4
Prey
HUNGER LAY UNDER the towering, fat spruce that grew in his glade and felt some small thing, a very small thing, scratching about the grass on his chest. The Mother had said not to devour the men, but she’d never said anything about small things, so he cracked one eye and spied the creature.
It was a . . .
The name floated away.
He grunted.
The names always floated away. His thoughts continually ran from him. Everything fled before his appetite.
Hunger could smell the creature’s Fire, its tasty little Fire. Not much, not enough for a meal. But enough to taste.
He watched the creature grasp a stalk of grass on his chest and bend the ragged head of seeds to its mouth, but before it could take a bite, Hunger snatched the creature up.
The little thing struggled, but in moments Hunger separated it. The Mother had shown him how to do that down in her cave. Fire, soul, and flesh: these three vitalities made up all living things, even him with his body of earth and grass. The Mother had shown him what bound the parts all together, and then she’d taught him how to pick and pry until the binding unraveled in his hands. Of course, there were some things he had not yet been able to separate. But the little thing he had in his hands, he knew its secrets.
The tiny body he cast away. The Fire he bolted, increasing the hours of his life, but the soul—the soul he nibbled oh so slowly for it was sweet with thought and fear.
Above him a swarm of insects made their comforting click and buzz. Farther up, the tops of the ancient spruce trees moved with a gust of wind. He could smell the Fire in the trees, but their binding resisted him. It was very hard to steal from trees, and he thought that this must be because they had a hunger greater than his. Why else would they hold it so fiercely?
The wind gusted again, and the scent that it carried made him pause.
Could it be?
He opened his mouth to smell it better.
A stink?
He stretched wide his great maw and felt the scent fill him, felt it pool alongside his tongue and down his throat. He began to tremble in anticipation.
Magic. The stink of human magic.
“Mother,” he called. “Mother!”
He’d caught the scent before, but each time he followed it, the trail had vanished before he could find the source. The Mother had told him that was to be expected. He was still young, still growing into his powers. She’d said she made him to smell and see for her, and so there was no doubt that’s what he’d do. It was just a matter of time.
He called again. “It’s strong this time, strong like a river.”
Words came into his mind: “Yes, and can you smell a human female in it?”
Hunger could.
“You are ripening,” the Mother said. “You are ready. Find the female who wields the powers. Bring her and her brood to me.”
“Will you give me some?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“I’ll eat them then,” he said. “I’ll eat them all.”
“You’ll bring them to me, and I’ll know if you take a bite.”
“I’ll eat them,” he said. But he knew he wouldn’t.
Hunger wanted to taste their souls. He craved their thoughts. Even the thoughts of a little thing full of fear tasted good. So what must it be like to feed on a human?
But if he did, the Mother would know. And she would hurt him. She would send him to the others who had asked her if they might lick and nibble bits of him.
No, he wouldn’t tempt himself. He would find the woman and her brood and carry them back whole.
Hunger stood, dirt falling from him to the ground, and lumbered out of his dark glade toward the source of the scent.
* * *
Barg did not want to stand watch around the burning ruin of Sparrow’s house. Not in the dark. Not on this night. The hunt had gutted Sparrow, his horses, pigs, fowl, and dogs: every living thing. All of the organs went into the raging fires of the smithy and home, followed shortly thereafter by the chopped parts of the various carcasses.
Normally, a criminal’s flesh would be left to the vultures and foxes and beasts of the woods. And if no beast would touch it, there were always plenty of maggots. But the hunt dared not leave Sparrow to such a fate. No trace of him could remain. His bones, if any survived the fire, would be scattered on the sea.
They’d obtained a Fire sword from the temple in Whitecliff and used it on Sparrow and his beasts. And that gave them some comfort because a Fire sword, forged by the Kains, severed more than flesh. But they had no Seeker, no Divine with the powers to hunt sleth, to confirm that the soul had fled, and the soul of such a man would be full of wrath. It would linger about. It might even try to possess and ride some weakened man or beast in an effort to exact vengeance. No, Barg did not want to go out. But some things had to be done.
He got up off the floor in front of his hearth. The cups and stones of a game of transfer lay before him. His daughter had just taken her turn and ruined his next move.
Their censer of godsweed had stopped smoking. So he picked up the tongs and fetched a hot coal from the fire. He put the coal in the censer and blew until the weed began to smoke again.
They’d burned godsweed until the air was thick with it. Burned it in every room as proof against the souls of the dead. Even so, Barg did not feel safe.
They’d done a wicked thing today, killing the smith. Everyone had said he’d fought with the strength of twenty men, but Barg had seen it. He’d been there with his spear, and he knew Sparrow had not shown the workings of slethery. The smith was clean, may the Six bless him, which was all the more reason for his soul to seek justice.
The smith’s wife, however, she was something else. She’d probably trapped Sparrow, trapped him like a spider. And like a spider, one day she would have eaten him. The Clan Lord had demanded they keep her alive for questioning. For bait. They placed the King’s Collar they’d taken from the royal house around her neck, laid her in the back of a wagon, and taken her away to the healers.
And it was a good thing, for those that were sent to chase the girl and boy had searched past the river; they’d scoured the woods all the way to the swamps. Lords, they’d even used dogs. But they found nothing. It was impossible—a girl and a blind boy! But the hunt had come back before dark, haggard and empty-handed. That right there was evidence the children knew her wicked ways.
No, Barg did not feel safe, but he wasn’t a coward. He felt a great welling satisfaction, for when others had run today, he had stood his ground, and The Crab had noted it. Barg wasn’t going to ruin that honor tonight.
He looked at his daughter. She grew brighter each day. He was actually trying to win this game against her and failing.
He turned to his oldest son. “You’re going to have to take my place,” he said.
“Why should you go?” asked his wife. “Nobody else will be there. Nobody would dare.” She sat at the table braiding the youngest boy’s hair for bed.
“They will,” he said. “They’re counting on me. But I’ll be back soon enough. And I think I know a way to take this whole bloody mess off of your mind. We’ll go fishing tomorrow.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “Fishing?”
He leaned in close, then whispered in her ear so the children couldn’t hear. “Happy plans will put the children at ease.”
She looked down and said nothing.
Barg kissed her gently on the cheek. Then he considered his girl and two boys. The firelight sparkled in their dark eyes. To think they had played with that woman’s hatchlings.
“I’ll be back soon enough,” he assured them. “We’re taking quarter watches is all.” Then he belted on his sword and picked up his spear. Foss, their hunting dog, rose to go with him, and Barg opened the door.
The smoke in the room curled out into the night. Barg pointed at the children. “You do your chores and get to bed and when you wake up in the morning, we’ll be off.”
“To the river or the beach?” asked his oldest.
They loved the beach. It would be a long day, but it would give them something to think about.
“The beach,” he said. “We’ll roast crabs.”
Then he shut the door behind him. He took a long drink of water from the bucket at the well, then set off down the path that led to the Smith’s ruin, Foss padding along at his side.
Smoke from the fires still hung heavily in the air. At the other end of the village, the last remains of Sparrow’s house smoldered. The fires had burned low, but they still cast enough light to silhouette the barn and outbuildings of the house next to Barg’s.
Barg glanced back at his house a few times as he walked. The shutters were latched and snug. His wife had barred the door. They would be fine.
As Barg got closer to the site, he looked about for the others. There were supposed to be ten men on each watch. Perhaps they were all bunched up behind the barn. But when he rounded the corner of the barn, he found his wife had been right: nobody was there.
A few small fires still licked the last remains of Sparrow’s house and smithy. Barg skirted around the wide area of ash and burning coals, for the whole mess still produced a blistering heat. A small flame rose at the edge of a blackened log close to him only to disappear moments later. He paused. All was silent except for the crackling and popping of the fire. He looked at the surrounding houses of the village.
Cowards.
He’d roust them out of bed, every one.
Then something moved in the shadows at the edge of where the house had stood. Barg peered into the swallowing darkness. A tall man moved aside a charcoal log, kicking up sparks. It looked like the miller. He reached into the hot coals and pulled something out.
“Ha,” Barg called to him, “it’s good to see there’s more than one stout heart among us.”
Foss stopped and began to growl.
Then the man straightened up and turned, and Barg got a look at him in the firelight.
That was not the miller. He was taller than anyone Barg had ever seen, but his arms and legs weren’t proportioned like a man’s; they were thicker than they should be. And his face—it was all wrong. He had a mouth that was dark, ragged, and huge. A mouth that seemed to crack his head in two.
That was no man.
A tuft of hair on the creature’s arm caught fire. It flamed brightly, then receded into red and yellow sparks that fell to the ground. And Barg realized it wasn’t hair. It was grass. Patches all along its arm had burned, some of them still full of dull red sparks. A clump of smoldering grass fell from the creature’s arm to the ground.
Barg saw what the creature held. It was Sparrow’s scorched leg, reduced almost completely to bone.
The creature flung Sparrow’s leg aside and began to walk toward Barg. The ashes and coals of the smithy stood between them, but the creature did not walk around them. It walked straight into the blistering coals, over a tangle of charcoal logs, and through one of the remaining fires. The long ragged grass about its legs began to burn and smoke, but the creature did not waver or cry out.
Gods, Barg thought. Keep your calm. Keep your calm.
The thing’s mouth gaped like a cavern. Its eyes. Lords, where were its eyes? And then he saw them—two pits all askew.
Filthy rot. Filthy, twisted rot! Regret himself had sent this thing.
Barg brought his spear up, took two steps, and, with all his might, yelled and hurled the weapon.
The creature did not flinch or step aside, and the spear buried itself in the creature’s chest.
“To arms!” Barg shouted and unsheathed his sword. “We’re attacked! To arms! To arms!”
There would be others here shortly. And together they would dispatch this monster. All Barg had to do was keep his courage. Keep it like he’d done this morning and not run away.
The creature strode on as if nothing had happened. It plucked the spear out of its chest, like a man plucking straw from his tunic, and flung it into the ashes.
Foss surged forward to the edge of the coals, but Barg took a step backward. He glanced at the homes; nobody had emerged. It was just him and his sword.
The creature strode forward.
Gods, but it was huge. Barg took another step back, and then he turned and fled.
Foss stayed back. He snarled, barked, then let out a huge yelp. A moment later Barg heard the dog running. Barg glanced back. Foss was stretched out, galloping for his life. Behind him, the creature loped after them both, a thin line of fire burning up one of its sides.
Foss passed Barg and ran toward the house. Barg turned and realized he was running the wrong way: he was running away from the other houses and help. But to go back to the houses meant he would have to run back toward the beast.
Then the door to his house opened. The firelight shone into the night, silhouetting his wife standing in the doorway.
“No,” he yelled. “Go back!” But he knew it was too late. The creature surely would have seen her, which meant that now, even if Barg were to change his direction, the monster might not follow him.
“Get the children!” he yelled as he ran into the yard.
“Barg?” his wife said in alarm. Then her face twisted in horror and she backed into the house.
The creature chuffed behind him.
Barg spun around, holding his sword at the ready.
The thing stood not ten paces away. The fire had risen and burned its shoulder and head.
Courage, Barg told himself. All he needed was a bit of courage.
There was movement in the village. Men began to shout, but they ran the wrong way. They ran to the smith’s.
“To me!” he cried. “To me!”
The creature opened its mouth wide and drew in a hoarse breath. It turned its head toward the door of the house.
Barg thought of his daughter, his son, his excellent wife just behind the door. “No, you won’t,” said Barg. “You filthy abomination, you’ll feel my steel first!” Then he let out a yell, and, for the second time today, charged, his blade held high.
The creature turned back to face him.
Barg brought his blade down in a cut that would have cleaved a man from collar bone to belly.
But the creature simply grabbed the blade in midswing, reached out with its free, rough hand, and took Barg by the face.
Barg struggled in its stony grasp. And then he was slipping, twisting, falling into another place entirely.
* * *
Miles away, Sugar crouched in the moon shadows at the edge of the forest and looked across a river at the farmstead of Hogan the Koramite. The man she knew as Horse.
“Is the water deep?” whispered Legs.
“I don’t know,” said Sugar.
“Do you think he will help?”
“This is where Mother sent us,” said Sugar. But in her heart she knew the chances of him helping them were slim. If Horse harbored them, he put his whole family at risk. But if he delivered them to the hunt, he, even as a Koramite, would earn a fortune.
“I think I’m wicked,” said Legs.
“You’re not wicked,” said Sugar.
“I should have listened to the wisterwife.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sometimes, when I held the charm, she would call to me like I was lost.”
Sugar looked at her brother. She’d never heard of such a thing. “She called to you?”
“In my mind. I could see her. She was beautiful. And sometimes I could see something else with her. Something made of earth, dark and wild and . . .”
Sugar waited while Legs found the words.
“Something in her voice,” he said, “it was horrible and wonderful. Every time I heard her, fear stabbed me because I didn’t want someone to think I was like old Chance. I didn’t want to be mad and taken to the altars for hearing voices in my head. And so I never answered. She said that the fullness of time had come. She promised to make me whole. Promised all sorts of things. Lunatic promises. But I was too scared. I think she wanted to help.”
She thought of Mother and her horrible speed, her terrible secrets. All this time they’d thought the wisterwife charm was a blessing, a gift. It was an annual ritual for most people to fashion a Creator’s wreath and hang it above their door to draw the blessings of the wisterwives. The wreaths were fashioned with rock and leaf, feathers and bones. Many set out a gift of food or cast it upon the waters. But Regret had his servants as well. So who knew what this charm really was? That charm could be anything. “You think it was real?”
“I don’t know what to think.” His voice caught. Sugar couldn’t see his tears in the darkness, but he held his head the way he always did when he was in pain.
Sugar wanted to cry with him, wanted to feel overwhelming grief. But she was empty, as desolate as rock. And that pained her as much as anything else. What kind of daughter was it that had no tears for the butchering of her parents?
And what kind of daughter was it that ran? She’d had her knife the whole time. Furthermore, she’d been trained how to use it.
“Da always said you were an uncanny judge of character,” said Sugar. “If your heart tells you to be afraid, then let’s trust it. Da would have.”
Legs leaned into her, and she took him into an embrace, putting his face in her neck and stroking his hair.
Things to act and things to be acted upon. She had a knife. Lords, she’d had at least six, for there were a number in the kitchen. She could have done something. She could have sent Legs to the pheasant house, gone around back herself and surprised that line of bowmen. She could have distracted a whole group of men. She might have tipped the battle.
Why? Why had she run!
And if she hadn’t run, if, beyond hope, she’d tipped the battle, what then? She’d seen Mother. Seen her horrible power.
Legs gently pulled away. “Will we talk to Horse?”
They had no tools to survive in the wild. Besides, an army of hunters would be combing the outer woods, expecting them to run there. If Horse helped them, and that was a desperate if, then maybe they might be able to survive until all but the most patient hunters gave up dreams of a bounty and went back to their normal labors. If she and Legs survived that long, that’s when they would escape.
“I don’t know,” said Sugar. “Let’s just take this one step at a time. Right now we need to find where they ford this river.”