Elizabeth Haydon - Rhapsody - Child of Blood

“Take it.”

With a decisive motion the Brother plucked the key from the vine. The obsidian tendril shattered like the stem of a fragile wineglass.

He held the key up before his half-Bolg eyes, the night eyes of a people who had risen up from the caves, smiling inwardly at the increase in the rhythm of the demon’s formerly human heart, the only outward sign of its consternation at his defiance. The key itself was unremarkable except that it was made from a dark bone, its shaft curving as a rib might.

“You will take this key to the base of the failed land bridge to the northern islands. The foundation of this bridge contains a gateway unlike any even you have ever passed through. The fabric of the Earth is worn thin there; you may experience some discomfort. If you have passed through correctly, you will find yourself in a vast desert.”

“You will know the direction to go, and an old friend of mine will come to meet you. Once there, you will agree to the time and date when you shall serve as his guide through the gateway to this side. My only concern is that it be as soon as possible. Return to me, and I shall prepare you as his guide. Is this clear?”

“Yes.”

“You will tell me of the arrangement, and carry any message he might send.”

“I am not a page.”

“How right you are. You are but a footnote.” The talisman around the neck of the demon caught the light from a distant brazier and glinted, black, in the darkness. Within the golden circle of flame was a pattern of red stones that spiraled into the center of the amulet, in which was carved the image of a solitary eye. It bore the same piercing stare that now met the Brother’s own.

The F’dor approached him, and the Brother’s nose wrinkled from the reek of burnt flesh on the demon’s person, and especially its breath. It was a stench that accompanied all those of its race, but his master’s malodor was particularly strong.

“I want this done quickly. It will make whatever trivial catalogue of death you think yourself responsible for a mere jot, an afterthought of inconsequence. I am the true master, and you will be my thrall until you follow me willingly, or are swept away in my victory.”

He had done as the demon demanded.

The Brother had no compunction about death, did not shirk in the presence of evil, but what he had encountered in the wasteland beyond the horizon defied any horrific description of which his mind might be capable. In the face of the destruction that would ensue, the devastation that would come over the world, he decided instead, for the first time in his life, to run, to abandon all he had, to risk an eternity of something worse than death. Even for him, anything else would have been unthinkable.

The Brother shook off his thoughts at the stirring in the distance that had alerted his senses. The key was in his hand, glimmering slightly in the darkness, and he slipped it quickly back into the pocket where he carried it.

He looked in the direction of the vibrations and felt the presence of approaching wolves. They were a long way off, but they were on the prowl. A discordant vibration indicated they were not ordinary lupines, but animals used as eyes by the F’dor.

He made a soft clicking sound. Grunthor’s eyes opened at once, and his hand went immediately to his weapons belt. He turned in the direction of the Brother without making a sound.

The Brother made a few fast hand signals: six wolves, three on each flank . Grunthor nodded, and with one hand drew his great bow. With the other he placed a large metal lid on top of the fire, smothering it without allowing the smoke to escape. The Brother held his own odd weapon, the cwellan, at the ready, while Grunthor positioned his pike close at hand. They waited.

The Dhracian’s head tilted to one side as he concentrated on the animals. The wolves didn’t even slow down. They continued on their prowl until they had passed over the horizon and beyond his senses. They had not noticed the small camp in the hidden dell. When they were well away, the Brother nodded and took a breath, exhaling deeply. Grunthor did the same.

“They’re getting closer,” the Brother said.

“No surprise really, is it, sir? They’ve got our scent, and we’ve got that key. They can probably feel it.”

“I know. We have to make haste to another city. Get lost in the crowd.”

“Lovely. Oi know how much you like cities.”

When the deepest part of the night had passed and the summer rain began, the two broke camp and headed for Easton ahead of the approaching thunderstorm.

“More soup, love?”

“No, thanks, Barney.” The young woman glanced up at the barkeeper hovering over her and smiled. “It was good, though.” She returned her attention to the messy pile of parchment pages and odd objects that littered the table in front of her, scratching away furiously with a quill and humming softly to herself.

Barney sighed and brought the soup tureen back to the bar, enjoying the physical thrill that always resulted from being the recipient of that smile. Then he glanced furtively about, hoping Dee hadn’t seen him grinning like a fool. Dee loved the girl too, but it was best not to rock the marital boat.

Under the pretense of wiping clean the ale-spattered surface, he indulged in another look. The girl brushed a loose strand of golden hair out of her eyes and touched her throat absently, untangling a simple gold locket that hung from a delicate chain around her neck.

She was still writing away at an intense pace, pausing every now and again to examine one of the assorted small things on the table before her, or to pluck a few strings of the shepherd’s harp resting on her lap beneath the table. She was glowing with quiet excitement, and despite her being tucked away at her favorite table near the back of the bar, that excitement was radiating through the crowd of regulars and generating quite a din. Generally the middle of the day was a dismally quiet time at the Hat and Feathers; today it was as loud as a holiday night. No wonder Dee loves her , Barney thought, chuckling to himself. She’s good for business .

Few noticed the stranger enter over the clamor of voices and clinking of tankards. He made his way impatiently through the crowd, searching the tables until he came to hers. The man stood over her, waiting for her to look up, but she ignored him and continued with her writing, frowning as she scratched out the occasional mistake.

Finally he spoke. “You’re Rhapsody.”

She did not look up, but moved a few of the papers into a neater pile and drew forth a fresh sheet of parchment.

“Well?”

She still did not favor him with a glance. “Oh, sorry. Thank you for reminding me.” There was a pause, and then she spoke again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m rather busy.”

The man swallowed, choking back the anger her dismissive tone raised in his gullet. He could feel the eyes of some of the patrons shift to him, and he attempted to keep his voice calm.

“I am here representing a gentleman friend of yours.”

There was no break in her concentration or the focus of her attention. “Really? And who might that be?”

“Michael, the Wind of Death.”

The hubbub in the Hat and Feathers died away, but the young woman didn’t seem to notice or care. “Either they have redefined the words gentleman and friend in this language, or you’re making very sloppy use of it,” she said. “What does he want?”

“Your services, naturally.”

“I’m not in the business anymore.”

“I don’t think your professional status is of much interest to him.”

For the first time she stopped writing and looked up at the stranger. The eyes that met his contained no hint of fear and were such a startling green that he took a step backward. “Well, what he wants is not of much interest to me,” she said evenly. “Now, if you will kindly excuse me, as I said, I’m very busy.” She returned to her work once again.