The Will and the Wilds(9)

The Telling Stone does not warn me of one gobler, but two.





CHAPTER 4

Some of the intelligent species of mysting are tricksters—these are creatures more interested in toying with mortals than feasting upon them. However, do not let that fact convince you they are docile, for often a trickster will claim something far more valuable than flesh.





Maekallus waits in the wildwood, crouched in a thick cluster of trees—the kind that refuse to part for any blade. He doesn’t usually skulk about human forests. It amuses him more to sneak into mortals’ taverns. Humans are such fun pawns when they’re drunk. Day or night, they never see him, but the darkness tends to bring out the best players. Drunkards, lovers, thrill seekers. Nothing in the Deep is as fun as twisting the tedious lives of mankind.

Few humans tread this magicked place, especially at night. There are several places where the film separating the mortal world and the Deep grows thin, making it easier to cross from one to the other. The wildwood is one of those places, though Maekallus does not frequent it often. There are far more exotic places to see, far more willing people to devour.

He glances at the clotting cut along his palm. Mere gold, and only a couple of tokens at that. Why had he agreed? There isn’t anything alluring about the human who’d engaged him. Well, that isn’t entirely true. She was decent to look at, young, quick to think. Her soul would have been vivid. Perhaps its vigor would last longer than others’ had. Perhaps he’d get to savor the addiction of human emotion for more than a few hours.

But to devour her requires a kiss, and one willingly given. Not simple tokens. Yet he made the bargain just the same—its mark stings the length of his palm. Maekallus doesn’t consider himself noble, but a deal is a deal. He will hunt and slaughter this gobler quickly, then find better prey.

It has to be quick. The strain of the mortal realm already makes his skin itch.

The sky promises twilight, and so Maekallus slinks from the trees and ventures a little closer to the west edge of the wildwood. A gobler. He snorts. Fat, slow things, dull as river stones. Stupid creatures to be frightened of. Perhaps the gold tokens were a good deal after all.

The slash on his hand pulses with the power of the bargain, and through it he senses the location of the gobler the human woman had had in mind when she formed the pact. He will feel that pulse until he completes his promise. He treks, waiting for the ground to smooth. Comes around a boulder and hears the faint growl of a wolf drinking from a shallow brook. He pauses and glares at the beast. It sticks its tail between its legs and dashes away.

The predators of the mortal realm are so docile. No wonder humans lack the means to fight off the most pathetic of his kind. It’s nice to play the predator. He isn’t always in a position to do so. The Deep is home to creatures far more terrible than narvals and goblers.

A little farther along, the terrain levels. Bending forward, Maekallus takes off at a run, his obsidian-hard hooves pounding against the earth, wind stirring about his ears and shoulders. His tail whips back and curls up for balance, its deadly blade poised to strike.

His hand burns where the spell slices the skin. He makes a fist, relishing the sting. Too long without a soul, and even petty bargains are worth it for the vigor of the mark.

The blue, ashy light of twilight descends, blackening the trees. Good hunting, for Maekallus’s eyes are keen in the dark. Close now. He can smell the blubbery ka’pig. He slows, reorients himself, and stalks through the brush. Not far from the border. The gobler certainly seems to have intentions with the humans tonight. Odd; their tastes usually run more aquatic.

The trees spread apart, forming an oblong glade. The pudgy shadow of the gobler is not difficult to find.

“Far from home,” Maekallus chides as he steps into the glade. The gobler turns around, its large eyes bulging in the emerging starlight. Reaching to his forehead, Maekallus grips the base of his horn and pulls. A glimmer of light dances across his vision, and the horn comes loose from his forehead. His body quickly reorients its balance, and he hefts the horn as though it were a great sword. The separation is easier in the Deep than on the mortal plane. Here, the detachment hurts, and he will not be able to keep the magic going long. Fortunately, this will only take a moment.

The gobler sneers and draws a gleaming hook from beneath its folds of fat. “Do not meddle, narval,” it says in the tongue of the Deep, its words garbled and heavy. The sounds of a choking bonehound.

“But I’ve been paid to.” Maekallus lunges forward, jabbing his horn at the gobler’s massive gut. The gobler swerves and grabs the “blade” with his silly hook, diverting it. But Maekallus is faster. He yanks the horn free and stabs again. The point pierces flesh easily, puncturing fat like it’s no more than air. It slides deep into the gobler’s chest until it stabs through the heart and hits spine. The gobler coughs and shakes as its bluish blood waters the forest floor. Maekallus jerks the horn free.

The gobler falls sideways. The horn gleams, burning off the blood, sending the stench of it across the glade. Maekallus wrinkles his nose. With a squeeze of his fingers, the horn vanishes from his hand and returns to his forehead.

He winces and looks down at his palm, at the blood there. Not the gobler’s—his, oozing from the cut that had sealed his bargain with the mortal woman. He flexes and relaxes his fingers. The gobler is dead. Why does the mark linger?