Chapter 12

The morning sun was hidden behind a cloud that looked like a giant mountain, casting a shadow upon the land. It was reminiscent of the one that was cast upon Brahm's heart. She always hated leaving this place.

She led her brown charger through the gates of the Haudenosaunee village and a voice cut through the mist.

“Orenda, wait!”

White Feather chased after her.

Exasperation escaped her lips in a sigh.

“Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?” he asked. The look in his eyes was hopeful.

She grunted. “I hate goodbye.”

“No need,” he said as his appaloosa trotted up to them. He adjusted the bags on Wind’s saddle. “I'm coming with you.”

“What?” Brahm failed to mask the irritation in her voice.

A wide grin crept across his rugged face. “I didn't think you were hard of hearing, Orenda. I said I'm coming with you.”

She turned her back to him and mounted. “I go alone.”

“Mother thought you might need help.”

Brahm gave a hearty laugh and shook her head. The Clan Mother's motives were as evident as the twinkle in her son’s eyes.

“Very well, but you do as I say.”

He mulled it over. “Agreed, but not if your life is in danger. I would hate to see anything happen to that pretty hide of yours.”

That grin lodged itself in his face again and Brahm felt a fresh desire to slap it clean off. She rolled her eyes instead.

“Let's go.”

She urged Roan to a trot, leaving White Feather muttering something about women. They both knew she could outmatch him in a heartbeat.

If anything, she would end up saving hispretty behind.

Five days later, with the land blanketed in pine, box elder, and beech, Brahm found herself in the dales of the upper Outlands. She once heard a saying about a needle in a pile of hay. Searching for Diarmuid was similar. Yet something was guiding in her in this direction. Whether it was her instincts or not, Brahm was unsure. And the second soul within her had been disturbingly quiet.

Too quiet.

Two days previous, her overwhelming desire to run back to the Haudenosaunee village had disappeared— a whisper of a memory. So she followed her gut after that, or what she thought was her gut, in the hopes it would lead her to Diarmuid.

For most of the trip she was gripped by the meaning of the Peace Maker’s visit. The spirit being had placed the fear of God in her. And that made two things Brahm Hallowstone had little tolerance for: fear and God.

Her thoughts were interrupted as a raven alighted in her path. It hopped twice, croaked, and fluttered its wings. She yanked the reins, and Roan whinnied.

White Feather pulled up beside her. “What is it?”

Brahm dismounted and approached the bird with a slow, steady pace. She never understood why so many thought them harbingers of death and bad omens; they were highly intelligent. She crouched when she was within range.

The bird croaked a few times and flapped its wings. Its message was short and simple — a warning. Brahm nodded and reached into her pack for some flat bread. She gave it to the raven with her thanks before it croaked once more, and flew west.

White Feather's feet padded the ground behind her. “What did it say?”

“There are humans beyond the next ridge. The raven didn't like the smell of them. We’re also being followed.”

White Feather stared into the eastern breeze. “Then we should go on foot.”

Brahm nodded, and whispered in Roan's ear as they led the horses off the road. She tied them to the bough of a silver beech. Her gut was laden with anticipation, and with sweaty palms she gripped the kahbeth. She sensed their tug, their hunger for blood, reaching deep inside her. White Feather gripped his war club, his bow slung over his shoulder. His eyebrows were lowered in concentration, his breathing slow and rhythmic. He wore apprehension well.

They prowled the forest, silhouettes that slipped between the trees. Brahm moved forward, every step carved from a honed instinct. Her iron grip on the kahbeth pearled her dark hands. They traveled in stealth for more than a mile, without sign of human presence.

She was about to call a return when she sensed an oddness about the forest. White Feather sensed it as well. With hand signals he indicated he would go left, she should go right and they would meet up in one hundred yards. She nodded, and he vanished into the shrub.

Time to dance, Brahm thought, and called upon the one skill that would serve her here. Even the kahbeth was second to her ability as a Soul Runner.

It was time to become one with the Great Mother.

Brahm calmed her mind, and let the sounds of the forest beat in her ears like a ceremonial water drum. Her lungs drank of the musty air. She smoothed her hand along the earth, its presence seeping under her skin. She became one with the trees, and felt their longing to touch the sky. Her soul lifted from her body and the wind breathed through her. She rose above the shrubs, forsaking her physical form. She soared past birds and rustling leaves. Two deer raised their heads, yet could not see her as she brushed past them. She sensed White Feather, his feet dancing along the ground in a silent waltz.

Then she found what she sought.

The kahbeth pulsed in the fingers of her physical form. They tugged at her for blood. Her soul fought with them. She needed to see more. Her prey was near, twenty yards away. Her soul danced a little further. The hairs on the back of her neck bristled.

A Witch Hunter.

The kahbeth yanked, and the sensations slipped from her grasp. Brahm shuddered as her soul reeled back to her body. A wave of fatigue stole over her, as it sometimes did, but she shook it off and listened.

There was nothing.

The blades of the kahbeth warmed in her hands. She gripped them harder. The Hunter was casting a spell or a summons; the kahbeth could smell the blood. She waited as the wings of fate perched upon her shoulder and breathed down her neck; its breath was rank with anticipation.

There was a sharp thud.

Feet pounded the forest floor.

Brahm rose, and grunted at the sight of White Feather chasing after a helmeted man in leather.

Damn!

She bolted from the trees.

Brahm leapt with stag-like strides. Her heart thrummed. Her breath flowed. She joined in the chase, and sped through the forest. With fluid motion she sheathed the kahbeth as she hurdled fallen pines. Reaching to the small of her back, she slid out a jagged knife. A smile edged across her face as she gained ground on them. Within moments she caught up to White Feather and bounded past him.

The Witch Hunter was a worthy chase and Brahm howled with excitement. She liked a good hunt. The Hunter's legs propelled him through the forest, the trees offering little to impede him.

No matter. He would be hers.

She gained on him, stride by stride. She blew past the trees.

Brahm smelled his fear now. She licked her lips.

The knife in her hand felt like northern frost, cold and heavy.

It was time to put an end to this. There might be others.

She hurled it.

As the knife cut through the air, she unsheathed the kahbeth. The knife struck the Hunter in the back of the knee, and he tumbled to the ground.

The kahbeth pulsed. Brahm gave herself over to their hunger. She raised them into the air and then pierced the Hunter's hide, thrusting it through his back. They pinned him to the ground. The Hunter thrashed, his soul fighting to cling to his body.

The struggle did not last long, and Brahm shuddered as he fell limp. The kahbeth screamed in her mind and she convulsed with their pleasure. They were satiated. She ripped the blades from his body, flesh dangling from the spikes. As she wiped the kahbeth on the ground, White Feather approached, and the grin on his face faded at her grave look. She rolled the Witch Hunter over with her foot, and stared at the smooth roundness of his face. He was young. She searched him, but found nothing of interest.

A snapping noise caught her attention. The kahbeth were ready, screaming for more, but she lowered them when she noticed a lone white horse partially obscured by the trees. She stepped over to it, and noticed the lack of side packs.

No supplies.

It could only mean one thing.

“Scout,” she said.

“Where are the rest?”

A loud crack sounded behind them and they rounded to find twenty Witch Hunters on horse, armed.

“Behold,” muttered White Feather.

“Put your weapons down.” The leader's voice rumbled. “By the authority of the Confederation, I command you to surrender.”

Brahm recognized the woman, remembered her from an ancient past — a ruthless Hunter. One that wore the finger bones of her victims as a necklace. The half-helmet veiled a face that Brahm recalled well, hardened with lines of age and battle. A faint tickling sensation edged at her heart. She shook it off. She refused to fear this woman.

White Feather’s hand tightened around the war club. He nodded to her as if he read her thoughts.

The Hunters would hang them anyway, so why not die fighting.

Brahm gripped the kahbeth.

Her feet itched to surge forward, but froze in place as cries echoed from the east. Brahm turned, wondering whether she would face death regardless if she ran from it. She thought of the Clan Mother, of Diarmuid, of Gray Wolf, of White Feather, and of a face she had not thought of in ages, a face not unlike her own.

Would he mourn her passing?

And what of her second soul, she wondered. Would she finally have peace?

The voice was silent.

Brahm took a single step forward and paused as ten Haudenosaunee warriors crested the rise in the east, with Roan and Wind in tow. She grinned. The tides of fate were rising in her favor.

The Hunters were mired in confusion, but within moments silver daggers and bags of lethal powders were in hand. Two muttered a summons and flames danced along their fingers. A host of souls emerged from the trees.

The warriors sped forward, a whirlwind of fury sweeping through the forest. Brahm’s heart swelled with pride.

My people.

She would fight at their side after all. She joined in their war cries, but paused at another echo; this one from the west. Again, fate smiled upon her, and Brahm nearly knelt to kiss the Great Mother. Men and women weaved through the trees, swords bared and arrows nocked. But these were more than what they appeared. The cruelty in their eyes spoke their nature — Lastborn.

A crest of peppered hair, sword in hand, led the charge. A gray wolf ran at his side.

“Diarmuid!” she called out, kahbeth pulsing and alive once more. Brahm charged forward.

The lead Hunter, broad as a bear, waited for her.

“The penalty for treason is death,” she roared.

Wasting no time on words, Brahm swung the kahbeth. The Hunter raised her sword and the clash of metal vibrated through the trees. Rage from the kahbeth surged up Brahm's arm. She swung with the second one, but the Hunter dodged. The blades of the kahbeth howled as they neared the woman’s flesh. The Hunter leapt back to avoid their touch.

Brahm raised the blades to strike again, but the Hunter was faster, planting her booted foot on Brahm’s chest and shoving her backwards. Breath rushed out of her lungs as the ground met her, hard and fast. Seething anger welled inside her and she shuffled to avoid the sword that plunged towards her. The Hunter wrenched her sword from the ground.

Brahm rose, panting. She smiled.

The woman was good.

The Hunter beat down upon her again, this time with a force that knocked Brahm from her feet. She rolled backwards, slicing her arm upon a jagged stone. The kahbeth rang in her ears. They smelled blood.

Brahm rolled to her feet and swung at the Hunter once more, bringing both blades around in a wide arc, separating them at the last minute. The Hunter blocked one, but missed the other, and moaned as it tore open her leg. She jabbed in anger at the air.

Sweat trickled down Brahm’s head, and a sly grin crept across her face. The Hunter hobbled backwards, struggling to block parry after parry. Gathering all the strength she could muster, Brahm locked the sword with one of the kahbeth. The Hunter stared defiance at her as Brahm brought the other forward, and pierced her chest. The woman struggled to stand, but the life in her fermented in a heady brew from which the kahbeth drank in thirsting gulps.

The Hunter leaned forward. “They will be ours, traitor.”

“Who?”

The Hunter gave a chill smile and then collapsed at Brahm's feet.

Damn!

She had no time to ponder as another Hunter lunged towards her. Brahm gave herself over to the kahbeth, swiping at him. He stepped back and she swung again, blinded by bloodlust. He shifted back once more and a summons to retreat sounded on the air. Her opponent turned on his heel and ran with the others. She marched forward, furious, determined to take the coward.

She would destroy them all.

A strong hand clasped her shoulder, restraining her. Brahm gripped the kahbeth, and glared at her new opponent.

This one will die well.

“Brahm!” called his voice.

Barely recognizing the face through a haze of hatred, she swiped at him.

She missed.

White fury glazed over her eyes.

Die!

She stabbed at him again, but pierced air.

“Brahm!”

She knew that voice. She struggled to drop the weapons, fighting with their iron resolve.

She swiped again.

“Brahm, it's me!”

The man struck her across the face.

A voice screamed at her from inside her own skull.

-Fool!-

The kahbeth tumbled from her hands. The fit of rage and thirst for blood melted.

“Diarmuid,” she breathed.

His heavy arms pulled her close. She returned his embrace. She’d almost killed him.

Diarmuid retrieved the kahbeth from the forest floor. “Are you still using these things?”

-Fool!-

Brahm shook her head and grinned. It was good to see him. “Is that all you can say when you haven't seen me in so long?”

She secretly thanked the second soul within her. Somehow the woman had helped release her from the kahbeth’s hold.

Diarmuid handed the blades to her. “Just worried about you. It’s good to see you. What are you doing out here?”

She smiled. “Looking for you.”

White Feather approached them, cautious. There was a look of confusion on his face.

“Diarmuid,” he said, “it is good to see you. I trust you are well.” He offered his hand.

Diarmuid took it.

Another Haudenosaunee warrior approached them from behind White Feather. He was tall as a young elm and solid as the oak. His partial Obek heritage was evident in his long strides, double that of most men.

Brahm held out her arms and greeted him. “She:kon, Great Bear. I'm glad to see you.”

A craggy smile stretched across his oversized face. The man towered over her by two heads and Brahm felt like a rag doll as he hugged her. She had saved his life once, and neither he nor his shaman uncle let her forget it.

“We were sent after you,” he said. His rich voice hesitated as he studied the remains of the dead Hunters. The Lastborn had butchered them. “The Clan Mother had a feeling you might be in trouble. She was specific with her instructions: don't let them know you're there until they need you. So, here we are. I have a life debt to you, Orenda— my life for your life.”

Brahm thanked the Mother Earth for the wisdom of Little Doe. She nodded to the man.

“Come,” Diarmuid said, tugging her. “I want you to meet someone.”

He led her to the western rise, but halted as they reached its crest. A Witch Hunter, her blonde locks shifting in the breeze, stood over two young men prostrate on the ground.

Diarmuid unsheathed his sword. “Paine!”

The Hunter braced for Diarmuid's strike. When he reached her he swung, but she pummeled him with one fist as she brought the sword down with the other. Diarmuid's stance didn't waver and his sword met hers. The metal clashed, but the woman fell back as an arrow sliced through her shoulder. The Lastborn were howling in rage and running towards her. Great Bear advanced upon the Hunter first and pinned her to the ground. He clamped a silver collar around her neck with a deft motion, and then held up his hands to the Lastborn.

“Peace,” he said. His voice was like stone. “She is taken.”

The Lastborn slowed, the anger still smoldering.

“Peace!” he called out again.

Then they paused. The rage in their eyes subsided and they withdrew to the trees.

Diarmuid sheathed his sword and knelt beside one of the young men.

“Paine?” He reached over to the other. “Puck?”

Brahm crouched at his side. “Diarmuid, what's going on?”

He stared into the forest. “Lya!” A frantic look filled his eyes.

Diarmuid ran past the horses, still crying Lya's name. Brahm knelt and checked for a heartbeat on the one called Paine. It was rapid, but he was alive. Something within her awoke as she leaned over his chest.

It was the second soul that was leeched to her own. It wept.

Paine stirred in her arms, putting his hand to his head. When he pulled it back it was covered in blood.

He moaned. “Where's Lya?”

“Diarmuid went to look for her. Who is she?”

“She's my sister.” He sat up. “Where’s Puck? Is he okay?”

The one with the black hair groaned. Brahm reached over and put her hand to his chest. His heartbeat was strong and he had no visible sign of injury. Her second soul still wept.

“He's fine. What does―” She was interrupted by a screech.

A falcon took flight and Brahm managed to catch something from it — sharp images of a pale woman with onyx hair invaded her head. Brahm sucked in her breath. Her second soul was now screaming.

-Mine!-

Brahm shook the image from her mind.

This was insanity.

“Diarmuid!”

Diarmuid bounded out of the woods.

“That falcon is hers.”

Diarmuid knew to seize the opportunity before him. “Get your horse, we're going after her.”

White Feather strode over with Roan in hand, Wind trailing behind.

Brahm took the reins, but before she mounted, she looked towards the Witch Hunter and then towards the Lastborn. They ambled among the trees, retrieving swords and arrows. They appeared tranquil now, but she wondered if their wrath would surface once more. Her instincts spoke to her.

“Make sure the Hunter lives. Take her back to Haven and free her of the Wormwood. We need to know what the Confederation is up to.”

The large man nodded. “I will see to it.”

As Diarmuid mounted, Fang growled. The she-wolf settled between Paine and Puck.

Diarmuid nodded. “Fine. Take care of them.”

White Feather climbed onto Wind's back with a fluid motion.

“I'm coming with you,” he said. He looked at Brahm with a firm gaze. There would be no deterring him.

Stubborn fool.

Brahm nodded, and mounted Roan.

And as the falcon climbed into the southern skies, the three of them followed.