The floating sphere of ebon’stone slowed its spin and settled into the d’warf’s pale hands. Spats of crimson bloodfire still skated over its black, polished surface, and veins of silver could be seen in arcs of jagged brilliance on the surface of the ebon’stone talisman.
“Are you ready to accept the Sacrament?” the d’warf asked. His eyes searched them, his gaze squirming over them like a blind river eel. He judged their worth.
“Yes, Lord Torwren,” they both recited. “Our bodies we give to you.”
The d’warf rose on gnarled legs. “Then come and accept your master’s reward.” He held the ebon’stone toward them.
Crawling on hands and knees through the mud, they approached the talisman.
“Come,” Torwren urged, his voice a raw scab. “Give up your cool flesh for the heat of the hunt. Lord Gul’gotha has need of your talents tonight. Other elementals have entered Shadowbrook. They must be found and brought to Rash’amon for the Sacrament.”
Ryman felt a twinge of jealousy at the d’warf’s words. He did not care to share the secret rites deep under the Keep with anyone but his own brother. Still, his eyes were full of bloodfire and ebon’stone. He could not resist obeying.
The Pack was hungry for the hunt. The hunt meant blood.
The two brothers each raised a muddy palm to the talisman. Ryman pressed his flesh against the cold stone and knew he touched the heart of his master. He felt his bowels loosen and his bladder give way. It did not matter. The heat of his spirit was drawn into the stone.
To complete the Sacrament, Mycof closed the circle. He reached with his free hand and took Ryman’s fingers in his own. The two brothers were now linked, both together and to the stone. With the touch of flesh on flesh, the spell was complete, and the Pack was called again into the world.
Ryman stared at his brother as the spell took hold of their bodies. It was like looking in a mirror. How handsome he was! Ryman grinned as the pain ripped into his body. He watched Mycof’s skin ripple and knew his did the same. Black boils the size of bruised thumbs arose upon their pale skin. Mycof matched his brother’s white-lipped grin.
The Pack was coming!
Soon a thousand boils marked their flesh on face, arms, chest, belly, buttocks, and legs. Mycof watched one especially large growth on his brother’s left cheek ripen and stretch as what lurked within the boil struggled to start the hunt. The boil burst with the tiniest spray of blood. Mycof felt a similar sharp eruption near his own right nipple. It felt like the bite of a wasp.
Soon a storm of wasps stung their flesh.
The twins moaned in the ecstasy of the Sacrament.
From the boil on Ryman’s cheek, a black, segmented worm coiled forth. It stretched and waved from its burrow. Soon hundreds of others were doing the same. Mycof stared in awe at the beauty of his brother; tears rose in his eyes at the sight. His brother’s naked pale flesh was festooned with hundreds of the writhing, questing tendrils of blackness. Mycof knew his own body was gifted with the same dark beauty.
Ryman’s and Mycof’s eyes met, and they knew it was time.
Like leaves falling in autumn, the worms dropped from their burrowed nests and fell to the watery mud with small splashes and plops. There, the sweet creatures drank the brackish waters and ate the river’s mud, swelling as they consumed their meal. Soon spiky hair sprouted and grew along their squirming lengths. Small clawed limbs burst forth from the sides to lift them from the mud. Red, beaded eyes and whiskered snouts grew forth to end their blind grubbing, and pale, scaled tails whipped back and forth, anxious for the hunt.
Pocked and bleeding, the two brothers stared proudly at the army of rats that lay around their knees. The Pack was ready.
The d’warf lord spoke. “It is done. Let the hunt begin.”
With his words, the two brothers fell backward into the mud as their minds entered the Pack. Mycof and Ryman were now one with their offspring, a thousand eyes, a thousand sharp teeth hungry for blood. They sent the Pack flowing up the steps of Rash’amon, spreading out through the hundreds of cracks in the ancient stones. Scurrying forth from the Bloody Pike and out through the Keep, flowing, rippling in all directions, they reached the streets of the sleeping town of Shadowbrook.
Deep under Rash’amon, though, the two brothers still lay sprawled in the mud. Their eyes were now blind to the d’warf leering over them, yet their ears could still hear him.
“Go,” he whispered as he crouched over them, his thick lips brushing the edges of their ears. “Bring me the magick.”
AS TOL’CHUK HAULED a barrel of water across the warehouse, he felt a prickling atop his foot. Glancing down, he discovered a fat river rat crawling over his clawed foot. Disgusted, and already in a foul temper at being left in the warehouse, he kicked savagely at the rat, meaning to gut it with a claw, but the sleek creature was too quick and skittered away with an annoyed squeak, as if offended that the og’re should get in its way. He scowled at its retreat. He hated rats. With the river only a few blocks from the town square and with the warehouse mostly empty, the foul creatures competed for residence in the hollow, raftered building.
Fardale stood at the open doorway that led to the horse yard and swung his nose toward Tol’chuk. The treewolf was a black outline against the sea of fog that had rolled in from the nearby river. The roiling mist was like a living creature, more substantive even than the ghostly images of the neighboring buildings. As if swallowed by the great white beast, the nickering and stamping of the horses were the only signs that the yard was occupied by anything but the occasional bold rat.
In the weak light cast by the two oil lamps in the warehouse, Tol’chuk saw the treewolf’s hackles raise in a ridge along its neck and back. With his eyes aglow, Fardale sent to him: Carrion lays spoiled on the trail.
Tol’chuk crossed to the wolf, the water barrel still clutched under one arm. He knew better than to dismiss Fardale’s keen senses. Beyond the doorway was just a wall of fog. “What do you scent?”
Fardale raised his muzzle to the slight wind that blew in from the night, then glanced up to the og’re.
An image of spiders appeared in Tol’chuk’s head. He knew Fardale was not referring to the ordinary spiders nesting in the rafters feasting on flies and moths. Tol’chuk scratched one of the many scars that pocked his thick hide from the old healed bites of the Horde.
“Be there another demon?” he asked.
Fardale’s eyes glowed. A wolf sniffs many scents near a watering hole . . . a swirl of odors, too many to make clear.
Tol’chuk tightened his grip on the water barrel. The treewolf was not confident of his abilities among the myriad smells of the bustling town. “Perhaps we should bring the horses inside. Caution would be wise this odd night.”
Fardale’s answer appeared in Tol’chuk’s head. It was the image of Er’ril. The wolf wondered if they should raise the alarm among the others.
Tol’chuk grimaced. A moment ago, he would have welcomed any excuse to go to the inn and join the others, but was Fardale’s vague sense of unease reason to abandon his post? What could he tell the others except that the wolf smelled something his nose could not identify? The same had been true for himself when he had first entered Shadowbrook. The town was a swamp of unusual odors and scents.
He pondered his choices until the horses in the yard erupted in a sudden flurry of panicked whinnies and striking hooves. Blinded by the fog, Tol’chuk and Fardale froze. The horses, lost in the fog, sensed or saw something.
As Tol’chuk and Fardale tried to pierce the veil of mists, a huge black shape swelled up directly before them. They scattered backward as a horse flew between them into the warehouse. It was Mist, the girl’s mare. The horse’s eyes were rolled white in panic, and the beast’s lips were frothed with fear.
Tol’chuk backed from the doorway after the horse. “Fardale, go to the inn! Warn the others!”
The treewolf retreated with the og’re deeper into the warehouse. His eyes glowed f
or a brief instant toward Tol’chuk: Two wolves, back to back, hold off the hungry bear.
“Yes,” Tol’chuk argued, leading the way to a side door. “But eight wolves be even better, especially if they have swords.” He kicked at the door, not bothering to search for the lock’s key. Planks splintered, and the door crashed wide. “Get me help!”
Tol’chuk turned away. Fardale hesitated at the open doorway, but Tol’chuk refused to allow further contact.
The wolf vanished out into the fog in a whisk of shadow and fur.
Tol’chuk noticed the mare retreat to the farthest, darkest corner of the warehouse, but his attention stayed focused on the door to the rear yard. Fingers of fog probed into the warehouse, questing tendrils that slid along the floor and curled toward the roof.
Furtive movement up in the rafters caught Tol’chuk’s eye. Tol’chuk ducked, then realized it was only a line of small rats whisking in a column along one of the oaken beams, scrambling away from the foggy doorway. Something had spooked even these wily creatures. He began to glance away when one of the rats tumbled from its perch to strike the dirt of the warehouse floor. Its pelvis cracked with a quick snap, but still it tried to drag its carcass away from the door, away from the fog, tiny claws digging at the dirt.
What was happening? The rats above panicked, climbing over each other, squeaking in fear. Two more rats fell from above. Their necks were mercifully broken by the fall, their struggle over.
Still the broken-backed rat fought to flee, squeaking its alarm. Tol’chuk crossed and stood over it. Its panicked squeals rasped Tol’chuk’s raw nerves. It was making too much noise, masking the approach of whatever lay out in the yard. He brought his clawed foot up to squash it, but the small rat’s nose swung toward the og’re. Its tiny black eyes were full of pain and fright, and a keening whine flowed from its throat. Tol’chuk hesitated, his foot hovering over the beast. Finally, he gritted his teeth and lowered his foot, leaving the rat untouched.
Tol’chuk cursed himself. He had been among these humans too long. Bending over, he scooped up the injured rat. He hated rats, but he hated more to see something so small and frightened suffer. Unsure what to do with it, he finally dropped the quivering beast into his thigh pouch. As it settled inside, the rat’s constant squeaking stopped. It had sought a place to hide and had now found it.
As the warehouse grew quiet again, Tol’chuk turned to the doorway. The other horses were out there. Tol’chuk crossed and retrieved one of the oil lamps. In his other arm, he still carried the water barrel. Its weight and solidity gave him some anchor against the tenuous menace within the fog.
Raising the lantern, he approached the open doorway. He finally noticed that the horses in the yard were now silent. Even the rats above had either fled the warehouse or found a place to hide. It was as if the fog had dampened all noise as well as it masked the views.
His rasping breath was the only sound in his ears as he reached the open doorway. He held the lantern out into the night, but the fog just became that much thicker, a billowing white cave around his light.
Then, as if an emissary from the fog, a single rat stepped within the sphere of Tol’chuk’s lamplight. Yet the word rat was a poor description for the mud-slick creature before him. Whereas the creature in his pocket was brown furred and the size of an og’re’s fist, this beast was as black as the pools of flaming oil deep under the caves of his home and as large as his own head. Yet the most menacing of its features were its red eyes. They shone toward him, not with the reflected light of his lamp, but with an inner fire, as if blood itself were the oil of its flame.
It hissed at him, instantly raising every stubbled hair on Tol’chuk’s body. The demon rat—and there could be no question that that was what stood before him—crept toward him, nose raised as if smelling not only Tol’chuk’s odor, but scenting his very spirit.
Tol’chuk backed a step, then tossed the water barrel at the creature. His aim was sure, and the barrel crashed atop the rat. Water splashed, and broken slats scattered. The rat stepped out from the ruins of the barrel, unharmed and more determined. Its red eyes glowed with a deeper intensity. As their gazes met, Tol’chuk heard the whispered screams and ancient cries of the dying in his ears. He felt something of himself being drawn within those fiery eyes. Beyond the screams, he now heard wild laughter, two voices sharing a wicked delight. Tol’chuk’s vision began to dim as he was drawn into a world of bloodstained towers and the wails of the lost.
Then a sudden agony gripped Tol’chuk’s chest, hooks of fire tearing his heart.
Tol’chuk gasped but knew this pain—the Heart of his people called. Yet he had never felt it so strongly. His numb fingers dropped the lamp with a tinkling crash. Flaming oil splashed his thighs and the frame of the doorway. The agony tore Tol’chuk back from the sucking pit of the demon rat’s eyes. He stamped and patted the flames from his skin, but his own bones still ran with an inner fire.
Struggling to breathe past the pain, Tol’chuk backed in stumbled steps. His fingers fumbled to his thigh pouch, seeking to free the Heart. His hand closed over the stone. The Heart had once protected him against an assault by the og’re who had killed his father. Maybe it could help here.
He yanked the stone free, expecting its blazing red light to blind his eyes. He held the stone forth and stared with despair. The Heart was dull: no fire, no glow, not even a flicker. He sensed the horrible truth through his fingertips.
The Heart was dead, its magick gone.
By now, the rat had reached the doorway. Its sleek blackness and red eyes were lit by the spreading flame from the burning lamp. It seemed to have grown larger. Behind it, a score of other rats, twins to this one, crawled out of the fog, eyes afire. They all stared at Tol’chuk, hundreds of pinpoints of fire.
He could not resist them, not so many. Unaware, Tol’chuk fell to his knees. His vision dimmed again.
Ancient screams and savage laughter filled his ears.
16
ELENA STARED AT Mycelle, forgetting for the moment the strands of moss that bound her left hand. She studied the planes of the woman’s face and the crossed scabbards on her back. Mycelle had once been like an aunt to her, but now it was as if a stranger stood before her. She could not reconcile her childhood memory of “Aunt My” with these poisonous revelations of the role she had played as a seeker of the Sisterhood.
While growing up, Aunt My had been one of the few womenfolk who shared Elena’s interest in the hidden paths and secret treasures buried among the mundane orchards of her valley home. While others tried to interest her in needlecraft and cooking, Mycelle had walked with Elena, hand in hand, through the fields. They had had long talks, and Elena had enjoyed how her aunt treated her like an adult, not holding back, honest in all regards, teaching her about her life and even bits of woodlore. She had showed Elena how to move quietly through the trees to peek at a family of deer; how to start a fire with only a stick and a bit of twine; which wild plants were safe to eat, which healed, and . . . and which would make one sick.
Elena remembered and suddenly shuddered. Leaf of hemlock, root of nightshade. Even then Mycelle had known so much about the natural poisons of the world.
Mycelle, always keen eyed, noticed Elena’s distress. She placed a hand on Elena’s shoulder, and when Elena tried to pull away, she held her tight. Her words, though, were for the others. “I want everyone out of here,” she said smartly. “Plans on how to deal with the ill’guard will wait a few moments.”
Er’ril, of course, objected. “If there is danger, we need to leave now.”
“Rash actions will only draw eyes and risk all. Presently the ill’guard do not seem aware of Elena, or we wouldn’t be speaking now.” Mycelle stared Er’ril down. “Tonight we plan; by dawn’s light we move.”
Er’ril seemed about to argue further.
Mycelle’s razor voice softened its edge. “Up to now, you have done well in protecting Elena. I can’t fault any of you on this. But not all wars
are won with swords and magick. Some battles turn on the strength of a heart. And there are words I sense Elena needs to hear, woman to woman, before she continues. Give me this moment alone.”
Elena finally spoke. “Please Er’ril, do as she asks.”
Er’ril stood with his lips drawn thin. He did not like this. Kral stood up and laid a hand on Er’ril’s arm. “We could at least pack up the other room.”
Meric and Mogweed were already standing, too. “And we’ll go fetch our dinners,” Meric said, nodding to include Mogweed. “Planning works best on a full stomach.”
Er’ril’s shoulders finally relaxed, and he nodded. “Fine. You have your moment.” The four men filed out of the room. Er’ril was last. He glanced back before shutting the door. “But only a moment.”
Mycelle bowed her head slightly, both acknowledging his words and conceding her thanks.
Er’ril shut the door. “Keep it locked!” he yelled through the thin pine planks.
Mycelle shrugged off her scabbards, then sagged and collapsed beside Elena on the bed. “How have you put up with him this long?”
The way Mycelle rolled her eyes and her expression of tired amusement touched old memories within Elena. Here was the woman she knew from her past, not the iron-blooded warrior from a moment ago.
“Aunt My . . .” Elena did not know where to begin.
Mycelle turned to face Elena. For the first time, Elena saw the deep wrinkles that now marked her aunt’s face and the tired, bruised eyes. Her journeys across the lands had cost her more than her brave words had revealed.
Mycelle reached with both palms to cup Elena’s cheeks and sighed as she stared into Elena’s eyes. Then one of her hands lifted to finger Elena’s shorn and dyed locks. “Your beautiful hair,” she said sadly.
“It . . . it’ll grow back,” Elena said, glancing down.