INBORN (The Sagas of Di'Ghon) (16 page)

Yet, in a glance he knew it wasn’t going to work. She wasn’t buying it in the least. While she would never be able to fathom the whole truth of who or even what he was, he couldn’t have her talking. He didn’t have time for the sigh that he felt somewhere inside his gut.

She paid attention to him. How rare was that? Now look what it was going to get her… Damn.

Luckily, there was no one else in the hall to see what needed to happen next.

Before she had the chance to even ask how he had managed the miraculous transformation he slammed his fist into her throat and clamped his other hand over her nose and mouth.

She was a strong girl. One who desperately wanted to live.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered into her ear as he dragged her into the old storage room. “You just weren’t lucky.”

She rained punches and kicks into him in a desperate effort to free herself from his grasp. He liked her for that.

“Good girl. Give me
hells.” He said smiling. “You don’t deserve this.”

It wasn’t long before her kicks and punches lost the power her rage had given her. Then her eyes glazed and her body went limp. He waited, trembling in the stench of the old storage room. Then, once he was sure that she was dead, he laid her down gently behind the old sagging barrel.

She was twice the fighter Darla had been. That putrid woman whined like a whipped puppy, begging for her miserable life with promises of silence and favors. All before he even touched her. Weak human.

He had always thought himself as having scruples. Hadn’t all of his killings, at least for the most part, been necessary for one reason or another? This one was too. It was. Yet, he was the one who had slipped up. She had only been good enough to notice... How truly unlucky that was for her.

The woman’s eyes, already glazed over in death stared up at him, the expression of betrayal to be her last. He looked away as a scratching sound came from behind the barrel and the rat he saw earlier slipped out of a ragged hole and scurried on top of the body. As if laying claim to his prize, it pissed on the woman’s chest. Then the wretched smelling thing began sniffing hungrily at the woman’s crimson stained fingers.

“Not lucky.” He snarled at the rat. Then he snatched up the nasty screeching creature and threw it against the far wall with a satisfying crunch.

In seconds, another appeared…

In the end, he stuffed her into the barrel, breaking as little of her as he had to in order to get all of her in. At least it would hold the rats off… for awhile. It was all he could do for her and would have to be enough. He didn’t have time for anything else.

“Well… M-Mess-Messenger… looks…  li-like you are g-going to Di’G-Ghon.” He chuckled as he slowly twisted into his Ghile stance, before he slid back into the darkness.

Stones

Lars Telazno pulled up on the reins of his grey. She was an old horse, one that he should have sold a year past. She didn’t seem to mind the break and immediately bent to pull some grass that was sticking up through the slush. Gabril’s mount danced and kicked in protest. The big black steed was all muscle and vigor, and the meanest piece of horseflesh Lars had ever seen, which was probably why Gabril liked it.

“What now?” Gabril called back over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me that old nag is lame. I told you to buy a decent horse. You never listen. You’re not riding behind…”

Lars stopped listening and lit his pipe, giving himself time to think, and feel.

He stared through the heavy pines into the bright blue sky
overhead. In spite of the heat, or rather because of it, he shivered. The Anwarian Range was all wrong. The age old weather pattern had shifted. The Anwarian Range winds had blown steadily for as long as the weather had been recorded in the halls of his guild. They were supposed to blow almost perfectly east, traveling over the frigid Black Sea, over the Three Sisters, the Anwarian Range, and the Barat Sea, barely touching the Isles of Di’Ghon and the top of Oryk, before crossing the Black all over again. A never-ending spiral of stabilizing weather that covered the mountains with a steady supply of snow. In nature’s perfect balance the moisture made its way down into the lowlands. Brooks to streams, streams to tributaries, which eventually flowed into the mighty Y’Nag Rivers. They fed the lakes and rich plains, supporting life for kingdoms. Now, the winds were gone. Just not there anymore. It seemed impossible. Now northerly hot winds raced up in their place, coming straight from the Gniom Waste, a vast barren desert with sands so hot that it burned through your boots.

This time of year the pass should be waist deep in snow. Yet, everywhere he looked water ran in rivulets. Drops rained from the trees. He imagined thousands of years of snow and ice trickling down the range. It all had to go somewhere. He couldn’t fathom how much water must already be racing down the mountains. Were the plains already flooded? It couldn’t happen that fast… Could it?

He fished out his pouch of meldstone, fingering out the small blue one from the six pieces he had. Outside the walls of Di’Ghon it might possibly be one of the largest collections in all of Arth. Twenty years ago, it wasn’t unusual for even a new member of the Order to have that many at one time. Lately however, it was rare for even a single piece of it to leave the Temple at all.

At the time he wasn’t quite sure why he was reluctant to hand it over to the cataloguers. But now he was glad he hadn’t. At first it was quietly suggested that all meldstone be announced and catalogued, just for record keeping purposes. Then, it needed to be studied, inside the walls of the guilds, of course. Then there were a few accidents. “Unexplainable unfortunate occurrences” was the term. Before long it was all locked up deep in
the Temple, for the protection of all. In that systematic fashion the Di’Madierin had managed to scoop up every scrap of meldstone he could get his hands on for years.

It was true that it couldn’t be left lying around for just anyone to get at. There was no telling what someone could do with enough of it, especially if the
inborn using it knew what they were about and intended harm. However, a member of the Order that had been around for as long as he had should be allowed access to meldstone when he saw fit. It was custom so old it might as well be law.

Deftly he opened himself
. The world around him burst into azure wind. He brushed the blue stone with tendrils of the Jen’Ghon and it hummed in response. He should have thought to use the stone to meld with the inborn that had wreaked havoc in the skies the moment it started. Using the stone for
seeking
another inborn didn’t take much. In fact he
sought
more times than he could remember. Over the years, Gabril and he must have brought scores of initiates through the Temple gates. But the sheer magnitude of the amount of the Jen’Ghon that was wielded that day, even undisciplined as it was, hit him like a giant hammer. Without warning he had completely been separated from his wits.

When he awoke later to find the stone
seeking
he was completely baffled. He didn’t remember opening the sack…. Yet, here it was, singing louder even now. He must have done it instinctively somehow. It wasn’t possible any other way. No one could use meldstone without touching it.

Lars sucked in the smooth tobacco smoke. He was going to miss this leaf. He only had a few bowls left now.

Something out of place caught his attention. The stone was singing louder. Too loud… They were still days from Ontar Hold. The only reason the stone would be singing this loudly was if…

Whoever it
sought
was coming toward it.

“They are headed this way. And they are close.” There wasn’t any need to explain who he meant.

Gabril sat on his mount, lips pursed in an uncomfortable grimace. He was supposed to peel off the trail and take the higher ground, providing cover with his bow. Instead the man just sat there looking ridiculous.

“What? Do you want me to hold your hand?” Lars snapped at the Circle. Normally the man couldn’t wait for something to do. Now here they were about to encounter one of the most dangerous…

“It’s not that. It’s just…” He fidgeted with his reins. “A man your age, playing with his stones…” Gabril laughed as his mount whirled.

Lars Telazno shook his head and put away his sack.

“Not right. Shameful.” Gabril’s disembodied voice echoed down to him.  The man was already invisible.

Lars smiled. Besides being the most deadly man the Circles had to offer, there was at least one more good thing about Gabril.

They would probably both die laughing. There was only one other way he would prefer to go.

Perfect

Lisella Ontar sat on a stool reading a message from Tristan while Farina deftly worked a ribbon into her hair. The fireplace gave off comforting warmth. It radiated into the stone walls and polished floors, illuminating the tapestries and sculptures that adorned the room. Yet, it did nothing to drive away the cold in her heart.

That Tristan managed to keep it all quiet was a minor miracle. First his men found the old woman
. Then, shortly after the dra had brought her the first of the Bloodborn they found another, a younger one, a pretty blonde. Now, only a few days later she had received more bad news. At least they hadn’t found Tristan’s little sister amongst the growing list of victims. The girl probably ran off with some boy.

Tristan’s note about finding two more bodies, this time down in the cistern ways,
both missing finger tips, had nearly driven her into a fit of rage. Whoever the killer was, he was getting worse. According to Tristan’s men, the
accidents
used to only happen during the festival. Yet, in the past week he’d just claimed his fourth victim. He no longer cared if people knew they weren’t accidents either. No elaborate staging. Just cold hard ruthless rape and murder. So far a body was found in a closet, another in an alley down in the village, and now two in the dark cistern ways. The only thing that seemed the same was that they were all still missing a finger tip.

How could it be that fate had chosen her to usher in a new era of peace and prosperity and at the same time plagued her own halls with some crazed killer?

“Get out.” Lisella said as she crumpled the note and threw it into the fire.

Farina, unflustered, even thought to curtsy, her crimson with yellow sash swishing across the floor at just the right angle, as she made her way out of the room. The woman was perfect.

Lisella grabbed the tea cup the woman had set out for her and threw it in the fire. Then she snatched the ribbon out of her hair Farina had been working on and tossed that in too.

Dimmed

They’d started the day off early intending to make it to the next keep before dark. About ten miles down the pass they had to stop. A mid-sized tree had fallen across the wagon path. It took five hours to cut their way around it. 

They saw the first wolf just before sunset.

The moons had long ago fled to the safety of the horizon leaving only the stars to fight back the deep black of night. Mammoth pines towered high above, their boles easily as wide as the wagon. The shroud of limbs and needles overhead was so tight that only the occasional pinpoint of star light pricked through. Thaniel imagined the blackness was alive, a monster sent by Lisella Ontar to swallow them before they could escape her clutches.  

Thaniel forced himself to breathe. He counted at least fifteen sets of bright yellow eyes watching them as the wagon bounced down the rough mountain pass trail.

“Damn wolves.” Samial Harkanin swore at the yellow eyes tracking them. He was all concentration, using every bit of his strength to keep the spooked oxen from running off the trail.

“You said we’d be fine.” Jorel muttered, busily knotting strips of cloth.

“Stuff it boy. We aint dead yet.” The old trader growled and spat.

“Stuff it boy. We
aint dead yet.” Jorel imitated Samial Harkanin perfectly, bouncing jowls and all, even the way his tongue protruded just a bit when he talked.

Elycia shook her head at his antics while Thaniel had a hard time holding back a chuckle. Jorel’s ability to sound like other people was uncanny. Thaniel could try a thousand times and not get it right. Yet, Jorel could mimic just about anybody after just a few seconds of listening.

They had torches mounted and lit on every corner of Harkanin’s brightly painted wagon. Yet the yellow flames barely illuminated the forest edge on both sides of the trail.

Everywhere Thaniel looked yellow eyes seemed to drink in what was left of the flickering light.

A spindly iron rack protruded above and over the unhappy oxen. From it suspended two lit torches, which were just two round metal cages no bigger than a small porridge pot. At the first sign of the wolves, Harkanin had them open the cages and stuffed them with pitch soaked knots of cloth. With every sway and lurch of the wagon the torches guttered loudly. For the most part the smoky flames and the odd flapping sound they made had been working, keeping the hungry pack of wolves at bay. For the first couple hours, occasionally one of them would try to overcome their fear and dart in for the oxen, changing their mind at the last second when they got closer to the balls of swaying flame.