King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three (33 page)

And as it did, he finally knew what it was that had kept him alive, and Narskap mourned the knowledge as Cerat, Demon Souldrinker and ancient nemesis, reached through him and hooked a claw in Mik.

It slurped at the dying man. It ripped hanks of flesh from him, though no one could see it but Narskap, as the victim groaned and let out a shriek and drummed his heels on the ground with the last of his strength. Even as Cerat devoured, the Demon offered a deal to its meal. A life for a life, more or less, and Narskap could feel a burning at his fingers as the power to consummate filled his hand. A touch, a tacit agreement, and the tattered man would become what Narskap was. “You don’t want this,” Narskap whispered hoarsely, in a voice low enough for only the two of them to hear. Mik’s eyelids flung wide open and he stared into Narskap, raised his hands and grabbed Narskap by the collar, forcing him down into Mik’s face and for the briefest of moments, Narskap saw Cerat’s white-hot gleam burning back at him. Mik opened his mouth, working for words, and never found them.

He batted Mik’s hands away and let the Souldrinker take what it could. The man went still immediately, and the warmth left him as if it had never been, Cerat sucking what he could from the dead corpse but not finding the anchor it needed to stay and reanimate him, because Narskap blocked him from that last, satisfying morsel.

Narskap rocked back on his heels. Bloody sweat dotted his brow before he wiped it away on the back of his arm. He looked up to find Quendius watching him closely. “I almost had him.”

“I know.” The corner of Quendius’ mouth drew back wryly. “Better luck next time.” He straightened. “Bury what you can, shallow, we’ve got ground to cover.”

Narskap struggled to his feet and none of the raiders put out a hand to help him. Blood drenched his fingers, and he looked at himself, but the urge to lick them clean had fled. He dumped part of his waterskin over them and wiped himself as best he could, the warmth gone, the stickiness gone, the aching promise gone.

Quendius held his horse’s reins out to him. “No matter,” he said. His glance ranged over his remaining men, those hale and those wounded. “You’ll have more practice. You’re almost certain to have it right before I decide to kill Rivergrace.”

C
EYLA FELL AS MUCH as she dismounted from the fork of the tree that held her tired, punished body, dropping to the underground with a crackle and a snap of breaking twigs. At least, she prayed they were twigs. She stayed in a crouch while she took an inventory of her body—aches, bruises, and all—before moving cautiously to her feet. The sweeping branches of the tree enveloped her, almost as though she had wings, and kept her hidden in the early evening shadows. Deep in sleep during the day, she heard, or thought she had heard, horsemen moving through at a distance and listened intently now, wondering if she could still hear them. Or even if she had heard them at all. Only the muted sounds of twilight reached her, that time when wildlife of the day began to seek shelter and the nocturnal citizens began to rustle awake. Like those caught in the dusk, she needed to find water and she drifted out of her leafy wings to search for it.

She’d been untroubled by visions the last two days, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted when she’d found shelter, which Ceyla welcomed, but at the same time she felt cast adrift. Other than the singular destiny burning inside her, she was now more or less on her own. It was times like these that left her wondering if she knew what she thought she knew or if she were simply insane. She squeezed a fist closed. No use thinking that way, or any other way, because she had little control over what happened to her mind. It guided her, it obstructed her, but she did not know life without it. What others thought, how they thought, she could only suppose because she was different and would always be different. Her nails bit into her palm.

It came to her that she heard no sounds of the horse. Nothing. She’d left him lightly hobbled so that he could graze, but no cropping or any other sign that he existed met her listening. Horses were not noisy creatures, but they had patterns of sound Ceyla could expect to hear.

A breeze ruffled through the edge of the forest, bringing with it the furtive sounds of those awakening into the night. The touch of wind felt good on her face although she knew she might be chilled and damp before dawn rose again. She took cautious steps toward the noise, thinking she might be tracking those headed for water even though she could not yet hear the water itself. The horse would surely have sought out water; she’d just be following. Ceyla kept moving, stretching her sore muscles, feeling the scabs on her various scratches tug on her legs as she did. Her stomach knotted in a hunger cramp. She needed food, more than roots and berries if she could find it, but even a quantity of those would fill her growling need. She pushed forward faster, eager to find water and perhaps a fish in its depths.

Ceyla heard a distinctive noise. She moved in its direction, listening intently as she did, unable to identify just what it was she heard. Hooves? Or something else? She stilled again, frozen in her footsteps. A leaf, dangling from an overhead branch, tickled her forehead. She batted it away irritably. Then the smell came to her. Tentative, weak, coppery. Could it be . . . ? She inhaled again, gently, mouth half-open, tasting as much as she smelled. Yes. Blood on the air. Ceyla turned her head, undecided which direction to go. She needed water. Predators hunted those who moved to water instinctively, day after day. Inevitably. Predators went where the prey went.

Or the blood sign could mean that an attack had occurred nearby, for an altogether different reason. Her hobbled horse . . . anything. She stayed frozen in indecision. She needed water. Without the horse, she needed boots or shoes. She would not get far on bare feet. She needed help. Or a plan. Or . . .

She heard a groan. A low, from the gut groan that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Ceyla turned on one heel, preparing to run. But she did not. Whatever it was that groaned needed help. She knew that. It might or might not have anything to do with the blood scent, but chances were it did. She didn’t have to be a seer to make that connection. It could even be her horse, mortally wounded, and needing a merciful ending, if nothing else. She owed it that much. She pushed a foot forward, and then had to follow it. One halting, pushing footstep at a time, she moved closer to the noise and the smell. Before she broke through the shelter of the brush and saplings, she could see it: her horse’s carcass, exsanguinated and ripped to pieces, in a bruised patch of grass and dirt. She bit the inside of her cheek sharply to keep from crying out or being sick. It had been torn down and then shredded apart, although the blood loss was far less than she would have imagined. Limbs had been ripped off and then gnawed upon. The entrails bulged out of the stomach’s cavern, piling onto the forest floor. The face of the animal was ripped to tatters as if that and the tender area under the throat were where it had been attacked first.

Ceyla turned her face away. Had she crippled it so much with the hobble that it couldn’t have fought back, couldn’t have run? She didn’t think so. She didn’t
know
. All she knew was that it was dead. Perhaps one day a vision would show her how and why, but she couldn’t depend on that. Her visions did not exist to make her life easier.

She shoved a fist into her mouth to keep herself quiet, and began to skirt the death scene. There was still the matter of water. Still the matter of the groan.

Ceyla eased through the undergrowth as quietly as she could, hunching over to hide herself within it, gnawing on her fingers anxiously as she moved. She had nothing, nothing except her wits and she wasn’t even sure about them at this point. A noise like . . . like a shower of gravel and dirt cascading upon ground halted her in her tracks again.

She had no idea what would make a sound like that. Or why. She knew the where of it by this time, in a break just beyond the canopy of trees and brush, out in the open. Exactly where she did not want to be. She put her hand out to the trunk of the nearest sizable tree. The feel of rough bark biting into her palm calmed her a bit. This, she knew. This pain was familiar.

As quickly and quietly as she could, she scaled the tree. Up and up until the branches could barely hold her weight before lying down on one to see what she could see. She inched as far out on it as she dared before coming to a halt, slowing down her breathing, hoping her pulse would follow, concentrating on being nothing more than a leaf upon the waving bough. Moments slowed. Her panic ebbed. She blinked a few times to clear her vision and looked down. At first Ceyla did not see what could possibly have made the noises she’d heard, particularly the shifting of rock and pebble, and then she saw, half-shadowed, what looked to be a shallow grave. It made no sense to her until she heard the low groan again, rising in both agony and decibels, as the grave rippled and then heaved upward. A shower of dirt and gravel fell off the hump to either side, raining upon the ground.

Something that was not dead had been buried down below. It had not stayed there. It had erupted, desperately. It looked as if it had returned, more than once, hollowing a den from its grave.

Her first instinct shook her. He needed help, surely. She should go see how badly injured he was, find out what had happened, see what she could do. But the shock of seeing him—it—rise from the ground froze her in her perch. Blood and gore covered his ragged clothing, but it was fresh, glistening under the dirt and grime, not the rusty brown color of old blood. The wet shine of it caught the glare of the sun like a crimson mirror. Ceyla flinched, her gaze darting away from what she watched. Whatever it was or wherever it came from, she felt certain it was a principal player in the death scene she’d just skirted and that whatever foresight had kept her from rushing to help, she thanked prayerfully. Its odor rose with it, a miasma of fetid odors that forced her hand to her nose and mouth to keep from spitting it back out and giving herself away. She didn’t know if it could climb, but she certainly knew that it could kill.

As for who or what had buried it, there seemed to be a good possibility that it had buried itself for the sun filtering through the surroundings bothered it. It groaned and mumbled, hunched over and shambled forward in whatever shadows it could find. Ceyla watched it stumble out of her sight and when it had completely disappeared, she found her fist remaining in her mouth to keep silence. She wanted to stay in the tree a very long time to keep safe, but as the sun would eventually fall in the sky and the shadows lengthen, she would become more and more unsafe. Better to run now, while she could stay with the sun shining full upon her.

Ceyla sprinted.

A scream like that of a mountain bobcat split the air behind her, a shout and a growl swallowing it up and Ceyla sobbed, certain that whatever it was, was on her. She stumbled and went down, somersaulting through the bushes and shrubbery, stopping only when coming up hard against a sapling that bent as it bore her weight.

Only then did she realize that nothing chased her, that the battle sounded behind her, that the thing had found a different target. Ceyla rolled upward to one knee, branches stabbing at her and her body aching, but knelt, alert, like an animal sensing whatever it could.

She could hear the furious battle muted only by distance and the forest itself, limbs twitching in the wind and animals scurrying away from the furor. Hoofbeats drummed her way and Ceyla leaped to her feet into the pathway of a tashya horse, head up and eyes wild, reins flapping about its neck and chest. It slowed at the sight of her, and she grabbed for the leathers, thinking the horse would pull her arm out of her shoulder as it dragged her along before abruptly stopping. It let out a low, sobbing snort, and rolled its near eye at her, the whites blazing. Ceyla put her hand on its muzzle and murmured comforting sounds to it, even as she listened to the noise of a far-off fight. The noise stopped after a handful of breaths. She pulled the horse’s head down to her chest and held it very still, not wanting it to whicker or whinny, alerting the survivor of the battle.

No more sound reached her, though she strained to hear. The tashya’s ears flickered forward and back, and it stomped a foot at being held in such a confined way. Ceyla kneed it in the chest and bit out a discouraging sound. The horse stilled.

The smell of smoke reached her. That comforted her more than the silence. Whoever survived was burning the body, and she doubted the half-alive, shambling thing she’d seen could think to do such a thing. She cheered the victor and his actions. Burning it was the only smart thing to do. Leaving the body could only spread the contagion and for all she knew, it could come alive yet again.

Ceyla’s hand closed on the horse’s reins. A distant whicker hung on the air, and her horse trembled in its need to answer it. She pinched its nostrils tight with her free hand until she was certain the horse relaxed. Then, and only then, she swung the horse around, put her foot in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle, and mounted.

Whoever the victor was, he had a horse or pony at hand, and would not need this one. She did. Ceyla sat for a moment, casting through her scattered thoughts, before finding the one, the singular need, that drove her. She turned the horse, put a heel to its flank, and continued on her journey. Tree branches grabbed at her sleeves and whipped at her face as she took the tashya winding through the groves, lit by an unquenchable desire to reach her destination, a thirst that would kill her if she could not slake it.

She rode for two days. Not running but without stop. Both she and the horse were drenched with sweat and tottering with exhaustion when she reached the outskirts of a vast encampment, one heralded by the scent of its campfires and the aroma of its horse lines. Its people were golden-skinned, and they put their hands up eagerly to lift her off her mount, which promptly dropped to the ground with a shuddering sigh of relief. She staggered away from the fallen horse. They stared at her for a long moment.

“A Vaelinar is come to us!” they shouted, and they brought her to their king.