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  I lower Lia to the ground, hoping that she will not bleed to death in the time it takes me to put him down. I draw my knife and open wide my secret eye. Immediately, the world goes brighter, as if I am seeing the trees’ very spirits, leaf, twig and bough wreathed softly in shining, verdant halos.

  He cannot hide from my secret sight. I spy him immediately, already half behind me from where he entered the trees, a dark shape, a hunched shadow amongst the life-glow all about me.

  "Step forth, wretched thing,” I command, the power of compulsion thrumming in every word. I see Hollern pause, see him turn his wretched face towards mine.

  He drops to all fours and charges, his claws scything beneath him, gathering speed at an alarming rate.

  "Stop!” I scream, and he flinches, but then, with a shake of his shoulders, continues on.

  He barrels into me, knocking the breath from my chest, spinning me away from the fire. My hand slaps down on his cold skin, and I let the blood magic loose, reaching with phantom fingers for the core of his life.

  Nothing happens. Of course, Hollern is dead. The terrible will that animates him is not life. He does not bleed, and so my power cannot reach him.

  I scream in mingled frustration and pain as he disappears into the undergrowth. I can hear him, moving through the bushes, see him with my secret sight, a speeding shadow.

  Wetness trickles across my belly and I reach down, tracing the long slice in my leathers with my fingertips. He has cut me, but in the uncertain light I cannot tell how badly. There is blood enough to coat my hand. More runs down, warming my thighs.

  His second blow catches me from behind, sawing across the back of my leg as he flashes past once more. The injured limb folds, pitching me to the ground. I roll, towards the fire, towards the light. My knife, the useless thing, is still in my hand.

  You are no match for him, my sister laughs, delighted as a child at a festival. You cannot command his spirit, and you are certainly no match for him physically. Oh, whatever shall you do?

  I ignore her, shaking my head. I must remain calm, focused. I must think about how I can defeat him.

  But how? He is dead, but he walks. He feels no pain, no fear. The worst thing that could ever happen to him has already occurred. How has he slipped out of my control?

  No time for that now. He is coming. His shadow moves towards me, stepping into the firelight.

  With my mortal eyes I see him, see his ripped flesh and raw, exposed muscles. Bottomless hunger rolls from him in waves. His rusty black eyes meet mine, full of a terrible purpose. The wide mouth opens, stretches, thick tongue moving, terribly alive.

  "Ab...” Hollern says, and my skin crawls, tightening. The sweetlings never ... they cannot speak. The flayed chest moves as he draws a long, painful breath.

  "Ab ... om...” he tries again, the words as tattered as he is. I shrink back, the fire hot behind me. Beside him, I see a faint stirring, as Lia moves her hand, ever so slightly.

  She is alive. I must not let Hollern hurt her any more than he has. I crouch down, on one knee, my free hand reaching back, towards the near-intolerable heat.

  "Hollern, listen to me,” I say. “You must pass on. I know that now. You aren't supposed to be here. I can help you to—"

  "Ab ... om ... i ... nation!” he hisses through his ravaged throat. The word turns my blood to ice. I do not know if he refers to me or to himself.

  He leaps at me, just as my questing fingers come to rest on a chunk of burning wood. My knife will not hurt him; only fire may save me now.

  I pull the jagged wood from the fire, my hand blistering, thrusting forward the flaming brand like a spear. He impales himself on the shaft in a cloud of sparks, ignoring the pain of the fire. I hold him at bay, my muscles filled with the strength of desperation, his claws and teeth snapping inches from my flesh. I feel myself weakening only moments later. Sister was right; I am no match for what Hollern has become.

  Lia rises behind him. Her face is a mask of blood set with two glowing, flashing eyes. The smell of summer lightning fills the clearing, overpowering even the stench of Hollern's burning skin. She raises her hand, pointing at us, locked together in final combat.

  Hollern must sense her, for he begins to turn. No. This is right. This is just. I release the flaming spear and reach forth, grasping him, pulling him closer to me with the last of my strength.

  Lia calls down the lightning with a whisper, a tiny sound that precedes the titanic thunderclap. The bolt splits the night, blasting us away like leaves in a gale and scattering the fire.

  I do not feel myself strike the ground; my body has transcended pain. I do not know how long I lie there, in the ruddy darkness, but I know I am not dead. I can still smell Hollern's burning reek, still hear the rolling echoes of Lia's thunder, echoing from the distant, invisible hills. My ears feel like they are stuffed with cotton, and a fearsome ringing fills my head. I push myself up, the movement awaking a thousand pains, and look about.

  Lia stands in the midst of the chaos, her hair in disarray, blood coating her face. The lightning still flickers in her eyes, but the elemental glow is lower, barely visible. Hollern lies on the other side of the camp, lit by the scattered bits of the fire. He is moving, dragging himself along on his belly with his claws.

  The lightning has shattered his spine and blasted great chunks from his animated corpse, but still he moves. As I watch, he pulls himself along another few feet towards Lia.

  I stagger to my feet, ignoring the pain that fills me, and move towards him. As I pass the remains of the fire,

  I reach down, grasping one of the heavy stones ringing the blaze. My flesh sizzles as I heft the burning hot stone, but I scarcely feel it.

  "No,” I say, almost calmly, as I drop onto his back. His spines pierce my tender thighs, cutting me cruelly, but it is just pain. I raise the stone above my head with both hands.

  "No,” I pant, swinging the heavy weight down onto the back of his skull. The sensation of splintering bone fills me with a wild elation, mingled with a bone-deep revulsion. Vomit threatens to choke me.

  You are killing your son, my sister says. Is the sensation as sweet as you always imagined?

  "No!” I scream, raising the stone again and again and again, smashing it down on Hollern's skull until nothing remains but a mass of greasy, grayish red mush. Even then, I feel him moving under me, trying with everything he is to exact his terrible justice.

  He gives a last shudder and falls still. No sooner does he relax than I feel his body collapsing, crumbling into foul dust. I watch with my secret eye as his shade floats free, his ghost eyes still black, still filled with undying hatred. He mouths something, the words inaudible, some threat or promise, as he passes. Then, he is gone.

  I turn aside, surrendering to the heaving in my belly. I sprawl in the mud, the earth softened by my blood, by Lia's blood, lying amongst the scattered embers and blowing gray ash that once belonged to my minion. When I have nothing left to bring up, I turn and look at Lia.

  She is still standing, barely, swaying on her feet like a sapling in a gale. Pushing aside my discomfort, I limp to her side. My wise fingers explore the cut on her head, and I sense that the bone beneath is whole.

  "Oh, Lia, I'm so sorry. But he's gone now, I promise."

  She looks at me, the lightning pulled inside, like banked coals, hidden but not gone. She says nothing.

  "We must wash that out,” I continue, aware that I am trying to fill the silence with bright chatter, something I never do. Her stare unnerves me. “After, we shall rebuild the fire and I'll stitch your wound. You'll have quite a scar to show your father when you finally arrive at—"

  "Do not touch me,” she says softly, steel in her voice. I flinch away, then continue my gentle probing.

  "But, we must stop the bleeding. Head wounds often look bad but—"

  "Do not touch me!" she screams. At her cry, the wind swells, transforming in an instant from a gentle breeze to a gale. Limbs whip and flail, and a s
hower of acorns, leaves and sticks rains down.

  I back up, hands upheld, making soft, shushing noises, nearly falling as my injured leg threatens to give way again. Lia looks about, as if the sudden wind confuses her. High above, lightning threads its way amongst the clouds. Thunder grumbles and swells. She waves her hand, negligently, and the wind diminishes. Finally, she sits.

  "Let me bathe your face, at least,” I say. “You've blood in your hair. Honestly, you look quite frightening."

  She stares at me for a moment, as if I've gone quite mad, before a ghost of a smile flickers across her lips. I feel my own tugging upwards in response, and a moment later we are laughing, painfully, almost hysterically. I wince as the movement wakes a line of fire along my cut side and belly, but I cannot stop.

  I am alive. She is alive. We are alive. In this moment, that is all that matters.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rory and I left the inn at first light, hiking though the chill morning air. Up, always up, into the mountains. Luckily, no snow had fallen the night before, and Rory had little trouble locating my trail.I wondered how he followed my path, even when my footprints left the snow and crossed bare stone. I asked him as much. “Well, now, lass, that's easy and hard all at the same time, it is,” he replied. “Some is signs: a broken blade of grass here, or a footprint. You see? There? That scrape next to that patch of ice?"

  I squinted at the spot he indicated, then shook my head. “It looks like every other stone,” I admitted.

  He moved his mittened hand closer, pointing to a tiny flaw in the ice. “There. Your boot must have slipped, and made that arc in the ice. It is not a natural mark."

  I looked at him, impressed. “How do you know it's not an animal track?"

  He shrugged. “It doesn't look like a gepar's or a goat's hoof print, and besides, they're too sure-footed to slip on flat stone."

  "But, what about following from here?” I asked, gesturing to the broad expanse of stone still before us. The dark rock extended in all directions, bare of snow or even ice in many places.

  "That's when you have to think like your prey,” he said, grinning. He scanned the rock, then began moving, angling to the right as we went.

  "If I were coming this way, I'd take this path,” he said, his eyes restlessly sweeping back and forth. “Over on the left, the rocks are more jagged; lots of places to turn an ankle in there. And further yonder,” he pointed to our right, “there's ice. Most creatures will walk on stone if they have a choice. Less treacherous. This route leads towards that cleft in the rocks, and I wager that when we get up there we'll see that it's the only easy way down."

  We struggled up to the cleft. As predicted, my booted tracks continued on in the snow, leading ever upwards. I congratulated him for his cleverness.

  "Don't be too impressed, lass,” he laughed, waving aside the compliment. “It's not magic, and it doesn't always work. It's merely paying attention and thinking about where the prey is likely to have gone. Mixed in with a spot of luck from time to time, of course. Now, if only I could get Lady Fortune to look upon me with that same favor at the gaming table, I'd be a happy man!"

  We reached my cave by mid-morning. I swiftly gathered my few meager possessions, including my bow and quiver, while Rory rested. Soon, we were headed back down. Rory asked if he could see my bow, and I handed the weapon over.

  "Yew,” he commented, eyebrows raised. “That's a powerful draw, it is."

  "The body is capable of great feats when faced with starvation,” I replied with a shrug.

  He nodded. He seemed pleased with the weapon, and I asked him again what reason he had for wanting me to recover it.

  "The people of the village have a problem,” he said. “Something's been coming down out of the mountains to take their goats and sheep."

  "They should buy dogs,” I said, “and come with torches and spears when they bark."

  "Oh, aye, they've tried that. Did no good."

  "Why? Certainly the villagers are used to dealing with wolves?"

  "They dared not face what's taking their animals. The poacher's no wolf, lass. It's a mountain bear. A male."

  I waited, wondering where the difficulty lay. Animals were no match for armed humans, surely? Seeing I did not understand, Rory pressed on.

  "The stories say that bears, along with many other beasts, traveled to this land with our forefathers generations ago. The settlers chose their new home well, and all of the beasts they brought with them grew strong in their new home. But the bears, now they were special. They didn't just survive; they flourished.

  "After a few generations, the bears grew to over twice their original size, or so say the tales. The mountain bear is the king of all bears, the largest and most powerful predator ever.

  "I've seen them a time or two, up high, where the snow never melts, or in the deepest, blackest parts of the woods. Believe me when I say that they can break the neck of a bull moose with a single cuff."

  I tried to imagine a creature large enough to do what he said, and found I could not. He must be exaggerating, I thought, playing up the tale for a new audience.

  "In any case, the villagers have agreed to handsomely reward the man who brings the head of the beast, and I mean to claim it. It's already killed three others foolish or greedy enough to try stalking it on their lonesome. I figured I'd have a better chance of success with someone watching my back, even if it meant splitting the reward. My idea turned out to be a mite more difficult than I planned, though."

  "People are afraid if they hunt with you that they, too, will be killed,” I guessed. Rory nodded.

  "Aye. They say I'm mad to take on the beast, but I think otherwise. And the reward is worth the risk."

  I thought over what he had said as we continued down. This was not my affair. These people's livestock did not concern me, and I had little desire for whatever reward so fascinated my guide. Still, the ease with which Rory had located and followed my back-trail showed me he possessed many skills. Skills that would, I hoped, prove valuable to me. If he could be persuaded to teach me.

  "All right then,” I said, nodding, “I'll go with you. What do we do?"

  "Lass, you should know one thing before agreeing,” Rory said. “There's a thing that can happen with bears and other meat-eating animals. Once they kill a man, and partake of his flesh, then sometimes the beast grows a fondness for the taste. The bear I mean to stalk has already gone and killed at least three other people."

  "Well, then, all the more reason to hunt it down,” I said. “It's only a matter of time until it comes into the village or some farm looking for a meal, yes?"

  Rory grinned, seemingly well pleased by my answer. He clapped me on the back, and said, “Don't worry, lass. I've hunted bears before. Certainly not as large as this, I'll reckon, but a bear is a bear is a bear, as my grandmother was fond of saying. Once we take its head and hide, and return it to the village, I'll split the reward with you."

  "I do not require money; it would only hinder me,” I said. “I have something else in mind."

  Rory raised an eyebrow, awaiting my proposal. By the time we had hiked back down to the village, we had struck the bargain that would one day lead me into service with the army and, from there, into the arms of Jazen Tor.

  The bear's Tracks were not difficult to find. Rory picked up the trail before the sun was above the eastern peaks the following morning. By mid-day, we had followed them to a cave, much like the one that had almost been my tomb.

  The snow all about the mouth was stained a dingy gray, threaded with red and littered with the cracked bones of countless animals. Rory had explained to me that smaller bears lived in the lowlands, and often ate more fish and plants than meat.

  But mountain bears were predators, pure and simple, great silvery-gray mountains of muscle and fur. Our arrows would do little more than aggravate such a monster, unless we struck, and struck hard, at some vital spot.

  "Is that a sword?” I whispered, pointing.
r />   "Aye. Belonged to Big Jim Bagget, it did,” he breathed back, his eyes scanning the bloody snow. “I recognize the agate set into the crosspiece. Jim was the first to take up arms against the beast, and the first to vanish. When this business is done, we'll return the weapon to his widow."

  I nodded, eyes alert for movement, an arrow set onto my string. We crouched in the snow, behind a sheltering boulder, the wind brisk and cutting in our faces.

  After a time, I pointed to a new perch, one closer to the cave. “We should move. We might see more from there."

  He shook his shaggy head. “No, lass, we'd be downwind there, and the beast's nose is sharp. Plus, I'd like a way to retreat should it—"

  A moaning roar sounded from the darkness, cutting off Rory's lesson. We crouched lower, our eyes just above the top of the stone, watching. The roar was repeated, then all was silence.

  "He may have smelled us anyway,” Rory breathed. “Let's see if he comes out to see who's stupid enough to challenge him."

  An hour later, the bear still had not appeared. I shifted my half-frozen limbs, trying to keep them warm and limber.

  My fingers were frozen, the sensation in the tips chancy at best. Noticing my discomfort, Rory waved me back, away from the ridge.

  When we had gone far enough, Rory indicated I should hold. “The beast is either sleeping and unaware, or is craftier than I'd given him credit for.” He scowled. “The question is, which one is he?"

  "He has to come out sooner or later,” I said.

  "Aye, but will we be in any shape to challenge him when he does? The bear is much better suited to waiting than we are. If we're to take him and return before nightfall, we have only a few hours left to make our move."

  I nodded. “Then let's waste no more time. We go in, bows ready, and take him. At the worst case, we can always shelter in the beast's cave after the danger has been eliminated."

  Rory looked at me and nodded approval. My sister cackled. Are you doing this for his approval, dear sister? Perhaps you're hoping that he'll reward you with more than his knowledge of woodcraft and tracking? He is very hairy; I suspect that, beneath all that wool and leather, he's more like a bear himself than a man. Perhaps that excites you? Perhaps you yearn for a beast, now? I know that Urik was always a disappointment where such things are concerned.