Hunters Read online

  Among the cries of the wounded and the somber conversation of the unscathed, Shayala heard the voice of Sar-Kyul and moved toward the tent from which it came. She found him speaking to Ryz’k, who lay upon a cot, cloth and bandages covering his right eye.

  “Ryz’k, I tell you—” Sar-Kyul began.

  He was interrupted by Ryz’k, who growled through his pain, “What’s she doing here?”

  Sar-Kyul turned. His expression was a roiling blend of emotion—surprise, grief, rage—at the most recent attack and loss of life. Ryz’k looked no more hostile than usual.

  Pushing himself upright, Ryz’k said with all the spite he could summon, “How convenient you again arrive after the battle.” Although his anger was far from spent, Ryz’k cast Shayala a hateful glare and lay back, unable to muster the strength to continue.

  Despite Ryz’k’s persistent hatred of her, Shayala was relieved that the missing human, it seemed, had not betrayed her. She addressed her response to Sar-Kyul. “You still believe me in league with the creatures when I have given you means to defeat them?”

  Sar-Kyul did not miss the challenging undertone of her words. He shook his head. “I never did. We are fortunate your deliveries of weapons and blood have started to reach us.” In a voice of both determination and regret, he added, “I fear you will get your war.”

  “You will address the tribe again?” Shayala asked.

  Sar-Kyul nodded. “Yes, and I have no doubt they will endorse the campaign. But today, we still have much to do. I will hold a gathering this night.”

  Looking to Sar-Kyul, Ryz’k said, “I cannot rest while she is present. I would have her leave.”

  Sar-Kyul nodded his concurrence to Shayala, who withdrew with a profound sense of reprieve. One obstacle was nearly overcome, for she too believed the tribe’s desire for vengeance would fuel the war. And with the support of the Moroi Hunters, she was certain the other tribes would soon join her cause.

  Day 22: Night

  With the setting sun low and the dead set atop a pyre, a crowd gathered to hear the words of Sar-Kyul. The human leader set a brand to the heap of wood before turning to face the crowd. After a night of fighting, followed by a day of overseeing the restoration of the camp, Sar-Kyul’s eyes were red, puffy, and haloed in dark circles. Yet he stood erect and wore an expression of hard determination, fed by simmering rage. To complete the image of a weary but battle-ready warrior, he still wore his bloodied trousers and vest and was armed with his bladed cestuses and scabbarded swords.

  Shayala stood at Sar-Kyul’s left, and Aya to his right; Ryz’k remained bedridden. Sar-Kyul stood patiently as both the fire and the crowd grew. Although the gathering was not silent, conversations drifted in somber whispers. After allowing his silence to build the gravity of the situation, Sar-Kyul raised his hands for quiet, and the voices faded. With the flaring balefire and the press of bodies within the common, the already tepid evening grew warm.

  Sar-Kyul believed an offensive against the monsters was the best course, and never did they have a better hope of victory than under the advantage of the blood. Yet he lamented the inevitable loss of life that would result even in victory; in defeat, he dreaded the monsters’ reprisal.

  “Again we have been tested, and again we have prevailed.” The crowd cheered, though Sar-Kyul continued before the noise fully subsided. “However, we did not emerge unscathed. We lost twenty-seven of our sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers. Our children, our futures. And no less a number were wounded.”

  Angry murmurs spread throughout the crowd.

  “It seems far too often that we stand here.” Sar-Kyul’s voice boomed. “The feral monsters have become ever more common. However, these were not the mindless enemies that usually beset us. These were thinking creatures, which chose to slaughter for no reason other than their own vile amusement.

  “They hope to exterminate us! Do not doubt that this is only the first of many such incursions. They will only increase in number and in size.”

  The crowd was rapt by Sar-Kyul’s passionate delivery, and the crackling blaze behind him seemed to be the manifestation of the fire that burned within.

  “Never have the free tribes faced such a threat. But never have we been better prepared to prevail! I tell you now, we would have defeated the attackers by any means, but our losses would have been far worse had it not been for the potion brought to us by Shenla. Many of you sampled it yourselves and know its effects. With that weapon, the monsters will fall before us.

  “We are the Moroi Hunters, greatest of the free tribes. The monsters hope we will cower and hide and wait for our numbers to dwindle until we will be incapable of victory. It is time for them to know fear. It is time for their extermination!”

  Ash rained down, and the flames backlit Sar-Kyul, making him appear as if he were surrounded by a fiery corona.

  Cheering and the raucous clanking of weapons erupted from the crowd. Sar-Kyul gestured to the side, and two warriors came bearing the corpse of Sulyr, which they dropped before him. Sar-Kyul spit upon the body, and the crowd responded ecstatically. Shayala’s jaw clenched and her body tensed.

  Sar-Kyul raised his voice and a cestus-clawed fist. Although, this time, the crowd did not quiet as quickly, he continued, “I call for a vote. Do we ally with the other tribes and, with this potion, bring destruction upon the monsters?”

  The crowd shouted approval. When Sar-Kyul hefted the monster’s body and threw it into the fire, the acclamation reached a crescendo.

  As he scanned the crowd, pride and resolve kindled within him. The free tribes would vanquish the monsters; there could be no other outcome. Aya gripped his shoulder with feeling. When his gaze found Shayala, she offered a respectful nod, despite her continued agitation over the treatment of Sulyr.

  “And none too soon,” Aya said to Sar-Kyul. “The Great Moot begins tomorrow night.”

  Sar-Kyul nodded. “Rest, then. I will stand vigil. I’ll be ready.”

  Aya offered a squeeze of his arm, and she and Shayala strode away. As they withdrew, Sar-Kyul, nearly dropping to the ground from exhaustion, sat cross-legged and facing the pyre.

  *

  Yawning, Aya said to Shayala, “I must rest.”

  Shayala gave only a nod in acknowledgement and abruptly began toward the periphery of the camp. A surprised Aya watched for several moments before continuing toward her tent.

  *

  Once Shayala reached the forest, she ran toward the grotto as the woodland creatures stayed well clear of her. At the base of the hillock, she detected the heady scent of stale musk from within. Entering the inmost cavern, the six strigoi, including Ronla, knelt in greeting. The three headless human carcasses were discarded in the far corner. Shayala noted one strigoi was absent. “Where is Volna?”

  Still kneeling, Thal answered, “She has gone to obtain more humans from the supply line in the south.”

  Shayala looked to Ronla, asked, “You know the location at which the Great Moot is held?”

  “The…the Great Moot?” Ronla began, momentarily ruffled by the unexpected reference. “Yes…Yes, Your Majesty, I do.”

  “A Great Moot is scheduled for tomorrow. By moonrise, you will bring the strigoi prisoner just beyond the site of the Moot, where you will not be discovered. I will retrieve him from you there.”

  Ronla nodded, then added hastily, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Thal, you will accompany her.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Thal said.

  “Others will await instructions here,” Shayala ordered. And again, she was gone.

  Day 22: Light

  As the first rays of orange light shone over the horizon, Shayala returned to the encampment. Several brusque inquiries of the sentries directed her to the western fringe of the camp, where she found Aya and an escort of twenty warriors on saddled horses. Two additional horses remained riderless: one saddled and tethered to a post, and one encumbered with bundles of gear and provisions
.

  As Shayala approached, Aya smiled and said, “I was afraid we would ride without you.”

  Ignoring the comment, Shayala asked, “Where is Sar-Kyul?”

  “Yet asleep. He has been overtaxed these past couple days. I will represent the Moroi Hunters.”

  As she moved to the saddled horse, the animal’s ears fell flat against its neck, and it whisked its tail in agitation. Its eyes flickered in near terror as it began to tremble and issue a high-pitched neigh. The horse pulled against its tether, and its hooves dug into the ground. Shayala thought, I must get this beast under control, before all is jeopardized by such a base animal.

  The horse attempted to rear as Shayala gripped its reins. With an affected casualness, as if the horse acted on its own, she pulled its head downward. Placing her right hand to one side of the horse’s snout and looking into its eyes, she pretended to whisper soothing words. In truth, she called upon that innate power to master animals, gained upon a strigoi’s first century of true life. In the matter of several heartbeats, the horse calmed.

  “You have a way with horses,” Aya commented with an awkward laugh, puzzled by the beast’s reaction.

  Shayala only shrugged and mounted the animal. The band set out, fording the stream bordering the western edge of the camp and entering the forest, where an overgrown path wound through the underbrush. They rode in a column, as the trail allowed only a single rider throughout most of its extent. The clomping of hooves, the creaking of saddle leather, and the jangling of metal rings and chains on harnesses created a rhythm to the cadence of the riders.

  The procession stopped during the late morning to rest and water the horses. When others wandered away to relieve themselves, Shayala similarly stepped off alone in imitation, returning after a suitable time. When she returned, Aya leaned against a tree and devoured a biscuit.

  Shayala settled against a tree to Aya’s left and asked, “How many tribes are attending?”

  Aya released a frustrated sigh. “Based upon the vague replies brought back by our riders, some twelve to seventeen may be represented.”

  “How many tribes inhabit the region?”

  “Twenty-five at last count.” Aya sighed once more. “War and the assimilation or destruction of a tribe does occur from time to time.” Aya took a draught of water from a bladder. Shayala surreptitiously emptied her skin upon the ground and pretended to drink.

  A silence settled between the two. By the not-so-subtle glances Aya flashed her, Shayala guessed the woman held a question.

  Finally, when Aya spoke, it was with a heaviness to her voice. “Sar-Kyul spoke truly when he said our losses would have been far worse without the aid of your people.”

  Shayala muttered a noncommittal reply.

  Aya continued, “Unfortunately, the battle depleted our supply of the blood.” She spoke the last word in a whisper. “We have but one vial left.”

  “More shall be provided before the campaign begins, and I’ll procure a vial or two prior to the Moot,” Shayala offered.

  Aya looked at her curiously, waiting for an explanation.

  Instead, Shayala said cryptically, “I have a demonstration planned.”

  The sunlight bored through the canopy of boughs and foliage like brilliant spears, and the horses began to shuffle restlessly. With a look at Shayala and another draught, Aya said, “We should move on.”

  The band continued upon the meandering trail for another two hours. The density of the trees steadily decreased until the riders emerged onto a rolling heath; shrubs formed a canvas of dusky greens upon which a palette of flowers in reds and yellows was applied. Reaching the open ground, the horses reveled by bursting into a gallop that left their manes and tails rippling. The ground was soft, though the soil tightly packed; the terrain was dotted with small pools and gentle streams, easily forded. One rider raised a simple wooden pole, flying a pennant depicting the arrow-and-dagger-pierced, fanged-humanoid-skull emblem of the Moroi Hunters.

  The troop stopped only once upon the heath to tend to the horses and offer the riders a short respite. The sun was low in the sky when they spotted, silhouetted against the horizon, a mound towering over the flat plain around it. As they neared the mound—really nothing more than a wide, flattened knoll—campfires were clearly visible. Soon after, the pennants and tents of various tribes became discernible. The Silver Arrow’s pennon depicted an upright bundle of arrows centered upon a vertical bar of white; the Broken Skull’s banner portrayed a horizontal spiked club beneath a jawless, fanged skull; the Sun Runner’s standard displayed the silhouette of a wolf leaping over a stylized orange sun.

  The horses ascended the gently sloping hill. All eyes turned to follow the new arrivals until Aya indicated an unclaimed tract that would serve as their site. The Moroi Hunters dismounted and began setting camp and tending to the horses, while Aya and Shayala walked about to greet the growing assembly of curious welcomers.

  “We had begun to think you wouldn’t show,” said a comely young man, whose lazy stance and accusing tone spoke to the arrogant assuredness of youth. He wore a leather jerkin adorned with the design of a snake coiled around a downward-pointing dagger.

  Rather than answer the questioner directly, Aya addressed the assemblage: “Apologies for our late arrival, especially after calling this Moot. Our delay speaks to the very necessity of this meeting: On the eve of our departure, we were attacked by a group of the thinking monsters. They were not interested in feeding, only killing.”

  Aya’s statement unleashed a torrent of questions. She waited until the oral barrage subsided before saying, “All your questions will be answered once the Moot begins. We will gather as the moon rises above the horizon.”

  Aya turned, offered muttered excuses to the continuing flow of inquiries, and walked away. She was trailed by Shayala, who remained silent and stoic during the exchange, despite curious glances and inquisitive stares cast her way. As they returned to their camp, Aya said, “I counted sixteen tribes, but unfortunately, the Silver Blades are not among them. They are second only to the Moroi Hunters in size and strength, and agreement between us would do much to secure cooperation. The smaller tribes will feel they are more vulnerable and will be unwilling to pledge their support in such a dangerous endeavor without the backing of the larger tribes.”

  “Then we should have visited the Silver Blades first,” Shayala said.

  “I had hoped they would be here, then we could conclude this whole business in a matter of days,” Aya confessed.

  Inwardly, Shayala fumed at the possible wasted time of this entire trip, though she kept her expression impassive. “Have you any of the empty vials for the blood?”

  Aya nodded and reached into her pouch, retrieving two empty vials and handing them Shayala, who accepted them with a nod of thanks and placed them within her scrip. Aya decided not to inquire further.

  When the two returned to the Moroi Hunters’ contingent, camp had been set and the humans partook of an evening repast. Aya sat near the campfire and pulled a strip of jerked venison from her pack. She offered a piece to Shayala. The odor of prepared meat was repugnant to strigoi.

  “Come now,” Aya insisted. “You must be hungry.”

  Shayala did require sustenance, though of a different sort. Somewhat irritably, due to the lengthening period for which she had not fed, she bit out, “I’m fine. I’ll return shortly,”

  Shayala walked away, leaving Aya to stare dumbfounded at her back.

  Day 23: Night

  Walking the rim of the knoll, Shayala hoped to find a solitary human she could waylay and feed upon, and whose corpse she could discreetly discard. Although she took a great risk of discovery, she knew not when a better opportunity to feed unobserved would present itself.

  Although her hunger was growing, she retained clarity enough to consider the consequence of another missing human: if someone again vanished while she was suspiciously absent, she would be questioned, and the coincidences would mount against her.
She did have an alternative: she could feed upon non-human animals. Such fare was considered beneath the dignity of a strigoi and did not provide the same nourishment as a human. Still, it would placate her hunger, if for a shorter period, and the appearance of some moroi would raise fewer questions. With distaste, Shayala determined it would prove the better option.

  She casually scanned for witnesses before descending the slope. As the night grew darker and the moon had not fully risen, she hoped that she would not be visible to the humans, or that at least she would appear as nothing more than a vague shadow. She reached the floor of the heath and moved out among the shrubs. Her heightened senses perceived a plethora of wildlife, and, though it was miles distant, she smelled the briny scent of the Western Sea. To her right, a rodent moved away from her, and another burrowed into the soil several paces ahead.

  In under the time of a human’s blink, Shayala lunged forward and plunged her hand though the small hole to grasp the brownish rodent, which squealed and struggled and attempted to bite her, though its teeth could not penetrate her skin. She raised it to her mouth and fed, draining it in a matter of seconds and tossing the carcass aside. As this terrain did not support large wildlife, she would need many more such animals to sate her hunger.

  She seized and fed upon a mottled brown-and-white hare, followed by a dull green warbler too slow to take flight, and more, until a small army of moroi would be roaming the heath by this time the following day. Although she smelled of musk, the aroma was less poignant than if she had fed upon humans, and she could mask it with the leavings of a horse. She made her way up the knoll, taking care to step in a fresh pile of excrement, and wiped her boot upon the shortgrass that carpeted the hill.