Chapter 16 Morsythian
MORSYTHIAN
As she walked away from the Bear’s Tooth Tavern, the night nipped at Lark’s cheeks with winter’s first bite.
Behind her, heavy footfalls broke the silence.
Her keen hearing immediately assessed them as deliberate and measured, like a predator’s.
She wasn’t more than a block from the Tavern, when she noticed the shadowy figure, darker than the dimming night, moving in her wake.
"Hardin?"
The name died on her lips as she focused, knowing that whoever was tailing her was no friend.
The being that stalked her dwarfed even the half-elf who’d been staring at her.
The figure’s shoulders were as broad as a smith’s anvil; they stretched the fabric of his storm-gray cloak.
Though a deep hood shrouded most of his features, moonlight caught the curved ivory of two massive tusks jutting upward from a blue-tinged jaw.
It was the unmistakable mark of a Morsythian warrior.
At his throat, a ruby amulet shone with an inner light.
Its strange glow seemed to thrive on the darkness around it.
Then, a metallic whisper hissed in the night, a blade being drawn from its scabbard.
He’s come for the Hyalite, she thought with terrible certainty.
Lark quickened her pace, each heartbeat thundering in her ears.
The Northern monster’s strides rapidly ate the distance between them.
She veered sharply into a side alley, boots scraping against the ground as she emerged onto the next street.
There she pressed herself against a darkened wall, her breath coming in silent gasps as she watched the intersection.
The Morsythian appeared like a phantom, massive frame moving with unnatural ease as he cut across her trail, now out in the open.
How does he know what I have?
Her feet carried her through the maze of streets and alleys in a desperate dance, doubling back and weaving unpredictable patterns that would have lost any normal pursuer.
But each time she paused to listen, to hope, those heavy footsteps returned, as if the ruby around his neck could taste her scent.
Ahead, golden lamplight spilled across the street from another tavern’s windows, carrying with it the hope of safety in numbers.
Sounds of laughter and song beckoned. Lark slipped through the door like a shadow, positioning herself by a shuttered window to peer through the gaps.
Did I lose him?
Terror sank its claws deeper as the Morsythian rounded the corner, moonlight revealing him in his full, terrible glory.
Muscles rippled beneath his cloak, while black tattoos writhed up his neck like creeping vines.
The ruby amulet bounced against his chest with each step, its unnatural lure growing stronger, hungrier.
From the center of the street, he raised one massive hand toward her hiding place.
The ruby’s glow intensified, bleeding into the night like fresh-spilled blood.
The world tilted sideways as Lark stumbled back from the window, the tavern’s boisterous crowd becoming a suffocating discord.
The walls seemed to breathe, to close in.
Darkness funneled at the edges of her vision.
She pressed her hands against her ears, forcing her way through the crowd that parted around her like water, their cheers and applause a dull roar as she fought toward the rear door.
The night air slapped her in the nose when she burst outside, clearing away some of her tunnel vision. A woman’s song still drifted through the walls. Lark shook herself, reset to flee, and froze. There he stood, close enough to touch. The ruby light painted his tusks the color of fresh gore.
"It is you," he rumbled, massive hands closing on her shoulders, one grabbing hold of her pack.
Instinct took over. Lark’s boot came down like a hammer on his foot, followed by a strike to his Adam’s apple.
He gagged and staggered backward, his grip still tight on the pack.
She drove her shoulder into his massive chest, fighting for space, but his hold remained iron-tight.
The pack’s strap stretched between them, growing as taut as a bowstring.
She kicked his knee with brutal force. He buckled.
But even as he fell, his free hand moved to his side, drawing a curved dagger from the hidden folds of his cloak.
Steel rasped through the air between them.
Lark’s eyes widened at the wild swing as it just missed. Her fist connected with his temple, the impact jarring through her arm.
He groaned, refusing to let go of the pack, readying himself with the dagger. His yellow eyes gleamed with determination and focus. They were fixed on the pack. Her punch to his head had rattled him, but these orcs were clearly warriors, their skulls thick as stone.
Back on his feet, he reset his stance and moved his blade for a killing strike.
In one fluid motion, Lark released the strap, freeing her arm to snake around and capture his wrist. Something took over, a motion guiding her hands to find the exact pressure point that would make steel kiss the alley floor.
As the dagger fell, she caught it from the air.
The Morsythian cared nothing for the lost blade, his massive hands now claiming the pack like a prize.
Moving faster than thought, she flowed behind him, lifted his chin, and pulled.
The orc’s eyes flew wide, understanding blooming too late.
As his lifeblood painted the front of his leathers, his brows drew together in confusion.
His fingers fumbled at the ruby amulet even as he cast the pack aside, as though the prize he’d died for meant nothing and the ruby was everything.
Unable to grasp the jewel, he toppled forward onto the tavern steps.
The ruby’s glow faded with his final breath.
Lark stepped back, horror replacing battle-calm as her trembling hands reclaimed the pack.
What did I just do?
She scanned the alley with wild eyes, but the shadows held no witnesses.
The Hyalite remained safe in her possession, though its weight seemed to have doubled.
Lark understood now that she couldn’t let the Hyalite out of her possession without knowing what it was going to be used for.
Fear steered her down the only course she could see, forward to the Vermillion Keep where she would get answers.
She was close. She just needed to make it to Astral City.
“Nix,” she said. The fae didn’t appear. “Nix, I need you!” But the fire fae was not there and the pendant on her neck had gone cold.
Panic rose like bile in her throat, so she did the only thing she could think of. She ran, leaving death and questions bleeding on the tavern steps behind her.