Ravenous (Taint of the Gods #1)

4. RIEKA

4

RIEKA

T here was a camp three days ride from Keltjar. We found it at sundown, hidden away in a clearing in the woods, the site illuminated by three large fire pits.

A wagon stood stationary by the edge of the clearing, timber with a domed roof like those I’d seen on my travels through The Green Waste. In a roped-off pen on its left, nearly two dozen horses grazed and from the number of scents I could detect at least six men and two women were present in the camp. Four tents spread along the circumference and within the centre were two box-like structures made of steel, the gap between them wide enough for the wagon to pass through. They appeared to be livestock pens.

The snow wasn’t as thick this far from the base of the mountain. It had been six months since my feet had touched solid earth unhindered by ten inches of snow since winter never left The Hetra. And I was glad for it, both for the lack of snow and because we were able to follow their horse’s tracks instead of just Kris’ scent. But that man knew what he was doing.

On day two, he tried to disguise Kris’ scent, hiding it beneath that of a deer hide. We had managed to stay at least a half-day behind them, choosing to continue through the night because our eyesight would allow it, but it rained on the third day, destroying any sign of either of them except for Kris’ tribal colours. Tiny had found the purple-dyed strip of hide that Kris wore in her hair to represent her tribe in a mud puddle this morning. Her scent ended there.

We’d been trying to find anything that might lead us to her when we stumbled upon the metal tracks. Following them led us to discover the camp.

Hidden twenty meters from the camp’s edge, lying on the ground amongst the undergrowth, I watched the camp’s inhabitants move about. I’d asked Tiny to search the area around the camp, to inform me of anything I would find odd, considering our differences of opinion on odd. Five minutes later, he sent a spectral of the inhabitants of one of the livestock pens.

They are human.

I sniffed at the air, refocusing my sight on the pens and my hearing on the sounds.

The smell of shit and piss mixed with the salt of freshly shed tears filtered through the steel crates. Grimy hands clung to the bars. Someone in the far corner muffled their sobs in the fabric of their clothes. I begged Tiny to keep searching the area, honestly hoping he found no sign of Kris here.

Damp leaves crushing under hooves caught my attention on the northern side of the camp. A rider accompanied by horses, each one accommodating a limp body.

He dismounted from his horse at the same moment the wagon door opened, revealing a tall skinny man. Face like a weasel and wearing a tan uniform, he greeted the rider with a word I’d only had to hear once in my life to know I never wanted to encounter it again.

“Bloodhound,” the weasel said, the scent of repulsion leaking in waves off the man. “The Core welcomes you.”

A blood-wielder?

The rider was a Bloodhound. A Hemopath who used his blessing against his own kind for money. They were the vilest of all Blessed. In Deos it was the Shadow Weaver that blessed them, in Athus it was Kyton the Red. Why they were blessed was a secret only those Gods knew. But there was one unified thought amongst all Blessed when it came to their kind. The Blood-Blessed were dangerous. More than any water-wielding Current, or predatory Brute or even a light-wielding Bright.

A single drop of blood from any living creature and a Hemopath could track you from one side of the continent to the other and never lose the trace. They could boil a person’s blood from the inside, and explode their hearts, all without touching their target. They wielded blood like a weapon. Literally. As the Imperator’s personal security, The Red Guard of The Imperial City carried no weapons but their blessing. They could stop an enemy in their tracks and slice them through with nothing but their crimson blades.

The divisive decision even reached the ears of the priests in Deos. The several months of political upheaval in Prea when the young Imperator chose to grant them their own guild against the recommendation of the other guild heads, had caused The Servitors, the priests in the Celestial Offices, to remind Deos of the last time a blood wielder was permitted to live. The two years that followed involved an examination of every Blessed family to ensure no child had been Blood-Blessed.

But we were far from the Red Guard. And this man did not look like he was protecting anyone. The wagon door closed, so I shifted position to better hear the conversation inside.

They were speaking Kensillan. I recognised two of the words from my limited understanding of the language. Goods and payment.

I knew we had been near The Republic border but we hadn’t crossed it yet. I was certain. Kensilla was the last place any Blessed wanted to be. If Prea was considered life to a Blessed, The Republic was considered death. Not a single Blessed had been alive in that nation since the Kensillan pantheon purged it after their Isles fell.

The Core loathed Blessed almost as much as Blessed loathed Bloodhounds.

Slinked over the saddles, I listened to the heartbeats of the other riders. Slow. They were unconscious. All but two campers ignored them. Both uniformed, they had been slowly making their way over to the horses when the wagon door opened again and the two occupants descended the stairs.

When the Bloodhound mounted his horse, a shout from the weasel instructed the men to pull the unconscious riders from their horses where they deposited them on the ground. Like they were sacks of dirty linen.

The largest of the unconscious riders took up a third of the space he’d fallen in, his large brown wings splayed out on the dirt like an iridescent fan over his back, their span twelve feet at least.

He was an Alatus Brute, a Talon to be more specific. Born with feathered wings, he was granted the ability to soar through the sky as if he were a hawk or an eagle. Like Taren.

Strange that I did not detect that about this man. I normally had no trouble determining someone’s blessing.

No farewell was shared between the men and the Bloodhound before he departed for the forest once again.

The four Blessed lay unconscious on the clearing floor, the men staring down at them. The pungent odour of disdain poured out of them like an open tap. As the smaller of the two uniformed men approached the winged Brute, I noticed the object he carried. It looked like a double-sided clamp. He bent down and attached it to the wing’s scapulars.

The sound of thick fabric being flapped open filled the silence. A woman emerged from one of the tents dressed in a similar uniform to the weasel, pants worn under a split skirt. Trailing behind her like two shadows were a pair of young women, their clothes plain and colourless, their heads shaved.

They walked with an odd gait. Rigid with quick steps, as though someone had screwed their spines to a pole. Yet their eyes were cast down. Like children who’d just been scolded.

The three women stopped before the pile of bodies. The uniformed one said something in Kensillan and as if in response, the two bald women faced forward.

Around their necks was a thick silver band that glistened under the Bright-lights of the camp. Another word from the uniformed woman had one of the bald ones kneeling. Leaning forward, she touched each one of the Blessed and a moment later, they awoke, their fear permeating the air.

The Alatus stood fast, his body bracing to launch into the air.

Humans were lucky they could not hear as we did. The sound of muscle as it was torn would turn their stomachs and invite the contents of their breakfast back up. Pain had a distinct scent. A smell so close to pleasure, some might call it sweet. I’d always found it left a tartness in the air, like vinegar mixed with milk.

The Alatus’ agonised screams as he attempted to fly ripped through the air like a cleaver as the clamps on his wings forced them together to align with his spine. Refusing to let them expand. The more he fought, the more the muscles in his chest tore.

The uniformed woman addressed the Alatus in Prean. “Your Naven will see to it that your wings are repaired should they find you worthy of service.”

Wings quivering limply from his back, the Alatus twisted in the dirt to look up at the woman. My chest tightened.

Taren!

It was him. The auburn hair plaited down his back with the purple dyed hide strip braided within, the colour indicating his tribe. The freckle under his eye. The clean-shaven face with the dimple in his chin and the small scar across his lip incurred when he’d slipped on ice and split it open.

Engar had passed on my message to him about Kris being taken and Taren hadn’t listened to me.

He must have gotten captured by this Bloodhound trying to catch up to us.

The dark-haired woman beside Taren rushed to her feet, her hands moving in the way I’d only ever seen from a Pneumatic. I felt the gust of wind speed past me, then felt it die upon crossing the camp’s threshold. My stomach twisted when a small smirk reached the corners of the collared woman’s mouth as she stared at the Air-Blessed captive.

The collared women were Toxicants. A Charmer to control the Blessed and a Void to inhibit them. It explained why I hadn’t scented Taren. Some Brutes’ scents changed when they manifested their blessings. Others’ blessings, like Taren’s, overpowered their natural scent. It was all-encompassing. With the Void present, any hint of the scent I’d come to know as his had been blocked from my senses. He may as well have been a stranger for what use my blessing was. I could do nothing to help Taren from out here. Even if I crossed the threshold of the Void’s blessing, not only would I be even more incapable of using my own than I already was, but the Charmer would detect me.

Useless as always, Rieka.

As the weasel leader finally approached the group, a palpable fury perfumed the air. I had never felt that emotion from Taren before. Kanahari were pacifists. It wasn’t in their nature to commit violence. Unless this weasel attacked him. I sent out a warning to Tiny in case he caught Taren’s scent. To not follow it lest anything happen to him. He did not reply. I could only hope he was further than our bond allowed. Hopefully with Kris.

The weasel circled Taren with a scrutinising gaze. Entirely disregarding the pain it caused, the man forcefully examined Taren’s wings, moving them to observe their width and breadth.

Hunting beside him had been the only time I had seen Taren’s wings. It wasn’t considered polite in Kanahari society to exhibit that side of oneself to an outsider. Now he was compelled to display them, his every movement snapping something in them.

I had to force my fury down, along with the bile in my throat.

When he’d finished with Taren—my friend left to kneel in a hunched-over gasping mess—the weasel proceeded to examine the Pneumatic woman. He inspected her with the grace of a child pulling worms from the dirt. He checked her face, her hands, her neck, probing every inch of the air-wielder. He examined her fucking ears, all whilst the smaller uniformed man recorded the leader’s findings on a writing tablet he’d pulled from his coat pocket. When he reached the third Blessed, a younger woman, he pulled out a Bright-light and shone it in her face.

My stomach knotted again. He was watching for the colour refraction. Like animals, Brutes’ eyes refracted light. Depending on the colour, these men would be able to determine which branch of Brute she might be.

The weasel spoke in Kensillan. When the girl didn’t respond, he asked her a question in Deogn.

“What is your blessing?” The girl did not answer, so he repeated it in Prean. “What is your taint?”

The girl again refused to answer. The weasel-faced leader stepped backward and as if rehearsed, one of the campers punched her in the stomach. She fell to her knees with a groan, her breath wheezing out of her. Unsatisfied with the pain he had already caused the woman, the same man lifted her by the arm to her feet, and only when she had regained her footing did he punch her again.

This time they got their desired result. The young woman revealed herself to be a Terrestrial, a Brute of the prey variety. The long ears reminiscent of a hare emerged on the top of her head as her human ears disappeared behind an expanding fur-covered hairline.

The smaller man made a note on his tablet.

Bastards!

It was common knowledge that Brutes could be forced to manifest their blessing under duress. Papa called it a trauma response . When it had occurred with Engar, it was merely caused by Taren surprising him. There had been no malicious intent. The method these men were using on the young woman was abhorrent. Pain-induced manifestation was intentionally cruel.

They left her to writhe on the ground, breathless whilst they turned their attention to the fourth Blessed. A young man. Barely a man. The weasel examined him with a fixed expression. A conversation was being had. First the Void, then the uniformed woman until finally the weasel pulled a knife from his belt, took the arm of the Terrestrial woman and sliced open her wrist.

The wolf in me crooned at the scent.

He let the young woman drop to the floor without so much as a glance, her screams panicked as she frantically tried to stop the blood gushing from her open vein.

“Heal her.”

The boy stuttered out something along the lines of “I don’t have those skills.”

The weasel gave the boy a cold look before he turned back to the girl. He yanked her up violently by the other arm and slit that wrist too.

“Her death is on you, boy.”

The dark-haired boy’s tall frame shook as he fell to his knees, his hands quivering as they hovered over the dying Terrestrial. The girl grew ever paler. In a panic, failing to do as he was told, he stood and walked right into the chest of one of the uniformed men. He took a step back and wiped his hands on his coat before returning to his knees once more, pressing a hand over each wrist. Elation and relief fell over the young man’s features as colour slowly returned to the girl’s face.

I’d experienced mending by an Organic before, felt how their Blessing wriggled inside of you. Finding the broken parts and making them new again, the scars—they vanished everywhere but in your mind. Some say they should stick to growing plants. I’d hazard a guess that was all this boy had done before tonight.

If the Terrestrial had wanted to thank him her attempt would have been cut short. One of the men grabbed hold of the boy and carted him off to the weasel’s wagon. Taren, the girl, and the Pneumatic woman were forced into the livestock pens less than a minute later.

I remained where I was for another hour, trying to get back into contact with Tiny when a second Bloodhound, followed by a third entered the camp, both accompanied by a group of Blessed. Each one was just as unable to fight back as the last, all thanks to their Blood-Blessed captors.

I’d been so focused on the camp that I’d barely noticed my surroundings until movement in the tree above caught my attention. My entire body went cold.

A black raven sat on the lowest branch. Sleek ebony feathers and bottomless eyes.

You’re fine, Rieka. There is no one behind those eyes any longer. Keep it together.

I took a deep breath and looked back at the camp, only for the exhale to catch in my throat.

Five feet from where I lay, iridescent wings glimmering in the evening light, a moth fluttered before the Bright-light.

In divine reverence, I ask the—

I stopped myself.

I had not prayed to a Celestial, one of my gods, in over a year. The last thing I needed was the attention of the Deogn God of Endings by speaking her prayer.

A godly Omen cannot exist where the God that gives it power treads not. I repeated the Prean Proverb several times to remind myself of my choice. To not give them that power over me.

A flash of white drew my gaze away and I saw a little white fox bounding towards me. A spectral from Tiny. He had found Kris. The sudden relief I felt at the news twisted acutely in my stomach. How do I even begin to explain to Kris what has happened to her brother?

The thought quickly vanished as another group emerged from the tree line.

Three horses entered the camp accompanied by a Bloodhound on the fourth, two Blessed slung over the saddles. On the last one, a deer hide covered a petite body, white curls long enough to touch the forest floor.

Krisenya!

Pipe smoking, drinking game enthusiast, terrible singing voice Kris. Unlike her brother, her scent was unmistakable. Spiced mead and peppercorns.

There was another scent I recognised.

Damp soil and pine needles. The forest after rain.

The Bloodhound who’d kidnapped her from Keltjar wore a black eye mask and a red leather jacket, but I knew who he was.

Fury burned as it rose up my throat, my stomach churning violently.

I could not stomach to think of his name.

The Lycoan is a godsdamned Bloodhound!

I had to clench my jaw to stop from growling. I warned Tiny to remain wherever he was hiding just as the sound of hands smacking on metal came from the stock pen. Taren had seen his sister, his shouts and cries ignored by the captors.

The Bloodhound disappeared into the wagon as the captors approached once again but did not touch the Blessed.

The raven above released a cry, causing all the hairs on my arms to stand on end.

Kris and Taren were prisoners of these people, and I couldn’t just watch and do nothing.

Spells floated to the surface of my mind, dangerous pain-inflicting gaakriikta. A temptation that I was utterly aware of was being fuelled by my desire to save my friends. But it was nothing compared to my own fear. Humans think that my kind have no fear until a Cleaving, but that is incorrect. At least for me.

It was not the innocents who might suffer, nor that my friends may be caught in the crossfire that I feared. It was the thought that speaking the spell aloud would prove humans right. That I was the monster they told their children about in bedtime stories.

And I’d made an oath.

To never inflict my will on another being by force. Even to the benefit of others. And there was no knowing what would happen if I let a single gaakriik of that sacred language passed through my lips. No good had ever come from my knowing Gods’ Tongue.

Footsteps sounded in the wagon.

His footsteps.

My hand slipped down to my thigh. Fuck it. You can meet Etrina inste— A thousand razor blades of white-hot pain sliced through my body. My muscles convulsed violently as gloved hands grabbed my arms, the toes of my boots dragging through the dirt.

I was brought to my feet, my body still twitching because of whatever they had struck me with.

I’m going to puke.

I swallowed.

Beside me, one of the unconscious Blessed shifted, his face twitching as though in a dream, a dark birthmark in the shape of holly over his eyebrow. Somehow, I knew he was a Kindling— a Blessed capable of producing extreme amounts of heat from his body. I also knew the man unconscious beside him was a metalworking Smith. I’d always been able to tell a blessing by scent. What was odd was that I was able to discern them from within the reach of a Void’s blessing, especially when according to all lore, my senses should be no better than a human’s right now.

I looked up, the edges of my vision blurred and I saw the Void shaking her head, her expression startled and fearful as her gaze flickered between the uniformed woman and myself. She appeared as surprised as I was that my senses seemed unaffected by her blessing.

I could smell Taren in the pen, could smell Kris beneath the deer pelt, and even the bastard in the wagon.

The uniformed woman took my chin in her hand harshly and examined my face. If it wasn’t bad enough that she was touching me, she proceeded to shift my shawl from where it was wrapped around my chest to examine my neck. She rubbed her thumb along the raised skin of the scar that stretched across my throat. Pain was the only reason I didn’t attempt to bite her hand off.

Satisfied, she turned her attention to my eyes. Holding my face in a hard long-fingered grasp, the uniformed woman flashed her Bright-light across my eyes. Her brows creased. More Kensillan words left her lips directed over her shoulder to the Void who replied, eyes downcast as her expression remained confused. She asked me the same questions the leader had Taren, first in Deogn, then in Prean. Neither one I answered.

She scoffed, her gaze unnerving me in the way it examined me now. I’d seen men look at me that way. Like she was imagining what I would look like naked.

The sound of a door hinge caused her gaze to falter, and she stood straighter as she looked over to the wagon.

The Bloodhound stood on its steps. Even in his mask, I could feel his eyes on me. It took every ounce of control I had not to go to him, to not pull Etrina from my boot and run him through with her steel. I could do it, but there was nothing stopping me from going further. Doing worse with no idea if I could stop.

I’m nothing but a Brute incapable of controlling her blessing.

The red-jacketed bastard deposited a large coin purse into his pocket before he finally broke eye contact with me. He then casually strolled back over to Kris, untethering her horse from the others.

I could hear the weasel-faced leader approaching but I didn’t care. The Bloodhound had Kris and he was taking her with him.

“Where are you taking that one?” one of the captors addressed him in Prean, the other Blessed now in their possession.

“Private Acquisition.”

Another look came my way through the mask. “I wouldn’t bother with that one. She’s human.”

The leader exchanged a look with one of his men and once again razors sliced at my body. When the object of my pain released me, my body, incapable of remaining upright, collapsed onto the forest floor. The man who hovered above me held the cause of my pain. A long metal baton, the end crackling with blue energy, with tiny little bolts of lightning.

A Spark-made weapon.

From the ground with the taste of dirt in my mouth I could see that piece of shit Bloodhound mount his horse, the reins of Kris’s mount in his gloved hand. I sent Tiny a message to follow Kris, to save Kris if he could.

He gave me one last look. I used the opportunity to memorise his face, everything I recalled that was under that mask. Those blue eyes, that nose, the shape of his face under that beard, and those lips. Those traitorous unmoving lips.

The tone of his inner voice caught me off guard as he voiced a rather confusing thought.

“In another life, I would have chosen you instead.”

Another shock sent me into unconsciousness.