Forest of Ruin (17 page)

G
avril was laying out his sleeping blanket at the campsite.

“Moria will take the tent,” Tyrus said.

“As I presumed.”

“And I will be bidding her good night. Go ahead and get some sleep.” He looked at the proximity between the tent and Gavril's sleeping blanket. “Perhaps you should move to the other side of the fire. The wind seems to be shifting, and you don't want to sleep with a face full of smoke.”

“I will,” Gavril said. “But I'll not be sleeping yet. After you've spoken to Moria, I'd like to talk to you.”

“I . . .” Tyrus glanced at Moria. “I'm rather tired.”

“I will be brief. I will rest better if we speak.”

Tyrus's shoulders slumped. Moria could see the struggle in his face, wanting to do the right thing . . . and yet truly not wanting to do it, not at this moment.

“Could it possibly wait?” Tyrus began.

“No,” Moria said quickly. “Go and speak now. You can say good night to me later.”

He took her aside and whispered, “Are you certain? I would truly rather . . .”

“I should certainly hope so,” she said. “But
I
would truly rather have your full attention.”

“You shall. I'll keep this as brief as possible.” He kissed her cheek and headed off with Gavril.

When Moria first climbed into her sleeping blankets, she congratulated herself on being so selfless, insisting Tyrus speak to Gavril before she got her time with him. As she lay there, though, she began to worry about what Gavril would say. No, she knew what he'd say—an explanation. The question was how Tyrus would react. He'd want to forgive Gavril. It was in his nature, because deep down he still considered him a friend. What if Tyrus couldn't forgive him? What if he returned preoccupied by what Gavril had said?

Could she change his mood if that happened? Distract him from his thoughts with kisses and . . . other things? That would be much easier if she knew what “other things” were. There were kisses and there was sexual congress. That was the extent of her understanding, in spite of all her efforts to expand her knowledge. The furthest she'd ever gone past kissing was with Levi in Edgewood, and that was only rather awkward groping, and entirely one-sided, as he'd grab her breasts and arse through her clothing, rough squeezes that suggested he knew no more than she did.

It was very vexing, to be so ill-informed. There were books, Ashyn had said, blushing madly as she'd admitted to hearing of such things. But they were not to be found in Edgewood. Nor with any of the traders—Moria always checked. Was one expected to simply wait for a lover to demonstrate? And what if neither knew more, like her and Levi?

Moria had explored her own body, but that was no less frustrating. It felt good and yet, she had the feeling she was trying to get somewhere she could not quite reach. An itch she couldn't scratch, and those explorations left her overheated and feeling rather thwarted.

From Tyrus's hint, she suspected answers were coming. If he was not overly distracted. She could try to refocus his thoughts. Disrobing would help, although, personally, she'd rather disrobe him. But what if she disrobed, and he didn't refocus? That would be a humiliation beyond bearing.

No, the proper thing to do, if he came back distracted, was to remind herself that there would be other nights and to talk to him about Gavril instead. Moria sighed. Sometimes doing the right thing was not nearly as easy as one might think. Which was perhaps why people did the wrong things so often.

Finally, the flap on the tent opened.

“Out you go, Daigo,” Tyrus said.

The wildcat growled.

“Someone needs to stand guard.”

Daigo sniffed but slunk out of the tent. Tyrus fastened the flap. Then he opened the one on the roof, letting moonlight stream through. Moria studied his face, but the angle left it in shadow. He deposited his cloak by the door and lowered
himself to the sleeping pallet, staying atop the blanket, which seemed a bad sign, but then he kissed her, and while he kept it light, it was as sweet and heartfelt as any kiss that came before it.

“Did he . . . explain?” she whispered.

“He did, and it is a lot to think about, but I'm not going to do so tonight.”

When she hesitated, he stroked her cheek. “It's fine, Moria. I understand what he did, and while I do not think he always made the right choices, he made the choices that I would expect of him. He tried to keep his honor. He knows he did not, and that burns most of all, and that absolves him most of all, to me. The friend I knew has not changed, however much he may think he has. He is still as difficult and as exasperating and as wrongheaded as ever. But as idealistic and, yes, as honorable, too. That is all I needed to know. That he made mistakes, and he owns them. That many of those mistakes were a choice between two evils, and the other was no better.”

He looked down at her. “Can I stop talking now?”

“Please.”

“Do I need to ask if you've changed your mind about—”

She answered by pulling him into a kiss. Soon he was under the blanket with her, just kissing, and Moria decided that while kissing standing up was all very well and fine, kissing horizontally was an entirely different thing. It was body against body, hands in hair, legs entwined, deep and hungry kisses that seemed to go on forever. Even the position changed, and with each new configuration, there was some new sensation to delight in. Tyrus on top, the weight of his body on hers.
Moria on top, straddling him and discovering . . . Well, discovering something to rub against, something that sent waves of pleasure through her and made him gasp and push against her until he stopped abruptly and lifted her off to lay beside him.

“We ought to slow down,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because otherwise, this will be finished very quickly. Or my part will, and though that won't affect my willingness to complete yours, it will change the tenor of things.”

“Why?”

He chuckled and seemed ready to brush off the question with a joke or some opaque explanation. Then he saw her expression, sobered, and explained in detail and seriousness. While Moria understood the basic act of sexual congress, it appeared that significant and important details had been left out.

“Yes,” she said. “We'll slow down then. And thank you for explaining.”

He kissed her. “I will explain anything you want, Moria. If I dodge a question, make me answer. I am simply not accustomed to discussing such things.”

“You make a very good teacher.”

“It helps to have an eager student.”

“I
am
eager.”

He pulled her back to him. “So am I. Yet if I do anything you decide you do not want, stop me.”

“I will.”

The kissing started again, slower this time. They were pacing themselves, embracing but no longer entwined. His hands
slid under her tunic, carefully, growing more confident when she sighed in pleasure as his fingers touched her bare skin. His hands slid over her stomach and sides, gradually making their way up to her chest, and when they found their goal, the difference between Levi's groping and Tyrus's touch . . . ? It was like the difference between fouled water and honey wine.

It was . . . incredible. There was no other word for it. His hands on her, exploring and touching and finding every spot that made her sigh and gasp and moan. That a simple touch could make her feel that way seemed beyond imagining. The heat she'd felt in her own exploration mounted to a fever pitch and then . . . And then . . . There were no words for the rest.

Afterward, kissing and embracing and whispering, and then feeling him against her, and whispering, “I don't know how . . .” and letting him show her. And that was almost as wonderful as her own pleasure, watching his face, hearing his sighs and moans and gasps, and bringing him to the same place she'd been and taking him over the edge, leaving him shuddering and holding her, face buried in her hair, telling her how wonderful she was, how she was everything he wanted.

And then, remarkably, there was still more for her. It seemed that her “end” was not as final as his and he took her back there, and when he was done, they fell into exhausted sleep, curled up together.

Moria woke to a sound from outside the tent. Or so it seemed, but all was silent and she could see Daigo's dark form at the door, meaning nothing was amiss. Tyrus still had his arms around her, seeming too tired even to shift in sleep. She kissed
his lips and nuzzled against him, but lightly, trying not to wake him. While there was some temptation to do exactly that, it was more curiosity than physical need. Her body was satiated and content. Her mind was still open to more exploration. Was it all right to touch and explore when one's lover was asleep and unable to give permission? Likely not. She'd have to broach the subject with him.

Daigo scratched at the tent flap. She opened the tent to see him gazing into the predawn night. She could make out a figure and she tensed, ready to grab her dagger and warn Gavril. Then she looked to see no sign of his sleeping pallet and realized the figure was him. His back was to them. She squinted into the sky. While she could make out streaks of light at the horizon, and they'd walked half the night, he ought not to be up and about yet. Especially with his sleeping gear.

She took her daggers and donned her cloak. After one glance at Tyrus, who'd fallen back into deep sleep, she hurried off after Gavril, Daigo following.

She caught up with him in only a few running strides. He seemed in no hurry, trudging even. When he heard her coming, he turned. He said nothing, but waited for her to catch up.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I . . .” He hefted his pack and glanced away.

“You're leaving? Without a word?”

“I left a note.”

“All right then. Let's return to the first part. You're leaving?”

“I . . . thought it might be best. Tyrus is here and you do not need a guard.”

“I don't ever need a guard, Kitsune.”

“I misspoke. You now have a companion for your journey, someone to fight at your side. And so does he. You are both in good hands. The best possible hands.”

“Forgive me, but I was under the impression that we were pursuing a shared goal.”

“I thought it might be wise for us to part. Each time we are seen together, it only lends credence to the rumors.”

“I do not care about the rumors.”

“It is not only about you, Keeper. If Tyrus and I were found together, it would damage his claims to innocence. It would appear he was not merely duped by us but complicit in our betrayal of the empire.”

“We have no say in that decision? Despite the fact that it is about us?”

“How does that help, Keeper?” His quiet voice gave way to his usual impatient snap. “If I ask your opinion, you will be bound to tell me I'm welcome to stay.”

“I am not bound by any such thing.”

“Tyrus then. He will feel honor bound by our past friendship to stand by me.”

“Then let me answer for him, having spoken to him before he fell asleep in my tent. If he woke up to find you gone, he would feel as if you have turned your back on him, as if you are saying in the clearest possible way that you are no longer friends, that such a thing is no longer possible, and that you do not even wish to be his ally or his companion.”

“That is not—”

“I would feel the same. There's no reason for you to leave, and doing so only complicates matters. He would need to decide whether we should leave you be, as you seem to wish,
or go after you to watch your back, only to risk being rebuffed again. If you wish to make amends with Tyrus, you do not do it by slinking off in the night.”

“I was not slinking.”

“You were and it doesn't suit you.”

He seemed inclined to argue, but after a moment, said only, “In my defense, I was still considering, and probably would not have gotten far before I returned.”

“Good, but the fact that you considered it at all tells me you're unsettled by more than Tyrus's arrival. Obviously, what happened the other day—”

“I'm fine.”

“If you wished to talk about it . . .”

“I'm fine.”

“All right then. I'll leave you alone.”

She started back for camp. After she'd gone about five steps, he called, “Keeper?”

When she turned, he strode over. “Perhaps I would like to speak of it. Briefly. If you aren't tired.”

“I'm not. Let's walk.”

T
he next day, Moria said nothing about Gavril's attempt to leave. By the time they'd finished talking last night, he'd been quite embarrassed about the whole thing and agreed that, yes, lingering grief over his mother had caused him to react foolishly to the new travel configuration.

They spent most of the day walking companionably, as quiet conversation turned to lighthearted storytelling and heated debates. Of course, they did not forget they weren't merely strolling through the steppes. They were still hunting for Alvar's camp. They'd decided that, having not seen a shadow stalker since the previous afternoon, they'd either encountered all who had escaped or they were headed in the wrong direction. Since the latter seemed more likely, they changed course. After a half-day's walk they found an empty shadow stalker corpse. The man was not one of the
bandits. Nor was he dressed as if he'd come from Edgewood or Fairview. He was perhaps in his fifth decade. His coloring suggested he was native to the steppes, and his bag contained items that had clearly come from the bandit's wagon, meaning he'd happened upon it and helped himself to the abandoned goods. They found another corpse—a woman around the same age—also carrying a satchel of stolen items. She had not been turned into a shadow stalker, but rather set upon by the man, likely her husband.

Moria said a few words for the dead, primarily to ease Gavril's grief. If she'd spoken the words of passing for his mother, but did so for no one else, then it would suggest she did not honestly believe them useful. Tyrus didn't question it, only lowered his head and spoke a few pious words to the ancestors himself, bidding the spirits safe passage to the second world.

As they set out again, Daigo found blood on the ground. A trail of it. They followed it for quite a distance. Daigo could not track well, but his nose was still better than theirs and he did a decent job of it. They walked some ways before they heard moaning. They fanned out, trying to find an angle to see from. With the long grass and flat land, it wasn't easy, and they all ended up within a few paces of the sound before Moria lifted a finger, motioning that she could see the source.

It was a young man, similar to the couple in both dress and appearance. Their son, she supposed. He lay in the grass, clutching his stomach and groaning. Daigo left Moria's side and slunk forward, crouching to stay hidden in the long grass, but his black fur was still visible, and the young man let out a cry on seeing him. He did not, however, leap up, and that was
what they needed to know. All three converged on the spot.

“I . . . I have nothing,” the young man said, his words coming with difficulty. “You may check. I have nothing of value.”

“Are your local bandits often dressed and armed as imperial warriors?” Tyrus asked.

The young man lifted his head and took in Tyrus's face and blades. Then he glanced at Gavril. Moria slipped her daggers under her cloak and waved for Daigo to stay hidden.

“I—I'm sorry, my lords. I did not realize.”

“You've been injured,” Tyrus said. “Fortunately, my companion is skilled in battle medicine.”

“I wouldn't say skilled,” Moria murmured as she walked up beside him.

Tyrus gave her a look that said it was best if the young man didn't realize that. Hope was as important as medicine in recovering from injury.

Moria moved toward the young man. Gavril tensed and gripped his sword, his gaze on the injured man as if expecting him to leap up like the young bounty hunter. Moria knelt beside him and stripped off her cloak.

“Show me where you are hurt,” she said. “I can see blood . . .”

It was his stomach. She winced at that. A wound to the gut was beyond her skill. Yet he had traveled far before collapsing, and that was a good sign. When he peeled back his blood-sodden tunic, there appeared to be five deep cuts, the edges ragged. Shadow stalker claws.

“I can clean and cauterize the wounds,” she said. She glanced at Gavril, and he nodded to say that he would add
his healing magics. Moria said, “Tell us what happened while I work,” giving Gavril the chance to kneel behind the young man and begin casting unnoticed.

The young man's story began as they expected. He'd been with his parents, on horseback it seemed, returning from market in a distant town and heading to their farm. They'd happened upon the bodies and then the wagon. His mother had been frightened by the deformities they'd seen on the dead wagon driver, but his father insisted it was simply caused by the trampling.

They had helped themselves to the goods left in the wagon storage.

“For safekeeping, my lords,” the young man said. “We do have bandits out here, and we would not wish them to strip the goods from those poor travelers.”

“We do not require an explanation,” Tyrus said. “We trust your intentions were honorable. Continue.”

They had finished removing the goods when a “smoke” came over his father.

“A spirit, it must have been,” the young man said. “The lost and enraged spirit of one of those poor travelers. It possessed him and . . .”

And the thing that had been his father had turned on his mother, and her son had been powerless to pull the creature off. Then it had sunk one clawed hand into his gut, and it could have finished him off, but the “spirit” left his father in a whirl of black smoke. The young man fell, unconscious from the pain and shock. When he woke, he was alone with his parents' bodies.

“My father's true spirit had remained in that creature,” he said. “He cast it out and saved me.”

Moria did not disillusion him, but she suspected the shadow stalker had realized the young man made a far better vessel. Either it could not make the leap into him or it had discovered the injury it had inflicted had ruined that vessel. Either way, the young man had awoken alone, the horses long gone. He'd started for home, but became weak and disoriented, and ultimately fell.

“Is your home near?” Tyrus asked.

“It is, my lord, and if there is any way of your accompanying me there, I would gladly offer you all of our meagre hospitality. Your horses are nearby, I presume.”

Tyrus gave a grunt that the young man could interpret as a yes if he wished.

“We'll need to cauterize the wound,” Moria said. She looked over at Gavril. He'd finished his healing magics and moved off to use sorcery to start a fire a short distance away. He put his dagger into the flame, to heat it.

“You will likely pass out from the pain,” Tyrus said. “But we will carry you home. Can you provide directions?”

When he did, they realized it was not “near” at all, and there was no way they could carry him so far.

“What other settlements are close by? Any that might have a healer?”

“There is a . . .” He glanced between the two warriors. “My family is well aware of imperial law and would do nothing to break it.”

Gavril tapped his leg with impatience, but Tyrus spoke, his
voice low and soothing. “I know that the steppes are home to many unusual communities. Religious groups, bandits, smugglers . . . The emperor understands that reporting suspicions of criminal activity can be a dangerous undertaking and so he does not expect it.”

“It is . . . none of those. I mean to say that we do not know exactly what it is, of course, but there are rumors, and my parents had every intention of reporting the matter as soon as we saw an imperial warrior, which is a rare occurrence in these parts . . .”

He blathered for a few moments longer. Gavril and Moria shared eye rolls, but Tyrus heard him out and then said, “Slavers.”

The young man stiffened. Moria and Gavril did, too. Bandits and smugglers were one thing. But slavers? It was indeed the duty of every citizen to report those engaged in human trafficking.

The young man babbled more about how he and his parents had no proof, and how they'd been awaiting proof—along with a convenient, passing imperial representative.

“How recent is this camp?” Tyrus asked.

“Very recent,” the young man said. “Less than a moon. I truly know very little of it, but I did hear word from someone who traded with them that they had healers. Several of them.”

Sorcerers more likely, as it certainly sounded like the shadow stalker camp. Tyrus asked the young man for directions and got them. Then Gavril returned to the fire to reheat his blade.

“We cannot take you to a slaver encampment,” Tyrus said.
“It would be unsafe. Rather, we will bring aid to you. From there or elsewhere. We will ensure you're safely hidden with food and water and, if you are correct about the distance, we'll be back by sunrise.”

The young man nodded. His gaze was fixed on Gavril, who was returning with the red-hot blade, and he seemed to pay little mind to Tyrus's words. As Gavril approached, the young man dug his fingers into the dirt, pulling himself backward.

“Is this necess—?”

“It is,” Gavril said, and put the blade against the young man's stomach wounds as Moria and Tyrus each grabbed an arm to hold him still. The young man screamed. Moria was ready with a scrap of cloth to shove in his mouth. Then his screams took on a note that had her hackles rising and Daigo charging back from his prowling, letting out a yowl himself, and as he did, Moria felt a familiar dread, one she now recognized. She shouted, “Begone!”

Tyrus looked over in shock, but Gavril was already reacting, his blade at the young man's throat. Too late he seemed to realize it was his heated dagger rather than his sword. The red-hot steel hit the young man's throat, and he let out the most horrible, inhuman scream. A familiar scream, though—or it was to Moria and Gavril.

Tyrus had recovered, and even if he had no idea what was going on, he leaped up, bringing his foot to the young man's chest, pinning him and pulling his blade. But before he could get it clear, the young man grabbed Tyrus's boot and, with a heave of superhuman strength, sent him flying backward.
That's when the young man's face began to change, to contort into the twisted visage of a shadow stalker.

“Begone!” Moria shouted.

Gavril swung at the creature with his sword. The thing reached out to stop the blade and it cut right through its clawed hand. Blood spurted, yet the shadow stalker seemed not even to notice. It was lunging for Tyrus, who was on his feet. Tyrus's blade cleaved halfway through the creature's torso, but the thing only pulled itself free.

It leaped at Tyrus, as if unharmed, and Moria saw Tyrus's blade in flight and saw Gavril's, too, and Daigo leaping, and she knew it would do no good, that they could hack and claw and rip and the thing would keep coming. She repeated her command, pouring all her rage and fear into it, and finally the black smoke surged from the young man's body, and she started to heave a sigh of relief. Then the smoke shot toward Tyrus.

“No!” she screamed. “Begone!” She rushed at it, and she shouted for it to begone, and the smoke turned on her and everything seemed to stop. Dimly, she could hear Daigo's snarling yowl and Tyrus's shout of “Moria!” and Gavril's “No!” But their voices seemed to come from so far, as she stood, transfixed by the black smoke. By what she saw in the smoke. Faces. Human faces, contorted in agony and blind animal terror. Then she heard voices, coming clearer than Tyrus's or Gavril's. Whispers and whimpers and cries.

Keeper.

Help us.

Goddess, please.

Keeper, please.

Stop it.

Please stop it.

Keeper, please.

“I set you free,” she said. “By the ancestors and the goddess, I set you free of this curse and I bid you peace and safe passage.”

The smoke hovered there. It made no move to come closer, just writhed and twisted, the faces writhing and twisting within it. She kept saying the words, feeling them, opening herself up to the spirits' pain, and sincerely and fervently wishing the spirits peace and safe passage. The black smoke gathered on itself, as if the magics were resisting her, but she kept repeating the words of peace and freedom and, finally, of forgiveness. For whatever these spirits had done. She poured all of her power and all of her strength into that, granting them forgiveness and beseeching the goddess to do the same.

That's when the smoke exploded. Burst apart into a thousand particles of black dust that scattered in every direction.

A voice whispered past her ear,
Thank you, Keeper.
And then they were gone . . . and Moria collapsed to the ground.