Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [10]
In springtime they were especially bold, seeking field- maids to force. If the villagers did not kill women who were attacked, often they killed themselves rather than give birth to such monsters.
Peasants slaughtered lurkers at every chance. Whenever the creatures ventured too near villages, the men formed hunting parties and rounded them up, driving them to their deaths over cliffs. But still the bestial creatures increased in number every year, migrating in from other regions.
The one coursing at Caelan’s heels now was more than enough. Snuffling, it kept up with him easily. Caelan ran flat out, arms and legs pumping, straining to hold his short lead.
His cut knee began to twinge, then hurt. He ran anyway, ignoring it, but the pain intensified until every step brought a wrenching stab of agony.
The lurker was closer now, snuffling and grunting in excitement. It lunged at Caelan, and the graze of its claws on his back made him leap forward.
Howling, the lurker lunged again.
This time Caelan’s leg buckled under him without warning. He went down hard, the lurker clawing his back with shrieks of triumph.
Mashed beneath it, Caelan felt it grip his neck to snap it. Fear convulsed him, but he was pinned and helpless.
The lurker squalled anew, uttering a bellow of triumph that changed to a weird, high-pitched sound and ended abruptly.
It fell across Caelan with a thud and did not stir.
Breathing hard, terror still running through him in waves, Caelan did not at first realize what had happened.
Then he heard running footsteps and voices. A light from a lantern shone in his eyes.
Dizzy with relief, Caelan raised his head. “Help me!” he cried. “Get it off.”
The soldiers surrounded him and dragged off the lurker’s dead body. Sitting up, Caelan saw the haft of a javelin sticking up from the lurker’s back. One of the soldiers pulled out the weapon, and dark green blood dripped off the point.
A noxious stench rose up from the wound, driving the soldiers back with wrinkled noses.
“Break that javelin and throw it away,” one of the men advised in slurred Lingua. “You’ll never clean lurker stink off it.”
The owner of the weapon grimaced, then cursed to the war god Faure. He snapped the javelin across his knee and tossed it in the ditch.
Caelan scrambled to his feet, filled with admiration. “That was as true a throw as anyone could hope for, sir,” he said in flawless Lingua. “And in the dark, even finer. Thank you for saving my life.”
The four soldiers exchanged glances and hooted with laughter.
Not understanding, Caelan stared up at them. His eagerness for acceptance burned brightly. It was hard to believe his dream was finally coming true. Already he felt a part of the group. He had survived danger and been rescued. His eyes drank in their mail and long daggers, gleaming in the lantern light. Scarred and tattooed with shocking symbols of blasphemy, their faces looked cruel and savage, but he didn’t mind. To him, they were heroes.
“I thought you Traulanders were afraid of the dark,” the tallest man said. He was swarthy with an evil-looking pagan tattoo on his cheek. Long plaits of braided hair hung to his shoulders, and a leather thong kept them back from his face. He wore a gold ring in one ear. “Comes dark, and the whole populace bolts indoors like rats into their holes.”
“Not the dark,” Caelan said earnestly. “It’s the wind spirits that come in the darkness.”
Two of the soldiers grinned, but one glanced around and fingered a small amulet hanging from his neck.
The tattooed man eyed Caelan a while, then shrugged. “You’d better get home, sprout. We’ve business, see?”
“But I want to join up,” Caelan said.
The men laughed again, elbowing each other and shaking their heads.
Caelan grinned back, holding himself as straight and as tall as he could. “I’m old enough and strong,” he said.
“Aye, big enough,” the tattooed man agreed.
Another man leaned forward.