Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

47. Selah

Guiseila hummed an ancient tune, a song about the first gods men had worshipped before the Fathers revealed themselves in the world of dreams. A song older than the age of immortals, when the prophets and wise men of old had guided the nations. A lilting song that thrummed deep in her throat and in Avétk's heart. Though he knew now that the Fathers had created all, the lore of the old gods still held an air of mystery, still stirred some deep part of him, a remnant of his ancestry.

He close his eyes as Guiseila rocked Emeline in her arms and tapped his thumb on the axe head. Soon sleep would overwhelm him, but he'd put it off as long as he could. Dreams only revived the horror of his curse, and he had enough to concern him without facing the countless dead out to avenge themselves on him.

The song vibrated deep and carnal, seeping into his bones, and despite his determination he found his eyelids floating closed. No! He rubbed at his eyes and glanced about the room. Ketiya had already curled up with the lordling, and Denirya glowered from the shadows, only her light pulsing eyes giving her position away. The Mage and his brother had gone off into the caves again, muttering about preparations and sharing stories. Sounded like they hadn't seen each other in many years. The black pot against the wall hissed and sizzled when broth splattered over its edge, the flames licking at the spillage like starved children.

Avétk groaned and turned his head away, his hair clinging to his cheek. Darn this morbid place of waiting. Out there somewhere the Dark Woman planned Emeline's demise, and here he was sitting in a hole in the ground. Inaction was apt to bring death, or worse: sleep. His thoughts toured his relationship with Emeline, from the first moment he'd glimpsed her peeking into her mother's kitchen, to the first dawn he'd watched her mesmerising beauty feeling guilty and glad for it at once. Then as he lay his axe at her feet. Things had only complicated further since. Nothing could bring them together, she stood far beyond his reach. Her age, her destiny, his subservience, his curse. It all blocked them, like the fae chasing their lusts, never sated, always reaching. Akin to the curse's hunkering for more. Always more. More death, more bodies, more hair in his face, blood dripping from his arms. Without wanting to, Avétk drifted into an uncomfortable sleep as his subconscious mind fretted with flashes of bodies disgorged of organs, dismembered screaming women, and Emeline's haunting eyes.

Träumenil

The road's sands darkened to an ashen imitation of the colour of his eyes—a phenomenon he'd never witnessed before. The wind howled like a thousand voices growling their pain, tugged at his oily strands of hair, bit at his skin. The sky rolled with dark clouds promising doom. Fathers. He knew sleeping was gonna end badly, and now look. He spat into the grey dust and cursed.

A body converged on him from behind and he lashed out with the axe, clove its hands off. It was one of the shadow creatures he'd killed the other day—the Dark Woman's puppets. A soundless hollow of a mouth gaped at him, eyes filled with pain as it lifted its bloody stumps, then its mouth filled with a roar of pain. Avétk sliced off its head to cut off the ungodly sound and spun just in time to parry Joheyn's knife thrust.

'I didn't mean to kill you,' he said, but Joheyn never listened. None of them ever listened.

Joheyn sneered, blood dripping from his torn mouth and dead eye. His intestines spilled like a purple fountain from his nave, slurping with his slashes and licking the ashen dust at his bare feet.

A pitch-skinned limb reached to him from behind and he hacked it off without looking. Another howl, but voices behind Avétk answered it with murmurs. Joheyn went for his face and nearly drew blood with the knife, but Avétk swooped low and used the axe to hook Joheyn's leg from under him. He fell hard, thwacking into his own guts, and rolled as he moaned.