Exile of the Clave

Exile of the Clave - Chapter 11

Screams of terror echoed faintly on the winds of the world, tearing Rayce away from memories of Sera as he drowsed in and out of consciousness in a nest of long grass on a Scottish moor. He tried to push the screams away, but his curse pressed down on him even as he resisted it. The Eternal Forest was hungry for more, and it had chosen its next feast.

There was nowhere in the world to hide from the Forest's call; thousands of miles could separate the Hunt from a battlefield and still the sounds of death would reach him. Gwyn had never found a pattern to unravel the lust of the sinister trees. He had collected his grim harvests, both great and small, without question through the centuries, and the Forest would now expect Rayce to do the same.

He sat up as he heard the cries of children being slaughtered, and he clapped his hands over his ears frantically to block it out, but still they shrilled. Rayce could hear the snarl of monsters under the screams. His eyes squeezed shut. No, please!

Rayce sat paralyzed as the sounds of butchery continued unabated. He could practically see the blood pumping out of ghastly wounds as Mundanes fell prey to monsters in the night, and the harder he tried to force it away, the more insistent the Forest was in its need. His teeth clenched together and he hissed in pain as flares of agony ignited in his head. The Forest would not be denied.

Buried under the pleas for mercy, he thought he heard the sharp twang of a bowstring snap, and it gave him a glimmer of hope. Perhaps some will escape.

Staggering under the blinding, nauseating assault of the Forest, he stumbled back toward where he had left the Hunters camped, and he felt some of the strain ease as a reward for behaviour that pleased the Forest. A shiver of anticipatory pleasure for the feeding slid through his body and he reeled in disgust as he tried to separate it from his own emotions.

The pounding headache followed him back across silent hills until he found the muted glow of a few fires still burning low.

Most of the Hunters looked to be asleep, wrapped in thin blankets or huddled under cloaks close to one another. The few who were awake took note of his return, their black eyes glittering in the firelight while coloured irises flashed like wolf's eyes.

Rayce caught sight of his brother sitting alone, seeming not to notice him as he hunched forward to warm himself with the heat from his tiny fire. The light showed the ugly stumps that now rose from his shoulder blades when he shifted uncomfortably, trying to adapt to life without the great, black wings. Rayce regretted what had been done to Bael under Cadair Idris, but he couldn't change it now.

Careful to keep his hands relaxed at his sides to betray no sign of the Forest's impatience, he straightened under the mantle he wore and raised his voice.

"The dead call," he barked. "The Hunt rides."

Heads lifted wearily from dirty bundles of spare clothes, and he saw exhaustion in the eyes of many. The Forest worked them hard, and it was difficult for some of the lesser-Fey to recover their strength between journeys to deep Faerie. Others were not so easy to control.

"You are arrogant to believe that you may command us with impunity, little princeling." A tall, lithe Hunter rose from where he had been sitting with two others, some of the few who had disdained sleep. Dirty, white-gold hair fell in matted locks down his back, held back by what looked like a worn coronet worked in a delicate filigree of silver. His eyes were mismatched with black and a pale blue that was so faded that it seemed almost colourless. He wore chipped, white armour that was stained dark in places, and some pieces had been replaced from sets that didn't match. Vindictus, Gwyn's memories sighed in Rayce's mind around the throbbing ache.