After [A Journey of the Twins Novel] (6 page)

Drayco awoke to the sun beating down on him. He had a headache that could knock a horse over and his throat felt worse than parched paper. He remembered the Wanderers with their drugged wine and sat up quickly. The sudden movement increased the throbbing in his head. The pain caused him to lean over and retch. When his body calmed down, he looked around. He was alone.

He felt weak and shaky when he stood up, and felt his pockets. The money was gone. The knife stored in his boot was also gone. The place where his sword normally rested was vacant. It felt as if a part of him had been yanked out.

"They took everything,” he said with disgust.

The look that settled on the dark man's face would have made anyone grateful they were not the intended target of his wrath. He did not mind so much losing the pack or the other things, but the sword he carried was a gift from long ago—it was a gift from his grandfather.

Drayco remembered coming home after a particularly difficult match where he had lost. The older man met him at the door and took him into the living room. A wrapped bundle lay on the coffee table. The sword was inside. The thought of those Wanderers touching it with their thieving hands was almost too much for him to bear.

He began to look for their tracks. Horse drawn wagons filled with people and their belongings tended to leave marks in the soft ground. It was not long before he found what he was after. The tracks led westward.

The sun was shining high in the sky when he started out. He hoped they were only half a day ahead of him. If it was more than one, he would have a harder time catching up to them. But catch up to them, he would.

The dark man's body needed blood. He refused to acknowledge it. His thoughts were on the treachery used, and how easily they had played him.

Those Wanderers have no idea who they are dealing with. They will understand fully once I'm through with them.

Drayco walked at a steady, ground-eating pace. Sweat ran into his eyes, making them burn as if hot coals were imbedded in them. He used his sleeve to wipe off the streams that flowed down his face. Even though the nights were cooler, the days were still hot.

No one was on the road, for which he was thankful. He did not wish to meet anyone in his present state of mind, only the ones he sought. His body started giving him stronger signals that it needed blood. He ignored it still. He would soon solve the problem when he caught up with the treacherous group.

The tracks stayed with the road. He kept an eye on them in case they turned aside. As dusk approached, the tracks did just that. The wagon wheels cut a path in the ground toward a clump of trees. The arrogance of this group was amazing. They made no attempt to cover their trail.

I guess they thought I would simply give up and go away
, he thought as he crept into the woods.
How wrong they were for underestimating their victim.

Darkness was upon him when he reached the camp. Drayco had taken his time to keep from alerting the group of his presence. A cook fire burned, a pot of leftovers boiling over. The families were sitting around it laughing and kidding with each other, same as the last time he'd seen them. The conversation, though, was different.

"I still chuckle when I think about the look on that sucker's face,” one said.

"Yeah, especially when he realized he'd been drugged,” said another.

"This boot knife will sure come in handy,” another in the group added as he held the weapon up.

The first man who had spoken held something in his hands. Drayco could not make out what it was because the man's back faced him. His blood seethed when the speaker held the object high. Firelight reflected off metal.

Brind emerged from the shadows of the wagons. “Best be thankful for that sword, Garrett. They don't make ‘em likes that no more."

Drayco crouched low behind some bushes and watched Garrett swing his grandfather's sword recklessly. His temper flared. Unfortunately, his body reminded him that he wasn't strong enough to take on the entire clan because of the need for blood. He'd have to wait for an opportunity to arise. Sitting down, he watched patiently as the group went about their business. Soon enough, he'd take back what was his.

Most of the Wanderers retired to their wagons once the evening meal was finished. After a while, only two remained by the fireside, drinking. Garrett still held onto the sword, the sheath for it lying on the ground near him. Drayco's pack lay next to the sheath.

"I wonder how old it is, and how many men it's killed,” he slurred, turning the weapon back and forth to admire the blade.

Brind glared at the younger one and said, “Probably more than you'll ever know."

He reached into his shirt and pulled something out, then leaned over toward Garrett. Drayco heard coins hitting together.

"We'll share these with the others ... maybe."

They had apparently played this game before. Both men started to laugh as the coins were divided equally. A few more drinks followed. All the while Drayco watched and waited.

The pair was hitting the wineskins hard. A stack of empties lay discarded, testifying as to how much they had drunk. Full ones waited nearby to be relieved of their contents.

Brind threw another empty wineskin into the ever-growing pile and almost fell over with it. With some difficulty, he muttered, “I gotta go empty my own wine sack. Don't drink everything up before I get back."

"I'll make sure to leave nothin’ for ya, Old Man,” Garrett slurred a little too loudly.

Brind stood and stumbled against a tree before getting his feet under control. He disappeared behind one of the wagons. Drayco saw his chance. Using the skill he'd been taught during his outings with his father, he crept in the direction Brind had gone.

The dark twin found the man standing with his back toward the woods, legs spread apart, relieving his bladder. One hand held tight to the large wooden wheel, thus preventing himself from swaying and wetting all over his boots.

"Boy, do I feel better,” he said with a sigh as he finished. “Now I have room for more of that fine wine.” He chuckled under his breath while he closed his breeches, almost falling against the wagon once he let go of the wheel.

Suddenly, he had an eerie feeling that he wasn't alone. He had lived a long time in this harsh world and had learned to trust his instincts. He tried to turn around; he was too slow. A hand covered his mouth, cutting off any chance of crying out. A powerful arm wrapped around his chest, pinning him against another.

Drayco whispered into his ear, “No one takes something of mine without understanding the price involved with such foolishness."

Brind froze. He knew that voice. It seemed he had underestimated this one, and he might not get another opportunity to correct his mistake. His family had tricked many strangers using the drugged wine. No one had ever acted like this one. All the rest had licked their wounds and accepted their losses. This one, this dark man, was like a devil incarnate. He felt his head being tilted back, exposing the neck.

Brind didn't know what Drayco was going to do. Even in his drunken state, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be anything good. His breath came faster and faster as Drayco leaned close. He wanted to say something, anything, to get this man to stop. The hand over his mouth prevented it. He struggled against the arm holding him. His present state made that ineffective.

Drayco bit deep into the exposed neck, allowing an artery to bleed freely. He drank the warm liquid without hesitation.

Brind struggled harder, to no avail. The last thought he had before death overtook him was that he should have followed his instincts and killed this man when he had the chance.

Drayco let the body slip quietly to the ground when the blood flow stopped and vanished back into the woods.

Garrett was still sitting near the fire, his head nodding, a wineskin tucked under his arm, when Drayco returned. His stolen sword leaned against a bent leg. The dark man slipped up behind him. Being a fighter, the Wanderer seemed to sense someone there. Garrett jerked his head up and looked at Drayco. He grabbed the sword as he staggered to his feet.

"You!” He spat that single word out as if it was poisonous.

Raising the sword above his head, Garrett charged at Drayco. Halfway there, he stumbled and fell on his face. The blade clinked on a rock sticking out of the ground; sparks flew into the air. He tried to get up, but was too slow. He'd had too much to drink. Drayco was upon him in an instant. He grabbed Garrett by his hair, pulling him to his knees.

"My grandfather's sword is to be cherished and respected. It is
not
a toy to be played with,” Drayco said through clenched teeth.

Garrett had forgotten the sword in his hand. He raised it in an attempt to slice at his attacker. It never reached him.

The dark man grabbed the arm and twisted it, causing the sword to fall from the hand. A pop echoed from the shoulder. Garrett opened his mouth to scream. A sharp yank on his hair snapped the head back, cutting off any sound before it came out.

Drayco sank his teeth into the exposed neck like a rabid animal. The soft flesh gave way easily, allowing the sweet juice of revenge to spurt with every beat of the Wanderer's heart. The dark twin drank like a man who had been lost in the desert without liquid for weeks. With every swallow, his body rejuvenated itself. When he had his fill, he dropped the body. It fell in a heap, leaving the ruined neck visible for all to see when they found Garrett's body.

After the rushing in his ears lessened, Drayco listened for any cries of alarm. The usual sounds of the night were all that filled the air. The brief scuffle with the younger man had gone unnoticed by the rest of the camp. Drayco went through Garrett's pockets, taking all the money found in them. Picking up his sword, he strode over to the fire and retrieved his pack and scabbard. Once the scabbard was in hand, he slid the sword inside with a silent prayer of thanks, and returned it to his belt. The missing part of him was now filled.

The dark man looked inside the pack and was surprised to find everything still there. Garrett must have claimed it and all the contents for himself. Drayco put it on his back and returned to Brind. A quick search through the man's clothing located the rest of the money taken from him. The knife for his boot was lost. It could be replaced easily.

The revenge killing had his adrenaline pumping. He knew that if anything was stupid enough to mess with him tonight—man or creature—he would enjoy showing them the errors of their ways. When he finished, Drayco disappeared into the blackness of the night.

With the coming of daylight, the Wanderers found the bodies of their comrades. The look on both men's faces showed horrible deaths: eyes wide with fear, their mouths open in an attempt to scream. Both had their throats ripped open. No blood surrounded their bodies, which was something very unusual. They wondered what manner of creature had killed them, and how it could have done so without waking the others. The Wanderers were a superstitious lot. Whispers of spirits and demons began.

The group refused to touch the bodies, choosing instead to burn them where they lay. The wagons were packed quickly and the horses hitched. Breakfast would wait; they wanted to be as far from this cursed place as possible before stopping again. Talismans were hung on the wagons in an attempt to keep the evil thing that had killed the men from following.

They moved on, never to pass those woods again. They were afraid that if they returned, the demon would finish the job it had started, or the lost spirits would haunt them forever.

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Shyanne was running, her clothes and the skin underneath ripped, her hair flying loose about her face. Darkness without end surrounded her. The only light she saw appeared to come from the thick, glowing mist around her. Wherever she went, the mist followed, wrapping itself around her lower body like a snake. It swirled into her face, then fell back to the ground as if it was a demon-possessed thing of the night. She waved her arms back and forth, trying to clear it. The mist always returned.

She had been running for what seemed like an eternity, her cheeks wet with her tears. She was lost ... and alone. She called out; no response came back.

"Drizzle! Jack! Where are you? I need you!” She spun around and around, causing the swirling cloud to spin like a tornado. “Drayco! Help me! I don't want to be alone anymore! I'm frightened!"

Noises started in the mist. The sounds were difficult to make out or pinpoint. The mist made them seem like they came from every direction. Shadows moved, but nothing solid ever materialized. She turned this way and that, trying to see what was in the swirling cloud. Outlines of huge, grotesque creatures were in her peripheral vision. They faded when she looked directly at them, never becoming real. She had the feeling that a thousand menacing eyes were watching her.

Shyanne started to run again, her breath in ragged gasps. Her chest and legs felt like they were on fire; her heart raced. Slowing to a jog, she panted, “I have to stop soon. But if I do, they'll find me and kill me."

A deep, guttural growl sounded to her right. She jerked her head around. A shadow moved. It was so close she thought she felt its hot breath on her neck. She turned and ran with renewed vigor as if her life depended on it.

Drizzle watched Shyanne as she moaned and thrashed about. Her flowing hair was matted and wet with sweat. He tried to calm her by calling her name. She didn't seem to hear him.

"Shyanne, please come back. Jack and I can't go on without you."

Three days had passed since the attack. Drizzle had not left her side except for those few times when he stepped out to relieve himself. Hunger was ignored. Thirst was quenched with the water in the room.

After the rizbak were killed, he'd watched as Shyanne tried to make it to Jack and went down in a crumpled heap. He'd been off the wall and by her side in a flash. Rolling her gently onto her back, he saw blood on her thigh and left shoulder. The thigh had clotted itself off. The shoulder bled profusely. He held pressure to the area until the flow stopped. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern. He'd been glad to see the motion continue.