The spellbeast lifted his shoulders in a shrug. He hadn’t been given the ability to talk, but he could understand spoken conversation. The gesture made it clear he wasn’t worried about the ranger’s comment.
Chad kept talking, primarily to calm his nerves. “You’re quiet. That’s what I like about you; you don’t fill the air up with unnecessary noise, unlike most people.” He waved his hands to indicate the others, “Like this lot for example—I should count myself lucky the damned fools are out cold. Otherwise they’d be rattling my skull with their constant yammering. But not you…”
His voice trailed off. He didn’t have a name for the magical creature. Since meeting back up with Moira she hadn’t had a chance to fill him in on such mundane details. “I don’t know what your name is,” he said apologetically, “but no matter, I can come up with one for you.” Cradling his chin in one hand, he thought seriously about it, studying his subject. Man-like torso, horse-like body with some sort of weird concave back for carrying people—hmmm.
“Damn, you’re an odd one, but I’ll keep it simple. Let’s just go with ‘Horse-ass’.”
Stretch didn’t care much. He tilted his head to one side as he thought but then nodded to indicate his approval. It was about then that his limited magesight detected something. Turning his head, he looked around and then pointed for the hunter’s benefit.
“What is it?” asked Chad in a softer tone.
The spellbeast pointed in a second direction, and then a third. Then he closed one hand and put two fingers out, pointing at the ground. He wiggled the fingers while moving his hand from one side to the other. It was moderately clear he was trying to indicate someone running. Stretch pointed again toward the darkness, marking three directions.
Chad sighed, “Three people, coming toward us.”
Stretch nodded affirmatively.
“Thanks, Horse-ass.”
The past day had shown him that for some reason the people being controlled were following Gram, not him. He had already reasoned that it must have something to do with magic, and having none, they had largely ignored him when he was on his own. “If they don’t have true wizard sight, I might be able to hide from them, but they’re being drawn to those two like moths to a flame.”
The spellbeast pointed to itself and tilted his head to one side.
“Yeah, and probably you too, Horse-ass, since you’re actually made of magic,” agreed the ranger. He thought for a moment. “You go stand over Moira. If anyone gets too close, kick them or something. I’m going to walk a little ways off and test a theory.”
Stretch tilted his head again, obviously curious.
Chad smiled, “I’m going to find out if they can see me in the dark. If they can, things will be harder, but if they can’t, I’ll teach them a lesson or two.” He walked in one of the directions that Stretch hadn’t indicated, fingering his knife sheaths, making certain the blades were still there and that they could be easily drawn.
After thirty feet he began to circle his friends’ position in a clockwise manner for a moment before stopping. Then he waited, listening. The starlight wasn’t sufficient for illuminating much more than dark shapes and sudden movement. He crouched, trusting the short grass to keep him unseen. If he was wrong about the perceptual abilities of his enemy, he would be in for an unpleasant encounter.
His ears warned him of the first to approach, and he smiled as he took note of the sound. The poor bastard was trying, with very limited success to run in the dark. A lot of squelching noises punctuated by an occasional heavy thump told him everything he needed to know about whether his enemy could see in the dark.
A dark blob moved against a grey backdrop, and the ranger rose to his feet, walking carefully to intersect the stranger’s course toward his unconscious friends. He stopped once he had found the right spot, and seconds later his nearly blind opponent tried to run over him.
Ten inches of cold steel went in under the man’s ribs, ripping upward to cut through lungs and arteries. The poor bastard thrashed for a moment, but the hunter was thorough, shifting his blade until he had found the heart. The dead man grew still, and Chad moved away, circling a short distance before waiting again.
He caught the second one in similar fashion, but then he heard noises coming from where his companions lay. Rushing back he found a heavyset woman attempting to drag Gram’s limp body in the direction of the city. Stretch remained dutifully standing over Moira’s form, making no attempt to interfere.
The woman heard him coming and turned to face him. Neither of them could see well, and she threw up one arm to ward his first strike. The blade sank into her forearm, passing completely through and catching between the bones. Her other hand caught him solidly in the stomach, driving the wind from his lungs, but it was worse for her. His second blade had found its mark, and he shoved it home, entering from her shoulder, beside the neck.
He fell beside the dead woman, coughing and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. The night air was cold on his skin, so he figured he was covered with blood. Or mud, he corrected silently. Some of the shit on me is probably just mud. No need to be excessively macabre.
Glancing at Stretch, he saw the spellbeast was pointing again, marking four new directions.
“More of them, Horse-ass?”
Stretch nodded.
“This shit is getting old fast,” complained the hunter. Or I am.
The next one was easy, but the last four of Moira’s ex-servants slowed down and banded together before approaching. Chad let them pass by in the darkness, considering his options. He felt reasonably sure he could kill two of them before the others could get their hands on him, but things would get ugly after that. People being controlled by the parasites were stronger than one would ordinarily expect. He still had a persistent ache when he tried to take a deep breath, which served as a constant reminder of that fact.
What I wouldn’t give to have a quiver full of arrows again, he silently complained for what was probably the tenth time.
He knew what he would have to do, not that he liked it. This whole evening reminded him far too much of things he would rather never remember. The nightmares will be back and worse than ever, I expect.
Rushing forward in the darkness, he cut through the back of the leftmost man’s leg, hamstringing him before leaping to one side and racing away into the night. His enemies were slow to react, and by the time he had gone ten feet he was lost to sight again. The cut he had given was a deep one, and the poor fellow would likely bleed to death if it weren’t treated promptly.
The wounded one remained standing, hobbling on one good leg as the four of them arranged themselves with their backs together. The parasites must have realized they were low on manpower, if they were willing to fight defensively.
Which suits me just fine.
Chad moved closer, close enough to verify their position before running away again. He hoped they would be foolish enough to follow, but they disappointed him by remaining together. He’d have circled to finish the wounded one if they hadn’t. Instead, he stayed far enough away that he could just barely see their outlines against the dark horizon. If that fool stays on his feet much longer…
Several more minutes passed, and he saw a hint of motion. He guessed that the injured one had collapsed from loss of blood. Leaping up, he ran toward them. He planned to take one down in his charge and finish a second quickly after. The third one would be messy.
The dim light almost proved his undoing, for he failed to see, until he was already on them, that these three had armed themselves. The one he had chosen for his charge held a modest belt knife as did the one to his right. The third had improvised a club from what looked to be a piece of deadwood.
Chad hated knife fights. Well, he hated them if the other guy had a knife too, at least. The problem was that they never ended well. Often the only difference between the victor and the dead was that the victor just had fewer cuts on him. And I’m outnumbered.
Ducking low, he tried to slip to one side to avoid the first man’s outstretched blade, but the muddy ground betrayed him. Stepping into an unseen hole, he fell forward. He missed skewering himself on his enemy’s blade by pure chance. Hitting the ground, he rolled and kicked out, striking the man behind the knee.
The knife-wielding townsman fell backward and landed full on the ranger’s upraised steel.
The hunter was forced to abandon his blade, as the dying man’s body had it pinned beneath him. Rolling, he avoided the club wielder’s swing. Springing to his feet, he started to run. An escape at this point would be a win for him. He could ambush them again in a few minutes.
Unfortunately he ran headlong into the other man with a knife.
The force of their collision sent both men reeling backward, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Chad felt the pressure of the knife as it struck his ribs on the right side, accompanied by a terrible grinding noise that he could only guess was steel on bone. A wash of dark fluid flowed down his side. There was no pain, but that wasn’t unusual in the flush of battle. The pain would catch up soon enough. He’s fucking killed me.
Recovering first from the shock of their collision, he leapt back in and drove his own weapon home, sinking the long knife in to the hilt, once, twice, and then again just to be sure. “Godsdamned whoreson! How does that feel!” he shouted.
The deadwood club landed squarely across his back—and broke. It hurt like hell, but apparently the owner hadn’t been careful to choose a solid piece of wood. Chad fell forward still cursing and rolled to his feet. His back hurt like hell from the blow, but his wet side gave him no trouble at all.
Feeling his side, he realized that the knife hadn’t pierced him at all. Reaching into his shirt he pulled out the silver flask that until recently had held six ounces of fine whiskey. “Son of a bitch!” he swore, madder than ever.
He jumped sideways to avoid a barehanded lunge from his only remaining opponent. “I was savin’ that!” he yelled. “What the hell am I supposed ta drink now?!”
The townsman ignored his question, rushing him again. Chad danced lightly to one side, cutting a deep line along his foe’s arm as he passed. He was angry, and his anger lent strength to his weary limbs. No, I’m not just angry—I’m pissed! And now I won’t be able to get pissed after this is all done.
The second exchange opened the stranger’s belly, spilling his guts onto the ground even as he wrapped his big hands around the ranger’s neck. Bright lights flashed in Chad’s vision as the pressure mounted on his throat, but his knife arm kept working. The brute’s grip slackened, and Chad pushed him away, gasping for air.
Winded, bruised, sore, and exhausted he sat beside the gory body of his late-enemy. He could feel the mud seeping through his trousers, but he was beyond caring. Addressing the corpse, he spoke, “Serves you right for being so fuckin’ ugly. Your ma would probably thank me fer doin’ her the service o’ puttin’ you outta yer fuckin’ misery.”
His anger was fading, but his irritation only grew. Holding up the damaged flask he shook it gently. There was something left! Opening the cap, he tilted it, careful to keep the torn side upward, and managed to get two good swallows before it ran dry.
Patting the dead man beside him, he apologized, “I’m sorry. I was just mad about me flask. I had no call to talk about yer mother like that.” He paused a second before laughing, “Even if it was true.”
Briefly, he considered removing his shirt and trying to wring the last of the spirits from the fabric into his mouth, but the cool night air had already dried it too much. Doubtless he wouldn’t get more than a drop.
He was still sitting there when a new group of people emerged from the darkness. They had the same dead expressions, but they weren’t the ones that Moira had captured earlier. This was a fresh group. Chad counted at least ten and then gave up.
Smiling sadly, he eased himself to his feet, “Well fuck me. This just ain’t my day is it?”
Chapter 16
Running would have made sense. In the dark it would be nearly impossible to find him, and he already knew they were homing in on sources of magic. Chad could just melt away into the night, forget everything, and keep moving. He could start over; he had done it before.
Hell, it wasn’t as though he had much anyway. Not many people would miss him, the bartender at the Muddy Pig, maybe—and Mordecai. But the Count was likely already dead. Moira had been fooling herself on that matter. That left the Countess, and he had never had the feeling that she was overly fond of him.
Only an idiot would try to fight. There was nothing to gain. Moira and Gram were both senseless. They might be dying already for all he knew. With so many enemies he would be throwing his life away for nothing.
Glancing down, he saw a faint glint. That was where his silver flask lay, empty and discarded. It had been one of his favorite possessions, a gift from a fool, a fool whose daughter lay unconscious not far away. Snatching it up, he slipped it back into his shirt before drawing his long knife once more. He wished he had his other knife as well, but he hadn’t recovered it from the body it was pinned under yet.
“Ye picked a bad day boys! I’m all out of whiskey, and I’ve got nothin’ left to lose,” he said loudly. Not that the enemy had paid any attention. They were almost on him.
Crouching low, he leapt forward, gutting the first to come within reach. A hard slash to his right caught another, and then they had him. Strong hands and heavy bodies bore him down. It was only then that he remembered that they might do something worse than kill him. Shit! I should have run.
Normal men would have beaten him while they had him down. That’s what people did in brawls. It was human nature. People that were riled up couldn’t help but kick a man once he was down. But these foes didn’t do that. They organized themselves and held him still without injuring him any further, and that terrified him.
A rush of air and the thunder of wings announced a new arrival. Searing flames appeared, blinding Chad’s night adjusted eyes with their brightness. The stench of burning flesh filled the night, a smell he had never wanted to experience again.
The ones holding him didn’t let go. They were trying to pry his mouth open.
Then the one sitting on his chest vanished, snatched upward by vast scaly jaws. Cassandra tossed the man like a ragdoll before bringing her head back like a battering ram to knock the ones holding his arms aside. Talons flashed and suddenly the ranger was free. The dragon stood over him and slowly turned her head, sending a steady stream of fire across a wide arc in front of her.
Everything burned.
Chad didn’t bother getting up. He was tired. No, not tired, I’m fucking exhausted. The cold grass and mud beneath him didn’t seem so bad anymore. The inferno that had become the world felt like a warm blanket.
He watched Cassandra’s neck and shoulders as she continued to spew lethal flames. The muscles rippled beneath scales that shone and glittered in the firelight. It was a surreal moment, beautiful and awful all at once.
“Ye’re a lovely girl,” he muttered as she finally closed her jaws and leashed her fire. “If you were a woman, I’d marry you.”
The dragon’s sharp ears caught his words, and she turned her head slightly to one side to look down on him with a worried eye. “Did you hit your head?” asked Cassandra in a deep rumbling voice.
His body ached, so he answered truthfully, “I think I hit everything.”
***
Since everyone had been unconscious, Cassandra had flown them one by one back to the hiding place where she had taken Grace. In the darkness, Chad had been unable to discern much of their surroundings, but now dawn was breaking, and he was surprised to see that she had taken them all the way to the foothills, at least fifteen miles or more from the city. Their camp, if it could be called that, was nestled in a low rocky depression that sheltered between two sizeable hills.
Large rocks broke up the ground at intermittent intervals and moderate tree cover shaded
the area. It was as decent a spot as he might have chosen himself, although if it rained they were going to get wet. There were no opportunities for shelter from rain, at least not until they built some.
Chad’s back started aching in anticipation of wielding an axe to build a lean-to or similar shelter. Correction, it was already aching. It’s just speakin’ up to remind me.
“Damn, I need a drink,” muttered the ranger.
The dragon turned her head to gaze steadily at him once more, “Didn’t you pack something?”
He grunted, “Yeah, but it’s in the big pack. Probably back where we separated before entering the city.”
“No, it’s here,” Cassandra informed him. “Grace and I scouted this place and moved everything here after you went into the city.”
A smile lit his features, “Bless yer dear heart!” Standing, he looked askance at her, “Where is it?”
She ignored the question, “There’s a storm on the horizon.”
“We can put something together after I have that drink.”
The dragon answered with a deep rumble, “Or you can take care of it now. I’ll show you where the pack is after that.”
Chad’s eyes narrowed, and he glared at her. “I need the canvas and rope from the pack—the axe as well.”
“Those you can have, but no drinking until you’re finished.”
He swore for a moment, giving vent to his frustration in a long uninterrupted exhalation of legendary nautical prowess. Then he added a more direct insult, “Yer a slave drivin’ bitch, ye know that?”
She snorted, “You said you wanted to marry me last night.”
“I was bewitched by yer big beautiful dragon ass, but it’s clear to me now that a marriage between us could never work,” he replied with a bitter note of humor in his words. Glancing at their unconscious companions he added, “I wonder how long before one of ‘em wakes up?”
“No way to know. Why?”
“Four young people over there, and this old man has to do all the shit work. I’m startin’ to think some of them are just takin’ advantage of my overly generous nature.”