4. Reznyk
Chapter 4
Reznyk
HUNTERS AND WOLVES
H unters.
My lips pull back in a snarl. I’ve been watching their encampment all afternoon as rage simmers inside my chest like a pot at the back of a low fire. Hunger, I could forgive, I suppose. Poor families with mouths to feed following deer this far into the wilderness, that I could at least understand.
But this? This is a godsdamned festival.
These mighty hunters have claimed a large, grassy plain that used to be a series of beaver ponds. Several well-groomed horses graze lazily in the twilight, their ears flicking at horseflies dancing around them. Behind them, multiple gaudy tents line the southern edge of the field, with pennants flying above them as if they were commanding armies. Servants bustled around the encampment all afternoon, cooking and cleaning. When the mighty hunters returned, led by a group of rugged guides who are probably charging more shills than I’ve seen in my life to drag these rich men into the mountains, the servants even cheered.
No, it’s not hunger that brought this group to the Daggers. These are trophy hunters, searching for something only the Daggers hold. Rage spikes beneath my skin, making magic boil. A shiver of alarm travels through the horses in the pasture; several of them lift their muzzles to peer in my direction.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Ever since I trapped this magic inside my body, I’ve been able to feel the animals around me. And horses are always nervous, even strong, well-fed horses like these. Good. My plan depends on their fear.
The trophy hunters are here for the wolves.
My jaw clenches tight as I cross my arms over my chest. I’d thought direwolves were a myth, just another story to frighten children, until I saw them for myself, crossing the boulder field in the moonlight, followed by?—
Enough. Magic simmers under my skin. I pull breath over my lips, then stare at the waning crescent moon as it hangs low on the horizon in its wreath of mist.
I should kill them all. It’s what I do, rain death and destruction on the deserving and the undeserving alike. I think of flames, animals and humans screaming as magic destroys this little outpost of civilization within my mountains.
But what good would that be for me? Then I’d have a field of corpses on my doorstep, and sooner or later, even more people would come to clean up the mess.
No, I need to create a legend. A nightmare. I want the Daggers to be a cursed land, a place even the Towers would fear. I inhale slowly, feeling my chest expand. Magic flickers across my palms like the sun winking off a mountain stream. I raise my eyes to the hunters’ camp. Firelight paints the canvas walls of the tents; laughter and cheers drift through the open flaps. They must be well into their dinner now, and probably well into a few bottles of wine.
It’s time.
I close my eyes and focus on my magic. Somewhere in the shadows, the long, low wail of a direwolf fills the air. I grin in the darkness. I was never a master of illusions, not like Aveus, but I can manage.
One of the horses snorts. Alarm flickers through our connection. It’s not enough to convince the horses, my one illusion of a wolf howl, so I send a burst of fear through the magic.
A horse rears and screams. The big tent falls silent. Two guides appear in the doorway. I send another pulse of fear through the magic. Several of the horses buck and snort, suddenly nervous in the growing darkness.
Another illusion wolf howls. This time, one of the hunters inside a tent screams too. Guides pour out of the tents, crossbows and knives in their hands.
I create illusion wolves. Two, then four, pacing in the darkness beneath the trees. One of the guides fires his crossbow. The snap splits the night; the bolt lands in a tree. My illusion wolves come closer.
The horses are panicking now. Servants rush forward, grabbing halter ropes. Guides yelp and bark commands as they pour into the meadow. Torches cast wild shadows over the grass, and I see two of the rich hunters standing in the doorway of a tent, their eyes as wide and white as dinner plates. When I make one of my illusions bolt across the meadow, half a dozen arrows land in the grass behind it.
I pull shadows around me and walk closer to their tents, sending fear through the horses, making my illusion wolves howl and scream from the darkness. There are a dozen illusions now, sleek bodies threading through the shadows, silver fangs glinting in the torchlight. I’ve made these illusions almost as big as the horses, with teeth like daggers. Nightmares. Monsters.
The twang of a crossbow cuts through the screaming. I stumble as something pulls me backward. My magic flickers; for a heartbeat, the wolves vanish and the night is only filled with smoke and fear.
I look down. A crossbow bolt pins my black cloak to the ground. Panic rattles in the back of my throat. Suddenly, the screams sound very close.
Magic surges forward, surrounding me in darkness. I make my wolves leap across the far side of the meadow, snarling at the torchlight. Arrows and crossbow bolts thud into grass and trees, shredding my illusions. I yank on my cloak. There’s a low ripping sound, and I stumble backward.
Great. My last cloak.
One of the horses breaks free from its handler and spins into a tent. There’s a great crashing, crunching sound as the poles collapse. The poor beast screams as canvas tangles its legs.
Hush, I tell it through my magic, even as I stumble toward the trees. I try to send a sense of calm across our connection, but it’s like tossing a teacup full of water onto a burning house. Even as I make my illusions melt away, the night is full of rage and terror.
I wipe my face and stare at the encampment. One of the tents is burning. The guides have established a perimeter of torches, and servants are rushing between the river and the smoldering remains of the canvas tent. Several of the hunters stand in the grass, blinking at the forest as if they’ve just been pulled out of one world and thrust into another. And one of them is yelling at a man who I think might be the cook.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
I wipe my hand across my mouth, then pull back further into the forest. Smoke and screams follow me as I melt into the shadows.
Was it enough? I ruined their night, sure. Hopefully I ruined their entire fucking trip. But will the story of monstrous direwolves make it back to Silver City?
Well, hells. Maybe I can nudge it along.
A hunting party that large and that well outfitted? There’s only one place they could be heading: the Golden Peaks Hunting Lodge. And if a lone stranger wandered in, bought them a few beers, and acted enthralled by their tales of heroism against fierce direwolves? Surely that would help the legend grow.
I frown at the moon. Dawn is hours away, and rain will come on her tails. I’ll want to arrive after the hunting party but before they’re all so drunk they won’t remember how much I loved their stories.
I sigh, then pull my cloak over my head and sink to the forest floor. I might as well try to sleep now. Tomorrow’s going to be a long, nasty walk through the storm to reach the Golden Peaks Hunting Lodge.