The dice spun through the air, flashing through the morning sunbeams piercing the forest’s canopy at an incomprehensible speed. Kani’s power allowed me to see the fine details embedded in the bones – the whorls of an ocean cresting around each pip the product of a dozen hours of my own time – yet I failed to comprehend the spin itself.
“Come on,” I mumbled quickly, “come on.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Whip’s face falling. The pair of dice fell on the detritus blanketing the ground, fumbling through crimson leaves to come face up. A beady pair of snake eyes glared mockingly at me. It joined two other pairs of dismal rolls.
“Hah!” cackled Ol’ Snapper. “Nothin’ more’n three. Boy, ah ain’t never seen such un-luck!”
I groaned, planting my face in my hands. “You’re cheating. You have to be.”
“Ah don’t have t’cheat at all!” the greybeard chortled, the liver spots in his face falling into dark lines. “Even without yer poor fortune, yer an awful player.”
“Ugh.”
“He’s right, Vin,” Whip agreed, her crutch placed over her thighs. “You’re really bad. Why do you keep betting when you’re clearly losing?”
“I’ve got to make back what I’ve lost!” I whined.
“Nah, I’m keepin’ yer chits,” chuckled Snapper, “but ah’ll be happy to take yer money any day.”
Snapper and I had been sitting behind the old man’s wagon for the better part of an hour, waiting for the rest of the caravan to finish whatever morning routine they’d decided to fall into. Whip and Ronnie watched us, having nothing better to do.
Our group had split the fifty silver we’d received up-front six ways, with each member of the team taking eight and the remaining two falling into the group’s collective coffers. Though Snapper and I had been playing with wooden chits, he’d already fleeced me of nearly a silver.
Ronnie signed something from where they stood, going through a stretching routine. Their dog, Yowler, dozed against the side of the Grower’s wagon in a convenient patch of sun. “You should stop gambling, Vin,” Whip translated.
I snorted. “What, and let him run off with my money?”
The giant twisted their back, releasing dozens of painful pops. “He’s already run off with your money.”
“No,” I muttered obstinately. “Besides, what else am I going to spend it on?”
“You could save it?” Whip offered. The absence of Ronnie’s gestures indicated to me that Whip spoke for herself.
I looked upwards, stroking my stubbly chin. “That,” I said, “sounds like a stupid idea.”
“You,” Snapper imitated, “sound like a godsdamned idiot.”
I shrugged.
“Bah!” he spat. “You think ah got th’ ninth biggest farm in th’ Heartlands by gamblin’?” The old man clicked his tongue. “’Nother hour like that an’ ah’ll have what we paid ya back!”
I frowned. “What do you mean?” Eight silvers were enough to keep going for most of the day.
“Hah! Cocky bastard. We can keep going- “
My eyes widened fractionally, and as they did I held up a hand. “We’ll end it here, for now. I’ll get you next time, old man.”
“Sure, sure.” Snapper smiled knowingly. “Ah gotta stop Atifi from tryin’ ‘a get mah daughter in a fambly way.”
I frowned. Odrin was gelded. And Blooded. How would Miriel have kids with him? Ronnie’s eyes widened with comprehension, and they pawed their tongue. The old man levered himself to his feet and waddled back over to the Grower’s wagon.
Three different fonts of life had entered the edge of my perception. None of them resembled a human’s – they were too small, and moved far too erratically to be children. That marked them as either animals or monsters; and no animal was foolish enough to approach a noisy group of people. Such weak creatures didn’t tend to be a threat; the difficulty always lay in notifying the group in a manner that seemed organic.
I straightened, brushing off the damp clumps of mud clinging to my trousers’ backside, and rolled my shoulders. The rest of the caravan were focused on breaking camp, and given that it was the first morning doing so for many, the process was taking some time. Only Ronnie, Davian, two of the guards and myself were packed light enough to stow our gear quickly; despite protests, both Whip and Old Snapper had been shooed away after clearing some of the lighter material.
Davian was keeping watch, his unbalanced eyes panning around the edge of the forest. Usually, he spotted Godkin before I sensed them. This was not one of those times. Ronnie gestured ‘question’, pointing at my sudden raising. I countered by signing one of the few terms I knew: ‘piss’.
Cracking my shoulders, I began approaching the black heartwoods surrounding the area the caravan had camped in. They towered above us, taller than houses and just as wide, with their madly forked branches twisting into the trees nearby, growing through their fellows and eventually stabbing and gouging into the trunks themselves, leaving painful streams of sap trailing down each. Above them the darkness was constant, a product of a tangled canopy so ubiquitous it dominated any glimpse of the sky.
The only reason sunlight was afforded to us was the Ien River burbling beside us. In stark contrast to the pink dirt and looming forest it cut through, its waters were clear and its cadence merry, occasionally flashing with a gleam of aquatic life. Though dawn proper remained behind the trees, missing us in its scaling of the horizon, the Ien still carried a reflection of the sky’s blush to us.
Everyone in the Foot had known water to be a sacred thing. Amidst a storm of nightmares featuring caves and holes and too many eyes and mouths, I would sometimes catch glimpses of the sea. Bhan had told me about it several times. To him and those he’d lived in, it teemed with a woeful seduction – like a beautiful man paid to kill you, he’d said. The Dolphin twisted through its waters, immense and all-consuming, and its Godkin would sing to those in boats or on the shoreline. Up there, they learned to mistrust their emotions at a young age. It didn’t – couldn’t – stop Wump.
I had never seen the ocean myself. I could imagine, though. To hold the image of the sun setting on an endless expanse of water in my mind’s eye. Cradle it. But until I saw it myself, I could never capture it. I’d only ever be grasping at its shadow.
No, despite everything Bhan had told me, water was blameless. Any harm it caused was a stemming from an innate innocence; an abidance to the laws carved in its being. If its course down a mountain crushed and drowned, then it could not be faulted. It’s impossible for water to flow uphill, after all. No, Bhan’s pain stemmed from a thicker, more potent substance, the kind that flowed through the bodies of gods and their kin. Powered by it, monsters could do terrible things. All of humanity knew this; myself more intimately than most.
As I strode into the heartwoods, my brows involuntarily crinkled. Much like water, blood could only obey its own nature. My argument must be flawed, then. Blood was a woeful thing, and its guilt was undeniable.
A shock of shadow snapped me from my reverie. Somewhat ironically, it swept away the grim musings creeping through my mind. That felt fitting, since the liquid that had driven me here was neither water nor blood. I chuckled wryly at my own joke and settled in to do my business. Aiming for the bush the three sparks of life were hiding in ignited a kind of manic hilarity in me. It felt as if I was possessed by the spirit of years long gone.
For a few seconds, not a single member of the trio moved, as if stunned by my arrogance. Then one of them growled and leapt for my offending instrument, revealing the lithe body of what could’ve been an emaciated dog or wolf, were it not for the wide set of its shoulders topping its forelegs, the incredible axis of movements of its joints, and the prehensility of its paws. I shrieked – part out of legitimate fear but mostly in mock terror – and punted the monster back into the other three.
“Davian,” I bellowed. “Foxkin!”
Behind me, I heard the Strains begin the flurry of activity that indicated them preparing for conflict. Davian’s light steps were already tapping into the forest, but he remained at least a dozen heartbeats from an actionable position. I hastily tucked my unmentionables back into my trousers and was immediately assailed by the other two monsters pouncing at me. Dodging was a stupid move: that would allow the monsters to pass and attack either Davian or the caravan, and would betray my role as the team’s shield. Instead, I raised my heel and drove it down onto one while smashing the other with my forearm.
Unfortunately, I was facing Foxkin. While one was temporarily trapped between my boot and the tangled roots winding across the forest floor, the other wrapped its body around my arm. Its claws sunk into the skin of my arm, but before it could use its weight to pull me completely off balance I shifted my feet and slammed it into the other creature. The shock of the impact reverberated through my bones, but the strike stunned both enough to allow me a moment’s consideration.
The third one prowled around the edges of my vision, using the darkness of the heartwoods to turn itself into a flickering patch of shadow. It might’ve worked, too, but to my sixth sense it shone like a beacon of flame amidst the faded pulsing of the forest. Though the trio might’ve been deadly to the unprepared, even Whip could take at least one out. Unarmed as I was, I could’ve finished all three. Even so, I began backpedalling towards Davian.
Keeping the rest of the team safe took priority. Anything else was a risk. To me.
Davian’s footsteps stopped several paces behind me. “I can’t get a shot,” the middle-aged Strain muttered to me, “it’s too dark.”
“I don’t have any weapons, either.”
Not for the first time, I wished I’d played a Foxblood instead of a Lizardblood. That way, I wouldn’t have to keep myself so restrained. But it was possible to hide supernatural senses and reflexes; a cut healing in hours instead of days was far more difficult to conceal. And even if I did find a way, how could I explain my skills? It was better to keep my movements subdued, and my mind unmarred by the rush of attacking. Besides, being in the thick of things risked coating my skin with blood.
“Here,” he said, prodding me with the hilt of his short-sword. I took it, almost hearing his mishappen features twisting. “We need to get back to the road, then.”
“That’ll risk the caravan,” I snapped, waving the blade in front of me. The three creatures’ eyes glinted, watching the weapon. One began moving forward, only to dart back as I yelled and stamped one boot in its direction.
“What other choice is there?” he protested.
“If we can get a lamp and my buckler in here, the two of us can do this. I’ll block them and you’ll make shots.”
The creatures were spreading around us, keeping ample space between one another. One attempted to weave outside my range, using its prehensile claws to throw itself in constantly changing trajectories. It darted for Davian, and I smashed my borrowed weapon on its spine, the bronze and my overtly desperate move conspiring to create only a long gouge. Nevertheless, it retreated.
My comrade’s breathing was heavy. “Nothing stops them from going around,” Davian snapped.
“I’ll be loud, draw their attention,” I replied. “And if they get past, the others will deal with them in the light.”
“Fine,” he said.
“Ronnie!” I bellowed, “I need a lamp and a shield! Get the rest to stay back and guard!” Hopefully Gast was awake and mobile – if she was, her runestone could throw the monster’s movements off enough to render a its danger negligible. The creatures would adapt eventually, but the three remaining hunters wouldn’t give them time.
Another charged, only to get spooked when Davian loosed an arrow in its general direction.
“I’m never going to find that,” he sighed wearily.
Behind me, I knew there was a patch of trees so obsessed with growth that their trunks and branches afforded only one opening for several dozen meters. The rest of their bodies zealously pierced one another. I’d slept amongst them the night before, atop a branch that had grown all the way through another tree.
“I’m sure you can borrow some more from Tully’s guards.”
Slowly, I began retreating backwards, motioning for Davian to do the same. As soon as I took the first step away from them, the monsters immediately attacked – scuttling across the dirt and roots at constantly changing directions, much like absurdly fast roaches. One lunged for my companion, forcing me to compromise my footing to reposition in front of him, only for it to reveal the movement as a feint when each Godkin dived towards me simultaneously at different levels.
The highest I intercepted with my forearm a moment before it fell onto my neck, while the middle ran itself through on the minutely-deviated angle of my blade. I stumbled at the increased weight, and the lowest whirled a vicious claw towards my upper thigh, but Davian had already shot an arrow into its leg-muscle, causing it to temporarily stumble.
The impaled monster began pulling itself up the blade towards me and I yelled, tossing the weapon away, and wrapped the freed hand around the throat of the Foxkin tearing up my arm. An outstretched branch resembling a sharpened thorn bristled nearby and with a roar I shoved the creature onto it.
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Then Ronnie was there, their massive hand encompassing my own as we speared it on the heartwood.
For a moment, its orange eyes seized my own, bloodshot and twitching madly. Both pairs of legs sliced through the air as it pedalled them rapidly, and for the first time I heard it make a sound: a discordant howl like several different creatures were screaming on top of one another. My ears ached, and I plugged them quickly, but I did not look away.
In its eyes my form was reflected – a hulking figure silhouetted by the light of Ronnie’s lamp. The figure’s features were unknowable. As the creature’s gaze grew less focused, the movements of its legs slowed. Its yowling transformed into a familiar whimper – that of an animal in pain. In the grip of my sixth sense, its life leaked away, falling in gouts of blood seeping from its stuck spine and trailing the bark of the tree, to be swallowed by the pink dirt beneath our feet.
I saw the life leave its eyes, and its energy lingered in my perception for several impossible half-moments. Whether a phantom or a mere after-image, I did not know.
Its gaze – clouded, empty, dead – still held me inside it. Monster.
A tap on my back; I whirled to face the offender with arms outstretched. Ronnie raised their mismatched arms in surrender. Behind us, the giant’s axe had already split the arrow-struck creature’s skull in half. The remaining Godkin still clung to life dimly, yet moments later I felt it die like the two before it.
‘Close one,’ the massive Strain signed.
“Indeed,” panted Davian. “That was very, very lucky.”
I looked at the dead around us, and felt my open wounds already begin to coagulate. I looked at the trees, nearly invisible for the shadows and the branches beneath overhanging vines and chunks of moss, each inch covered in thorns. I looked back at the monster.
“Yeah,” I managed. “Lucky.”
----------------------------------------
Soon enough, the earth accepted the sacrifice of blood, bringing forth a bushel of dry grain in exchange. Both of the Strains expressed annoyance at the waste – the Godsblood would’ve fetched a few silvers if we could sell it before it lost potency. That seemed unlikely, to me. When Davian and Ronnie began gathering the bounty, I left them and walked back.
To my surprise, rather than being greeted with a questioning of my skill as a monster hunter, returning covered in cuts seemed to impress the caravaners. Rita slapped me on the back, Aron regaled me with how glad he was we were here, Odrin and his wife quietly thanked me and even Tully treated us with a slow nod. Only Ol’ Snapper had an insult for us – he’d told me his dead uncle had done a better job with half his face hanging off. Atifi had promptly began insulting him. Though, Jana – Kit’s companion – seemed legitimately annoyed that we’d allowed them to get so close.
She wasn’t wrong. I’d misjudged the situation. Monsters occurred when the quantity of Godsblood in a creature overwhelmed its natural disposition – far easier to do in animals than humans. From there, it would supposedly follow the example of the god its blood sprung from. I should’ve had them pegged as Kani’s ilk immediately; few other Godkin would stop and observe a group before barrelling towards it. The only others I could think of was Spider or Owlkin, both of which tended to be more subtly dangerous.
Monster Strains tended to be more mishappen, less effective, and usually far less aggressive. They aped the form of Blooded, but not the substance. I’d assumed they were Strains, and had been punished for it.
All that esteem seemed to be an indication that amongst the caravaners, only the Growers and Kit’s family had any real experience with monsters.
It helped that Ronnie had decided to exaggerate the ferocity of the monsters as much as possible when recounting the events to our team. Though the other groups’ only interactions with the Strains had been suspicious glares and muttered complaints, our proximity meant that only the truly deaf missed the giant recounting the story through Whip’s mouth. Davian constantly interjected with a more accurate retelling, but because Ronnie had arbitrarily given him the star role in the retelling, he came off as humble instead of truthful.
The team had gathered in a circle, excepting Kit, who was still packing up the tent Jana had insisted on setting up and teaching Tippi and Crumpet how to assist in decamping and caring for their purchased mule. Yowler slept at Ronnie’s feet.
“Do you even know what happened?” I asked the giant.
Their reply was a shaken head.
“So why make Davian- “
Ronnie, without using their eyes, jerked their chin towards the quiet wagon of men – the only group I knew nothing about. Two of the men stared towards us, as the third was feeding and brushing their oxen in preparation for travel.
I sighed and gestured my understanding. The Strain nodded, and continued impressing upon our eavesdroppers Davian’s ability as a hunter.
After another few minutes, Kit slumped into the circle with the rest of the team. “Never get a family,” she groaned, “dead weight – th’ lot of ‘em.” Despite her complaints, her tone lacked its usual bite.
“Honestly, I never considered the fact you had one,” I remarked.
Whip frowned. “Of course she has one.”
Davian looked at the girl and shook his head. “Family beyond the biological sense.”
“Yeah, I don’t seem the sort,” continued Kit. “I’m more of a lone wolf kinda gal – nothin’ keepin’ me tied down like you idiots.”
“You have the family,” said Gast, laying on the ground with her hands atop her large belly.
“Demolished,” I jeered at the swordswoman, “and she didn’t even try.”
“No,” she sputtered. “Yer all playin’ happy campers. Not me.”
Gast tilted her gaze towards Kit. “You seemed happy. With the kids.”
“Ha!” the swordswoman barked, then quieted and ran a hand through her short hair. “They’re alright,” she admitted, “though missin’ th’ fightin’ bothers me.”
“A lot was wrong with that fight,” agreed Whip, apparently missing Kit’s point. “We could’ve done much better.”
I scratched my scabs. “No one’s hurt.”
Davian’s brows raised, the only tell in his whirlpool features that indicated disbelief. “You’re hurt, or did you not notice?”
I looked down, noting my scabbing arms. It was a good thing I hadn’t worn my coat – it would be in tatters if I had.
Kit leaned back, insistently shoving a cigarillo in Gast’s face in an attempt to get the Strain to light it. “Yeah, oaf, where th’ blood’s yer sword? An’ shield?” The Owl Strain touched her runestone pouch and sparked the cough-stick for her.
I rubbed my eyes, concealing my annoyance. “Look: I’d just woken up; it’s a nice morning; I was a bit drowsy; and I can’t just tote around my halberd anyway.”
The swordswoman sucked on the cigarillo and leaned forward. “Oxdung.” Kit spat a plume of smoke at me. “Y’never leave yer weapons when we’re huntin’.”
My mind whirled. “I forgot my shield, alright? I forgot it existed; I haven’t had a decent one for a while.”
“An’ what ‘bout yer sword, hmm? Th’ one we scattered an entire pub for. You forget that?”
I stared at her, plastering a wry smile across my face. “Yes.”
“Vin…” said Davian. “You’ve never forgotten it before.”
I drummed my fingers against my thigh, wondering how much to tell them. “The shield was a legitimate mistake. But I’m worried about someone stealing my sword.” That was true – I simply left out that I was more worried about people recognising it.
“Then keep it wrapped up,” the man supplied, “like you always do.”
Kit chuckled lightly. “Tully’s already seen it, anyway. She was in the, uh… whatever that bar was called.”
I came close to punching her. Tully and Odrin were the two I was most worried about; I’d no clue whether my weapon had been commissioned from Heltia or not.
She drew on her cough-stick, then continued. “If anyone takes it, I’ll smack ‘em for you.”
“Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth.
After a silence indicating that discussion was finished, Whip clapped her hands together. “I think everyone should always keep a weapon nearby, just in case.”
The circle stamped their feet in agreement. Ronnie’s old dog woke, raised his head and glanced around, then went back to sleep.
“And I also think we need to double our watch during the night.”
Only Ronnie, Davian, and myself stomped. Kit booed, while Gast sat upright.
“No,” the large lady announced plainly.
“You wouldn’t be included, Gast,” I explained.
“Okay.” She slumped back down.
Kit looked around. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
“I don’t wanna be included.”
I scoffed. “We need a seer like you on the task, Kit.”
She scowled. “Shut up, oaf.”
I threw a pebble at her. She retaliated with a rock. In response, I walked over to a large stone embedded in the ground nearby, squatted down, levered it up, and began waddling around the circle with it. Kit laughed nervously and speed-walked in the other direction.
After Kit and I got bored, we sat back down and reignited the discussion. There were things that needed to be discussed: the specifics of the new night-watch; new strategies to fight within this unfamiliar territory; conscripting Gast to create more runestones for light and communication; our marching order and break times. We concluded the meeting by deciding that one of us needed to inform Rita and the guards of the changes. Of course, that person ended up being me.
By the time we’d finished talking, the caravan was already moving out. Each of us fell into our designated positions: Davian patrolling the rear, Ronnie the middle and Kit the front, while I roamed between the sections to facilitate communication between each individual and offer a second set of eyes if needed. Whip sat atop our cart at the back to watch from above and tend to the Missus while Gast developed some budget runestones via witchcraft in the back, inactive without my blood. Combined with the four other guards and the river to our right, there was little chance danger would be able to creep up unannounced.
We were attacked twice more by slightly larger monsters, and they were slaughtered before I could assist. Kit and Davian killed one, while Ronnie butchered another according to Whip’s precise instructions. Both creatures had the markings of Strains, so we didn’t bother draining them. Instead, Ronnie sliced a leg off each. I’d try to use them alongside the wild grain to make sandwiches for tomorrow – easy to eat on the go.
However, more mundane matters were our biggest impediment to progress. The route Tully had chosen was little more than a worn animal trail: a narrow strip of compacted dirt scattered with pebbles and stones just wide enough for the smallest of carts to get through easily. Kit and our cart were the only ones to fulfil that criterion, so the wagons’ rightmost wheels were almost constantly on the rocky bank of the river.
It started with the Growers cart stopping as a wheel ended up behind the rock. I ended up walking back to check what was holding them up, and Snapper instantly began cajoling me to help. The incident seemed a perfect opportunity to generate some good-will, so I recruited Ronnie to assist me helping their overworked oxen get the cart over the bump. This was witnessed by almost the entire caravan
The caravaners quickly figured out there was a secondary use for me: pushing the backs of stuck vehicles. They took my roaming as a sign of my disposability. And they got stuck a lot.
When the sun reached its zenith, I was heroically shoving the back of Tully’s carriage as Rita examined the front, calling directions back to me. The day was still cold – Bite was beginning to give way to Frost – yet the sunlight conspired with my exertions to leave me uncomfortably hot. Rather than risk soaking one of my only sets of clothing, I had taken off my shirt and jacket earlier. It was fortunate the wind was blowing perpendicular to our route – if it hadn’t been blocked by the trees, I would’ve probably been frostbitten before the day was over.
After several seconds of pushing yielded no returns, I furrowed my brows. “Hey Rita!” I called.
“Yeah?” she yelled back.
“Is Maddie in the carriage?”
“…Yeah.”
For the first time in several years, I suspected I had misheard. Rounding the side of the carriage, I found Rita studying the rock which had wedged the cart.
She nodded to herself. “I think we can push it back a tad. That’ll get us outta the way, eh?”
“Sorry, did you just say Maddie’s still in the carriage?” I asked.
“That’s right big man.”
I nodded slowly, parsing the information. “I’m not pushing anymore.”
Rita straightened. “What?”
“I haven’t seen her since we met, and apparently she can’t even be bothered to lighten the load a bit.”
“Come now, Vin,” she said, shaking her head, “you can’t ‘spect a delicate girl like ‘er to help ya push.”
“She should at least get out to lighten the load!” I rubbed my head. “This isn’t my job, anyway – I wasn’t hired for this.”
“You can bloody well help,” Rita scoffed. “I am – you think pushing carts is part of my job description?”
I threw up my hands. “You shouldn’t be either! Our teams are one person short while we’re here! We’re compromising our godsdamned patrol by sitting here with our thumbs up our arses when the people who should be pushing are Siik knows where!”
She sighed. “Maybe. Leavin’ it to Tully an’ Rita will slow us some, though – one’s old and the other’s little.”
“Rita,” came a stern voice from inside the carriage.
“Tully’s in there too?” I protested. “What else? Bricks? Maybe a few blocks of lead?”
I could hear muted whispers emanating from within the vehicle. After a few hisses, the door flew open and Maddie marched out, head turned to complain at her wide-eyed mother. “…are absolutely ridiculous.”
Our relative positions meant for the first time, I had sufficient angle to peer past her hood and see her facial features in full. Freckled skin, plucked orange brows, and beneath her hood, round emerald eyes. It struck me that despite her diminutive stature, she was likely around my age. The cloaked woman hopped onto the dirt from the carriage’s raised step and looked at me.
“Thank you,” I said, then cracked my neck and turned to Rita. “So we’ll… get the horses to reverse a bit, then go a different…” The guard was stifling laughter. “What? What’s so funny?”
I turned back to find Maddie facing me silently. I looked down to ensure my pants hadn’t fallen. They hadn’t. The better part of her face was concealed, once again. With a harsh squint, I attempted to discern what expression lay beneath the hood of her cloak.
Rita snorted.
I didn’t understand. “What?”
“Nothing at all, Vin,” announced Maddie, turning her cloaked head slightly away from me.
“No, really. What is it?”
The young woman turned to Rita, and some message exclusive to the realm of short people passed between them. I took a knee, attempting to look beneath her hood once again, and divine what was causing her reaction.
A sharp thwack resounded as the guard slapped my head. “Get pushin’, big man.”
Raising my hand in acquiescence, I moved to the front of the carriage and assisted the horses in reversing it backwards. Rita laid with her cheek pressed against the dirt, watching our progress and shouting directions. Getting the carriage away from the stone blocking its wheel was simple, however in the process we managed to lodge it between another two.
Tully dismounted, taking position beside her daughter. “What is happening?”
“Boss,” Rita saluted. I frowned. “This road isn’t suited for our carriage.”
“You understood that coming in.”
The guard’s eyes were unwavering. “This will delay us.”
“Yes.”
I examined the carriage’s wheels for several seconds, before sighing. “We need to find a better way to deal with this, if it’s going to keep happening.”
Tully glanced towards me, brows furrowed slightly. “Do you have any suggestions?”
I drummed my fingers against my collarbone. After a moment, I shrugged. “We can ask Gast?”
“The Owl Strain,” she said, lip curling slightly.
“Yes, her,” I agreed, harshly. After a moment to gather myself, I continued. “Gast is good with runes. She might have an idea.”
“Or Odrin, perhaps,” Tully mused. “Very well. Rita – see those two have a look at the problem.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rita nodding slowly, keeping eye-contact with Tully the entire time.
“Vin,” our scarred leader continued, “I would appreciate it if you return to your formation. We’ll see if some magic can solve the problem.”
My response was a single sharp nod. As I walked away, Maddie moved to join me, yet Tully placed a single hand on her shoulder. I heard the older woman whisper something about how ‘it was dangerous’ before I left earshot. The comment provoked a chuckle – if Tully was worried about her daughter being in danger, why enter the wilderness in the first place? Immediately after the thought struck me, my expression straightened. It was all a matter of choice. Monsters were straightforward. Civilisation was not. In all my years of existence, I’d never heard of a single place that was free of strife.
As I returned to pacing up and down the length of the caravan, my brows bent in on themselves. Once upon a time, I had heard tell of a place where everyone would be safe, and happy. People would be granted passageway there by the departure of their mortal bodies.
Even back then, I had thought something was suspicious about it all. Yet the truth of the tale didn’t matter. Their so-called heaven was dead – slaughtered by the forces of man and butchered atop thousands of corpses, its blood leaking past armour and artifice and flesh and bone and seeping into the compacted sand below.
As someone who made money from killing monsters and harvesting their essence, I knew that Godsblood lost potency outside of a body. Its power leaked away, dwindling until eventually it became less than a memory of what once was. The Cult had told me that life was a place of torment, and that salvation came in the soul of their god. Their salvation had died on that battlefield, thinning amongst the dead until it transformed into nothing more than empty black flakes. They too had dissipated on the wind.
Parallel to the trail I paced along stretched the heartwoods, each tree, branch, vine, bush, shrub or patch of moss, ubiquitous in their red colouration, somehow growing endlessly despite the darkness the canopy forced upon them. From amidst the shadows, the ghost-like forms of spearwood emerged – thin as needles and white as bone – and the interplay of the stark surroundings and the occasional tremulous beam of light – allowed in the shuffling of leaves or branches and vanquished just as quickly – conspired to cast mottled patterns on their rigid trunks. They looked like the faces of spirits.
Bhan had always said that the Heartlands were haunted. And that even when nothing else did, the touch of ghosts endured.
Despite the warmth of the midday sun, I shivered.