Chapter 97: Death Calls
The horse was a tired bay mare, and the forest path was little more than a worn track between thick pines. The only sounds were the steady clop of hooves on damp earth, the creak of saddle leather, and Rowena’s breathing. She kept the hood of her cloak up, but it did little to stop the cold night air from finding her skin. Her thoughts were a tight knot of plans and fear. Her uncle lived in the next pack, two days’ hard ride southeast. He was her mother’s brother, a practical man. He might know a guard who could be bribed, or an official with access to the lower dungeons. He might simply tell her she was a fool and Mission Impossible. But it was the only path she could see. She was not leaving Lycanthria without her mother.
She rounded a bend where the trees grew thicker, their branches knitting together overhead and blotting out the sky. The darkness became almost complete.
All of a sudden, her head snapped up. Her nostrils flared. There was a scent in the air, cutting through the smells of pine and dirt. Unwashed skin. Cheap ale. It was close. She pulled sharply on the reins, bringing the mare to a halt. Her eyes scanned the black shapes of the trees. She saw nothing.
A fraction of a second later, a knife flew from the darkness on her left. She didn’t see it. She felt it—a sudden, instinctive lurch in her gut. She threw her weight to the right in the saddle. The blade whispered past her shoulder and thudded into the trunk of a pine tree beside the path, the handle vibrating.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She had no idea how she had known.
"Show yourselves!" she shouted into the trees. Her voice sounded thin.
Five men stepped from behind the wide trunks. They fanned out, blocking the path ahead and to the sides. In the faint light, she recognized the pockmarked face and greasy hair of Ragna from the gambling den. The man who brought over the mare wasn’t with them, but four others she had seen laughing at the bar.
Ragna smiled. It was not a friendly expression. "You left in a hurry," he said. His voice was a rough scrape. "We realized you owe us something. A little extra for the horse. And for your sharp tongue."
Rowena sat straight in the saddle, trying to keep the fear from her face. "I owe you nothing. The price was paid. If you care for your lives, you will go back the way you came."
The men laughed. It was a short, mocking sound. One of the men, short and missing a tooth, cracked his knuckles. "Feisty,"
"I like feisty women." Said one of the men, who was well-built.
Rowena’s fear was turning into a cold, sharp anger. She looked directly at Ragna. "Your breath alone is a weapon enough. Do you practice having it smell like a backed-up privy, or does it come naturally?"
The thin man’s leer vanished. A raw, insulted rage flashed across his face. "You bitch!" he snarled. He didn’t think. He just rushed forward, a dagger in his hand.
Rowena tried to wheel the mare around, but the path was too narrow, the other men too close. The thin man grabbed for her leg. She kicked out, her boot connecting with his wrist. The dagger flew from his grip. But the mare, spooked by the sudden movement, reared back with a shrill whinny. Rowena, unbalanced, slid from the saddle. She hit the ground hard on her left side. The impact drove the air from her lungs in a painful gasp—a jolt of numbness shot down her arm and leg.
She groaned, pushing herself up on her elbows, but failed. The world swam for a second. It was all the time they needed. The men rushed her.
The horse, now free, bolted down the path and vanished into the darkness.
The well-built man reached her first. He grabbed her by the front of her cloak and hauled her upright. She swung a fist at his face, but it was like hitting stone. Another man, younger with a weaselly face, scar on his forehead, grabbed her arms from behind, pinning them. The thin man, still furious, slapped her across the face. The blow snapped her head to the side. Her hood fell back.
Ragna walked forward slowly, enjoying it. He unbuckled his belt. "Told you we’d have some fun," he said to his men. He looked at Rowena. "Gonna make you scream nice for us."
"Get off me!" Rowena screamed. She thrashed, but the big man’s hold was like iron. The man behind her wrenched her arms back so hard she cried out. The thin man and the weaselly-faced grabbed her legs. They forced her down onto the cold, damp ground, the pine needles scratching her back through her clothes.
Ragna let his trousers fall. He knelt over her. He grabbed the neck of her tunic and ripped it open. The fabric tore with a loud sound. The cold air hit her bare skin. She screamed again, a raw, terrified sound that ripped from her throat and echoed in the silent forest. He tore at her leggings.
She screamed and screamed. She twisted her head, biting at the hands that held her. She tasted blood. The big man just grunted and tightened his grip.
Ragna leaned over her, his weight pressing her into the dirt.
There was a sharp, wet thwack. Ragna froze. His eyes went wide with surprise. He looked down at his own chest, as if confused. The pointed tip of an arrow, slick with blood, protruded from the center of his sternum. He made a gurgling sound, then collapsed sideways onto the ground.
For a second, no one moved. Rowena kept screaming, the sound now ragged and hoarse.
Then the wind began to blow. It came from nowhere, a sudden, violent gust that whipped through the trees, shaking the branches. It swirled around the clearing, picking up dead leaves and dirt.
The men holding her looked up, startled. The men loosened their grip just slightly, horror filling their eyes.
That was all she needed.
A strength that was not her own flooded into her, burning away the numbness, the pain, the terror. It was a black, roaring wave. Her screaming stopped. Her body went rigid.
The man holding her arms from behind felt her skin grow cold. Then he felt her change. He let go, stumbling back. "What in the hell is happening?"
Rowena pushed herself up. Her movements were not human. They were swift, fluid, and utterly wrong. She turned her head toward the big man and the weasel-faced man who still stood close.
Her eyes were no longer her own. They were solid, depthless black, like pools of ink. Dark, swollen veins spread from her temples and down her neck, pulsing under her skin. Her fingers elongated, the nails darkening and curving into thick, sharp claws.
She did not speak. She let out a low, guttural sound from deep in her throat.
The weasel-faced man turned to run. He took one step. Rowena was faster. She moved in a blur of shadow. One clawed hand shot out and clamped around the back of his neck. The other grabbed the big man by his thick throat. They both gasped, their feet leaving the ground.
Rowena’s claws sank into their flesh, not breaking the skin, but passing through it. The men shuddered violently. Their faces, first contorted in fear, went slack. Their skin turned waxy and pale grey. Their eyes clouded over. Their bodies seemed to shrivel, just slightly, as if something vital was being drained from the very core of them.
A warm, buzzing energy flooded into Rowena. It was essence, life itself. It poured into the hollow, hungry places inside her, filling the wounds of her body and spirit with a potent, horrifying vigor. The cuts and bruises on her face smoothed over. The pain in her side vanished.
She dropped the two lifeless bodies. They hit the ground with soft, heavy thuds. She went for the third in no time and drained his soul.
The thin man, who had been staring in paralyzed horror, finally found his legs. He turned and sprinted into the trees, sobbing with fear. An arrow took him in the back before he had gone ten paces. He fell forward and did not move.
Rowena stood in the center of the path, surrounded by the dead. She threw her head back. A raw, powerful growl erupted from her, a sound of primal fury and satiated hunger. It echoed through the forest, silencing the insects and night birds.
Behind two large oaks, a few yards away, the two messengers from Drakwyne lowered their bows. They watched, their faces impassive. They had followed her from the inn. They had seen the ambush. They had let it happen. They watched as the power of the Witch Queen’s spirit manifested fully for the first time.
They watched as Rowena’s black eyes slowly faded back to their initial color. The dark veins receded. Her claws retracted, her fingers becoming human again. The unnatural strength left her limbs. She swayed on her feet, looking down at her torn clothes, at the dead men, at her own normal hands. A wave of nausea and crushing exhaustion hit her. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed onto the ground and slipped into unconsciousness.
The two messengers waited until she was still. Then they moved forward. One checked the bodies, ensuring all were dead. The other knelt beside Rowena, felt for the pulse in her neck—it was intense, too strong—and draped her green cloak over her.
One of them whistled, and two horses came galloping down the path. They gathered Rowena on the horse and rode off.
The order was clear: Bring the vessel to Drakwyne alive.
