Bellarin Wyall had not been completely honest with the man at the bar. Saul? Saleh? His name didn?t matter, and as far as she was concerned, only two things mattered: finding this damned blessing of unicorns to kill, and that a unicorn?s curse could not be undone.
Like any other disease, the curse ran its terrible course until the price it demanded was met.
?Chin up, Bellarin. The third time?s always the easiest,? the slayer told herself as she peered through the misty woods at the end of the footpath. Pale spring flowers sprouted from mossy boulders and the birds here still sang for new mates, months into the hottest summer this valley had known in decades.
The blessing was close.
She looked back at the pass she?d taken into the valley, a bramble-choked cut in a white rock formation. She couldn?t see her wagon from here, but she could hear her horse thumping her hooves on the ground as she found more grass to chew. Either Bellarin was right and there was no one around for miles who could steal her ride, or she?d be dragging dead unicorns back to RhyDin all night.
Ahead of her, the mist thickened, reducing the trees to blue shadows indistinguishable from the creatures that made this secluded place their home. But the slayer had something better than her own senses to rely on, thanks to the curse their kind had inflicted on her: she hoisted the revolving gun from the holster on her back and listened to the whispering runes seared into its heavy wooden stock. They were a mark of the power of the creatures it had slain, a power that the slayer and her weapons both thirsted for; no sooner did she lay her hands on the gun than it whispered the name of their quarry.
?That?s right? Now lead me to them.?
* * *
Winter was never easy in Blue Boulder, but a lean season turned desperate after the Queen?s Militia raided their granaries for the war effort. First the hens, then the goats, then the dairy cows were slaughtered, and by the end of the season most of the villagers were eyeing their beasts of burden with the same hunger.
Bellarin Wyall was the graveyard guard, strong and swift with many weapons but too lazy for any army and too drunk to patrol the village; she had no beasts to her name, not even a donkey (her grandfather?s nag had been eaten by wolves last winter). There was a heel of stale bread and a bruised apple in her cupboard and she needed meat. Meat would fill her belly, and selling it would refill the clay jar of rum on her nightstand.
Blue Boulder had a story about a whole blessing of unicorns that used to live in the woods beyond the fields; now there was only one, a creature left an offering of apples by the village?s boys and girls coming of age. Bellarin had seen it at a distance, a beautiful beast but with no more feeling in its large eyes than any other dumb animal, with meaty flanks grown fat with frequent gifts of apples, carrots and sugar.
The village elders said unicorns taught mortals how to know their place; that they held power mortals did not deserve; that harming them awakened a mortal thirst for power that could never, ever be sated.
But Bellarin was hungry and sober; with an apple in her outstretched hand and a hatchet behind her back, she walked into the unicorn?s vale.
* * *
?Six of them, as promised,? Bellarin said, idly packing a pipe full of tobacco as someone from Matadero Meats inspected the wagon she?d parked out front. There was a thick gray blanket and a pile of hay, and beneath it several large, bloody lumps. She heard the blanket shift and added,
?Careful. We don?t want anyone to see.?
She didn?t know what the average RhyDinian thought about unicorns, but if they found them half as holy as at any other place she?d known, six of these bloody, glassy-eyed beasts would inspire a violent mob in an instant. Many slayers had met their end on the wrong end of a rope, and Bellarin had no desire to join their ranks.
Whatever this employee thought about the job, Bellarin didn?t watch their face to check for a reaction. She enjoyed her pipe in silence, and only opened her eyes when she heard the expectant jangle of coins. A wallet bouncing up and down in an outstretched hand. She snatched it from the air, tucked it into her belt and clambered into the hired wagon.
?Pleasure killing for your business, and if you don?t mind? don?t tell anyone I did.? She snapped the reins as soon as the bodies were unloaded, scowling around her smouldering pipe as the wagon clattered away from the man?s slaughterhouse? whatever his name was. Saul? Shane? I feel good about Shane.
The blessing?s curse was as strong as any thirst for power the slayer had felt, a thirst that could only be sated by killing for pleasure. The gun across her lap whispered its hunger, and she smiled: ?A dragon, huh? Dragons in this town are trouble. Let?s find us a rakshasa instead.?
Like any other disease, the curse ran its terrible course until the price it demanded was met.
?Chin up, Bellarin. The third time?s always the easiest,? the slayer told herself as she peered through the misty woods at the end of the footpath. Pale spring flowers sprouted from mossy boulders and the birds here still sang for new mates, months into the hottest summer this valley had known in decades.
The blessing was close.
She looked back at the pass she?d taken into the valley, a bramble-choked cut in a white rock formation. She couldn?t see her wagon from here, but she could hear her horse thumping her hooves on the ground as she found more grass to chew. Either Bellarin was right and there was no one around for miles who could steal her ride, or she?d be dragging dead unicorns back to RhyDin all night.
Ahead of her, the mist thickened, reducing the trees to blue shadows indistinguishable from the creatures that made this secluded place their home. But the slayer had something better than her own senses to rely on, thanks to the curse their kind had inflicted on her: she hoisted the revolving gun from the holster on her back and listened to the whispering runes seared into its heavy wooden stock. They were a mark of the power of the creatures it had slain, a power that the slayer and her weapons both thirsted for; no sooner did she lay her hands on the gun than it whispered the name of their quarry.
?That?s right? Now lead me to them.?
* * *
Winter was never easy in Blue Boulder, but a lean season turned desperate after the Queen?s Militia raided their granaries for the war effort. First the hens, then the goats, then the dairy cows were slaughtered, and by the end of the season most of the villagers were eyeing their beasts of burden with the same hunger.
Bellarin Wyall was the graveyard guard, strong and swift with many weapons but too lazy for any army and too drunk to patrol the village; she had no beasts to her name, not even a donkey (her grandfather?s nag had been eaten by wolves last winter). There was a heel of stale bread and a bruised apple in her cupboard and she needed meat. Meat would fill her belly, and selling it would refill the clay jar of rum on her nightstand.
Blue Boulder had a story about a whole blessing of unicorns that used to live in the woods beyond the fields; now there was only one, a creature left an offering of apples by the village?s boys and girls coming of age. Bellarin had seen it at a distance, a beautiful beast but with no more feeling in its large eyes than any other dumb animal, with meaty flanks grown fat with frequent gifts of apples, carrots and sugar.
The village elders said unicorns taught mortals how to know their place; that they held power mortals did not deserve; that harming them awakened a mortal thirst for power that could never, ever be sated.
But Bellarin was hungry and sober; with an apple in her outstretched hand and a hatchet behind her back, she walked into the unicorn?s vale.
* * *
?Six of them, as promised,? Bellarin said, idly packing a pipe full of tobacco as someone from Matadero Meats inspected the wagon she?d parked out front. There was a thick gray blanket and a pile of hay, and beneath it several large, bloody lumps. She heard the blanket shift and added,
?Careful. We don?t want anyone to see.?
She didn?t know what the average RhyDinian thought about unicorns, but if they found them half as holy as at any other place she?d known, six of these bloody, glassy-eyed beasts would inspire a violent mob in an instant. Many slayers had met their end on the wrong end of a rope, and Bellarin had no desire to join their ranks.
Whatever this employee thought about the job, Bellarin didn?t watch their face to check for a reaction. She enjoyed her pipe in silence, and only opened her eyes when she heard the expectant jangle of coins. A wallet bouncing up and down in an outstretched hand. She snatched it from the air, tucked it into her belt and clambered into the hired wagon.
?Pleasure killing for your business, and if you don?t mind? don?t tell anyone I did.? She snapped the reins as soon as the bodies were unloaded, scowling around her smouldering pipe as the wagon clattered away from the man?s slaughterhouse? whatever his name was. Saul? Shane? I feel good about Shane.
The blessing?s curse was as strong as any thirst for power the slayer had felt, a thirst that could only be sated by killing for pleasure. The gun across her lap whispered its hunger, and she smiled: ?A dragon, huh? Dragons in this town are trouble. Let?s find us a rakshasa instead.?