"Useless bastards," Ebernathy snarled to himself. Wooden splinters pierced his lips and cheeks; after threading her roots in him, the green nepher slammed him against an aged oak. "Had we known what they were, we would have hacked them to bits and burned every morsel." He could not stand. The flesh of his left shin was slashed to a red mess; the bones of his right were shattered.
For two days, he had languished here, not knowing the extent of Mistress Rayhanei's gift of life. Will I waste away and die after fifty winters, wondered Ebernathy the day before, or does someone need to remove my head and give me mercy? He bled dark blood through the wounds the green woman had left him, holes going through his chest and belly. "All to protect that little shit," Ebernathy mused as he closed his fingers tightly around a stick. "When the mistress is done getting the Esper, I'll kill the boy myself. I'll do it slowly as she watches. Aye. I'll see her weep, that green cu—"
A man howled from between the trees. "Is someone there?" the man asked. "We heard about the attack. Are you hurt?" The man's voice was getting closer. "If you can call out, do so immediately! Let us help you."
Ebernathy screamed in false agony. "Oh, gods be praised!" He raised and waved a bloody hand, "the heavens have heard my prayers!" When his savior—a skinny older man with a full beard and small round eyes— saw him, he rushed toward him. Ebernathy hoped for a plump merchant, full of sweetmeats and roasted pigs, but those odds were slim. This should be just enough.
"Worry not," he assured as he stumbled over roots to get to Ebernathy, "please be strong. We will save you, me and my children. I was visiting my sister in Gollwater when the raid happened. Are there any others?"
Ebernathy ignored his question, choosing to wince and groan loudly. The mistress's gift killed most of his pain, but Ebernathy need not stop his performance. "Just kill me," Ebernathy begged as the man knelt beside him. "Put a dagger through my heart. I can't bear it."
The rescuer began to cry, imagining the pain Ebernathy pretended to have. Nevertheless, the man slid a small knife out of his belt. The wounds he suffered would have killed a natural man by now. "I had to do the same for a friend." The peace bringer began. Ebernathy hoped he didn't bore him with a story. "I was a sword-for-hire in Aventyne twenty years past." The man solemnly gazed into Ebernathy's eyes. "I'll give you peace."
"Wait," Ebernathy begged. The man stopped, the tip of his knife an inch from his heart. "I'm from Gollwater," he lied, "my wife, she—" Ebernathy feined a pang of pain from one of his wounds. He made his voice as quiet as a whisper, making the man lean in closer. That's it, just a little more. He could smell the sweat off the peace bringer's neck. Underneath that ugly brown beard was soft, thin skin. Underneath ran rivers of hot red blood. Ebernathy could almost hear it rush. Life's blood as sweet as honey. "You must tell … tell her …"
"I promise she will hear your words," the prey assured, "tell me them all."
The kind man did not expect the dying man to have so much strength. Ebernathy gripped his beard with his right hand, the knife hand with the left. He pulled his prey's head close, his mouth to the man's ear. "Tell her not to fuck my father." After cackling at his own ribald jape, he bit into the man's neck like a starving wolf. The hot red stream felt good as it ran down his cold neck. With each swallow of blood and bits of flesh, he felt his strength returning. Never had he tasted something so savory in his natural life, his rejected life. Below, the bones of his leg reset themselves, threads of his own meat stretched and wove into each other. The man fought him, mumbling something stupidly. Annoyed, Ebernathy buried the knife between ribs, hoping that would lessen his vigor. "Melly … " was the last word he heard the man say.
Ebernathy was gnawing at a shoulder when a girl of seven, most likely this Melly, shrieked. "PAPPA!" she wailed, "what did you do to pappa?" She turned and ran. "Haroll! Jonnos! Help pappa!"
Noisy girl. Ebernathy began to rise, picking beard hair off his tongue. He shambled through the brush, not wanting to see what the sons thought about their father becoming his breakfast. Best be on my way. They have friends, no doubt. He was still weak; a vicious mob would make short work of him.
He headed northwest to Mayse. Surely there would be a fellow congregant, another fledgling under the wings of the dark mistress. Many of the mistress's followers hid amongst the commoners. Their numbers were growing. The day was coming fast when the days of secrecy would end, Ebernathy believed. Esper or no, the dark mistress was becoming wiser and stronger. Some of the more ancient congregants believe her to be more powerful than she was during the days leading to the fall of the Lost City.
Several miles into his march, he found a dead stag. Perhaps it died of old age or illness; there were no signs of injury, outside at least. It was half-rotted as well. Nevertheless, Ebernathy tore at whatever was left. Not even its foul smell turned him away, nor did the suspicion of disease. It mattered not. Such were fears for the man of the old flesh; the pleasure of consumption outweighed everything else. Though he made enough progress to know Mayse was less than half a day away, he chose to stop and sleep the afternoon away. He would be fully healed when he woke at dawn, more than likely.
Laying amongst the bones, Ebernathy remembered how his mistress gave him the gift. At first, he did not want to be chosen, but what would happen to him if he had refused? The Pit of Agony was a possible punishment. Never had Ebernathy believed in damnation and the thousand isles of hell awaiting the souls of the wicked and impious. Such disbelief of eternal punishment after death was what he determined made him a good gangsman. But when he looked upon the Pit of Agony, he knew hell was a living beast, and they served the same mistress. It was Wilca who had come to him in his new house in Greater Vior. "You've pleased the mistress, finding those children," she had said, "she wants you to lead the attack on that tacky little village in the woods. You must see her right away. She wishes to reward you, brother. Such a lucky man you are!" Fear had racked him then, his arms and hands water; he could scarcely lift his quill to finish his letter to Mur Garrysom. "M-m-most of our brothers and sisters," he had said to old Wilca as she turned away from him. "I've seen the unworthy die violently." Wilca had not seemed to care. She had left the shop, skipping like a child and tittering to herself and paying no attention to his panic. But his fears had meant nothing. The reception of the gift had been different from the rest as well. No pain, but only pleasure.
It was a bold crow that pecked him awake. The bird did him a kindness, however. It ripped a wooden splinter out of his cheek with its black beak. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the sun was setting. He rose, the crow hopping onto a shoulder, still cleaning his face. Some wild beasts seemed to treat him like their own. Part of the gift, he thought to himself as he stroked the black feathers. I thank you, my little friend. He wrapped his fingers around the crow. It squawked annoyingly as Ebernathy crushing the life out of it.
Not as good as the stag carcass, he silently mused as he fingered the healing wounds on his cheek. He spat out a piece of a feather. Oddly better than that fool with the noisy daughter, it is. He tossed the bird's bones into the bushes. "Aye, Aye," he muttered to himself as he sucked at strands of flesh stuck in his teeth, "far better than the man."
He began to walk toward Mayse. Feeling how well his legs healed, his walk turned into a run, though he was in no rush.
Ebernathy felt as fresh as he did the day he lay with Rayhanei; he remembered her way of rewarding him. Unlike the rest, he was not slashed open until his organs showed. The cruel beetles that the mistress kept in hollows of ever-burning blackwoods never needed to crawl beneath his skin to sanctify his natural but inferior form. No. She was merciful if indeed it was a mercy she showed. "I have learned many ways to purify those who give me their love," she had said, revealing her nakedness, "this one allows me to return it carnally." Never had Ebernathy bedded such a creature that gave him such bliss. None of his past wives, nor lovers, nor any of the women in stag's flock had given him such delight that Rayhanei had. He had anticipated pain after the pleasure, to be sure, but it never came. Another fear of his turned to dust. Though, in the midst of their rutting, he doubted he would have known what terror was. When he had finished inside her, she filled him with something of her own. She kissed him. A cold kiss it was. Her lips felt like ice. From between her lips slithered wisps of black snakes. His lips, too, had felt frozen and numb as the mist passed into his lungs and belly. He had closed his eyes, his mind a thousand wheels racing from one memory to the next. For a moment, he was six, watching his father hanging from the gallows for murder. In another, he was twelve, washing the blood off his hands after he killed a thief who had broken into his mother's house. He was twenty, leaving a burning city, joy in his heart from the victory over his rivals. This was the old life. As the past washed over him, he had felt the coldness spread all over. It had been death nearing, Ebernathy had known. He had died in Rayhanei's arms; he remembered how soft her caress was. "Sleep," she had said, as gentle as a summer breeze, though all around him, death had drowned him in a black, wintry sea. Though he had fallen into darkness, the mistress had given him wings to rise from the abyss. He had awoken alone; there was none but himself to celebrate his new life.
Reborn. Ebernathy swore that he could outrun a horse; darkened woods were a blur as he raced through. He needed no roads, but for help with direction; he found his own shortcuts, tearing through the woods. Reborn as a revenant to Rayhanei. He sang and giggled as he approached the city, the tops of its walls alive with torchlight.
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