The Chosen

Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was going to die. And likely in the flames that were already singeing his shoulder, hand, and hip through his clothes.

One of the fighters, who had a heavy beard and smelled like a dead goat, leaned over him and smiled, revealing tremendous fangs. “You thought you could take from us. From us?”

He grabbed the front of Xcor’s cloak and jerked his torso up off the ground. “From us!”

The warrior slapped him with an open palm so hard that it was like getting broadsided with a plank of wood. “Do you know what we do with thieves?”

The others had gathered around in a semi-circle, and Xcor thought of the wolves in the forest, back when he had lived with his nursemaid. A pack of deadly predators, these males were. A terrible force by which to be caught and toyed with. A quick route unto the Fade.

“Do you?” The warrior shook him like a rag doll and then dropped him hard. “Allow me to tell you. We cut your hands from you first, and then we …”

Xcor didn’t dare look away from the face looming above him. But in his peripheral vision, he saw a log that was half in and half out of the flames.

Inching his hand over, he took hold of it and waited for just the moment when the male glanced over at his compatriots with evil mirth.

Quick as lightning, Xcor swung the log hard and caught the warrior in the head, knocking him senseless to the side.

There was a moment of shock from all and sundry, and Xcor knew he had to act with alacrity. Keeping hold of his weapon, he snagged one of the daggers that had been strapped to his victim’s chest and then he was up on his feet.

Now he attacked.

There was no bloodcurdling cry from his mouth. No grunting. No growling. No true memory of what exactly he did. All he knew, all he was aware of, was something unleashing within him. Whate’er it was, he had had hints of it before, some kind of energy source that was other than anger, other than fear, powering his body and mind. And as it reared within him, all at once, his limbs took o’er his mind, functioning independently, knowing better than his consciousness where to aim, what to do, how to move. His senses likewise parted from his brain, elevating themselves to a higher level of acuity, whether it was hearing to detect someone about to jump him from behind, sight to notice another coming from the left, scent to inform him of a further attack from the right.

In the midst of all this, his mind was utterly removed. And yet free to extrapolate and thus begin to refine his performance.

He was still going to lose, however. There were too many who were too expert: Even as he put them down on the ground, they never stayed for long, and it was an easy equation that his stamina would be bested by their number.

The solution to the disparity came as unexpectedly as that log.

At first, he knew not what flashed and thus caught his eye. But then he saw that there was some kind of a huge blade on the far side of the fire … a weapon larger than he had e’er seen, leaning against a massive stone.

Just as one of the males went to jump upon him, Xcor took a running start and sent his body flying directly over the flames, the somersaulting tuck sparing him the heat, his landing as coordinated as the take-off had been.

Propelling himself toward that massive curved blade, he grabbed for the handle attached to it, and—

It was a scythe. A common field-tilling device, its blade affixed to a wooden superstructure by leather bindings tied tight as bone around marrow. There was little time for an orientation to its attributes. But it turned out he needed none.

Tucking the thing into place and grasping the steering peg, he …

Went after each and every one of them.

At first, they laughed and taunted him. But after he cut the first one nearly in half, the tactics changed. Guns were taken out, bullets discharged with great noise and little accuracy, the lead balls flying by him. And then there was a coordination struck among the warriors that brought them into a formation of attack.

It didn’t matter. One by one, he killed them, ridding them of arms, or legs, of gut, of groin, blood flying in the dark night, coating him as clothes did.

Until there was a final warrior—which indeed turned out to be the bearded one he had hit in the head with the log. And as soon as the male determined his brethren were deceased or close to dying, he took off through the woods, running as fast as he could go.

Xcor’s moccasins made no noise as he tracked the bleeding fighter at quite a pace, he and the injured male crashing through the brush and trees, crisscrossing back and forth as the warrior attempted to get to the horses. Xcor was likewise wounded and leaking, but for some reason, he couldn’t feel his deficits. He was both numb and energized.

And then it was over.

The male came up to a rock face that he could not climb, nor could he get around because of a steep cliff.

Xcor knew he had to finish the job.

And it pained him.

“You take what you want,” the panting fighter said as he spit to the side. “Just take what you want. I have armaments. Those horses back there are worth much. Leave me and I shall leave you.”

Xcor wished that could be the way things ended for the pair of them. He was aware, however, that if he let the fighter live, he would be a marked male. This was a witness who had to be eradicated, lest this fighter find reinforcements and come after the one who had slain his comrades.

“Just take—”

“Forgive me for what I must do.”

With that, Xcor sank back on his heels, leapt forth and swung the weapon in a circle, slicing through the arm that the male raised in defense and catching the neck cleanly.

For the rest of his nights, Xcor would remember the sight of the head turning stump over crown through thin air, the spooling blood from the open veins at the throat red like wine.

As the wind kicked up, the body went down like the inanimate object it now was, and abruptly, the scythe became too heavy for Xcor to hold. The farm implement that he had turned into a weapon landed at his feet, its blade dripping.

Xcor tried to get breath into his burning lungs, and as he looked up to the heavens above, his courage and purpose failed him and hot tears escaped the corners of his eyes.

Oh, how the scent of the blood he had spilled mixed with the earthy smell of grass and moss and lichen—

He didn’t know what hit him. One moment, he was contemplating the sorrow of what he had wrought. The next, he was flat on his back …

… pinned in place by the most terrifying vampire he had ever seen.

Huge, so huge were the shoulders, that Xcor could not see the sky any longer. And the face was unspeakably evil, the features twisted into a sly smile that promised suffering first, then death. And the eyes … soulless, filled with a cold intelligence and a heated hatred.

This was the leader wolf of the pack, Xcor thought. Just like the one who had come to his open cottage door all those many nights ago.

“Well, well, well,” came a voice that was deep as thunder, sharp as a thousand daggers. “And to think they call me the Bloodletter …”

With a gasp, Xcor jerked upright on his hips. For a split second, he knew not where he was and looked about in a panic.

Gone were the cave walls, the shelves of jars, the gurney, and his guard of Brothers. In their place … an enormous TV screen that was currently black as a hole in the galaxy.

Shaking his head, it all came back to him … Vishous’s abrupt change of mind, Layla returning unto them in the forest, the Chosen’s glorious gift of her vein. Then that horrible ride out of the pines to the slippery road that had taken them into this suburban neighborhood to this suburban house.

Layla was upstairs. He could hear her footsteps o’erhead. And he had the impression of Vishous being gone.

Shifting his legs from the leather cushions, he regarded the dirt trail he’d left down the stairs and across the pale gray rug to where he had all but collapsed. There were pine needles and mud on the sofa as well … and also all over Layla’s white robing that hung over there on the back of a chair.

The cloth that had adorned her was ruined, stained with blood and debris.

Bit of a theme of his in her life, wasn’t it.

Gritting his teeth, he stood up and peered down a shallow hall. There were two open doors, and as he lurched over to them, he assessed the pair of bedroom suites. He chose the one that did not carry Layla’s scent, and used the light that streamed in from the corridor’s fixture to progress past a king-size bed and into a bathroom that—