A tiny set of antenna twitched at her. The queen bee fluttered her wings but made no move from her egg nest. Salome hummed her thanks and pressed the sticky casing back against the hive. Drones flocked to repair her hole and she stepped away. The honey’s sweet fragrance filled her nose and she hoped he’d be pleased.
With her tasks accomplished, she flew. High azure sky dotted with cottony clouds beckoned and she looped through the currents on a river of wind. The breeze fluttered the feathers on her brow as she dipped and dived, angled and lifted. Scents of earth and sea met and mingled in a bath of warm, salty cedar. The trees blurred beneath her and the crags beckoned. She flitted for a landing on one tall peak, the dark stone streaked with minerals. The land spread before her like a blanket, each wrinkle and ripple a grove or budding orchard. Her keen eye spied a speck of unnatural color.
A man wearing a deep scarlet tunic hurried through an opening in the rocks below. With one flap of her wings, she swooped low to follow, curiosity tempting her. Through two giant rocks leaning to form a triangle, up a narrow pathway around the mountain base and behind a dense coppice of pines, the man never looked up. Her knuckle-size heart leaped at what sprang from the earth.
Carvings scored the bedrock deeply, stretching from the ground to a height of three men. Ancient columns, pitted and split with age, supported a narrow roof of pure stone above a deep opening. The facing was marred by cracks spread like spiders’ webs. The muted colors and time-washed softness harkened to a day long ago and marked this place as once holy ground slowly being reclaimed by the earth.
A new image had been grooved into the sandy expanse, fresher, more vivid and pronounced. It lacked the grace and skill of the early work, the crude cuts jagged and disproportioned. Still, the rudimentary relief rolled Salome in her flight. The massive eagle looked to the east, dagger wings spread wide and eyes spitting fire. She’d found the Skullmen’s hideaway.
Her falcon landed on a high sycamore, thin blood charging through tiny veins. Below, painted men skinned deer and laughed under a high sun. The white of their markings glimmered and an eerie chill surrounded her. The air reeked of evil, of malevolent hate and urges outside the decency of nature. One stunning man stood in the shadows of the great door, his face a full etched skull, his glower churning rage. He stomped from the entranceway and kicked another in the face. The strong muscles in his back and thighs rippled with power, and a long swatch of black hair streamed from his shaven crown.
“Imbecile!” he yelled at the man holding his nose, blood spurting through his clasped hands. “I said boar!”
“Weren’t none. Figured you’d want deer rather than go hungry again.”
“If I see one more fucking deer carcass, I’ll roast you on a spit. Get this shit away from me.” Head tilted back, he screamed at the sky, a wordless frustrated blast. The other man scrambled away to avoid his viciously kicking feet. “Chakor, go fishing. Anything is better than venison again. And you, I’d better not see one hair of that deer inside the sanctuary or I’ll slit your throat and serve
you,
do you hear me?”
Hot, pulsating rage whipped through her sleek body. The screaming man carried a large bird on his chest and dozens of scattered wards along his golden skin. This was Karok. This was the devil who’d brought pain and misery to Eldwyn. This was the scourge who killed women and children for pleasure. This was the terror who’d hurt the man she loved. This man would kill Bryton. A single burning thought thrust into her mind and seared into her heart.
He must pay.
Her falcon’s wings beat the air before she thought to fly. Her frame grew, her feathers changed in a mist of purple. Her beak elongated and hooked. Wing bones shifted, straightened and stretched. Talons grew spurs. A plumed brow shaded her sight as she swooped low over the clearing. Her mighty screech jerked Karok’s head up and his mouth widened. Skullmen pointed, their eyes rounded as they skittered away from their leader, away from the great bird circling overhead.
“Twylea.” His awed whisper reached through the air and he dropped to his knees.
Salome battled the urge to pluck his eyes from his head and landed on a toppled stone near the demigod’s impression. Silence fell and she raked her sight over Karok kneeling before her. Her feathered breast heaved but she forced calm into her essence and spread her wings to their full eight feet. His eyes closed on a stuttered reverent breath. She faced the east, mimicking his chest talisman and the stone carving beside her. For a full tense minute, she did not move.
Karok crawled forward. Soft murmurs in a foreign tongue fell from his lips and Salome recognized it as a prayer. Fury twined around her bones. He prayed to her for honor and glory, riches and fame. One inked hand reached for her slowly. He touched her tarsus, the trembling stroke down her leg filling her with disgust. Salome curled her wings until the tips touched his temples. His skin was warm, damp with sweat, and his pulse kept time in a small blue vein. He thanked her, praised her beauty, her power, her benevolence. A shiver was born in the base of her spine.
One vicious kick ripped her talons down his face, splitting his cheek in three long gashes. Blood poured from his face and tears sprang to his eyes. Her screech buried his cry.
Every man ducked and lay close to the ground as she swooped over them, screeching and beating at them with her wings, striking with talons when she could, snapping with her beak. Karok held his hands up, pleading. Harsh native words pelted the air with salted heat.
“Why are you displeased? How have I angered you? Have I not worshipped you as you deserve, O Great One? What do you require of me, your servant?”
She looped back and aimed for him, rage fueling her dive. Her clawed feet latched on the bound hair at his crown and tore, ripping half the ebony strands from his head. His wail echoed as she took to the sky, long black threads in her grip. She dropped them, unable to withstand the touch of such corruption. A bellowing misery called from below.
“Twylea!”
Nausea roiled in her belly. Feathers faded into mist and her wind whistled through the trees, headed for the cliffside cave. Hot tears formed on cheeks that swirled into human form. Collapsing beside the stone steps, she hugged her stomach and wept. Despair hurt with savage ache. She heaved and retched but nothing came, just dry bitterness that sapped her strength and stained her spirit.
Warm earth cradled her as she rolled to her back, staring at the sky, tears streaming toward her hair. Was this the agony Bryton carried and never shed? How could he stand it? It gnawed at her bones like an animal foraging for food. Karok oozed evil with not one shred of light in his bleak aura. Her fingertips prickled where she’d touched him. She held them up, staring, expecting the flesh to have been withered and blackened. They were normal, unstained.
She touched her face and the wet surprised her. It glistened on her hand, tasted bitter and stung her eyes. Tears. She cried. How was that possible? Scrubbing her palms down her face, she sat and sucked in a liquidy breath. Grit crawled along her skin and seeped deep into her essence. Evil was a blot she needed to shed. Her gaze lit on the sheltered sparrow’s nest.
The sparrow looked on from the tree limb and did not glance as she approached. A gasp stuck in her throat. One scrawny hatchling, eyes fused, and pink with new birth, opened a fragile beak. The sparrow fed him tiny mouthfuls of the bit of meat under her tiny foot. Salome’s eyes dried and widened as a second egg cracked. A wet fluff tip appeared, then disappeared to emerge again. The shell shuddered and split more.
She watched in awe, never blinking or looking away, as the baby bird flopped from his shell. The mother sparrow looked on, never interfering, her beaded eyes flicking to each newborn. Salome stood for hours as the third egg twitched and rocked. A pecking grew. A slivered chip burst out on the point of a beak. Her heart thudded with joy and a laugh burned her throat. The small baby stretched from the shell, shook his body and plopped backward on its rump. The last egg rocked and a tiny crack appeared.
Life had erased her horror. Light warmed her from within and she sang a soft welcome to the newest of creatures on the earth.
Bryton’s arm tightened as he pulled the bowstring back. The pheasant strutted unaware below him. The late afternoon sun glinted off deep rust feathers and bright splotches of red along the eyes. He paused before releasing.
Feathers. Salome.
He relaxed his hold, the arrow still notched. Damn. Now he couldn’t bring himself to bag a bird for dinner. It seemed too cannibalistic.
A resigned exhale shook his head as the bird tottered off under a bush. He’d go to the stream and catch some fish before the sun dipped too low. He tucked the arrow back in his quiver. A fierce thrashing of feet in the underbrush made him stoop into a wary crouch, his eyes scouting for the noise.
An eight-point buck stumbled into the small clearing, blood streaming from a poorly placed arrow in its front shoulder. Death hooded the stag’s eyes and he snorted, collapsing to his knees, struggling to stand as his life bled away. Despite the pumping red and impressive rack, Bryton focused on the arrow embedded deep in the deer’s hide. The fletching was a ghost from the horrors of war.
The buck heaved and lay still. Bryton searched the woods, on guard and alert for twenty minutes. Whoever had shot the buck should have been able to follow the blood trail by now and claim his bounty, but nothing moved in the forest. He could see no one approaching from his high spot against the hillside. He shouldered the longbow and stood. The hilt of his sword cemented itself to his grip as he approached the animal.
It was a massive deer, fat and well fed for many summers. The umber coat dulled beneath the gushed blood and its antlers dug into the rich earth, pushed deep under its fall. The arrow resisted and Bryton used his knife to cut away at the muscle until he could pull the arrow out intact. At first glance, he thought it was from a crossbow but the length was off. It was far too long for that. The tip had been destroyed, striking bone and shattering on one side. It was a typical enough broadhead, plain metal notched firmly into the shaft. The shaft was thicker and oiled, with a carved marking at the grip. The fletchings were black, slimmer and grooving the arrow a quarter of the way down.
Training and weaponry rolled in his head. Archery was more distance and speed than brute impact. Typical longbows shot well near two hundred yards. Crossbows packed more force and at the right angle could pierce chain mail. Those arrows had nooks for securing the dart into the slot. This had none. It was too short for a grown man’s draw yet too heavy for a youth’s training bow.
But he’d seen them before…in the bodies of children nailed to walls at Istimar and countless other massacres since. The terrain and winds of Lacornia were well suited to heavier projectiles and the game there rumored to have thicker hides and denser muscles. Like the lizards they craved.
This was a Skullman’s arrow.
Wiping the blood on the ground, he added the missile to his quiver and gripped his knife. He wouldn’t have shot even a small deer, for the waste was too great. No one man, or one man and a conjured woman, could eat an entire stag in a single meal and the rest would spoil without salting or smoking. He had no means for either. Still, he wasn’t going to overlook dinner being served to him. Venison would be good after many weeks of smaller game.
He scored the hide and was removing the long backstrap when a low growl raised the hair on his nape. His hands buried in the oozing, wet red, he looked without moving his head. A wolf hunched nearby, sharp fangs glistening and fur puffed along its neck. The iron scent of blood hung thick in the air. His hand inched toward his blade. Her sagging belly and drooping, milky teats warned him it was a she-wolf, most likely with pups nearby and hungry. Bryton had no problem sharing his find. The bitch was welcome to the remainder. It would serve her well, feed her and her young.
Careful to move as slowly as possible and never dropping his watch on the predator, he gripped the thick length of loin and sliced deep into the deer’s belly in one swift move. Intestines and warm blood spilled onto the forest floor, then he slowly backed away, staying low and unthreatening. The bitch stared with yellowed eyes, prepared to lunge with any fast motion.
When Bryton was far enough back, he stood and the animal fell on the carcass. She lowered her head, tearing into muscle, but never lowered her gaze. He continued to inch backward until he could no longer see her through the brush. Then he turned and headed for the cavern, dinner dripping in his hand.
The short walk wasn’t enough to cause his heart to pound. The wolf wasn’t the reason his body twanged on alert. Skullmen hunted near enough for the buck to have survived to run, a few miles at best. With the amount of blood loss and tissue damaged, the animal had been struck less than a half hour before, maybe less. Salome had found him a good home base nestled in Skullman territory.
He’d found other signs they were near. They had no respect for the land. Bones piled beside darkened patches of earth, trees felled and the shorn leaves left to rot into mulch, human remains Bryton had taken time to bury not knowing if they were Eldwynian or Skullman.
His pace increased when the cliffside came into view.
Salome stood beneath a tree, her smiling gaze fixed deep into the branches. She turned and her face grew white. “Are you hurt?”
Confused, he glanced down. The deer’s blood coated both his hands and his breeches. “No, it’s from a stag.”
Relief softened her cheeks. A warmth grew in his chest. She cared. He’d known it but seeing it stirred his emotions, made the ache in his soul a little less sharp.
“Come, see, the eggs have hatched.” Her excitement was infectious and he grinned with her, peering between two green branches. The small nest was overflowing with cheeping baby birds.
“Ugly little things, aren’t they?” he quipped. Salome’s mouth dropped open. Deep laughter bubbled in his belly and he let it loose, the feeling unfamiliar in his throat. “Hey, they’ll get prettier in a few days.”
“They are beautiful now.”
“If you say so,” he called over his shoulder. “Come keep the kitten from attacking our dinner while I slice it.”
They worked in tandem, conversation flowing like a brook’s waters, and soon settled to eat. Salome reached for a blood-red berry and he grabbed her hand.
“No, they’ll make you sick.” At her frown, he raised his brows. “Or maybe not. The birds don’t seem bothered by them but if humans eat wert berries, they get sick. I’d rather not risk you trying them. But I’m glad you found some. I’ll use them later.”
He popped a raspberry in his mouth and watched Salome take dainty bites of the loin. She fed Leaf from her fingers, giggling at the kitten’s rough tongue and sharp teeth. Once Leaf came to him and pawed at his boot. He glowered and the kitten scurried back to her with a mewl. She called him horrid but the smile in her tone removed the heat.
The honey surprised him. She explained how she’d retrieved it and his mouth fell open, marveling at her. She’d been covered in bees? The beekeeper at Thistlemount used a smoke can, wore netting over his face and thick leather robes to collect the nectar. Bryton scoured her arms, her face, the exposed shoulder, looking for welts or stings. There were none, just orange silk and satin skin in cream with a hint of pink. The spice-rubbed venison lost flavor as he remembered the taste of her.
“What do you think of the venison?” He had to think of something, anything but how she felt in his arms. He forgot the question when she smiled widely at him. Her mouth moved, words were spoken but he heard nothing but the pound of his blood, the sizzle of electrified air between them. The storm that had been brewing gained strength and approached with a rapidness that stole his breath.
Firelight set a vivid color aflame in her gown, the color and sparkle licking at her skin. His tongue grew jealous. The high swells of her breasts drew his gaze and his mouth watered. He might have never abused caralic but he could understand the lure, the addiction that inflicted others. He craved Salome like a thirsting man craved wine. Escape, he had to escape.
His metal plate hit the stone floor. “While it’s still light, I’m going to go wash. The deer blood is making me itch.”
She should have left Bryton to his privacy. She knew it. But she couldn’t. His gaze had caressed every inch of her, longing, lust and hunger skittering over her skin like a feather’s stroke. She shredded bits of venison for Leaf, stacked the utensils and plates near the water and trailed after him. He did not go to the nearby stream but ducked deeper into the forest, slipping between trees and bushes. The light began to wane, the sky deepening to periwinkle, and the day’s heat fled. Soft peace settled into the forest.
In tune with his soul, she did not need her eyes to follow, tracing his path as if it were marked with torches rather than the subtle scents he carried. The rush of a waterfall filled the evening, a muted roar in an endless roll. A moist humidity seeped into the air, steam rising through the foliage. Salome bent a ferny branch down and watched.
A fissure in the earth heated the water. Tendrils of misty steam floated across the dark green, bubbling at one edge of an irregular inlet. White froth mixed with pale lime foam, spreading in widening circles. A flash of copper broke the surface. Bryton swiped wet hair from his face and swam, long strokes barely breaking the surface.
Pulse thudding in her throat, mouth dry and palms damp, Salome’s breath came in short soft pants. He swam leisurely and she could feel the tensions seeping from his muscles. The warmed water lapped at him. His soap sent iridescent lather thinning along the current. He ducked to rinse his hair and she swallowed. She should turn, walk away, allow him his relaxation. The long line of his back tempted her to stay.