THUNDER PEAK, page 5
Why a herd of the faerie mane had come to the human realm was inconsequential to him. The only way home for them, and him, was back through the portal. This was denied Nightblade in his current condition; only flesh and blood could pass through the gate. Incorporeal beings who tried to cross through inevitably set off chain reactions that forced it to close.
But perhaps, he realized suddenly, that was something he could now use to his advantage.
Though Nightblade knew his best course was to wait, curiosity got the better of him, and so he followed and watched from afar as the mane-folk searched out rare trees of white, splintering bark scattered deep in the woods around the foot of the mountain. Even from a distance, Nightblade could sense the latent frein energy growing and stored in those wintry-colored limbs and their sky-colored fruit, but they were useless, even dangerous, to him.
Nightblade was the spawn of shadow and a carnivore; he could not gain sustenance from magical fruit, especially if it was saturated with golden frein.
The unicorns harvested the trees by placing their head spikes against them. The magic of their horns imbued the trees with life and vigor that shook them until they splintered and shrugged away their older branches in favor of fresh, clean bark and perky sprouts that would one day grow into strong new limbs. The unicorns pierced the fruit among the trimmings with their horns, causing them to glow, and then absorbed the twinkling light straight into their sparkling head spikes until the fruit shriveled away into nothing.
Nightblade was unsure of the purpose of this ritual—perhaps the unicorns empowered themselves through organic magic the same way the Cree did through blood magic. Whatever the purpose truly was, Nightblade surmised that he might be the very first of the Cree to witness such a harvesting; information that could prove valuable someday if he ever returned home.
When they finished, the herd dashed off with frightening speed to the next tree, the mighty tramp of their hooves shaking everything around them like thunder.
The Cree Chieftain wasn’t sure he could keep pace with them even in the true wolfen form that had been denied him. But he didn’t have to. He knew where they must eventually go to get back home.
The portal. And so he got their first, blending into the smudges and growth hugging the stones around the magical archway until the herd returned.
It would be painful, but if he struck the gate and absorbed what he could before it closed, Nightblade would gain even more magical power. If he could strike the gate at just the right moment, he could also force it to disconnect and trap the last of the herd.
Then he would have to work quickly.
First to summon his earthly wolf pack to fell the steed as fast as possible; once the unicorn was down, Nightblade could siphon its frein directly from its wounds. Though many forms of magic, including that of the portal, could be harvested to replenish his powers, only with faerie blood could his physical body be permanently restored.
Naturally Nightblade knew he wouldn’t have time to consume the entire juvenile, nor did he really need too. Just enough to attain the physical form he needed to make his own frein self-sustaining. He’d never been this weak before, so whether that meant one bite or ten, he did not know.
What he did know was that starving as he was, he would be quick to consume all he required.
Nightblade yearned to get home. But there was also the mission his hidden aril ally expected him to complete.
The Cree Chieftain simply could not bear the thought of his battle with the elfwitch and his exile in the human realm being all for nothing. There was too much at stake. Success was paramount.
He would finish what he had set out to do, and with the aril scout gone, there would be no one to stop him.
Then, at long last, it would be time for the aril to keep their promises and return to the Cree what was rightfully theirs.
In time, of course, he would find the blond witch that had exiled him here. And if she yet lived, Nightblade would first assure her that his return meant her offspring was dead, impaled on his saber-tooth fangs. Then he would paint his teeth with her soft flesh and send the witch to join her abomination in the next life.
Initially the plan went better than he ever could have hoped.
Initially. The herd returned at dusk, and watching carefully as the mane-folk began passing through the gate one at a time, he saw the last in line was a juvenile, but even so, the grace and power with which it already moved foretold it would be an formidable steed in the future.
Timing his strike to the instant, Nightblade rose into the portal when the juvenile was in mid gallop. The steed cried out in alarm at the sudden appearance of the inky cloud filling the gateway before him but bravely leaped into the closing eldritch arch anyway.
When the juvenile struck, the innate magic of both faerie creatures interacted with the magic of the gate. The shadow frein of the Cree and the golden frein of the unicorn repelled each other naturally, hurling them away from the portal in opposite directions. But only after the rune magic of the gate smote them to the core with an excruciating eldritch blast.
The juvenile neighed in pain, a mournful, soul-shattering sound that Nightblade barely heard over the searing pain flaring in his spiritual synapses.
Both of them collapsed, the horse with a log-heavy thud, Nightblade dispersing to the limits of his mind.
The sheer misery of trying to pull his spectral being back together forced him to lose consciousness for a time. When he finally awoke, Nightblade thought for sure it was to failure, that the juvenile had already been recovered by its herd.
But no! The juvenile still lay where it had fallen, still unconscious.
Confusion set in. Why did the unicorns not return? It was unlike the mane-folk to leave a survivor behind in battle, let alone abandoned among the Earthers. Perhaps striking the gate together had not only forced it to close but also damaged it in some way. Whatever the cause, Nightblade surmised that aril gatekeepers were working hard to get it open again. How long the opportunity to restore himself would last was unknown, but he was determined to seize the moment before it was lost.
Reaching out with his mind, Nightblade summoned the pack to come and slay the juvenile, but the steed shuddered awake and rose unsteadily to its feet at their approaching howls.
As the moon rose higher and the clouds cleared, its flowing mane and tail began to glow with silvery starlight, a vision that would have driven Nightblade mad with hunger in his physical form.
Coming fully alert, the creature paced, snorting and stamping before stopping suddenly, as if sensing something. In the next instant, the steed bolted away into the wood and the hunt was on.
Watching it thunder off made Nightblade roil with pleasure. Distance would make the juvenile harder for any would-be rescuers to find, and a true hunt would be fun. After all, there was nowhere for it to go.
Or so Nightblade thought.
Sending out a silent call for the pack to track the steed, the Cree billowed slowly after it through the woods.
Then Nightblade realized where the juvenile was going and pulsed in frustration. If only he could move faster! Do something tangible. Anything! But no; the witch had seen to that.
He willed the others to slow the juvenile down until he could get there to witness the kill, but these instructions were misinterpreted and some of the wolves attacked.
One of them paid dearly with injuries and death at the formidable hoof of the juvenile. Two others escaped, one with grievous wounds. That animal limped away in the night toward the mountain, most likely to perish in peaceful solitude instead of having the pack fall on it.
The rest waited, assembling in greater strength, and Nightblade knew it was only a matter of time before they attacked again if he was not on hand to keep them in check.
It was then, upon arriving at the human dwelling, that he saw the girl take the horse toward the barn. Even from a distance he could sense the powerful protection magic still in place around each structure, so strong that even if he were at full power, Nightblade would be unable to enter for very long, if at all. In this the aril witch continued to surprise him. How had she attained such mastery?
Nightblade paused to consider his next move, but the evening valley breeze shifted slightly and broke his concentration almost immediately. For laced into the new current the wolf lord sensed an aura that he had missed for so, so long.
Blood.
A burst of excitement rippled over and through Nightblade’s shadow.
Mane-folk blood!
There by the human dwelling! The juvenile must have fallen!
To ensure he was not interrupted, Nightblade acted swiftly, urging the pack to swarm and circle the barn, growling and scratching at every corner.
Meanwhile the shadow Cree glided low to the ground and descended first on the largest blood stain, then quickly moved on to the next. However slightly, the Cree Chieftain felt his frein reserve building with each morsel.
Upon finishing he flowed back to the wood. No longer just an insubstantial spectral shade, he now had the power to coalesce briefly into his saber-toothed, wolfen form. A feat through which he would be better able to lead and dominate the pack. Perhaps even summon more fangs to his side, increasing the pack’s numbers and strength.
Sadly, he was still a long way from being able to go home, but if he could hold his likeness long enough, he might perform a jevaling—such was the instant power of blood magic.
For the first time since his physical destruction, Nightblade could howl and be heard, but this he did not do. His frein was limited and would not be self-sustaining until he completely regained his physical form. Therefore, it was imperative he used the power he had attained wisely.
Nightblade settled down, retreating to where he could watch the barn and the house. As much as he wanted to attack, he remembered well the circumstances under which the aril spell weaver had defeated him. And though the scout had long since departed, there was no doubt the shell warrior she had made to aid her in battle and left behind to watch over her witchling patrolled somewhere close by. Long he had watched that one. The reptilian was a formidable obstacle to him regaining his full power, but once he did, the shell warrior would be no match for the Cree Chieftain.
Too he must consider that the witch may have left weapons for the humans that could deplete his frein. Plus, there was still the possibility of rescue coming for the juvenile, a rescue that may already be on its way.
With so many variables in motion, the Cree knew that what it needed most now was a plan.
A plan to bleed the juvenile.
A plan that included destroying the offspring and returning home to his kindred victorious.
Nightblade growled, and the remaining wolves around him shrank away, leaving the Cree to ponder and plan. For beyond even the power of his jaws, his frightening speed, and even his unique ability to shadow leap was the Cree Chieftain’s cunning. So it was that Nightblade set his mind to work without worry. He knew ideas and the moves to execute them would come, just as they always did.
And then, one way or another, the juvenile’s blood would be his.
Shortly after sunrise Jonas reined his horse in and stared down in disbelief at the wolf carcass lying before his homestead. The moment his eyes alit on the open front door, he drove his spurs into the flanks of his charger and rode in hot—head low against the horse’s neck and pistol drawn.
Heart thudding in his chest—not from what might be about to happen but rather what might have already transpired—Jonas pulled the horse up sharp and tight beyond view of the door and quickly dismounted.
Both guns drawn and cocked, he took a position just to the side of the door and whistled like a spring bird. When no reply came from within, he feared the worst, took a steadying breath, and followed the barrels of his 1873 Colt .45s inside.
Faced with no ambush and no threat within the house, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Casey!” he finally called out. “Casey! Where are you?”
Back at the door, it took only a cursory examination to see it had not been broken in. The place was in perfect order. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland lie unattended on the couch.
“Casey!” Jonas called out again, sweat breaking off his forehead.
He checked everywhere, then stepped back out on the porch and eyed the dirt.
Tracks. Lots of them. Mostly wolves. Wolves like he hadn’t seen since…
One horse too.
The wolf’s face and ribs had been kicked in.
A powerful horse.
Had one of the animals Casey saw yesterday followed her here?
Jonas looked more closely at the prints and picked out a set that could only be Casey’s leading off to the barn.
Heart racing anew, he holstered one gun and dashed to the barn. As he drew near, one of the doors opened just a little and Jonas threw himself to the dirt, rolled, and came up in a combat stance, ready for the worst.
A walnut-tressed head poked out between the doors.
“Casey!” Jonas shouted with relief and rose quickly to his feet. “Casey!”
The girl looked at him with wide eyes and then slipped out and rushed toward him. “Daddy!” she cried back, and when they took each other up in arms, both of them had tears in their eyes.
“Daddy!” She sobbed. “I’m sorry I opened the door, but I had to.”
“It’s okay Nightingale,” he said, hugging her tight. “Everything is okay. Is it okay?” he asked suddenly, pulling back to look at her. She nodded. “Okay good.” He pulled her in close again and ran his free hand up and down her back in long soothing sweeps. “I’m here now.”
After a time Casey regained her composure, and before Jonas could ask her anything, she told him. “You have to come into the barn. Come and see him.”
Jonas tilted his head while his right hand dipped back to his holster. “See who?”
“He doesn’t have a name yet,” Casey said. “I suppose…can I name him? Please, Daddy! You always say fair is fair. I saved him; I should get to name him.”
“Saved who?” Jonas wondered aloud as he entered the barn. Then he just stopped and stared, gripping Casey’s hand so tightly that she catapulted back toward him when she reached the end of his arm’s length.
The horse, if indeed that was all it was, was magnificent, its coat a glossy black, its mane and tail a striking, feathery white, like ocean foam.
Jonas and the horse made eye contact, and in that instant, he knew for certain that this was no ordinary animal and quite possibly from the other side.
From her side.
“Casey, is this one of the horses you saw yesterday?”
Casey looked at the steed with open delight. “I’m not sure. There were so many. It could be, but he doesn’t have a horn.”
“Right,” Jonas said, feeling as though the horse was studying him as much as he was it.
“I helped him as best I could,” Casey said, walking over slowly to the horse and petting his neck. “The cuts look awful ragged, but none of them are very deep.”
Jonas looked over the horse’s wounds and said, “You did good, real good cleaning and dressing his wounds.”
Then he nodded, getting an idea, and to the steed he said, “You are safe here. Wait and rest, and we’ll fetch something that should help those bites heal faster.”
Jonas and the horse held each other’s gaze for a moment, and then the homesteader turned away.
“Come with me, Casey,” he said, taking her hand and leading her out of the barn. “This…new friend of yours might need something special to help him heal.”
“Something special?”
“Yes,” Jonas answered. “Ice apples from the pearlwood.”
“What apples?” Casey asked, but she quickly forgot her question when her father left the barn doors open. “Wait!” she called out. “The doors! What if he runs off?”
“That’s up to him.”
Casey looked at her father like he had been kicked in the head.
When he saw the look on her face, he laughed. “Don’t worry. I think he’ll stay.”
“He will?”
Jonas nodded. “Like I said, he’s more than just a horse.”
“But what does that mean?” Casey gave her father a discerning look. “You promised we’d continue talking when you got back.”
Jonas nodded again. “I know. And we will. But right now we have this to take care of.”
Casey stamped her foot and folded her arms, but before she could speak, her father said, “You obviously helped this horse last night, maybe even saved his life. Do you really want to risk one of his wounds getting infected and having to put him down after all that, just because you can’t wait a few more hours to talk?”
Casey looked at the barn, heaved a deep sigh, and turned back to her father. “No.”
“Good.” Jonas smiled. “Now, into the house, get your leathers. And Casey…” Jonas waited until they made eye contact. “Be sure to bring your mother’s throwing knives.”
Casey looked down for a moment, then nodded and ran off.
Sparing it the same consideration she would any other woodland obstacle, Casey blissfully vaulted over the dead wolf and closed the door behind her.
While Casey was in the house preparing for their journey, Jonas retrieved a rope from the barn to hang and drain the wolf carcass for skinning. No sense wasting good fur.
Yesterday, when Casey said she had seen magical horses, he had focused on it as a reason to tell her the truth. Fretting over that, he failed to consider what it could mean for him. Having just seen one of the horses for himself, it began to sink in.
With a long sigh, he tied off the final knots, pondering how long he had waited for a sign like this. Too long, he thought, finishing his grisly task. Despair had won that battle long ago. So long ago Jonas knew he too could wait a little bit longer for answers, especially now that there was a ray of light on the horizon. What it all meant he didn’t know, but he meant to find out.
