Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Imake it three days before they find me.
The first day is a blur of adrenaline and fear. I push myself until my legs shake and my lungs burn. My supplies run out on the third day and I’m forced to drink from streams.
I keep heading north as much as the terrain allows. The forests here are old growth. These massive oaks and pines block out most of the sunlight, their roots creating a treacherous maze across the forest floor. I navigate by the sun during the day and the stars at night.
The underbrush is thick, forcing me to constantly adjust my route. I stumble over roots constantly, catching myself on tree trunks. I see farmhouses and signs of civilization sometimes. I give them all wide berth.
I sleep in trees with my back against rough bark, jerking awake at every snapped twig and rustling leaf.
Real sleep is impossible. I manage maybe an hour at a time before some sound startles me awake.
My dreams when they come are fragmented nightmares, of Aurora getting caught, the torture in the crypts.
The bark digs into my spine and shoulders, but trees are safer than the ground.
It’s harder for hunters to approach unseen.
Every sound and shadow could be death approaching.
The Northern Wastes are still weeks away. It would take at least two weeks to reach the border. At my current exhausted pace, it might take a month. I don’t have a month. I probably don’t have a week. The guild’s hunters are faster than me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever reach my destination now.
The thought sits heavy in my chest. The wolf clans are dead anyway. Even if I made it to the Darvan mountains, there’d be nothing there but old bones.
But I refuse to let the guild punish me in the darkness and isolation of the crypts. None of the prisoners come out sane. I’d rather die out here. At least death in the forest would be on my terms. Quick if I’m lucky.
An owl’s screech makes me reach for weapons. The wind moving through leaves sounds like whispered conversations.
It’s nothing. I calm my racing heart.
They announce themselves with an arrow.
The whistle of it cutting through air is my only warning. I drop and twist, but not fast enough. It whistles past my ear and embeds itself in the oak trunk beside my head, still quivering.
Black and red fletching.
It’s the hunter's mark.
The arrow is buried in the wood exactly where my skull was a heartbeat ago. My ear is ringing from how close it passed.
One warning shot to prove they could have killed me already. Professional courtesy from the guild. After this, no more mercy and the real hunt begins. My hands shake as I pull myself up from where I dropped. I know what comes next.
“Lucien of the disbanded Sylverin Clan,” a voice calls from the treeline.
Fuck.
Nobody should remember my clan. We’re supposed to be extinct, forgotten after the purge.
Yet this hunter knows enough to identify me on sight.
That means the guild must have given him access to everything in the archives, including my bloodline and history.
Do they know about the survivors who escaped the massacre? I wonder what else the guild has on me.
“By guild law, you’re marked for retrieval. Dead or alive.” Another voice echoes, rough with an edge of amusement.
I have a choice. Surrender and live long enough to reach the crypts. Run and die here in the forest. Either way, I’m not walking away from this.
I run.
Behind me, I hear laughter. The hunt has officially begun and they want me to know they’re coming. Most retrievals are for simple amateurs who never stood a chance. But I’m guild-trained and experienced.
Hunting a fellow Grimsbane is rare sport.
They’re going to enjoy this. The forest blurs past as I push my body past its limits. Trees become streaks of brown and green in my peripheral vision. My boots pound against earth and root. Every breath tears at my lungs like I’m inhaling glass.
These hunters have been trailing me since I left Aelfheim. An arrow grazes my shoulder, tearing leather and skin. Another thuds into the ground where my foot was a second ago. The archer is tracking my movement, predicting my path. These aren’t kill shots. He is playing with me.
I cut left, then right, trying to break their line of sight. I change direction every few seconds, making my path as unpredictable as possible. It’s standard evasion tactics against archers.
But the forest seems to shift around me. The path I’m running suddenly becomes steeper. A root that wasn’t there a moment ago catches my foot, sending me stumbling. It’s not my imagination. I watch it happen as the trees bend subtly and the undergrowth thicken to slow me down.
The forest is turning against me. It’s becoming a maze designed to funnel me exactly where my hunters want me to go. There’s a mage among them, warping reality to cage me in.
Shit. A mage and an archer working together.
That’s fucking overkill for one failed assassin.
It doesn’t help that they seem to know these woods better than I do. Meanwhile I’m navigating blind. Every choice I make plays into their hands because they’ve already anticipated it.
The guild had chosen well.
My chest heaves but never quite gets enough air.
The poison from the first arrow graze is already working through my system, affecting my breathing and coordination.
Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
I need to change direction to break their pattern before they drive me straight into whatever trap they’ve laid.
They’re herding me.
I can feel it now. There’s a destination they want me to reach, probably where the mage is waiting.
An arrow slams into the trunk beside me. I duck purely on instinct. Wood splinters explode outward, one piece cutting my cheek.
That was too close.
My shoulder throbs where the first arrow grazed me.
The spreading numbness tells me it was poisoned.
It’s not a killing poison but it slows my reaction time.
I can’t keep trying to outrun them. They’ve done this before and know exactly how to break down a running target.
I must deal with them before they get to me.
I press my back against an oak and pull one of my throwing knives. They have a mage warping the terrain and at least one archer with excellent aim. The knife feels heavy in my hand, slick with the blood running down my arm from the wound.
Let them think they have me cornered and desperate.
A cornered animal fights with everything it has because it has nothing left to lose. I’m that animal now. I force my breathing to slow despite my racing heart.
I need my hands steady for what comes next. Boot crunches on fallen leaves to my left. I close my eyes for just a moment. Heavy boots and confident stride. The archer, cocky enough to approach his quarry on foot now that he thinks I’m trapped.
First mistake of the day.
He’s close enough now that I can hear his breathing.
I count his steps. Each footfall telling me exactly where he is, when he’ll be in range.
I adjust my grip on the knife, feeling the weight.
The blade leaves my hand and takes him in the throat.
I hear the impact followed by a strangled gasp.
The archer grabs at his throat. It’s not deep enough for a killing blow but enough to make him stumble backward.
I’m running before he can recover.
I head straight to where the mage is positioned. If I can separate them and take them one at a time, maybe I have a chance—
The forest itself turns against me. Trees that were stationary a second ago are suddenly mobile, roots shifting and writhing. The entire forest comes alive with hostile intent, responding to the mage’s will.
Vines burst from the ground like striking snakes.
They’re covered with thorns as they seek out my ankles and wrists.
One manages to wrap around my ankles before I can dodge.
The vines coil around my boots, my calves, tightening with crushing force.
I go down hard, palms scraping bloody against roots and rocks.
Stars explode across my vision from the impact.
I slash at the vines with my boot knife but they’re reinforced with magic.
Each cut barely scratches the surface before they tighten further.
The vines continue their constriction, squeezing harder.
More vines emerge from the soil, wrapping around my thighs now, climbing toward my waist. Every time I try to move, the thorns tear at flesh.
“Clever little wolf,” the mage’s voice drifts through the trees.
He sounds pleased with his handiwork. The vines drag me backward through the underbrush.
I’m pulled across the forest floor, my body scraping over every obstacle.
Branches catch on my clothes and my back scrapes against the ground.
I dig my fingers into the earth, trying to find purchase.
But it’s too difficult to hold on. The vines are stronger than me, amplified by magic.
My hands claw at roots or anything that might slow me down.
I manage to grab a sapling but it tears free from the ground.
Damn it. It’s useless.
Fuck this mage to hell.
If I can’t break free, I’ll use his magic against him.
The thought crystallizes in a moment of clarity through the pain. I stop fighting the pull and let the vines drag me faster. This is going to hurt when I arrive. The momentum carries me at speed, catching the mage off-guard.
I see his eyes widen behind the reaper mask as I come flying toward him faster than he anticipated. I slam the pommel of my knife into his temple. His head snaps sideways. The focused concentration required to maintain the vine spell shatters.
“Shit!” He curses before crashing through the underbrush.
The vines go slack immediately. The mage hits the ground hard, rolling through dead leaves and exposed roots. His mask goes flying. He’s struggling to stand, one hand pressed to his bleeding temple.