Blood for Magic

Chapter 1: The Monster in the Woods“Five again,” Ainya said. She shook her bone dice in her loosely closed fist and then studied them when she opened her hand, cupping the dice in both palms to make sure she didn’t drop them where they could be crushed beneath the horses’ hooves. The rattling noise plucked at Tarquin’s already frayed nerves, but the distraction was better than thinking about the dying shareblood they’d left back in the village. Or what the villagers told them had attacked her. “Three and two or four and one.” Ainya let out a deep, thoughtful breath before she finally tucked the dice back into one of her belt pouches. “The number of transformation. I know it means something.” She looked at Tarquin with her night black eyes, obviously waiting for his reaction. “Maybe it means you need new dice,” Gretta said. She grinned when Ainya arched an eyebrow at her. “Is it about Faladir?” Tarquin asked Ainya, trying not to hope too much as he watched his breath drift away on the midwinter air. Ainya shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said sadly. “I wish I did.” “Me, too.” Tarquin managed a nod of thanks, despite his disappointment. He absently patted Hop’s shoulder, running his fingers through the mare’s shaggy fur. Hop bobbed her head as if she appreciated it. Tarquin, Ainya, and the shield Gretta rode abreast, so close together their legs touched, with Tarquin in the middle. It wasn’t the easiest way to ride, but he was happy for the frail bit of warmth and sense of protection. It was very cold. It had gone full night while he’d tried to help the shareblood, and the woods on either side of the road were as dark and silent as the deepest part of a cave. It reminded him of the Kawj, which only made the oppressive black more unpleasant. The three of them had cast simple hearth magic spells for light, but the little glowing balls seemed as useless as embers against this much darkness. Tarquin kept glancing right and left anyway, looking for a glimpse of gray scales among the trees. “Do you think it followed us?” “No,” Ainya said with gratifying certainty. “The matriarch said the creature her grandchildren saw was skulking around the animal pens. If it’s hungry, it’ll be more interested in snatching a chicken or two than coming after us.” “What about the firu back in the village?” Gretta asked. “I doubt the monster was hungry when it ripped off her wings.” Tarquin shuddered. “Maybe Ainya’s been rolling fives for the monster.” “Oh, I hope not. I really hope not.” Gretta turned to look at the forest the way Tarquin had. The old winter-stripped trees stretched thick as a wall on either side of the road. “It still sounds like a haldur,” Ainya said, as if the word hurt her mouth. “Only haldur are cruel enough to rip out a firu’s wings. It was their favorite torture during the war.” She released a breath that hissed through her teeth. It burst into ice in the air. “They liked leaving them alive afterwards.” “They said it was too small to be a haldur,” Tarquin said, and he was grateful for that. The haunted look in Ainya’s eyes was horrifying enough. “The haldur are gone. Burned to greasy ash at Telir,” Gretta said with relish. She’d fought there with Ainya. “The farmers said it was some human-sized, likely male gray thing with a tail. That doesn’t sound like a haldur. Haldur are hermaphrodites. It sounds like some sort of vyr.” “The number of transformation makes sense if it’s a vyr. Vyr change their form from human to animal,” Tarquin said. “It doesn’t have to mean anything at all,” Gretta said, but her gaze still searched the woods. “There were five villagers who stopped us to ask for our help,” Tarquin said. Not that he’d been able to give them any, in the end. Nothing he tried had eased the poor shareblood firu’s torment. The girl never stopped screaming. “Then there were the five siblings, and the rooster and four hens in the village. And my dice, don’t forget,” Ainya added. “It means something. I can feel it.” She ran her hand over her close-cropped hair. The thick black curls were dusted with snow. Tarquin leaned forward in his saddle to look at Ainya. “Maybe all the transformation stuff is because it’s some kind of vyr thing.” “I don’t know what it’s for yet,” Ainya said. “You’ll find it.” If Ainya said something was a portent, then it was. The only question was if the portent would lead to anything good. The gods were capricious enough to render any fate uncertain. Tarquin was painfully aware of that. He smirked, trying to lighten his mood. “Maybe it’s referring to the number of days it will take before your sister and her shields find our bodies, frozen to our saddles and covered in frost.” Gretta chuckled. “If you’re cold, Mage Tarquin, I’d be happy to trade places with you.” Ainya grinned and then reached over and gave Tarquin a few friendly thumps on the shoulder. “We’ll be there soon.” “Did you hear that?” Gretta asked suddenly. Ainya nodded, all humor buried under her role as Shield of the Crown. That ability to focus so quickly and completely was one of the many reasons she’d earned the honor of leading the elite royal bodyguards. All shields were excellent soldiers, but the Shields of the Crown were exceptional. “Something’s following us.” Tarquin couldn’t hear anything beyond the creak of leather, the horses’ hooves on the stones of the road, and the occasional hushed whisper of the wind. Even straining his ears, there wasn’t a sound that didn’t make sense in a forest at night, including the quickening thud of his heart. He drew his mage knife, but Ainya saw it and gave him a shake of her head as she eased her bow off her shoulder. “Don’t bleed ‘til you need to.” She nocked an arrow. “Fall behind,” she said to Gretta. “On my signal, we run.” The other shield nodded and dropped back. “Stay close,” Ainya said to Tarquin, and then pressed her heels into Southwind’s flanks, trotting ahead. Tarquin was left in the middle. He could see the back of Ainya’s head, and how she shifted her body in readiness. Tarquin’s brother was often called the “Gold Bear,” for his fair, handsome features and his strength. But if Faladir was a bear, then their cousin Ainya was a wolf: dark-skinned and lean and densely muscled, fiercely beautiful and dangerous. At twenty-five, she was just five years older than Tarquin, but she still seemed infinitely more sober and far wiser. He felt less terrified just knowing she was there. He looked right and left and got ready to put his heels to Hop on Ainya’s signal. Then Gretta’s horse screamed. Something wet and shockingly warm splashed the back of his head. One of the hearth lights went out. Tarquin wheeled Hop around so fast, she reared up onto her back hooves. He stayed on only through luck and years of forced riding lessons. Gretta’s horse was fountaining blood from its jugular, which something had gouged like a shovel through snow. The poor, doomed animal dropped to its knees, dying almost faster than Tarquin could take in what was happening. The thing that had killed the horse grabbed Gretta by her face as she tried to leap away from her dead mount. Its claws pierced her skull, and then the haldur drove the back of Gretta’s head into the trunk of the nearest tree. Tarquin sat rooted to his saddle, so shocked he could barely register what he saw. “But, they’re gone,” he said, as if the words would somehow change what was happening. “The haldurs are gone. Burned. The dragons—” The haldur tossed what was left of Gretta aside, then came at Tarquin. He had time to catch a glimpse of wide-set snake’s eyes in a face like a rotting prune, something amber on its stone gray back, and a mouth full of teeth like serrated knives. Then an arrow was sticking out of its chest, and Southwind shouldered Hop aside so Ainya was between Tarquin and the certain death coming at them. “Run!” she shouted and let fly another arrow. This one hit the haldur in the arm. It half spun with the impact before it howled in rage and leaped right at her. Ainya loosed her third arrow into the haldur’s stomach. At that range, it would have gone through a human’s belly and out their spine, but the haldur didn’t even pause. It swiped its claws across Ainya’s face, pulling her right out of the saddle. She hit the stone of the highway with the haldur on top of her and Tarquin automatically made a mage warding for her, despite how he hadn’t bled at all to pay for it. The haldur’s next strike snapped its claws on the cobbles next to Ainya’s head instead of going through her half-open eyes, and Tarquin silently begged Gretta’s forgiveness before he asked the gods to take the dead shield’s blood as payment. Magery didn’t work like that, but if he were lucky, maybe the gods would be kind and allow it anyway. He hadn’t been very lucky of late. Tarquin couldn’t tell if Ainya was still breathing, but then the snarling haldur snapped its head up and came after him, and he could only worry for himself. He kicked his terrified mare and yanked the reins so that Hop whipped around again. They galloped off with the haldur right behind. Tarquin was sure he’d never been this frightened in his life. But he knew if the haldur didn’t follow him, it would go back for Ainya, and he’d rather die than have to tell Prea her sister was torn apart because he’d been too afraid to run. Of course, dying himself seemed increasingly likely. Tarquin was a good rider, at least for a crownling who hadn’t been trained to go to war on horseback. But while it was easy to hold his mage knife as well as the reins, not slicing off his arm while galloping full tilt wasn’t a skill the seminary had thought worth acquiring. Not that having to choose between having his spine ripped out and slashing an artery was difficult. Tarquin put the reins in his teeth, then made two more hearth magic lights. He sucked in air as he flipped his tunic sleeve back and drew the point of his mage knife down the inside of his arm. He used one of the long white scars for a guide, reopening the older wound. His blade was sharp, and he barely felt the skin parting in the knife’s wake, but now there was plenty of his own blood to bargain with. He hoped he could make up for using Gretta’s blood before. The Mother and Father didn’t appreciate mages shirking their obligations. Tarquin snatched the reins from his mouth with his blood-covered hand and considered his few options. He couldn’t change direction because the forest alongside the road was far too thick for a horse, but if he kept going at this speed, he’d ride Hop to death before the haldur did it for him. The haldur snorted like a bull when it smelled Tarquin’s blood, but it wasn’t coming any closer. Tarquin was terribly certain it should have caught up to him by now, and Hop was already sweating despite the cold, her powerful lungs billowing icy vapor. Was the haldur toying with them? Why was the thing still lagging behind? The light, of course. How could he have forgotten something so simple? Tarquin would have laughed if he’d enough air for it. Haldur hated the light, everyone knew that. Even the three little floating balls of hearth magic were enough to keep this one back. They had likely saved Tarquin’s life, but light made by hearth magic was nothing like real daylight. It was just a matter of time before the haldur braved the brightness to get its kill. Red mist rose from the wound as Tarquin’s power gathered at the source of his bleeding. He formed an image in his mind, but the haldur swiped at Hop’s rump before he could complete it. Hop made a terrible noise and stumbled, stepped wrong, and fell when one of her legs snapped. She landed on her bent neck and went silent.