25 A Patch of Night

THREADFIN RAN IN blind panic and shock. When he stopped at last, and stared back into the night, he caught a glimpse of them. The buggers weren’t giving up. He thought about letting them catch him. It was the least he deserved. He couldn’t fight back without a reflective surface of some sort. Besides, he felt weakened from earlier, and had no desire to repeat what had happened.

A thunderous vibration pursued him. Tremors shot up through his feet into his withered heart. For a moment, it felt as though it was beating. Odd sensation that. Reaching a narrow valley, he increased speed, but after splashing through a shallow stream, he halted. He had reached the edge of another woodland. This terrain was unknown to him. He assumed the glow in the distance was the city of Byrsa. For all he knew, the whole forest was ablaze.

The growls and grunts behind him neared. His decaying body protested. Even a viral had limits and running full pelt for seven hours took a toll. In some ways his kind were stronger than breathers. In others, though, they were weaker. Healing from injuries or recovering from exhaustion was harder. Threadfin turned. Large silhouettes crashed through the undergrowth.

It was too late.

Returning to the water’s edge, careful to remain upwind of his pursuers, he crouched into a ball. He had no doubt the giants could see in darkness as well as he. They’d never faltered once since the sun fell. Then again, perhaps they also followed their noses. He needed to hide. Staring into the shallow water, its surface reflected enough moonlight for his eyes. Within that liquid swirl, he discerned the rippling shadows of trees, of night’s creatures who’d paused to drink.

Reaching through the reflections, he gathered those shadows to him. The forest began to shrivel around him. He heard the groan of trees as he sapped their strength, and imagined the leaves wrinkling to dust, branches snapping. He felt the slowing beat of a badger’s heart, and of a hapless slinkt crossing the stream. An unnatural gloom concealed him. He learned in that moment to focus his talent, to reach out and choose. The effort weakened him. He couldn’t risk focusing on the giants. He might draw their attention to him and they were too many.

The giants passed, iron boots stomping into cold earth and dead leaves, splashing through water. Trees shuddered. Branches and twigs spilled in their wake.

He peered through the dying bramble and ferns at the water’s edge, feeling confident they wouldn’t spot or smell him. He didn’t want to see them either, but felt compelled to look.

One giant let out a long, throaty roar. Another answered further off, then another. Flocks of rooks and jackdaws, those not overcome by his spell, abandoned their nests, the voices of giants drowning their cries.

He crushed his body into the hollow, unable to take his gaze off them. None taller than nine or ten feet, their pale skin cracked and rippled in the moonlight. These wore little or no armour, perhaps for greater speed. Their faces appeared misshapen. A few possessed broad flightless wings that were expanses of colourless skin. Those ones were tallest. They snapped branches as they lumbered past. Leaves, twigs, and flakes of bark showered him. His spell concealed him, but that was all.

One passed close enough he could’ve reached out and touched it. The patchy bole of a twenty-foot yew was at his back.

In the distance, he heard cries that sounded human. Whoever they were, they were on their own. The giants kept coming, twenty, forty, sixty, before he lost count, but at least a gulac in strength. Due to the self-imposed isolation of the giants, rumour became fact. As the Raddhon natives thundered by, he recalled the worst stories.

Some folk said they reached thick arms through windows and doors stealing children. Others said they took slaves, were lazy and cruel. A few maintained they bred with their slaves to create hybrids, who in turn served them. Others suggested they were a misunderstood and ancient race, who’d become isolated due to the fear and hatred of humans. These latter were a scorned minority, but Threadfin knew what it meant to be isolated, feared, and hated. He felt sympathy for these gigantic beings, but not at the expense of his sister. He would destroy them to save her.

The last thudded past.

It still didn’t feel safe, and he remained concealed. A strange magic, but he had to admit he was starting to like it. His talent was more extensive than he could’ve dreamed. Scatter’s explanations filled in many gaps, but he knew he had much to learn. How, without a teacher?

Scatter and Lorn had both alluded to ancient tomes, which they’d studied, perhaps relearning lost magic. Living, breathing magi and now they served Threadfin Todder, or at least they had. They had proved their loyalty when they’d tried to protect him, and he had killed them. Scatter had warned him of the cost for his power, but like a fool, he thought he knew better. Had he a living heart, it would’ve broken. As it was, a pain not born of anything physical filled his core.

An errant breeze chilled his bones, and he flinched. He didn’t feel cold, which meant this wasn’t natural. Remaining as a stone, he blanked his mind as the shadowy form stepped past. This was no giant. It stood at but six feet tall, and it was no imp. Muted flames, glowing a faint blue, smothered it, adding height. He could see the shape of a man within. Pen Luthus was on the hunt.

The chimera’s gaze cast left and right. It paused and sniffed, holding its position for a moment before moving on. When it had left, Threadfin released the shadows, but remained crouched. A lone wisp clung to his hands and wrists. His flesh absorbed the darkness, like a sponge in black water. His skin became translucent before returning to normal.

It took some time before he stood, and resumed the trek to Byrsa.

‡

CANAAN PEN LUTHUS RAN, heedless of slippery earth or jutting rock. His studded boots gave him purchase, but he resented the effort. His body needed time after the last change, and it wasn’t recovered from the viral’s attack. Still, he touched his angelic core, flames licking his skin and heightening his senses.

Human bodies had such limitations. At first, he had thought it would be easy. This prey was no soldier, raised in a palace surrounded by luxury. He was nothing but a pile of rotting skin and bones. Canaan had been closing fast too, even in human form. The scouts Gog had sent him, lumbered ahead, but they hunted blind. Todralan hadn’t been alone; those accursed Aidari made his life difficult. At least few of them now remained alive, but the viral’s power was lethal.

Rain hammered the earth. Iron-grey clouds threatened the gibbous moon. It was night, and the terrain treacherous. The rain did lessen and the wind dropped, but he still slowed. He had lost his prey.

He spotted Altus off to the right, leading several others towards the eaves of the woodland. It was impossible to find the undead bastard in the dark. Damn Berg, Altus, and the lot of them to the black fires of Oblivion. Thraels were of limited use, but that fool Avitus had insisted on dozens. She had underestimated the readiness, the pure lethalness of their quarry. He also suspected the late arrival of Altus was more than it seemed. Did she think him a fool?

The bulk of this horde was young Rephaim, though they had several minor factions in tow. Ironically nicknamed the Dead Ones, they had a vicious reputation, but this Plagueborn had shown what he could do. Dozens of giants had died back there. Canaan began to doubt if Gog could handle him.

Neither did Liviana have full control over the beasts, as she had promised. Her plan had unravelled from the beginning. He should never have trusted her. Through the Nephilim, she claimed she would lay waste to this world, but what good was that? He knew the Nephilim commander was not far off. Canaan had interacted with several scouting parties and had sent runners back and forth. Her plan would fail and they would be furious. The one way out he saw was to capture Threadfin and hand him over as promised ... and Liviana along with him.

It might prove enough.

The city of Byrsa lay close. Pen Luthus had given orders for the others to await him there. If Todralan held to his course, he would reach that city eventually. The trap was set. He was alone now, and he would be tiring. He would try to blend in, to disappear into the heart of Byrsa ... where Canaan’s thraels waited.