Ashia
noticed Old Tasa’s gaze lingering in the distance and followed it to a group of
horses with a single rider clomping through the hills far from any particular
road. Both she and the old woman had been so engrossed in their Working they
hadn't noticed.
The
rider was about fifty yards away and obviously Nephilim, as he was wrapped in
heavy black robes and a thick cloth cowl with layers of black gauze covering
his face. They could keep out even a hint of the deadly sun. The robes glinted
with silver embroidery done in magical patterns and lettering. Two pistols were kept at his waist and they
gleamed as if their handles had been freshly polished, even though their wooden
bodies were well worn. Small metal rings were set into both pistols' barrels
and from these rings hung odd talismans, tiny prayer scrolls inscribed with
tiny mystical writing, and other curious charms.
Ornate
weapons hung within easy reach, including two rifles. One was a short Chevalier
Model 377 Rifle stamped with the familiar Judicci family seal. That seal meant
it had to come from the Judicci gunsmiths of Lhazandu, the distant capital of
Rataan province. Almost all of Father's soldiers at Two Wolves used Chevalier
377's. The stranger's looked too clean to have been used more than a few times.
The
other rifle was unfamiliar to Ashia. It approached two meters in length and was
both well worn and well cared for, with the battered beauty that only rifles
that had seen many battles could acquire. It was so old in design it was one
step away from an archaic musket from the time of the signing of the Code
Sanguine. Ashia recalled seeing something like it as a child in her grandfather
Simon's collection in the Boucher estates in Limou so far to the west. Her
grandfather's rifle had been polished, decorated with silver and gold, and had
obviously never been fired.
Besides the guns, attached to the saddles were
an assortment of blades, swords, knives and more esoteric weaponry. The
figure's horse was huge and powerfully built, like a horse from the northlands,
whose back was higher than a man. Its hooves gave off dark sparks and smoke as
it clomped forward, and its mane seemed in constant motion and ended in smoky
wisps. A lithe and slender black cat sat in the figure's lap against the saddle
curled up as if it had not a care in the world. The pretty thing had not one
but two tails that swished around behind it, and when they touched, dark energy
crackled between them. It was a strange figure indeed. Two horses, these more
mundane ponies, were tied off to the first horse.
A
foul burnt smell carried with the figure and horses, and at first Ashia assumed
it was the horse, as if it was some demon from the depths. She glanced at Old
Tasa questioningly but she motioned behind the horses. A rope trailed from the
final horse down to a figure, black as midnight and impossibly thin, being
dragged through the dust behind them. The black body smelled of burning flesh
and it... he... still moved and still weakly cried out.
A
disfigured burnt hand, so emaciated as to be almost skeletal, reached up and
weakly gripped the rope. Once the figures approached more closely, Ashia could
make out the word “Mercy...” whispered from the burnt man's blackened lips. He
spoke Gwanjo, a language of distant Anara to the south, long ago lost to the
Death Lords. Now the only living souls who spoke that language were refugees
pushed northward for generations. The robed figure paid no heed to the man’s
cries and clomped on towards the two of them. Perhaps he did not speak Gwanjo.
Few outside of the refugee camps did, besides Ashia herself.
“Whoever
he is,” Ashia said, and she was sure the robed figure was a he, “he knows how
to impress without speaking a word.”
Old
Tasa shushed Ashia into silence and rolled up her rug with practiced speed,
then tossed both to the side of the tree in the bushes and fanned the air to
dissipate the lingering smoke from her concoction. Tasa stood very firmly
between Ashia and the figure and set her walking stick solidly on the ground
before her. Ashia peeked out from behind the old woman and watched the
approaching figures closely. Old Tasa's firm stance almost frightened Ashia as
much as the figure. She was rarely so direct and forceful, preferring to blend
into the background and be dismissed as a quaint old woman of no importance. In
spite of her trepidation, Ashia was curious. There were so few travelers out
this far other than father’s soldiers and Rataan tradesmen, and never one as
intriguing as this.
The
figure stopped at the edge of their clearing near where Old Tasa stood. He
nudged the cat and it reluctantly yawned, stretched out lazily and then hopped
to the ground. It bore a thick collar made from an unfamiliar animal hide with a leash of interwoven black hide strips
connecting to something hidden under the voluminous layers of the robed
figure's arm. The cat, with its tail swishing behind it, sniffed the air near
them. Ashia could feel a pressure, a light brushing across her life-force which
sent nervous vibrations through the bright white strands of her life-paths.
Ashia could tell from Old Tasa's shudder she felt it too.
The
cat's body turned to inky blackness and stretched and pulled in all directions.
Though it took but a moment it shook Ashia seeing it transform in such a messy
fashion. When the inky mass was roughly the size of a small pony, it congealed
into a black jaguar, which let out a curious growl. Then the panther lost its
fur and shifted in turn into an unnaturally slender and pale skinned woman with long black hair that
hung nearly to her waist. She was nude
and retained vestigial feline traits like black furred feline ears, green
slitted eyes and two ebon cat tails as long as she was tall that swished
enthusiastically behind her. Even
without the extra parts, her slender physique and otherworldly features would
mark her as something other than human. Was this creature one of the fey? She'd
never heard of one so far east, those that remained lived in the distant
west.
“A
Dharaki witch and a half breed,” the
cat girl said in a pleasant and musical voice that betrayed a mocking tone,
“possibly her apprentice.”
Old
Tasa hissed and reached back to touch Ashia's arm. “Go back to house,” she said
in a voice like cold steel. Ashia looked back. Suddenly their distance from the
Day Watcher, Monsieur Grignon, was not a positive.
