A Fray of Furies, page 13
part #2 of The Waking Worlds Series
Her breath stalled.
Even from afar, he appeared haggard. She watched him raise his eyes toward the beacon that was their camp smoke. He must have been tracking them all this time. She still had a Hunt!
She felt her heart leap and she joined in.
“Here!” she waved her arms furiously. “Over here! Here!”
Stupid tears threatened her.
Beside her, the krin growled quietly.
Below, the tribesman spun toward something she couldn’t hear. The crack of wood only reached her a moment after the bulkbear came barreling from the trees. Deepmeadow steel, honed to near illegibility, flashed in the sun – and went spinning away across the ice. The spreading stain seemed somehow surreal, the screams arriving thin and thready, drowned by the hammering of her heart.
In the loud silence that followed, the beast raised its head toward their camp. It trailed a red wake, pointed right at them.
“We have to move,” she squawked. “Now!”
She raced, stuffing their meager supplies in her bag. Despite her opposable thumbs, panic made a mess of her untethering the krin.
“Come on!” she dragged it off its perch to plunge into the trees.
They left the pheasant to burn.
She set a grueling pace. Fear overrode the objections of her sore muscles and shrugged off the snagging underbrush.
There were tales of this: of a bulkbear, fixating on a Hunter. The beasts could outlast ponies and dig through stone, so neither running nor hiding would work. They had to either kill it or shake it from their trail. And she had no time to build either a pitfall or a raft. Their only option was to reach the river and try to drown their scent. And wasn’t that a bleak prospect?
If they lost their feet to frostbite, she thought bitterly, at least they wouldn’t have to run long.
Her thighs were agony. Beside her, the krin’s gasps were barely audible above the clangor or its bonds. It kept cocking its head at their backtrail, hearing pursuit too faint for her ears.
“Dammit!” she swore as they were brought up short. The ridge rose above them, about four man-heights of sheer stone.
She propelled the krin by its scruff, slapping at the wall.
“You have to climb!” she implored. “Climb!”
So saying, she let go of its chain and found herself two handholds. Gritting her teeth, she struggled upward. She soon found that, despite its appearance, the edifice was mostly dried clay. It crumbled unexpectedly beneath feet and fingers.
Behind them, a procession of branches were breaking.
Her haste made her careless. She rent a clod from the clay face. The sudden slip saw her toes sliding from their grooves. Grit scattered as she dangled, one-handed, from a gnarled root.
She bit down on her panic, scrabbling for purchase. Her Hunter’s armor dragged at her. The handhold gave by a hair–
And something pressed up against her sole.
The krin had maneuvered itself under her.
Closer now, branches snapped in frenzy.
Swallowing her shock, she braced a foot on the offered shoulder and shot upward. They climbed in tandem, scaling the rest in short order. She half-dragged the krin over the lip and upright.
She’d expected to find some human-like awareness in its face–
Its tether – still dangling over the ledge – shot taut. They were both bowled over, dragged bodily back toward the drop-off, where the chain was cutting a groove in the dry rim. She gasped as her head was hauled over and she saw the bulkbear below, chain in its maw. The rearing brute bore down, trying to reclaim the ground with all four feet. Choking, the krin’s frame threatened to slide out from beneath her. She held it tight, pebbles digging into her skin.
The chain was tangled in the selfsame roots that had saved her.
The bulkbear pounded the rock with its oversized forepaws.
The krin gurgled in her ear.
“Ancestors!” she swore. Not stopping to think, she rolled, drawing the krin atop her. It gasped, iron collar biting into its nape instead of its windpipe. Her bow stave dug painfully into her back. The krin braced its hands on either side of her. However strong it was, it wasn’t going to win at tug o’ war with a bulkbear. The beast would soon rip up those roots and then it would have them, too.
Her mind raced. She’d effectively trapped herself beneath the krin. She could no longer see the bulkbear, nor hope to hit it with either arrow or sling-stone.
If you can’t move the bolt, her father advised, move the bull…
“Ancestors, witness,” she prayed, breaking the thong that held the collar’s key about her neck. They slid another hand’s breadth. The chain stopped sawing at the clay, switching to her shoulder. The links bucked in time to the bulkbear’s pounding, hammering at her head and hand. Almost, it sprung the key from her grip. Through gritted teeth, she quested under the krin’s chin...
Click!
The collar bludgeoned her on its way past. A great weight lifted, replaced by purple spots. Thinking she might vomit, she rolled over. Below, the bulkbear beat the ground in its frustration. Trailing madness and murder, it loped off into the trees.
“Yah,” she drawled, feeling fuzzy, “you’d better run…”
The world pitched and her ears rang as she stumbled to her feet.
She struggled to focus on the krin, fearful of how this abrupt emancipation might affect it. But it stood, docile as ever.
“Come along,” she slurred. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”
She felt their every footfall reverberate behind her eyes but she refused to slow. The krin coughed now and again, its neck bloody, but did not seem otherwise discomfited. It kept pace easily.
“Hardy bastard,” she swore in an undertone.
Spurred by fear, they reached the river before midday. Her knife’s pommel struck a dull tone off its icy cover.
“Thick,” she pronounced, heart sinking.
There was nothing to do but follow it. Hopefully, it would break up, further downstream – away from the hills, where it got more sun. She led the way, the krin at her heels. She kept to the riverbank regardless, not wanting to trust the ice this close to spring.
Her breath burned and she stumbled often. She was at her limit. At this rate, she was more likely to drown in open water than wade through it.
“Let’s rest a moment,” she gasped at no one in particular.
She took some small consolation from the krin’s heaving chest. Despite that, it stood straight, steam curling off it.
“I’ll have to start eating pheasant beaks,” she complained.
A twig snapped.
The krin spun.
With indomitable slowness, the brush parted around the bulkbear’s head. It was even more grotesque than she remembered: the burnt half wept puss, shedding crusts of grey flesh. The empty eye pit roiled with maggots, the other with murderous intensity.
She retreated, slowly – as if that might help. Grabbing a fistful of furs, she pulled the krin and its pitifully human growls with her.
The bulkbear slid silently after them, keeping pace.
Down the bank they padded, onto the ice. Her tribe’s totem was the pike. Perhaps the river could convey some of her ancestors’ aid, she thought, gingerly unslinging her bow.
Blowing excited little breaths, the bulkbear sped.
The krin’s charge took it (and her) completely by surprise. The blow landed. Maggots spewed across the ice. Instinct intervened.
Faced with what its nose told it was a bigger, meaner predator, the bulkbear reared. Few things could help but be intimidated by the sight: on its hind legs, the brute seemed to triple in size.
She sent her first arrow winging toward its exposed belly. The stone arrowhead bounced harmlessly of thick pelt.
“Hoary bones!” she cursed, reaching for another.
The krin danced, dodging clumsy swipes. A spectacular feat, given the treacherous footing. Even as she thought this, the krin sprawled. The bulkbear pounced.
“Dammit!” she denied, watching the krin’s legs flail.
Her second arrow shattered off the brute’s ribs.
And then the krin was sliding toward her, twisting to right itself mid-skid. She watched in astonishment as it rose, one bare shoulder only shallowly scored by teeth.
A cloak went flying from the bulkbear’s jaws as it whirled, stomping the ice and issuing its whining challenge at them.
Leaning into it, the krin roared back.
Startled, her third shot went wide. The bulkbear skipped back at this unexpected turn too. Because it was a true roar. A sound no human throat could hope to produce.
The krin staggered to its knees, seal flaming to life across its back. The heat pouring of it hit her, along with a searing idea.
She dropped her bow.
“Ancestors, look away,” she prayed as she drew her knife.
As Herald, she held all keys to the krin’s freedom– including the sorcerous ones. She had no Hunt to dance the unbinding. The blessed drums and rattles, sacred salts and powders, were strewn across a mountainside. But she stamped her feet and raised her voice. She sliced her palm and squeezed red reagent from her fist.
The bulkbear circled them, wary. At the smell of her blood, it gathered its legs beneath it. The krin snarled a warning.
Grating out her hurried song, she stepped forward. Her bloody print bisected the back tattoo.
The bulkbear charged.
A bonfire of heat pummeled her from her feet. Her head bounced off the ice, echoing a massive crack, as of splintering bone. Far-off figures cavorted on her periphery. She shook her head. Dazed, she thought she saw the boneless bulkbear, tumbling like a stuffed toy. Beneath it, swinging it by its scruff and its arch, was the man-skinned krin. Its roar of victory bounced off the mountains.
Don’t, she thought.
The krin swung the carcass down.
Plates of thick ice peeled up. Water fountained to claim them both. She dove, sliding across slick ice, hand outstretched…
“Gotcha,” she mussed, clamping on to its forearm before the river closed over its head. Nose-to-nose, an expression of very human shock crossed its face.
Then the ice beneath her surrendered with a snap and she tumbled into the frigid current.
PART II
The Recollected Adventures of Eris Bolk – Master Swordsman
Chapter Three, The Flaming Gorgon
Author Unknown
Word of the deeds and prowess of the swordmaster raced ahead of his wandering. Not to be tempted by the pleasures of pillage, here was warrior who was a friend to the common folk. Farmers and fishers and thatchers sought him out. Bandits and marauders slunk away at his mention. Wherever he walked followed justice and peace.
And so it came to pass that word of the flaming gorgon was brought to the great warrior’s ears.
A shepherd, named Jepta, climbed to the top of the mountain where the swordmaster rested.
“Master, I have found you!” the shepherd cried joyously, for he had been searching for many days.
“I am the master of only my sword and myself. I shall never again be a master of men,” the warrior said.
“Then what shall I call you?” the shepherd wondered.
“What do you want of me?” the warrior asked.
“My village and my neighbors are beset by a great terror. A beast that braves our forests and our fields and our flocks. But it hungers not for the flesh of the hind or the herd. It sniffs out our hearths. Nightly, it treks through our village, pounding on our doors, hammering on our roofs. Flame follows with it, setting our thatch alight. Those who flee the fire are pursued into the night, never to be seen again.”
“You wish me to slay this beast,” the warrior declared.
“I beg it,” the shepherd prayed.
“Then call me Slayer,” the warrior commanded, rising to buckle his sword.
The two traveled together, down the mountain and across the river, skirting the Great Wood.
“Who have you brought to save us?” wailed the people of the village when they saw him.
“I have brought the Slayer,” Jepta said.
The village feasted the good news all day.
When night drew near, the swordmaster bid them light thirteen great bonfires, arrayed in a circle. When they were ablaze he stepped into their center.
“Go now,” he instructed the villagers. “Lock your doors and hide. Do not come out until morning. If the dawn finds me fallen, gather your kin and flee. For then, truly, this place shall be damned.”
The villagers did as bid and the warrior settled to wait.
The moon had sunk below the high hills before the creature appeared.
Its call rang across the hills, forlorn and fraught with terrible loneliness.
As it neared, the pyres closest to it dimmed, their fire consumed by the beast.
“Ah,” the hero cried when he saw its skin alight. “I see now why you search the night. You are far from home, with no way to return. Still, you are drawn to the warmth of the hearth and of the heart. Though you may gorge yourself upon them, it is not fare meant for you. And so you starve.”
The creature’s terrible cry rent the sky in response.
“I see the hunger has driven you mad,” the hero said, unsheathing his sword. “Yours shall be a death of mercy.
“Come, creature,” the warrior invited. “Find peace upon the edge of my blade.”
The gorgon flung itself upon the swordsman, its eyes ablaze and its skin afire.
The battle was hard fought, for though the teeth and the claws of the monster could not reach past the legendary sword, its edge could find no purchase on the flaming hide. Finally, when his sword burned red hot, the hero’s plan was revealed.
The first light of the new day dazzled the creature, for they had fought throughout the night. The hero swung for the shrieking monster’s maw, where the skin was thin. He lopped off its head.
And so it fell at the hero’s feet.
The villagers sang as they saw the evil slain.
“What shall we do with the creature’s carcass, Slayer?” they asked.
“Its eye shall guide me on starless nights. From its hide I shall fashion armor immune to steel and flame. As for the rest, anchor it beneath running water.”
“Where shall you go now, Slayer? Will you not stay?” they cried.
“I cannot,” the hero said. “My search continues.”
“What do you search for, Slayer?”
“I search for she who holds my–”
Chapter 5 – Rude Awakenings
“…this is fucking depressing, Neever,” he said, tossing the offending book down.
The monk looked up from their campfire, ladle suspended mid-stir.
“Many people find it very inspiring,” the man returned.
“I don’t mean the story,” he clarified. “Although, spirits know, that is depressing enough: a creature, lost and alone, and the solution is to put it out of everyone else’s misery? Some hero.”
“Trust you to identify with the monster.”
He huffed at the third person of their little three-man expedition. Cyrus had imparted the secret of the live-giving elixir to someone else. A traveling companion, tasked with keeping him alive on their journey. He’d not expected to know the person.
He and the young priestess, Yoriana, had not exchanged any words in the moments of their first meeting. Although they had exchanged clothes.
In an effort to move unseen about the modernists’ schemes, he’d been impersonating a noble lady at the time, complete with veil and petticoats. When it came time to disappear, Yoriana had taken up the mantle, together with the rest of the ensemble.
She’d been carefully picked to match his frame, height and hair color. He’d have been happier if this meant she was a little tall or imposing for a woman. He consoled himself with the knowledge that his slight build was a boon to his profession.
“The only reason you call it a monster,” he countered, “is because this infantile book tells you to.” He nudged Eris Bolk with a toe. “You shouldn’t let books lead you by the nose so easily...”
She bristled, pointedly turning a page in her book of scriptures.
Years spent in a library, out of the harsh sun and scouring wind, had preserved her youth. But she toted her temple education like a club and delighted in taking swings at him. For his part, he took great pleasure in toppling her from her perch of paper knowledge. It cheered him to see her sullen smolders.
“Pray tell, what depresses you, Master Jiminy?” asked Neever, who had been playing peacekeeper since day one. Though Yoriana probably outranked the monk, she deferred to him in all areas, save alchemy. The monk pinched some salt into the bubbling pot.
“This sad little caravan of ours,” he answered. “You’ve had us trekking between these flyspeck villages for nigh-on a fortnight, swinging shovels and pickaxes at odd intervals.”
He had nothing against hard labor, provided it was being performed by someone else. The many mines and quarries of Purlia were choked with convicted criminals. He resented the association, however unintended.
“I could have forgiven digging for lost loot,” he mused. “Maybe. But this?”
He minced miserably over his blisters. His participation had been one of the early arguments he’d lost with Yoriana. It was hard to refuse a woman holding a spade like she knew how to use one.
“Eris Bolk’s ‘gorgon’,” Neever explained again, “is possibly a degradation of the Rasrini word ‘guergno’, meaning ‘fire’. But the etymology of the word ‘gorgoul’ has roots in the Old Heli word for ‘stone’ or, possibly–”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “I get that we’re grubbing in the dirt for evidence of a battle more than a thousand years gone. We don’t even know whether that,” he gestured to the distant peak, “is the mountain mentioned in the story. And I just double checked,” he added, kicking the book, “the gorgon was pinned under a rock. Presumably, in a river.”
Neever regarded him quizzically, stirring absently.
“Do you see a river?” he expanded. “In fact, why did we bring shovels at all? We should have brought more ladles.”
