Chương 6

Do not let the wolf suspect you are a sheep.

"Of course it breaks now," Harker muttered. He huddled beneath his oilcloak, taking what meager shelter he could from the rain. The wide trunks of the forest around him blunted the stormwinds' sideways fury, and the skeletal canopy was thick enough that the torrential downpour was at least somewhat stymied—neither would last for long. Harker hustled faster, ignoring as best he could the burning hitch in his side. His thoughts were heavy and slow, bogged down by the pain of countless injuries.

Training or not, he'd taken a beating in the last few hours. Broken ribs. Lacerated scalp. Strained tendons in both forearms. Numerous contusions across abdomen, thighs, and shoulders. Harker flexed his jaw. One loose tooth. Recommended treatment: get out of the Vale, now. It was the only goal that mattered right then. After Jeren and the twins, Harker had encountered no one else in the streets as the storm broke. Even the guards had retreated to their heated cabins.

Vale folks were stubborn as a bullhound, but they weren't stupid enough to stand in the freezing rains—a fact that Harker depended on as he'd slipped through the north gate with no one the wiser. Now, all Harker had to do was cross the Drop and he'd be safe. He'd already reached the woods north of the Gallant, and was rapidly approaching the chasm. It was easy to tell; the stranglevines were crowding nearby tree trunks, studded by the occasional colony of pale mushrooms.

Vale folk said the looping vines were Mosskin, Denizens that ached to snatch up any child that strayed near the Drop past sundown. Some even believed it. Harker knew better. There were plenty of dangerous plants in the wilds and the vines were the least of them. Sea-touched carnivorous snappers, violet pallbearers, even the thorn trees were deadly threats to most. Not for Harker. At least, not normally. The ground shifted as he walked, a slow decline that forced him to dig in his heels to stay upright.

Roots crisscrossed the game trail he followed, and the remnants of snow pooled around his ankles in freezing downhill rivers. Harker was in a rush, but here he took his time. The real danger wasn't the flora or even the fauna that sometimes stalked the northwoods. It was the fall. Slowly, he threaded his way past fungus-infested stumps and Winter-dry vines. Both proved ineffective handholds—the former for being rife with rash-inducing spores, and the latter for how brittle they'd become over the long cold season.

Harker started, peering into the dark.

"The river…?" No. He'd thought for a second he'd gotten turned around, but the rushing ahead of him was the sound of rain and thawed snow flying over the edge of the Drop. The chasm split the Vale, traveling lengthwise across the island. It didn't even intersect with the Gallant River. Folks had all sorts of stories for why it was there but Harker knew it was once a river of its own.

Ages of erosion coupled with centuries of shifting earth cut the Drop down to bedrock, forging an near-impassable barrier to the northern edge of the island. All of which made it the perfect spot to disappear for a while. Harker's small shelter was hidden in the rocky foothills north of the Drop, tucked away between ash and elm tall enough to see clear to the Gnarl. It was a home away from home, though it was far from comfortable. Harker patted his satchel. He had everything he needed to make do.

The land curved ahead and he matched its shape, arcing his path northeastward and through the clutches of thorn trees. He squeezed between them with careful steps. They weren't as dangerous as violet pallbearers, but they weren't to be underestimated either. Their thorns were six inches long and sharp enough to piece refined skin. Worse, hit them too hard and they'd explode, launching their thorns in all directions. Harker had seen it happen once to a wild boar. The result hadn't been pretty.

His aim was a narrow ledge on the far side of Hayden's Promontory, one with specially carved handholds that spanned the entirety of the Drop. It was hidden in stranglevines he'd placed there for that exact purpose. The only other way across would have been to climb down the chasm and up the other side. Even addled by pain as he was, Harker wasn't stupid enough to try that. She probably wouldn't have any trouble. An image of that woman in Garon's swam through his head. Her fine cloak and boots.

Skin that hadn't seen a single day under the harsh sun. Her bearing as she swung that ax as if it weighed nothing. He'd never felt a Talent so strong, and she hadn't even manifested it. If she's anything less than First Depth, I'll eat my cloak. The real question was why was she there at all. The Vale was no place for true Talent, and any that were lucky enough to be born there soon ran off to join the Nine Spires. Why hadn't she? If she couldn't become an Aspirant, what hope would any of them have?

Dry vines snapped ahead. Harker froze, poised on a lip of stone. Another rustling crack followed, as crisp as if it were right next to him despite the downpour. He gripped his chipped dagger beneath his cloak. He listened. Silence. In the dark, nothing moved except the rain. It pooled along the ground, lingering in a deep hole gouged in the mud. Not a hole. A print. He knelt down, ears opened to every direction he could manage. The paw print was massive, easily twice the size of his spread hand.

Too new to be from the hunters. The rain would've washed it away. But it's definitely a hound, one at least as big if not bigger than the hunter's mounts. The angle is downhill. Harker frowned. Headed to the Drop—? A scent of sickly sweetness and salt stalled his thoughts. Harker looked up… straight into the red eyes of a monster. Harker jerked to his feet, but it still loomed over him, glaring with unblinking eyes through the sheets of rain. A deep growl rolled out from between its heavy tusks. A wolf…

with boar's tusks? He'd never seen the like.

"Another interruption." A figure slipped from between the trees, the night clinging to him like gossamer webbing. Harker blinked, unsure of what he saw, until it was only a tattered cloak draped across an angular man. He stood, silhouetted by pale fungus, stringy gray hair hanging loose about his gaunt face. This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. He stared Harker down with eyes that looked too big for his face, and all but glowed yellow besides.

That alone wasn't so out of the ordinary. Some Talented bore strange physical quirks, after all. These, however, twitched rapidly as if unable to remain still… or as if he were taking in everything.

"Child. Who are you?" Harker didn't answer. Even if he didn't know the entire Vale, everyone knew of the Knack in the woods. Another stranger had come to town. The mendicant? Water thieves didn't come around the Vale—they were for big cities where folks had too much coin to spare. Surely he had to be the mendicant Goody Molluc had complained about—but why come to the northwoods? Not to mention the beast that still loomed, scant feet away. What thief would possess such an expensive creature?

Harker didn't shift his gaze. In his peripherals though, he checked the thorn tree groves to either side. They were narrow, nearly touching in some places. His options were thin and his time was short. The beast hadn't moved, but the mendicant's face soured. Harker slipped his free hand into his satchel.

"I asked you a question, boy," the man all but growled.

"Who are you?" Harker licked his lips. A series of rapid decisions fluttered through him, fast as a blink. He only had one option.

"Jeren." The man sniffed deeply, his chest making an unruly, burbling noise. The hound watched, unblinking.

"Liar." Harker lifted his knife.

"A fierce pup. All alone?" Owlish eyes blinked twice, and they seemed to be looking through Harker.

"Yes. Yet you barely ripple the Surface. A pity. You might have been useful to Muir otherwise." Lightning flashed, and Harker nearly dropped his blade. The thing he'd mistaken for a wolf…wasn't. It had the head of one, but it had the hind legs of a boar and its bulky body was covered in rigid hair like quills. Harker gasped.

"Seaspawn." The old man chuckled, bearing teeth that looked like they belonged in a beast's mouth.

"Not quite, boy." The man's arm bulged, rippling as Water fluxed from within and spattered against the rain. Multiple colors flared up, mingling like a foul stain as eyes lit up the dark ahead. Six pairs, all of them belonging to hulking monstrosities. Harker's skin prickled worse than even with that lady in the general store. Worse than anyone he'd ever met. Words he'd half forgotten rose to mind, words that his mother had drilled into him for years, warning him of a threat that he'd never taken seriously.

Ware the butchers, son. The bloodbreakers. Folk that sought power at any cost, even going so far as to mutilate their own souls.

"Stitcher."

"Kill him." The beast leapt forward with a snarl, and Harker hurled down a glass jar. It shattered, exposing the firemoss to the air. The palm-sized bundle ignited immediately, an inferno that roared louder than thunder. The Illwrought—for what else could they be? —fell back, sensitive eyes squeezed shut. Harker ran for his life.

"Run him down!" Despite his headstart, the Illwrought took only two strides to catch up. Harker barely had the time to slip between the thorn trees, their teeth snapping on empty air. He stumbled through, boots clashing against tangled roots, before he sped onward. The Illwrought ran to the east, loping past the thorn trees. Harker cursed. They were too clever by half. Harker scrambled down the tangled roots, darting between thorned behemoths as the beasts circled wide.

He could see them, red eyes shining through the rain. They crashed through lesser trees, catching themselves on vines and fungal shelves. Neither posed a serious hindrance, and a few smaller trees shattered entirely. Hallowed Depths! Harker pushed himself faster, jumping down the hillside with every step, each leap threatening to shatter an ankle. He could barely see where he was going, only spotting enough to catch his hands on exposed roots and withered vines for a half second before careening onward.

What's a Stitcher doing here?! A dozen reasons tumbled through his thoughts, each one less likely than the last. This was the Vale. Their island was too far from anything to be important. Which meant the Stitcher had come there on purpose. He's searching for something. Harker allowed himself to care only a little longer—the moment he landed on the next root cluster, he banished his curiosity. There was nothing worthwhile in tangling with a Stitcher.

They were the monsters of a thousand old tales, and he had no intention of becoming part of a new one. He had to get away. Snapping branches were his only warning as an Illwrought crashed from the right. Harker fell, foot twisting between roots, narrowing avoiding the twisted beast's claws. It slammed into a fungal-covered bole, scattering its bark and pale flesh. Harker scrambled forward, ankle aching even as he kicked awkwardly off another angled trunk.

He rolled forward, losing his oilcloak to the hooves of another Illwrought. Teeth snapped at his back and hot fetid breath scorched his neck. He didn't stop. Didn't look back. If he did, he was dead. Harker cut across the wood, toward the looming edge. Trees drew closer, near enough to touch trunks. Moss and vine tore beneath the treads of his boots, and mud caked his nails. The beasts were behind him, but with every hard won inch his familiarity returned. Harker knew this stretch of land.

He jumped a set of rocks, twisting through more thorns. His sweater caught, the knit unraveling as his pants and leg were sliced open. It was not enough to stop him. Nor the Illwrought. They bellowed, a coughing howl that was loud and flat, like the call of the dead as he headed toward the barren edge of the Drop. Law 4B — Seize The Field. Harker rolled, breath hitched tight as lightning danced down his ankle—but the Illwrought that lunged for him went scrabbling over the edge.

It caught itself, those strange, almost hand-like claws clutching for purchase, but Harker couldn't pay more attention. He shoved himself to his feet, hand clutched around a stone and ribs screaming in pain as the other two Illwrought slid sideways through the thorn trees. Hard as he could, he threw the rock. It hit the nearest tree. Thorns exploded outward, catching the rearmost beast across hip and haunch, tearing its vile flesh to bloodless pieces. It fell, howling.

Harker kept running, practically falling over his own feet as the last creature snapped at his heels. There! The chasm's edge terminated at a jutting promontory where the forest and cliff all but touched. Stranglevines hung from the branches, looped treacherously like nooses. Harker hefted his chipped knife. He couldn't outrun them all. There was only one way forward. Harker hurtled toward the promontory's apex, throwing his knife into the bottom of the nearest vine before seizing it in both hands.

He leapt into the Drop. Severed, the stranglevine tore loose at the bottom, sending Harker outward in a wide arc. He spun, eyes hunting for evidence that his plan hard worked… yet there was no falling monstrosity at the cliff. There was only the last Illwrought… and it was backing up. No. The Illwrought charged forward, leaping out into the empty air with its deformed paws stretched wide.

It crashed into Harker, and he could do nothing but scream as its claws dug deep into shoulder, bicep, and thigh in equal measure. The beast clung to him, scrabbling for bloody purchase. The vine snapped. They fell. Stitcher Muir stood over the edge. The night was dark, and the storm had no signs of abating. Even with his eyes, he couldn't see more than a dozen feet below. The boy was gone.

"Three of you, lost. Over a Knack." Muir's lip curled, baring yellowed fangs. His Illwrought cowered.

"Get up, before Muir unstitches you himself. There's real work to be done."