audible.
The monsters won’t find us so quickly without their hounds.
His head buzzed with these thoughts as he stumbled into the clearing, nearly falling over the twitching corpse of a disemboweled coldman. He cast his eyes around the scattered bodies, all glistening black wetness in the moonlight.
“Enoch—”
Master Gershom lay on his side, a thick spear shaft passing through the muscled flesh of his inner thigh. His clothing was torn, and Enoch could see countless smaller cuts through the tatters.
“Master!”
“Don’t fret, boy. This is not all my blood. The spear is the only serious wound of the bunch. A good warrior protects his vitals. Remember that.”
Master Gershom winced as Enoch tried to staunch the flow of blood at his leg with a handful of leaves.
“Quite a skirmish, eh? I’ve been in plenty of battles but never at five-to-one odds. And every one of them more skilled than the other, why that last beast with the spear, I only barely—boy, those leaves will do no good. Go tear some cloth from the sack over there under the tree. That ought to do it.”
Enoch stumbled over to the sack, his face a mask of misery.
I might as well have thrown that spear myself. Leaving him to fight alone and outnumbered. Coward! Coward!
The now silent woods echoed back his shame and rage. Master Gershom read the boy’s thoughts as he returned with the bandage.
“Not your fault, Enoch. There are forces bigger than the two of us, stronger than the Edrei themselves. We cannot blame ourselves when destiny turns sour. That’s right—not too tight now.”
He grimaced as Enoch wrapped the tattered cloth around his wound. Blood soaked through the bandage and ran down Enoch’s arms.
“No . . . no . . . I can’t stop the blood! I need some more . . .”
Master Gershom pulled the boy’s hands away from the mess and held them up to the moonlight. He looked intently into Enoch’s eyes. He knew. They both did.
Master Gershom’s eyes turned to his charge’s hands, and then widened with surprise. He gave a shallow laugh and shook his head.
“These . . . these scars on your wrists, Enoch.”
Enoch looked down at his hands. The serpentine scar which spiraled from the base of his left hand almost to the elbow caught the moonlight, seeming to ripple as he watched. On his right hand, the scar resembled an inverted wave, two arcs cresting at his knuckles and coming to a point at the back of his wrist. His master’s laugh turned into a wet cough.
“I’m such a fool. How did I miss these? You have been marked, Enoch. Only a rare few of the Pensanden ever received the marks. They are gifts to you, boy—gifts and an ancient lesson.” Master Gershom’s hands, perpetual sources of strength and comfort, now shook as they traced the pale tracks on his charge’s arms.
“The Serpent and the Hawk,” murmured Master Gershom, his voice growing steadily weaker. “The two forms which destiny takes, avatars of fear and hope.”
He pulled Enoch closer, his voice a whisper. His eyes were closed.
“Feather and Scale.”
Master Gershom reached into his bloody tunic and pulled out the silvery memory spool he had taken from the Unit.
“Take this, boy. Take it and go north. Go to Tenocht. There are those who will hide you there. Show them this. Take my . . . my swords. Speak to no one. Hide your marks.”
Two coldmen crashed through the underbrush into the clearing. One held an axe, the other a smoking metal tube.
“Run, Enoch, run!”
“No, Master. I won’t leave you!”
“Fool, boy! Leave me and run! These are coldmen, bred to kill your kind!”
The creature has now raised its weapon to its shoulder. Enoch paused.
There!
There were the lines of force, the motes of energy. He felt the hammer pivot back, the charge building power, the trigger slowly pulled . . .
“No.”
With a blasting roar, the tube exploded on itself, filling the air with white-hot metal, smoke, and steaming pieces of flesh. The
The monsters won’t find us so quickly without their hounds.
His head buzzed with these thoughts as he stumbled into the clearing, nearly falling over the twitching corpse of a disemboweled coldman. He cast his eyes around the scattered bodies, all glistening black wetness in the moonlight.
“Enoch—”
Master Gershom lay on his side, a thick spear shaft passing through the muscled flesh of his inner thigh. His clothing was torn, and Enoch could see countless smaller cuts through the tatters.
“Master!”
“Don’t fret, boy. This is not all my blood. The spear is the only serious wound of the bunch. A good warrior protects his vitals. Remember that.”
Master Gershom winced as Enoch tried to staunch the flow of blood at his leg with a handful of leaves.
“Quite a skirmish, eh? I’ve been in plenty of battles but never at five-to-one odds. And every one of them more skilled than the other, why that last beast with the spear, I only barely—boy, those leaves will do no good. Go tear some cloth from the sack over there under the tree. That ought to do it.”
Enoch stumbled over to the sack, his face a mask of misery.
I might as well have thrown that spear myself. Leaving him to fight alone and outnumbered. Coward! Coward!
The now silent woods echoed back his shame and rage. Master Gershom read the boy’s thoughts as he returned with the bandage.
“Not your fault, Enoch. There are forces bigger than the two of us, stronger than the Edrei themselves. We cannot blame ourselves when destiny turns sour. That’s right—not too tight now.”
He grimaced as Enoch wrapped the tattered cloth around his wound. Blood soaked through the bandage and ran down Enoch’s arms.
“No . . . no . . . I can’t stop the blood! I need some more . . .”
Master Gershom pulled the boy’s hands away from the mess and held them up to the moonlight. He looked intently into Enoch’s eyes. He knew. They both did.
Master Gershom’s eyes turned to his charge’s hands, and then widened with surprise. He gave a shallow laugh and shook his head.
“These . . . these scars on your wrists, Enoch.”
Enoch looked down at his hands. The serpentine scar which spiraled from the base of his left hand almost to the elbow caught the moonlight, seeming to ripple as he watched. On his right hand, the scar resembled an inverted wave, two arcs cresting at his knuckles and coming to a point at the back of his wrist. His master’s laugh turned into a wet cough.
“I’m such a fool. How did I miss these? You have been marked, Enoch. Only a rare few of the Pensanden ever received the marks. They are gifts to you, boy—gifts and an ancient lesson.” Master Gershom’s hands, perpetual sources of strength and comfort, now shook as they traced the pale tracks on his charge’s arms.
“The Serpent and the Hawk,” murmured Master Gershom, his voice growing steadily weaker. “The two forms which destiny takes, avatars of fear and hope.”
He pulled Enoch closer, his voice a whisper. His eyes were closed.
“Feather and Scale.”
Master Gershom reached into his bloody tunic and pulled out the silvery memory spool he had taken from the Unit.
“Take this, boy. Take it and go north. Go to Tenocht. There are those who will hide you there. Show them this. Take my . . . my swords. Speak to no one. Hide your marks.”
Two coldmen crashed through the underbrush into the clearing. One held an axe, the other a smoking metal tube.
“Run, Enoch, run!”
“No, Master. I won’t leave you!”
“Fool, boy! Leave me and run! These are coldmen, bred to kill your kind!”
The creature has now raised its weapon to its shoulder. Enoch paused.
There!
There were the lines of force, the motes of energy. He felt the hammer pivot back, the charge building power, the trigger slowly pulled . . .
“No.”
With a blasting roar, the tube exploded on itself, filling the air with white-hot metal, smoke, and steaming pieces of flesh. The
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