Blood Divine: Book 3
Stolen Blood
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Prologue: Hunted
The boy ran through the alley, trying his best not to stumble over discarded packing crates as he rushed along. Here, in the back alleys of the docks, there was far too much discarded junk. Small mounds of broken crates, shipping beds, and other debris that workers were too tired to dispose of properly at the end of the day. The small paths between the warehouses, the places where nobody ever bothered to go, were used as an improvised dump. Every couple of years the alleys were cleared out by the local council as they were a fire hazard, but even that was done half-heartedly.
It had been a long time since this alley had been cleared, and there was more than enough stuff lying around that every few steps saw him stumbling over something. Still, despite it all the boy didn’t fall, he kept on going, somehow keeping his balance and enduring the pain of each trip and impact.
Fear kept him from going as fast as he could. And even as he ran his ears kept straining to hear even the slightest hint of the approach of his pursuers. He did his best to be as quiet as he could, making as little noise as he could, as he continued to stumble forward in the dark.
That darkness wasn’t total though, up ahead the boy could see distant streetlights, and hear the roar of traffic. This portion of the docks was all but abandoned, but if he could make it back to the main city, back to the crowds, then . . .
All further thoughts were cut off as one of the walls that made up the alley exploded outwards behind him. The boy was a good distance from it, so the flying shrapnel missed him, but the sound and force of the explosion caught him off guard and sent him stumbling to the side, his shoulder hitting a wall.
“Good chase, boy.”
The voice that spoke was rough, that of a man who was unused to talking, whose voice had grown rusty and coarse with disuse. It came from within the warehouse, drifting through the broken hole like smoke wafting from burning wood.
On hearing it the boy gritted his teeth. The voice wasn’t known to him, but the tone, that roughness of disuse, he was far more familiar with that than he wished to be. He’d encountered it too many times to fail to recognize it. To him, that tone meant fear and frustration.
Of course, he’d only managed to develop those emotions because he hadn’t yet been caught. He’d seen others, the other prey that had been stalked, they’d been caught, but he’d managed to get away. He’d managed to learn, to get stronger, to stop just being prey.
A figure stepped through the dust cloud, his features coming into focus slowly as the flickering light of an old streetlight illuminated the alley from one end. It wasn’t good lighting, but the boy’s eyes were keen, keener than they should have been, and he could make out the details of his enemy.
The man, if ‘man’ was the right word for such a creature, was not tall. Barely more than five and a half feet at the most. However, he looked taller than he was due to his extreme gauntness. The man was only clad in rags, torn trousers, old and worn-out boots, and a cloak or cape that was little more than a motheaten blanket hanging from about his neck and shoulders. It was the body beneath them that was unnerving though. It was as if the man was on the verge of starvation, his skin drawn taut across his body, yet his muscles had remained unaffected. The contrast between sunken flesh and hard muscle was unnatural, wrong, and just the sight of it was enough to send shivers down the back of those who saw it.
But for the boy, it wasn’t the man’s body that was the most frightening, it was the eyes. Where his eyeballs should have been there were only pits of sulphurous yellow-green fire burning beneath eyelids. The eldritch flames licked about, caressing the flesh of the face that housed them, yet failing to burn any of it. The boy knew those eyes, knew them and hated them. All in all, the figure before him would not have been out of place in a nightmare, especially with the strange, serrated sickle that he held loosely in one hand.
“So, is the hunt over th-”
The question from the man with the burning eyes was cut off as the boy charged him. It would normally have been an absurd sight. Even though he wasn’t tall the gaunt figure was still a full head taller than the boy, and this was a slim child, lacking the weight and muscle he needed to take on a larger and older foe. Normally it would have been an absurd sight, but something happened to change the odds.
As he moved the boy changed, his body swelled, growing hazy as though a second image were being overlaid onto his form, then his original form faded leaving only the new one. In an instant it was no longer a young boy charging down the back alley, instead, it was a grizzly bear. The burning eyes of the gaunt figure only had a moment to widen in surprise before the great furred form slammed into him, one huge, clawed paw coming around to swipe at him as it did so.
In the wild, it was entirely possible for a grizzly bear to rip the head of a mousse with a single swipe. The sheer force that such animals possessed gave the breed the reputation of being one of the strongest mammals on the planet.
The alleyway was not a wide one, and cluttered as it was it made the charge of the large predator an awkward one. Even so, bears were successful hunters for a reason, they were faster than their bulk suggested, and they were agile, accurate, and deadly. The emaciated figure barely had time to even shift his stance before a paw bigger than his whole head slammed into him.
Amazingly the man’s body held together as it was thrown back by the impact. Even as the snap of bones echoed through the empty warehouse, followed by more snaps as the body struck a wall, no blood flowed. Instead, the limp form simply fell to the ground like a discarded bag of trash, the burning eyes sinking into dully glowing coals of green and yellow.
The bear didn’t relax though, despite the death of the figure that had been menacing it. Instead, a rumbling growl emanated from its throat as the huge beast turned to glare into the darkness of the warehouse. What human eyes would have missed the eyes of a bear were better equipped to spot.
There! At the back of the warehouse, it could just make out two more pinpricks of light, light that was the same sulphurous green as the fire in the figure’s eyes had been.
Without hesitation the bear retreated, shuffling back through the hole that had been blasted into the alley, never taking its eyes off those lights. There was another growl, but this one didn’t come from the bear, it was higher, more of a snarl than a growl.
It happened so fast that a normal human witnessing it would have seen little more than a succession of blurs. Just as the bear was halfway through the hole a black and white form dashed from the shadows at the far end of the warehouse. It was fast, blindingly so, but the bear that had been a boy could tell what it was.
A wolf. It was a wolf with fur a dull grey, the shade of dark ashes. It was a large example of its breed, nearly half again as large as a regular wolf would have been. Like grey lightning it darted across the separating space, springing straight at the bear, its jaws open, eager for blood.
The leap was aimed at the bear’s throat, but despite the speed of the attack, the transformed boy was able to raise a forelimb in protection. Teeth that sought to tear and savage a throat instead closed around a limb of thick muscles and even thicker bones. Still, the wolf was undeterred, its jaws flexing as they tightened their grip, digging teeth through fur and deeper into flesh.
The grizzly roared, a sound of pain and anger that shook dust loose from the edges of the broken masonry nearby. In a movement that seemed too calculated to be that of an animal, no matter how cunning, the bear swung the limb, the wolf attached to it seeming to weigh no more than a feather. The movement might have seemed wild to an observer, but it had purpose behind it.
The bulk of the wolf slammed into the ragged side of the huge hole with enough force to send more dust and shrapnel flying. The air went out of its body in an audible ‘whuff’, but its jaw refused to let go. Those burning pits in place of eyes glared up into the brown and black eyes of the bear, malice clear in them, as well as a baleful challenge.
In response the bear roared and swung its arm against the masonry again. Once! Twice! Thrice! Each time the wolf refused to relent. Each time it endured, glaring back at the bear with hatred and contempt. It seemed to mock the bear for its failure to dislodge it.
The bear swung its arm again, and once more there was an impact, but this time there was no simple thud and huff of air. This time there was no defiance or hatred in those burning sockets.
This time, the wolf screamed!
Convulsively its jaws unlocked, the muscles spasming as the rest of its body twitched madly. With a low growl, the bear drew back its injured arm, then swung full force with its other forelimb, its huge paw slamming into the exposed chest of the wolf with enough force to pulverise the bones beneath and drive the beast into the brickwork as though it had been hit by a runaway car. Another keening shriek emerged, as the cause of its pain became visible, a broken metal wall reinforcement, its length bent to face inward and the end a torn mess of shredded metal sporting points as sharp as spearheads. The first few blows had shaken away the masonry covering it, and the last blow had impaled the wolf upon it like a butterfly in a collection.
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The flame-eyed beast should not have been able to make a sound, not with the metal shaft impaling it through its lungs, but somehow it had managed it, letting out a whining howl that seemed to need no breath to sustain it. Its chest was smoking where the metal ran through it, as though the former support were red hot and searing the wolf from within. With another snarl the bear struck again, bending the exposed part of the metal shaft over, pinning the wolf in place so it couldn’t pull itself off the jagged support.
The howl of the wolf intensified as it tried to struggle, but its uncoordinated thrashing simply drove it down further. The smoke rising from its chest was thicker now, oily and rancid as if someone was trying to cook spoiled meat. The bear took one last look at the impaled beast, then shuffled out of the warehouse and back into the alley. It paused for a moment, licking at its forelimb where it had been savaged, but then it began to shuffle towards the distant lights. There was a shimmer once more, and the bear returned to being a boy.
A boy whose arm now dripped blood.
He paused, leaning against a wall as he gingerly pulled his sleeve up to look at the injury beneath. The wound was smaller than it had been, reduced by his transformation. Now it was hardly life-threatening, more like something that might need disinfectant and bandages and not much more.
Pulling his sleeve tight around the wound the boy broke into a jog as he continued to the light of the more populated areas. Hopefully, he could find help there, someone willing to help fix him up before he moved on. He’d get some respite since his pursuers tended to leave him alone while he was in crowded areas, but if he stayed there too long then they were willing to come after him, regardless of the presence of others.
He’d seen where that led to in the past, and even though he was scared and growing desperate, he didn’t want that to happen again. He didn’t want to be responsible for that happening again.
Gritting his teeth, he continued on, not looking back to the warehouse where his enemies lay broken. He didn’t need to, after all, he was all too aware of what it was that he was running from.
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In the warehouse, a broken body twitched.
It shouldn’t have been able to, not given the damage it had taken. Bones had been snapped like toothpicks, muscles and organs had been pulped into ruin, and the spine and nerves were in such a mess that it shouldn’t have been possible for any signals to be getting where they should go.
Still, regardless of the structural impossibility the broken body of the gaunt figure continued to twitch. More than that, this was no random spasmodic movement, there was a method to it, as first one finger moved, then another, then an arm, then a leg. They were all tiny movements, but they repeated in sequence, a steady rotation. And each time they moved the movement was greater, more controlled.
With a sickening crack the neck that had been hanging at a grotesque angle snapped back into place. As it did so the eyes that had been banked into embers flared up once more into sulphurous flames. More snaps and cracks could be heard as more bones forced themselves back into position, restoring the mangled frame into something resembling a man once more.
Unsteadily, but with growing balance, the figure rose to its feet once more, his burning eyes surveying the warehouse, then falling on the still whimpering form of the impaled wolf.
“Impressive.”
The voice was as horse and scratchy as it had been before, but there was a hint of something more there now. Some emotion that couldn’t be named was buried in there, something hungry, something bloody.
Without bothering to show any sort of kindness the gaunt figure reached out, seized handfuls of the wolf’s flesh, and with two sharp and uncaring yanks drew the impaled beast off the metal it had been held by. The wolf let out a strangled yelp, a noise that should have been louder, but was so constricted by pain that only a weak protest escaped it. More blood flowed as its injury was torn open by the movements, and more smoke rose from the wound as it scraped against the metal, but the gaunt figure seemed to care little for any of it.
“You let him escape once again?”
The question was asked by a new voice, one that came from the same dark end of the warehouse that the wolf had emerged from. This voice was different. It was rough, almost growling, but it was not scratchy from disuse. Instead, it spoke with authority, as though used to being heeded. There was irritation in the voice now, perhaps even anger and the emaciated figure beside the wolf ducked his head in submission.
A tapping of metal on stone echoed through the warehouse as a new figure entered the sparse light coming in through the hole. Had any mortal been there they would most likely have recoiled in horror at the sight of the newcomer.
When mortals in the modern age thought of centaurs the image that came to mind was of a horse’s body with the torsos of a man or woman where the head and neck should be. The image of the character of centaurs was that of deep thinkers, of sages and teachers, of discipline and moderation. This was due to the most famed centaur of all, Chiron, the teacher of heroes. He had been one of the famed myths of Greece, one that had survived to the modern world, and one that permeated into many of the popular modern stories. As such, when depicted in books, movies, or comics, centaurs were the wise men, the teachers, and the healers who aided the heroes. This was the popular depiction, the one that came to mind first and foremost.
It was also wrong in almost every way.
Chiron had not been the rule, he had been the exception. For every centaur that was calm, there were a hundred that were wild. For every centaur that was kind, there were a hundred that were cruel. For every centaur that sought gentle wisdom, there were a hundred that chased after brutal strength. Centaurs had been raiders, carousers, creatures ruled by their lusts and hungers and who had little care for others. The true nature of centaurs made them little more than barbarians, and as such they were feared more than loved.
The creature that emerged from the darkness was a centaur, but not one with which modern society would have expected.
The modern image of the centaurs was shaped by modern media, which tended to depict the horse portion of a centaur as small. That was so that there was a close scale between them and whatever humans they were interacting with. There were also the limits with special effects and budgets to work around. This all meant that centaurs were thought to have a certain appearance, one that was almost delicate, despite efforts to make it otherwise.
The reality of a true example of the breed was far less delicate, far more brutish.
He stood nearly eight feet in height, and the dimensions of his human potion were broader and thicker than a normal person would have been. Horses were large creatures, and a human body scaled to that of a full-grown horse was likewise large. More than that, there was something inhuman about even the human-looking parts of him beyond his muscular appearance. His hair was too thick and wild. The proportions of his arms were a bit too long. His face and the skull beneath it were shaped slightly differently from a human. And, in this case, there were the eyes, eyes just like the gaunt figure and the wolf. Eyes that burnt like twin pits of some hellish perdition.
Then there was his garb, a combination of crudely stitched-together hides and fearsome-looking bronze armour. In one hand he carried a vaguely Roman-style blade, the metal an odd, faded yellow marked with bronze runes. On his back was a massive axe, one that would have been too enormous for a human to wield, but for a giant like the centaur it was well-suited.
The looming figure advanced, bronze horseshoes tapping on the concrete until the centaur towered menacingly over the other figure.
“You had the boy, and you let him escape?”
Before the smaller figure could offer a reply the centaur’s empty hand lashed out, wrapping around the other’s throat and lifting him off his feet as though he weighed no more than a bottle of wine.
“We have tracked this demigod for three days now, and this has been the closest we have come to catching him. You know why we must have him, and yet you allowed him to escape?!”
His voice didn’t rise, but the anger in it was clear to hear. He drew his captive up until their burning eyes were level, the smaller figure dwarfed by him, highlighting the difference in both power and stature.
“-idn’- g-t -wa-, n-t -omp-ete-y . . .”
The words were broken, almost unintelligible, but they were enough to catch the centaur’s attention. They were enough to make him loosen his grip a little. They were enough to give the gaunt figure a chance to speak clearly.
“He didn’t completely escape! I have his blood!”
As he rushed the words out, he gestured to the wolf that was still laying on the concrete, panting as its wound slowly healed. The stain of red could still be seen about its jaws, and in the fur of its neck and face.
“Blood! We can use it! We can find him again!”
The centaur glared at him for a moment, then released the gaunt figure as he turned to the wolf. The grey-furred beast whimpered as it was none-too-gently picked up but made no other protest. With meticulous care the centaur ran a silken cloth across the lips and surrounding area of the creature’s face, gathering as much of the blood as he could upon the square of fabric. Once he was done he dropped the wolf to concrete as though it were of no more interest than an empty beer can.
“Very well, Cargale,” He spoke as he turned away, stepping back towards the darkness. “That shall be useful, enough so to make up for your loss.”
Behind the hulking figure, the smaller form of Cargale shakily climbed to his feet. For a moment he glared at the form of his superior, anger tensing his body, but then he relaxed as he slumped.
He knew his place; he knew where he stood. Cargale was a former mortal, one granted a type of immortality by the Hunt Fyre that burned within him, the immortality of undeath. His kind were common in the ranks in which he served, making up much of the fodder. He was a wolf rider, a scout and tracker, little more. The centaur was a captain, a commander of a small band that Cargale was a part of. Such positions were won by power, and the undead hunter was self-aware enough to know that he lacked the power to even think of giving in to his anger.
Instead, he buried it, saving it for a later time. In an attempt to distract himself, he turned his attention back to his wolf, seeing how it was healing.
The wound in its side was slowly closing, though the edges remained inflamed and burnt from where they had touched the metal. The support beam that had stabbed through the beast had only had a minimal iron content, and that iron had been processed, yet it had still been enough to affect the fey flesh of the wolf. Cargale didn’t curse, he didn’t spit his irritation or frustration. Speaking to vent his anger had never been his way. Indeed, words had never been his way. Silence was his preferred state, and he had gone for years without speaking a word. He had only spoken to the boy because he’d felt that his success in evading them for so long deserved acknowledgement.
Perhaps that had been a mistake. Had he attacked without warning, without mercy, might he have overwhelmed the demigod before he could transform?
In all truth, the undead scout didn’t care. They had his blood now, which meant that they could track him anywhere he went. True, it would take some time for the ritual to bind that blood to the Hunt’s magic, but once that ritual was completed there would be nowhere the boy could flee that they could not find him.
Cargale, allowed a twisted smile to form on his face as he watched his wolf shakily regain its feet. He would have a chance to stalk the boy once more, and the next time he would allow for no mistakes. It was not only for his own satisfaction but also for the sake of the band he was a part of.
After all, the Wild Hunt had a reputation to maintain.
Had anyone been watching him as he and his wolf walked into the shadows of the warehouse, they would have noted the darkness being broken by the appearance of two spots of sulphurous green light. Then another two. And another, and another. Before long dozens of such lights were waiting for him, all of them matching the lights in his eyes, his wolf’s eyes, and the eyes of the centaur.
So many eyes, and all of them eager to hunt.