first creature spun to see the mangled torso of its companion fall to the ground, and then turned and charged, axe raised murderously high above its head. It erupted from the smoke like a demon, orange eyes hot blisters of rage.
Enoch struggled to his feet, pulling his master’s curved blade from the ground. The monster was almost upon them, axe thundering through the air. Grinding his teeth, fatigued muscles screaming in protest, Enoch gripped the weapon and swung.
The axe spun end over end and thunked into a tree twelve feet away—two segmented hands still wrapped tightly around the haft. The coldman had time to lift the bleeding stumps up to its uncomprehending eyes before Enoch’s second stroke took him in the gut.
Exhausted, Enoch dropped the sword to the ground and fell to his knees. The sky beyond the mountains diffused into gray-blue as the dark liquid of night bled away into the west.
Chapter 4
“And was not this their greatest folly? For they lay with that which was of metal in a corrupted union, trading their souls for empty immortality, a life without life.”
—Abuk 4:15, The Book of Sins
From his stony niche, Rictus watched the thieves return from their raid on the caravan. Apparently it hadn’t gone well—two of them wore bloody bindings and all wore scowls. Some slunk off to their bedrolls while others gathered around the fire, grunting and cursing as they sat on the pitted headstones. Night had fallen, and a cold wind whistled through the ruins, causing a few of the rough men to shiver with more than just the chill. One of the men produced a wineskin from somewhere under his cloak and passed it around. As a gust of wind fanned the flames, they began to speak of the failed raid.
“Kingsmen! A damned caravan of the king’s own trained dogs and two of them on murback to boot—was a damned fool idea to jump that ship, I tell you.”
“Who scouted it, anyhow?”
“Gil!” came several replies. “Gil spied ‘em.”
The accused man protested. “How was I to know that they was Kingsmen? They wasn’t wearin’ no livery and the murs looked rangy enough!”
“Anyone catch a look at what was under the rag?”
“Nah—those kingboys kept us from gettin’ in close, as Scrape will tell.” One of the wounded men nodded his head and cursed.
“Looked like a cage to me.”
“Yeah—a damned cage. That’s what it was. Probably one of His Majesty’s new pets—perhaps we didn’t want to open the damned thing anyways.”
The conversation soon simmered down into drunken threats, mumbled vagaries, and tired boasting of the day’s exploits.
Rictus stifled a yawn, more a force of habit than a biological urge, and crawled back into his tomb. He wrestled with the idea of moving on and letting the highwaymen have their fill of this lonely place, but then he remembered why he was here and what was chasing him.
Room enough for everyone, I guess. Just as long as they help out with the rent.
* * * *
Enoch awoke to the smell of wet earth and leaves. He rolled his aching body from a cocoon of forest debris and felt the first cold drops of rain, signaling an early morning storm. It had been raining periodically for the last couple . . . what? Days? Weeks? Enoch had lost track a long time ago. He rolled back under the low branches of the blue pine, trying to ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
He tried to escape into the numbing world of sleep. Sleep did not come—only the nightmares that stirred his mind like a flock of noisy birds.
Enoch couldn’t clear his thoughts. He saw Master Gershom’s face growing pale and cold as the last few drops of blood crawled from his wounds. He felt the forest, weeping and quiet.
He shivered.
Those monsters—those coldmen— laughing with their rattle voices.
Eyes closed, Enoch saw the shallow grave he’d carved from the muddy forest floor. Levi Gershom now rested between the roots of the very tree which had sheltered his cowardly charge.
Enoch struggled to his feet, pulling his master’s curved blade from the ground. The monster was almost upon them, axe thundering through the air. Grinding his teeth, fatigued muscles screaming in protest, Enoch gripped the weapon and swung.
The axe spun end over end and thunked into a tree twelve feet away—two segmented hands still wrapped tightly around the haft. The coldman had time to lift the bleeding stumps up to its uncomprehending eyes before Enoch’s second stroke took him in the gut.
Exhausted, Enoch dropped the sword to the ground and fell to his knees. The sky beyond the mountains diffused into gray-blue as the dark liquid of night bled away into the west.
Chapter 4
“And was not this their greatest folly? For they lay with that which was of metal in a corrupted union, trading their souls for empty immortality, a life without life.”
—Abuk 4:15, The Book of Sins
From his stony niche, Rictus watched the thieves return from their raid on the caravan. Apparently it hadn’t gone well—two of them wore bloody bindings and all wore scowls. Some slunk off to their bedrolls while others gathered around the fire, grunting and cursing as they sat on the pitted headstones. Night had fallen, and a cold wind whistled through the ruins, causing a few of the rough men to shiver with more than just the chill. One of the men produced a wineskin from somewhere under his cloak and passed it around. As a gust of wind fanned the flames, they began to speak of the failed raid.
“Kingsmen! A damned caravan of the king’s own trained dogs and two of them on murback to boot—was a damned fool idea to jump that ship, I tell you.”
“Who scouted it, anyhow?”
“Gil!” came several replies. “Gil spied ‘em.”
The accused man protested. “How was I to know that they was Kingsmen? They wasn’t wearin’ no livery and the murs looked rangy enough!”
“Anyone catch a look at what was under the rag?”
“Nah—those kingboys kept us from gettin’ in close, as Scrape will tell.” One of the wounded men nodded his head and cursed.
“Looked like a cage to me.”
“Yeah—a damned cage. That’s what it was. Probably one of His Majesty’s new pets—perhaps we didn’t want to open the damned thing anyways.”
The conversation soon simmered down into drunken threats, mumbled vagaries, and tired boasting of the day’s exploits.
Rictus stifled a yawn, more a force of habit than a biological urge, and crawled back into his tomb. He wrestled with the idea of moving on and letting the highwaymen have their fill of this lonely place, but then he remembered why he was here and what was chasing him.
Room enough for everyone, I guess. Just as long as they help out with the rent.
* * * *
Enoch awoke to the smell of wet earth and leaves. He rolled his aching body from a cocoon of forest debris and felt the first cold drops of rain, signaling an early morning storm. It had been raining periodically for the last couple . . . what? Days? Weeks? Enoch had lost track a long time ago. He rolled back under the low branches of the blue pine, trying to ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
He tried to escape into the numbing world of sleep. Sleep did not come—only the nightmares that stirred his mind like a flock of noisy birds.
Enoch couldn’t clear his thoughts. He saw Master Gershom’s face growing pale and cold as the last few drops of blood crawled from his wounds. He felt the forest, weeping and quiet.
He shivered.
Those monsters—those coldmen— laughing with their rattle voices.
Eyes closed, Enoch saw the shallow grave he’d carved from the muddy forest floor. Levi Gershom now rested between the roots of the very tree which had sheltered his cowardly charge.
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