Kalier was dreaming. In it, she was lying on a soft four poster bed, surrounded by six sisters dressed in white. Each had glowing blue eyes and blonde hair. Each had cruel eyes and friendly smiles. The friendlier the smile; the crueller the eyes. Suddenly another woman, a mother, entered the room. She had the friendliest smile of all. The mother approached her, grabbing her right arm and twisting powerfully. The pressure in her shoulder grew and grew and grew. The smile got wider, and wider and wider.
*pop*
Kalier woke with a scream as Tarix re-seated her dislocated shoulder. He had been trying to be gentle, but Tarix was far from a healer, not that a healer could have made the process hurt much less.
To her left was the village girl, who was doing her best to hold the much more powerful Kalier down, she relented once Kalier stopped screaming and lay still. Groaning in pain Kalier turned to Tarix, who didn't need more than a look to begin filling her in.
"Ilivar here took your weapon and finished that thing off, saving your life in the process." Tarix barked out a short laugh, like he could barely contain himself. "Remind you of anyone?"
Kalier's glare stifled any additional chuckles that might be threatening to bubble up in the young man's chest. Suddenly serious, Tarix continued.
"In the tradition of our forefathers, and by the power of the order invested in me, by her skill and promise this trespasser has been invited to join the order in leu of her punishment. She has accepted this invitation." The weight of history bared down on each of Tarix words.
"I acknowledge and support this initiate." Replied Kalier, in the formal way. Before continuing. "And that lying asshole?"
Tarix hesitated. "I gave him a day."
Kalier, despite being bruised and in pain, easily found the strength to sit up and grab Tarix by his collar.
"Are you insane? Did you see its sword? We'll be lucky if that monster doesn't wipe out that town wholesale." Tarix struggled out of her grip as Kalier's volume increased with each word spoken.
"He came from that town Kalier, he used magic, I don't know where or how he found that sword. But there's no way he's chained." Rebutted Tarix, attempting to match Kalier's volume if not her ferocity.
Spluttering Kalier let go of Tarix's collar and fell back to the ground with a sigh. Using her left hand to rub the bridge of her nose painfully hard.
"If you're wrong…" Kalier said, and Ilivar (who had been watching the entire argument from Kalier's side) couldn't suppress a shiver at the thought.
The clay were the monsters that scared children into doing their chores or going to bed on time. Yes, they were a danger, but after over two hundred years of patrolling Death Forest, the hunter order had gotten really good at keeping most of the monsters at bay. Even a village like Ilivar's, pressed right up against the forest's border, had little to fear. Provided the wall was kept strong and the gates were closed at sunset. Of course, the hunter order knew that things were far more precarious than that, but as an innkeeper's daughter Ilivar thought the order to be as immovable an object as the forest they hunted in.
The Chained however, were the monsters you learnt about as you grew older. One's that appeared not in children's stories, but on the lips of adults, whispered from place to place. Rumours whirled around the room whenever one was mentioned. The remains of clay grafted onto the skeletons of humans, controlled by runes etched deep into old bones, carrying swords with rounded tips. The chained were created by a mad king, who had sort to replace the powerful hunter order with an army he could more directly control.
The king, blind to what he was doing, had created demons. One's that looked human but couldn't wield magic. One's that should have been chained from birth, unable to break free, having to follow the orders of their superiors without question and until death. But the chained had broken free, and the army that was supposed to protect had instead wiped out an entire city before evaporating back into the population. Hiding in plain sight, striking in the dead of night, murdering and pillaging. Before disappearing once again. Now the hunters’ order had to fight threats from both without and within. At least that’s how Ilivar understood it. A thought occurred to the young girl.
"If he was chained, why would he keep his sword? Wouldn't that just be a big give away?" She asked the pair of arguing hunters.
It was Tarix who waved her over as he explained, while Kalier continued to glare at his back, as Tarix took Ilivar over to the fallen corpse of the clay.
"When the ritual is performed a hunter gains the ability to absorb the life essence of a clay. This heals, enhances magic, and increases life span. But more importantly, it keeps the clay dead." Tarix gestured to the corpse of the clay Ilivar had killed, and she could see that the black tar of the creature was slowly pooling toward the centre she had destroyed. Gathering itself up in an effort to repair the crushed orb.
"The chained lack this ability, but their swords were specially designed to allow them to do so. Without fresh life essence the chained can only survive for a year or two. While abandoning his sword may allow a chained to more easily hide who they are, it's also the equivalent of signing their own death warrant."
Tarix reached out and grabbed Ilivar's hand gently, pulling a small knife from a pouch inside of his jacket.
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"Usually there's a bit more ceremony to this, it's considered a graduation of sorts, but this fella's not going to stay dead for long. Plus you'll still have to complete your courses at the academy, so you'll still have that graduation ceremony to look forward to." Tarix had Ilivar kneel down into the pool of tar that the clay was leaking with him. The tar was thick and sticky, but was completely scent-less.
"Do you, Ilivar, agree to protect the citizens of Annis against the clay, until either your death or one hundred years have passed?" Tarix asked.
"I do." Replied Ilivar, breathless with excitement and shock. She couldn't believe this was actually happening. Her excitement was dampened somewhat when Tarix drove the knife through the back of his palm and into hers. Ilivar screamed and tried to pull away, but Tarix held her in a vice grip. His strength far surpassing what should have been possible for a human man. With his other hand Tarix reached into the tar of the clay, and his silver eye glowed with the unnatural blue light which had previously lit the clay's orb.
Ilivar's screaming and struggling stopped suddenly, as she felt a warmth unlike anything she had felt before flowing into her from the shared wound Tarix had inflicted on them. The pain subsided, as did her fatigue from the long night she had endured. The warmth continued to flow into her body, until gathering in her right eye. The warmth grew and grew, until it felt almost painfully hot despite the pain reducing effects of the transfer. Just before Ilivar thought she'd start screaming again the transfer stopped, and the warmth flowed out of her as quickly as it had flowed into her.
The light in Tarix's eye faded, returning to its more natural silver state.
Ilivar couldn't have seen it, but the blue light that had been in her right eye too faded away, leaving her with a silver eye that was the perfect match for Tarix's. Her eyes now the instantly recognizable mis-matched pair of a hunter. One a comforting brown, the other a bright and shining silver. Finally able to, Ilivar pulled away from Tarix and inspected her hand, which no longer burned with pain. Much to her surprise and delight her hand had healed completely, not even a scar remained to remind her of the event that had just transpired.
"Welcome to the order." Said Tarix, who was cleaning his knife with a smirk. "Don't worry, you won't have to get stabbed from now on to draw a clay's lifeforce. Now that you're one of us." He gestured to the clay's body, which had deformed now that the power holding it together had finally gave out, being reduced to a clump of brown muck which vaguely resembled actual clay.
Ilivar continued to look between the clay's body and her own hand in shock. Everything was moving very fast for the poor girl, who had dreamed of being a hunter only this morning. Tarix moved over to Kalier, grabbing her hand and using the energy he had just absorbed to accelerate her healing. Removing bruises and the swelling from her shoulder in a mere moment.
"Thank you, but this still doesn't make up for letting a chained go free." Said Kalier.
"Once again, we don't know if he was chained, unless one of them could somehow figure out magic. Besides I didn't let him go, I'm sending the best hunter the order has after him." Said Tarix with a self-satisfied smirk. Kalier simply continued to glare.
"What are you going to do when I'm no longer here to clean up your messes?" She asked.
"Quit." He replied with a laugh.
****
Mar limped through the forest, swearing fiercely. The last thing he needed was a hunter on his trail. This useless town was supposed to be a reprieve from his usual life of fast moving back alley deals and Clay hunts, but he had really gone and gotten himself thrown into the deep end this time. Even if they thought him human, just possessing his sword was enough to warrant suspicion, enough to warrant a hunt. He was supposed to find a lost girl for a free room, now he’d have to abandon his pack, the town, and the kingdom entirely.
Still, as he limped away from the forest, he couldn’t help by crack a wild smile. It had been years since the hunters last got wind of his trail, oh the exhilaration. His heart was pounding in his chest, something it couldn’t do back then. His hands were shaking with adrenaline. Emotions barrelled into him, switching between hot and cold faster than he cared to admit, fear he was used to. But what was this swirling in his stomach? To be known again. To have someone that he didn’t have to lie to about his very existence, even if that person was going to try to kill him.
Was this what humans called butterflies? Amazing. Terrible. He reached the edge of the forest, and the emotions dropped away, the normal cool-headed clarity of day-to-day operations restoring itself as he saw what awaited him on the road leading towards the village.
The road was filled with people, who really weren’t people at all. More foot traffic then the road and village could ever reasonably serve. A wave of brown cloaked hooded figures, as far as the eye could see, their movements too buttery smooth to be human. They should have chewed up the ground wherever they went, cutting swaths into soft soil like an army marching to its destination. But they didn’t. In fact, the tracks they left were light and soft, only really forming a solid imprint during the rainy seasons, where mud moulded around their footstep. The mud never once clung to the military boots that they wore, sliding off as if being washed with water.
They varied in size and shape, seemingly able to mimic large groups of humans, but all wearing the same brown cloak. The same brown travelling pants and slightly faded white cotton shirt. All wearing the same boots. What they wore was simply scaled to fit the size of the thing that was wearing it. If rain or water fell it would drip down them instead of being absorbed by the fabric. The creatures always moved in the same direction as one another, like a mass migration, but that direction changed night in and night out. Always heading somewhere, always following the roads. If the group came to a house or village or town or even a city without a wall surrounding it, they would burn it to the ground.
If the gate on a wall was opened during the night, they would flow in and do their dirty work before disappearing before the sun rose over the horizon. Survivor accounts indicated that they were hollow, with sword blows cutting through them as if cutting through water or air, killing them instantly. Bullets and arrows could do the same, but were never able to over penetrate, only able to kill one of the shadows at a time. They were as quick as the devil when angered, swarming over whoever was resisting, usually dying in droves to kill a single person. Their numbers seemingly never depleting despite the attrition rates they suffered.
What was peculiar though was just how upsettingly passive they could be. If even a rudimentary wall was erected and closed off, they would simply walk around or away from the settlement. They only ever followed the roads, not bothering those in the fields unless attacked first. Those that were brave enough to do so could even travel with them, which was exactly what Mar was about to do.
The rules were simple, wear a hooded cloak, walk in the same direction they were walking and keep the same pace they were keeping. Don’t stop. Never. Ever. Under any circumstances, stop. Mar didn’t know if his limp would give him away when he joined them on the thin path either, he hadn’t tried to do this while injured before. Plus, he hadn’t rested in quite some time now, so this was a bad idea. His hands started shaking again as he forced himself to walk properly, if slowly. The pain was present, but not unbearable. It would have to do.
Mar hadn’t needed to eat, drink or rest once, but as his magic had grown more powerful, he had found himself needing to do all three. Not as often as a human, but it had been sometime since he’d drank anything or slept, so he found himself thirsty and tired before the trek had even really begun. His waterskin was with his pack in the village, as he found the thing cumbersome to sling around his waist. Not a mistake he would make again it seemed.
He angled himself in the direction the shadows were going, moving sidewards towards them as much as he was moving forward in their direction of travel. Slowly approaching them. The hooded figures looked his way as he got closer, but never once faulted or deviated from their march. They didn’t have faces for Mar to see, just inky blackness in their hoods, despite the light of the moon overhead. Mar stumbled slightly as he stepped onto the road, a rock slipping underneath his hurt leg, as every shadow in the area turned to face him in one sickening moment. Those ahead of him moving their heads around completely, without rotating their bodies too, it was unsettling. Mar had seen owls perform similar feats, but something that vaguely human doing it made his skin crawl.
His heart was pounding, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins, his body screaming at him. Begging him to run, run far away from the thousands of creatures. Pleading with him to draw his sword and fight, no matter the odds. The emotions were distracting but faded away slowly as he straightened his gaunt and began walking in time with the shadows. One by one the shadow people looked away from him, resuming their ever-present march, all but one.
The one directly beside him continued to watch, waiting for Mar to attempted to flee, to attack, to stumble and fall. Anything. Waiting for a moment to strike. If it was a beast Mar may have called it hungry. He ignored the presence and continued walking; his long night had just begun.