It was a lucky thing Jacks had slept in his clothes, including his jacket and boots. Though he'd left behind almost everything else. His hunting rifle. His dry rations. His canteen. Worst of all, his ammunition. But it was far too late to go back for it, now. And it was surely a better road ahead than behind.
The further out from the house they got, the taller the grass seemed to grow. Lush and knee-high, crunching under Jacks's boots and moistening his pant legs. Running alongside, Stepton was a loping creature of the night, his torso just barely emerging atop the grass. A gray ghost. His ears flopped and flailed as he ran.
Stepton had such a vast store of energy, at any given time, that Jacks had yet to actually see him truly exhausted. Drowsy, perhaps. Sleepy. But always capable of jumping into action at any moment.
As long as Jacks was running, Stepton would keep pace with him. That was the trick, really. To just keep moving.
There were almost to the treeline. Jacks didn't dare look behind. Superstition dictated that if he did, all he would see was his shrieking pursuer, directly behind him. Or maybe that was just his fear, talking.
He was familiar with danger. He was a hunter of men, after all. But this was something new. Something different.
The air was crisp and cold, with the pleasant musk that comes after a light rain. Jacks's breath came in sharp gasps that raked his throat and left his lungs feeling sore and ice-cold.
They passed into a copse of trees, dodging and weaving amidst the trunks. Moonlight fractured in the forest ceiling, bleeding like silver lamplight through a sieve. The only sounds were their footfalls. Stepton's tramping, padded feet. Jacks's thudding boots, snapping twigs and kicking brush. The wind whistled in his ears, harsh and high-pitched. The impact of every step sent a hard jolt throughout his body. His heart kicked hard inside his chest.
Stepton's harried panting carried, echoing eerily amidst the trees. He was looking sideways at Jacks. Looking to him. Dark eyes, with brown rings in the center. A crescent-moon of white on side as he side-eyed him.
In those eyes, Jacks sometimes swore he could see the reflections of his dead family. They were a portal into the life he'd used to have. Proof that it had all been real. That it had mattered.
If they both died here, today, it would be to all the world as if Jacks's family had never existed.
They were fifty or so paces into the trees when light bloomed in Jacks's peripheral. A bright, incandescent shine that lit up the trees in a radiating orb.
There was nothing either natural or man-made about that light. More spirit nonsense.
The light traveled fast, making pace with Jacks. Then surpassing him. He couldn't get a good look at the source, not while still maintaining his speed and footing. It looped up and around a clump of trees ahead, trying to cut him off.
Jacks veered, steering Stepton, hoping to cut around the spirit. He still couldn't look directly at it, whatever it was. Not without hurting his eyes. The glow was too bright.
Just then, the glow flickered and went out. At the same time, a dark cloud momentarily passed in front of the moon.
The effect was more disorienting than when the bright glow of light had originally appeared. There was no time to adjust to the sudden darkness, dropping like a blindfold.
Jacks squinted and kept running. His boot hit a downed bough and he almost tripped, but managed to keep his feet.
Over seconds, his night vision slowly started to return. To his side, where the glow had been chasing him, he now saw the shadowy shape of a man-like form, racing through the trees. Careening toward him.
Jacks didn't have time to dodge. Wasn't fast enough.
The dark shape impacted Jacks. Strong arms looped around his arms and torso, making a vice.
"Stepton, run!" Jacks managed to get out, just before he and the colliding shape were about to hit the ground. They went sideways through a thorny bush, snapping it in half and sending spiky twigs flying, before they hit the ground, rolling.
Jacks tasted mud in his mouth, and was pretty sure he had inhaled some flecks of dirt in through his nose as well. His head swam, and the world was impenetrably dark, and for a moment, he wouldn't have known up from down except for the pressure of the dark shape on top of him, holding him to the ground.
Too late he thought of his knife. He couldn't reach for it, now. Could barely touch the hilt with the tip of one of his fingers. His arms were pinioned.
He thrashed. Struggled. Tried to butt his captor in the face with the back of his head. Met nothing but thin air. Must have dodged it.
"Call your dog, Jacks."
Jacks froze. The voice was familiar. It was...Darl.
"...what?"
"Your dog," Darl said. "Call him back."
"Why?"
"If you don't, I won't be able to protect both you and your noble animal from Zakuran. And I'd prefer not to have to choose."
Jacks deliberated. Even though he'd only known this man--or whatever he was--for a matter of hours, he trusted him for some reason. More than most people he ran across. Not that this was saying much.
"I have your word that he won't be harmed?"
"I intend to protect the both of you," Darl said. "But if I have to choose, I'm going with the dog."
"I respect that," Jacks said, grunting through the pressure of the weight against his lungs. He whistled for Stepton.
Darl released him and stood. He was wearing a thin, white, loose night robe. Wet and caked with mud in parts, sticking to his legs and torso. His feet were bare. His hair mussed and messy, with a leaf sticking out the back. He held his sheathed rapier tight in one fist. He was alert, watchful, turning about in the cool dark.
Jacks stood, keeping a hand on the hilt of his knife. His hat had been knocked from his head by the impact with Darl. He'd look for it, later.
He didn't so much see Stepton as sense his presence, seconds before his bushy face emerged timidly from the shadow of a tree. No growls. No hackles going up. He seemed to trust Darl.
"Here, boy," Jacks said, patting his leg.
Stepton trotted over. He looked up at Jacks, pulled himself up on his hind legs, with his front paws on Jacks's stomach. Jacks ran a hand over his head and through the fur of his back. He leaned down and kissed his head.
Darl eyed this interaction idly before going back to his more watchful stance.
"So are you going to tell me what exactly you people are?" Jacks said.
Darl wasn't looking at him. "I'm not sure now is the best time to get into it." He glanced over at them. "I'd prefer to know where you are. But if I tell you to run, run. And run together."
"Like we were before you knocked the wind out of me?" Jacks said.
"I'm simply trying to adapt to the situation as it develops," Darl said. "You should do the same."
He suddenly stopped rotating, fixated on something Jacks could neither hear nor see.
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"Stand back," he said. "A ways back from me."
Jacks didn't question him. He put twenty or so paces between him and Darl. He whistled, and Stepton followed him.
Darl fell into a firm stance, feet planted apart, behind and in front. Bracing. Looking a little ridiculous in his muddy pajamas. A bright sliver of moonlight cut down through the branches, giving him the dramatic lighting of a theatre play. He tore the sheath off of his rapier, tossing it. The blade glimmered with a bright sheen that traveled from the hilt all the way down to the tip as he hefted it. It took Jacks a second or two to realize that the light shining on the metal wasn't just from the moon. It appeared to be glowing. At the same time, strands of Darl's hair began to rise, as if statically charged. Defying gravity. His exposed skin began to hum, glowing brilliantly.
Darl had one hand behind his back in a fist. With his other hand he held the rapier vertically in front of his torso and face, tip pointed toward the sky. For several seconds, he remained motionless in this poise.
When he moved, it was with his entire body, and all at once, so quickly that Jacks was barely able to follow it with his eyes.
He tipped, moving the weight of his body forward, and took a step. He thrust three times at the air with the rapier. Three times, beams of light shot from the tip of the blade, shooting forth into the dark. Each long beam made orbs of white light as they traveled through the trees. Each generated massive, whooshing gusts of air pressure, sounding like howls of harsh wind, causing branches to sway, leaves to flutter, and bits of underbrush to snap and crack as they passed.
Somewhere ahead, as the last of the three beams disappeared, there was a loud CRACK, followed by the creak and moan of a tree being downed. Trunk splitting. Fibers crackling and pulling apart. Branches straining and breaking under the weight. Like a cluster of firecrackers igniting. And the great thud of the tree hitting the ground which could be felt almost as much as heard.
"Stay behind me," Darl said, repeating himself. He moved, swiveling in place. Every time he re-positioned himself, Jacks followed suit, keeping directly behind him. "Don't try to intervene. You'll only slow me down."
Jacks didn't argue.
There was a sudden flurry of footfalls, in rapid approach. Loud, each step pounding hard on the dirt. Inhuman speed. The sound of each step blurring into the next. So close together that Jacks's ears could barely discern the difference.
Stepton growled. Barked.
Darl made a horizontal slash with his rapier. Still only using the one hand. A slash of light burst forth, obeying the arc of his swing. It was three times as long as the blade of the rapier itself. A brief, flashing blink in the darkness. Bisecting bushes and slicing open the trunks of trees.
Somewhere in the distance ahead, illuminated by the coruscating light, the shadow of Zakuran leapt over the projectile. Her body flashed as she cut in and out of the bursts of light leaking down through the trees. Her hair whipped and flailed wildly. She held a long, curved sword in one hand, blade periodically glinting with reflections of the moon.
She hit the ground, managing by some inhuman technique to stay at a full run, torso bent forward, the blade of her sword trailing behind her.
Darl followed with a series of horizontal slashes at varying heights. Zakuran bobbed and weaved. Jumped. Dropped, tucking and rolling. Avoiding the missiles. She was close enough now that, as the violent lights traveled past her, Jacks was able to see her face. Her eyes were locked directly on him. Her jaw locked. Brow furrowed. Entire face tense with concentration.
Darl made fast, mirage-like movements, thwarting Zakuran's attempts to get around him. Their blades met, in a flash of light and sparks. They were pressed together. Zakuran was trying to use the momentum to flip up and over him, past him. But Darl kept shifting his position, not allowing her to land, or at least not in between him and Jacks. Zathuran spun, repeatedly making strikes that Darl continued to block, the sheer force of the swordplay keeping her in the air, as if he was juggling her with his sword. She wasn't trapped though, or stuck. She was dexterous, in control of the flow of her body. Patient. Focused. Capable of wearing her opponent down. Meanwhile, Darl's footwork was impeccable, constantly on the move, as if his feet had a mind of their own, freeing him to focus on deflecting Zakuran. He with one hand behind his back, in the manner of a swordsman's duel, and she dual-handing her sword as she twisted and contorted in the air, putting the full force of her body and strength behind the blade.
Darl maneuvered for another block, only this time his blade glowed, stored with energy, and he swung. Light flashed. Zakuran was flung backward, too much momentum for her to stop or redirect. She crashed through a bough, shattering it, and finally slammed into the truck of an elm. Bits of wood from both impacts flew, cascading to the ground.
Darl had already shot forward, hair glowing, floating like white tendrils. The blade of his rapier sank into her chest, impaling her to the tree.
She gasped. One of her lungs must have been punctured.
Darl still had a tight grip on the hilt. He panted, his blond curls falling and swaying in front of his face.
"Just..." he said, between breaths, "Like a Bestial..."
During the entire confrontation, Jacks's feet had been glued to the spot, with Stepton pacing and jumping to and fro behind him. Now, he felt a sense of awe and wonder at the world, and the things that might be discovered in it, as he had not felt since he was a small boy. His parents had relayed tales of the Bestials to him when he was young. Always with the intention of scaring him. Getting him to behave.
Had he just witnessed a fight between two Gods? Not just spirits, but manifestations of the laws and forces of the world made flesh?
Was there any other explanation? Any way to alleviate the hollow feeling in Jacks's chest? The sense that the universe was far more mysterious than he had previously believed, and all the more dangerous for its mystery.
Zakuran's eyes were wide, bloodshot. She grasped at Darl's forearm, trying to get him to release his grip. Muscles flexed in his face and neck and he focused on keep her from accomplishing the task.
"You can't have him, Rathira," Darl said.
This was not the name they had used for her before. But it was a name that Jacks recognized. Even in the age of the Calbreian Church, there were still shrines dedicated to Rathira to be found, even in Jacks's hometown, growing up. As a nation, most of Alverand worshiped Calbreia. Public figures paid homage and gave lip service to her. But as a patron deity, it could be argued that Rathira would align better with the goals and ideals of the people, particularly in the context of the perpetual conflict with Daroven. She was, after all, the Bestial of War.
"I will have him," Zakuran said.
"Not today, you won't. We need him."
"I don't take orders from you."
"Not from me," Darl said. "From Corloff. I'm under orders to restrain you, if necessary."
"Good luck with that," Zakuran said. She heaved, working to pull herself free.
"You're a formidable warrior. Powerful, like a force of nature. But you lack the discipline to hone that power, to focus it. You're clouded by your emotions."
"Maybe," Zakuran said. She leaned forward conspiratorially. "But I'm patient, too. And I never forget anything. You can't protect this mortal forever. You're just wasting time."
"Zakuran." Corloff emerged from the darkness, fully clothed except for his hat. His hair had some mess to it, appearing windswept. He ran a hand through it. "I'm beginning to see the limits of your usefulness to me."
There was a sudden, stark shift in Zakuran's demeanor. All fight, all defiance, had leaked out of her completely. All her focus was on Corloff. Like he was the only person that mattered, now.
She looked exactly how Jacks had felt as a child, whenever his father stood towering in the doorway to his room, a switch in his hand. A punishment due for his disobedience.
"You need me," she said. Her voice was soft. Plaintive. It was like a question.
"Right now," Corloff said, "I need him more." He was pointing at Jacks.
Zakuran swallowed. Adjusting to this new shift in circumstances. "What do you want me to do?"
Corloff's hands were in his pockets. He gave Darl a subtle nod.
Darl immediately pulled, yanking the blade of his rapier free.
Zakuran made a sound a lot like a hiccup. She fell onto her knees.
Darl made a slashing motion in the air with his sword, causing pools of blood on the blade to splatter, spotting some grass and a nearby tree.
From her kneeling position, Zakuran stared up at Corloff, who removed a hand from his pocket to gesture in Jacks's direction.
She looked at Corloff again. Corloff nodded. And then he became a statue. Apparently, all the necessary instruction had been relayed.
Her focus shifted. Back to Jacks. To the same place where this had all started to begin with. With her strange fixation with him. Something he couldn't even begin to understand.
A dark rivulet of blood coursed from her gaping wound, along her belly and things and onto the grass. She began to crawl, on her hands and knees, taking harsh breaths that made rattle sounds deep in her chest and throat.
No one assisted her. Even Jacks resisted the urge to help her up, despite everything. He pitied her the way he would pity a ravaged wolf, alone and bleeding in the woods. But he also knew that if she got her hands on him, she might take the chance to hurt him.
She stopped three paces in front of him. She frowned. Working up the willpower to do something she didn't want to.
"Forgive me," she said. It didn't sound much a question. More like a demand. But perhaps it was the best she had to give.
"For what?" Corloff cut in, before Jacks could answer.
Zakuran's jaw tensed, working. Summoning yet more willpower. From who knew where. "For attacking you, our guest."
"And him," Jacks said, indicating Stepton, who was brushed up against his leg. He kept a tight grip on the hilt of his knife.
Zakuran inclined her head. "And the dog."
An awkward pause followed this. All parties waited on Jacks's answer.
Normally, he wasn't one to tell lies. He had promised his mother he wouldn't be a liar. A man's worth was measured by his word. But he would have to go against this code, at least this once. If he wanted to ensure the man who murdered his family wouldn't go free.
"You are forgiven," Jacks said.
He could tell, from the wounded woman's expression, that she didn't believe him. As if he had believed her apology, anyway.
"Jacks Wellick," Corloff said, "You have my word, and hers, that this occurrence will never repeat itself. While I wish it hadn't happened, and I may be partially complicit, having failed to foresee and prevent it, I hope that you won't take it personally. Think of it as an initiation."
He paused, trying to gauge Jacks's reaction to this. Then, "Welcome to the club, Jacks."