Chapter 10 – Hunters on the Trail #5
“But it is a strangler?” Forgess was craning his neck, trying in vain to see past the knot of guardsmen. “We haven’t had a chance to see one of them yet.”
“Of course, it is a strangler,” Justenin replied, his eyes narrowing.
“The creatures called stranglers are named for their strong hands and very long fingers, which boast an extra joint on the index, middle, and ring finger. They are noted for being excellent climbers, managing even very sheer surfaces with ease, and can remain suspended for hours at a time in pursuit of their prey. Their hands boast exceptional crushing strength, which makes light of wooden and leather barriers, and may even crush poor quality iron.”
It was a direct quote from Ophele’s treatise, and neither man showed the slightest sign of recognition.
“You have read the materials I provided to you, have you not?” he asked.
“A pamphlet is no substitute for examining the creatures,” Forgess began dismissively, even as Master Torigne lifted a hand .
“We prefer to form our own impressions, sir knight,” he said, placating. But for all his outward serenity, Juste had never been a man to suffer fools.
“Did you need to personally observe the predations of an owl or cat to believe they hunt by night, or were you content to rely on your copybooks?” he asked sharply.
“Yes, only stranglers can climb. Their fingers allow them to find even very small grips, which is why we have to plane the outside of the palisade smooth. And while they do not have the intelligence of men, they do still appear to coordinate their efforts…”
The lecture settled his temper, though Forgess was still looking mutinous, his round face even more florid than usual.
They needed the Tower, Juste reminded himself as he took them to see the corpse of the strangler, stretched out full length on the rough plank platform and nearly seven feet tall.
That was another curiosity of stranglers in particular; they were long in the body, but like cats, they could squeeze through almost unbelievably small spaces, as if their bones were less solid than those of natural creatures.
And why did devils have teeth, if they had never been seen to eat?
he wondered, watching Forgess open the thing’s mouth.
It was a question that had not yet occurred to the scholars.
Forgess had pulled out his measuring strings and was calling sharply to his journeyman to record such elementary observations, it was clear they had not read a single word of Her Grace’s treatise.
“Shall we have a cart brought around?” The journeyman asked excitedly. “This will be the first specimen—”
Every guard nearby shot Juste a look of such transparent panic, he jerked forward immediately.
“No. No cart,” he said. “If we take its head off, then we can crate the thing up and transport it after dawn, but we will not take the least chance of a live devil being brought into town.”
“It looks fairly deceased, sir knight,” Forgess began, and swore as Juste’s sword came down in a single stroke, severing the devil’s head from its neck.
There was a long, susurrus sigh that could have been the last air escaping the thing’s lungs. Or it could have been the wrathful hiss of a wicked, sorcerous creature, thwarted at the very last .
Juste looked at all four scholars, letting the lesson sink in.
“They are very good at looking dead,” he told them.
“Please understand, we must take the danger seriously. We have endured four years of these creatures, and we have never seen them in such numbers as we saw this year. Imagine a dozen of these things coming over the wall at once, winding their long limbs about you, and those hands closing on your throat. Sometimes the hands do not come off even when they are severed from the rest of the body.”
Jerking his chin to the guards, he issued a silent order for them to crate the corpse and drew the scholars away.
“They are not curiosities to us. They have killed a great many of our friends and brothers, and we do not even know the numbers that may be dead in His Grace’s villages.
More of our brothers travel there now, to bring back whoever survived.
And based solely on our understanding of the creatures, His Grace has gone to find where they are coming from, in the hopes that he might destroy them forever. ”
“We understand the peril they have posed to your people, sir knight,” Master Torigne began.
“And to the Tower, they are a new discovery,” Juste interrupted.
“New animals for the Library of Beasts, and unnatural ones, to fascinate the Library of Alchemy. Well, you may have their hide and their bones to experiment upon, but I would be remiss if I did not deliver everything we already know about them to you with all speed, so that your understanding will enhance our own.”
That was some of his very best diplomacy, and the politest way he could think of to say, read the fucking treatise.
“Thank you, Sir Justenin,” Master Torigne said, once again placating. “We will make all possible haste.”
* * *
Ghouls offer the greatest range in their vocalization, from growls to snarls to higher-pitched yelps and squalls when they are injured or startled.
Stranglers are noted for a few isolated calls, which most often occur at dusk and dawn, but may sometimes precede an attack.
Theirs is a rasping noise similar to chuckling or laughter, and while some speculate it may indicate communication between devils, this is not yet conclusively proven .
Though a wolf demon’s howl is superficially similar to that of natural wolves, being a sustained note that may escalate and diminish in volume, there is no confusing the two.
The howl of a wolf demon is deeper and hollower, with a metallic tone.
This may be explained partially by anatomy: wolves are thicker in the neck and deeper in the chest, but beneath their smoky, flaking fur, their necks are very different, with ridges running lengthwise that emit black smoke and green light when the wolf howls or exerts itself.
This may be explained by an anatomical flaring, similar to that of a frilled lizard…
Remin had read every word of Ophele’s treatise.
It was not so long that he couldn’t finish it in an evening, and so he had spent part of his last night at home with Ophele in his lap, teasing her gently about her handwriting and regretting that he hadn’t given her this project months ago.
“This is excellent work, wife,” he had said, tugging his favorite curl affectionately.
“It’s a good question—if we have been killing devils all this time, and they don’t breed in any fashion we can observe, then why are there more of them?
Valleth cannot be summoning them. Or they had better not be,” he added grimly.
That was what they had needed. Someone to gather this information and think about the creatures in an organized way.
Ophele had captured the experience and knowledge of his men as widely as possible, considered its implications, and then used precise words to compare one devil to another, defining the language that everyone would use to speak of them thereafter.
Not once in all those pages had she described a devil that purred.
“What is it?” Auber breathed beside him, hardly daring to speak aloud as they stood in the dark together, gripping their spears. No one was sleeping tonight. Suspended in the gloom of the ancient forest, each sleeping platform was like a distant star, swaying as the men upon it paced uneasily.
Could Valleth be summoning more devils?
Hnnngh, hnnngh, hnnngh, came the sound again, a growl rolling from a very deep throat, loud enough that even the howls of wolf demons could not drown it out. The thing was under them, pacing to Remin’s right, and he couldn’t help searching for it, straining his eyes into the pitch black below .
Ghouls squalled. The purring faded. He could almost have counted the other devils from the clusters of their noises; it sounded like there were two packs of ghouls, one ten yards to his left and another behind him, circling below Tounot’s platform.
At least five wolf demons. And the stars only knew how many stranglers; he caught glimpses of those huge, shining eyes in the dark, crawling among the branches and even slinking above him on the ropes, just out of range of spears.
And then something struck against his tree with such force that the whole thing jerked, the platform swaying so wildly it knocked even Remin to his knees. Horses whinnied. Men shouted and swore. Remin’s heart was beating out his ears as he scrambled back to his feet, grabbing for the nearest rope.
“Hold on! Get down low!” he bellowed, bracing his legs far apart. Directly ahead of him was the nightmare vision of another platform tossed like a boat in a hurricane, the silhouettes of the men atop it scrabbling to hold on as the shape of a man went over the side.
His shriek ended with the howling of devils.
Remin couldn’t hear. The war-horn howl of wolf demons was so loud it almost hurt, and still he tried to out-shout it, as if he could save his men with the sheer power of his command.
“Hold on! Hold on! Hold—”
SLAM. The tree shook again, and the horses in their boxes screamed.
There was nothing he could do. Nothing any of them could do but hold on, stay low, and pray that the thing went away.
It was so dark, a new moon, and the light of the stars was lost in the wavering glow of the torches.
But still, Remin found his eyes turning to the sky, with Brother Oleare’s blessing echoing in his ears.
Save them, he thought, his chest tight with fury as he looked at the pale faces nearby, and the distant silhouettes of the rest of his men. Stars, save them all.