Sleepless (Curse of the Blood Fox Trilogy, Book #1) (7 page)

I turned sharp with the trail, my
sandals sliding on the crunchy leaves. “This magic isn't something that anyone
should ever duplicate. The names of the swords are Valentina and Phernado.”

“No, the tragic lovers?”

“You've heard their story?” I asked.

“Heard it in almost every tavern I've
ever stopped in throughout my life.”

I cracked a grin, despite everything.
“Traken, you go to taverns?”

“Not for the drinks,” he said, nipping
at my hand as it came near him. “Can you imagine a drunk sorcerer? I'd never be
that much of a fool. Taverns are useful. There's so much juicy information
flying about.”

I didn't want to tell him I often did
the same thing myself.

“Which version have you heard, then?”
I asked.

“Them all. They seem to have most of
the same basics, though. Valentina and Phernado meet, and fall madly in love.
They both come from separate mercenary families, and these families take their
relationship as a sign of betrayal. When Valentina and Phernado find out the
plans their families have to murder them both, they go on a killing spree
themselves. What is left of either family unites to defeat them. Cornered, the
two take each other’s lives.”

“With their own swords they slew the
one each loved most,” I said softly, and Phernado thrummed violently through
the worn sheath on my back. I wanted to go faster, but I had to keep an eye out
for ambushes. No doubt they just expected Traken to pop in on them magically,
but I wasn't taking chances.

“Quite a bloody fairytale to name your
swords after,” Traken said.

“Now you are just trying to irritate
me. I already told you I didn't name them. Those are their names. There is more
to that tale, but it has been cut out of most accounts over the centuries. The
mercenary families employed magic-users to help capture the two. When they
found them impaled on the swords, one of the magic-users, a deathworker, decided
to trap their essences onto the blades. I suppose he thought he could make some
powerful weapons, but he underestimated the hate and pain that they died with
and ended up creating cursed blades. The swords killed him the moment he picked
them up.”

“Deathcraft, huh? I've heard of that
nasty stuff. No one uses it anymore, unless they want to end up dead
themselves. It's a nice story, but if it's true then how do you have them?”

“The swords can’t be destroyed, and
tend to possess those who pick them up with their hatred and violence. They
were passed between owners over the years, some who just safeguarded them and
others who tried to use them and were either accepted or died in the process.
The last owner before me was the elder of a small village in the country of
Bardo. He had lost his whole family to the swords at a young age, and had
hidden them since then. When I came to town, the elder made me a bet: I could
keep the swords if I could survive them.”

“You took it?” Traken asked with a
whoop that came out as a bark. “That's plain crazy. You obviously survived,
though. Not much to those rumors, I suppose?”

“Oh, these blades kill,” I said
darkly. “I was wild in those years, full of hate, and I felt their pain keenly.
When I heard their story I decided we were kindred spirits, these swords and I.
We both wanted the same things. I made a bargain with them to find the end to
our hatred together, and they accepted. They chose not to slit my throat then,
and they choose not to now.”

Traken started laughing uproariously.
“They accepted, as if they were creatures of thought and not magicked steel? Oh
my. What a supremely stunning person you are. You found two of the deadliest
swords in creation, and took them in as pets. Well done, Santo. So what has
gone wrong now then?”

“They can't stand to be apart,” I
explained, wincing as a small tree limb whipped under the brim of my hat and
caught me on the cheek. We were heading deeper and deeper into the forest, but
the trees were thinning instead of growing thicker. “Valentina's essence,
trapped on Phernado's sword, will go murderous. She will kill every person in
that place to get back to him, and he will do the same if I draw him now.”

“Not really a loss. I'd suggest it,
actually.”

“You will make me angry if you keep
speaking,” I said, slowing to a stop as the tracks themselves ebbed and
dispersed. We were on the shadowy edges of a large meadow. Phernado was begging
the edges of my willpower to draw him, the power inside that blade resonating
against my bones. He could feel the closeness to his other inside the large
wooden cabin in the center of the field. No doubt Valentina was starting to
react as well.

The outside of the cabin was
surrounded by normal-looking things. A cart with a few barrels inside, a butter
churner, a stable where they probably kept some horses. A few hens roamed the
front, pecking at the short grass and dirt. It all looked rather homely.

“Is this really their guild base?” I
asked. Traken appeared beside me, human again.

“Deceptive, isn't it? If anyone
stumbled upon it, they'd never know. The Falcons like manipulating through
appearance. Those uniforms we saw them in earlier are used to confuse. No
matter how small the attack party, they seem like so much more when you can't
make them out clearly.”

I nodded, relieved that it had not
just been me. “Do you think they're—”

“Shhh,” he interrupted. He pointed
towards the cabin. “There are watch dogs. They have people stationed in those
two barrels there, and a couple more under panels on the roof.”

I squinted, and moved my hat up. “How
do you see that? I can tell that someone is watching, but I have no idea
where
they are.”

“I can hear them,” Traken said,
pointing at his own head. “I've picked up a few pointers in mind-listening over
the years.”

Mind-listening. My whole body went
rigid. I hadn't suspected. It was a skill not many magically-inclined
possessed, but the few who did made it dangerous enough. It was usually a skill
drawn from
Orpheo
, the source of mind-mages, but once in a while skilled
sorcerers were able to use their own source,
Sola
, to successfully listen
.
I had been led to believe this was much harder for sorcerers, and possible
only because sorcery was the most versatile of all the magic arts. Traken must
have spent many long years building up such a talent, and I did not like to
think how many times he must have attempted to use it on me.

My eyes swarmed with the apprehensive
shades of yellow, and his sharp lips quirked into a smirk.

“Don't worry, I won't say I haven't
tried, but your mind seems to be stubbornly imperceptible. Do you have charms
to block mind-listening? I'd thought I'd mastered getting past all those.”

“None,” I said, quickly pulling my
gaze away. “I've had bad experiences with mind-mages in the past, so I trained
for almost thirty years under the Restful Monks in the arts of mind defense.”

“A constant barrier method.
Impressive.”

“There is nothing impressive about
it.” My skin was growing cold. “Getting into another person’s head is a
reprehensible thing, and anyone who practices it deserves death.”   

“That would generally put an end to
all mind-mages then, because getting into heads is what they do,” he said,
clicking his tongue. “Interesting. This we are going to have to talk about
sometime, but first we should discuss what you are going to do now that you are
here and successfully wasting our time.”

“Careful, Traken, you almost sound
irritated.”

He laughed very softly, falling back
against a tree and crossing his arms. “Never, princess. In fact, I'm quite
excited to see what happens next. Planning to storm the chicken coop?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” I
said. I dropped everything I was carrying, including my hat, and started
undoing the long rope of braided hair that ran down my back. When I had finally
shaken out the last braid-curled lock, I contemplated my robe. It would not do.
They had already taken notice of it on me.

I looked up at Traken and grinned at
the prospect rolling through my head.

“You look like a fox ready to bite,”
he said, kneeling down next to me and leaning forward. “Go on then and share
the scheme.”

“I need to trade robes with you.”

Traken's whole face twisted from sly
amusement to faltering surprise. Then a chuckle rippled through his shoulders.
“I cannot think of a single person who has ever had the audacity to ask me for
my robe.” All the same, he undid his sash and slid the top off. Underneath the silky
dark cloth, the amulets and beads that circled his neck and wrists stood out in
vivid contrast to his pale skin. He was covered in strange scars that couldn't
have possibly been made by steel or fire. They spidered up his stomach and
around his back, some light and others so deep that they looked like they could
still bleed again. They held the shape of flowers, centers spiraling outwards
into tentacle-like petals.

I took my robe off as well, all the
more conscious of my own scars. He had already seen them before, all the times
he had popped in on me bathing or half-robed, but something inane clawed at my
desires. Before Traken's laughing eyes, I would have rather appeared as if a
blade had never been able to touch me. Something about him made me want to
prove I was good. Not just good, in fact, but that I was better than him.

As it turned out, he was more
interested in examining my dagger belts, which were fairly new purchases made
with soft, ornate leather. He let out a low, drawn-out whistle, which I ended
by sliding my robe over and taking his. The cloth was soft and felt like mist
leaking out between my fingers. When I put it on, I understood why Traken wore
it. Despite how bulky it was on my frame, nothing impeded my arms. It felt as
if shackles I had not known were there had been removed. I tied the sash tight
to leave as little bagginess as possible.

Traken was having his own fun with my
robe. The crimson streaks stood out brilliantly on his pale skin as he slid it
on, and he lifted the long, wide sleeves to his face and sniffed them. He
wasn't quite smiling, but there was real enjoyment in his eyes.

“What?” I asked.

“I just haven't worn one of these in a
long time. Plus, it’s full of all kinds of delicious scents.”

I felt a little vandalized. “I change
my mind, give it back.”

“Too late, too late,” he sang, dodging
backwards as I tried to grab him. “You're running out of time. I’ll bet that
sword of yours is growing restless. What exactly are you planning to do?”

“Those bandits earlier didn't see me
very well,” I explained, once again made aware of the plaintive throbbing
coming from the sheathed sword near my knee, “and I don’t think sneaking in
will work since they’re waiting for you to do that. I just need a moment of
confusion before they get a good look at me.”

“So it is a full-out frontal attack.”

“More like open infiltration.”

“They could still decide to kill you
on sight.”

“They could decide, but that won’t
easily happen. I suppose I will have to trust you with watching Phernado,
though.” I looked at him hard. “Don't touch that sword, Traken.”

He sighed and sat back on his
haunches. “Haven't I already said I'm not interested in swords?”

“Phernado will make you interested.” I
realized my hand was hovering near the sheath and drew it away quickly. “I'll
be back soon.”

“If you’re planning to look innocent
for even a second, you’re going to have to get rid of this,” he said, fingers
swiping inches from my nose. His spell tickled my skin, and there was a
refreshing sensation that started at my cheeks and worked its way down to my
feet. I looked down. Every splash of blood had disappeared from my skin and
clothing, as if it had all been a figment of my imagination.

“Green, like emeralds,” Traken said,
motioning towards my eyes. “I wonder what that means.”

Pale yellow immediately started to
invade the playful color. I stood quickly and backed away a couple paces,
performing a mock salute to hide my anxiety at his interest. “Send me off with
a little noise?”

Traken's grin warped into the toothy
muzzle of the black dog, and his barks split the air with thunderous
punctuation.

There was no holding back; hesitating
would only mean death. I screamed, the sort of scream that tore vocal chords,
and raced into the clearing. Chaos broke out around me as the chickens picked
up my panic and went into a frenzy, clucking and scrambling around in a fit of
feathers. The hideaways on the roof and in the barrels moved just enough to
give away their locations, but no one attacked as I flew to the front door and
banged on it like death was at my heels.

“Please! Please, someone help me. If
anyone is there, let me in.”

At first my attack on the door didn't
cause a reaction. Finally, though, as my high cries started to crack with the
possible beginnings of weeping, the door flew open and sent me stumbling back.
A short, tough-looking man stood in the doorway with sun-burnt skin and a long
beard. His broad shoulders and thick head left him with little neck to speak
of, though he craned his head up at me the best he could. He was holding a
looped and braided magi-ward out in front of him like a shield.

“Who are yeh and whaddaya want?” he growled
out, waving the thing at me. I fell to my knees.

“Please,” I whimpered, “please. You
have to let me in. These dogs, no... I think, I think they were wolves. They
were chasing me.” I crawled at him, tears streaming down my face. “They were
right behind me. Please, let me in!”

“Enough,” the gruff little man said,
making as if to kick me. He stopped when I met his gaze. Small eyes widened and
he leaned forward. “What are yeh, lass, bewitched? The strangest eyes I've ever
seen. No one’s got purple like that.”

My first instinct was to cover my
face, but I quelled the urge and took his moment of silence as my chance,
pushing towards him again. He fell back, eyes caught as if in a momentary
dream, and I found myself standing in the shaded entranceway, out of the line
of sight of those hidden outside. This would have to be quick.

“Sir,” I whispered, leaning closer.
The short man let out a shaky breath, and stared so hard into my face that he
forgot to watch my hands. “I apologize for my reprehensible actions.”

“What?” he said, and that was the last
he got out before I turned the hilt of one of my daggers on him and slammed it
into the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

There was so little time. I closed the
front door carefully and made my way down a dark hall. There was a point at
which I had to decide to either continue going straight or turn left, but I
heard raucous noise from the double doors to the front so I turned and inched
down the rest of the dark hall. No one was in sight. At the end of it sat a
small, promising little door. I pressed my ear against it carefully to listen,
and heard muffled words. So this would be a full out confrontation either way.

Well, I had surely had enough of those
in my lifetime. I hid my face under the blanket of my own unruly hair and
opened the door. I walked straight on through.

Suddenly I was in the center of a
large semi-circle of the same dark-clothed figures that had sprung upon us in
the woods. This time all the masks were off, though, and I was staring into the
stoic faces of some very humorless and tough-looking individuals. Further back,
and whom many of them flocked around, was the man I instantly recognized as the
leader. He was leaning back in a chair, his shirt cut off and peeled down at
the sides. A few people were mending his wounds, working a clean bandage around
his middle while still more held water and brandy nearby.

They all looked up as I entered, and
many emotions flickered through their deadened eyes. No one reacted, even to
grab a weapon. Many of them were in the middle of being bandaged themselves,
and it occurred to me at that moment that this was an odd force that was
supposedly lying in wait for a powerful sorcerer to appear. They did not look
prepared at all.

I stayed quiet a moment myself, taking
time to feel the air with my senses. Valentina’s hungry, sharp rage was here,
and it amplified in my presence. I couldn't tell yet if anyone else felt it too.

“Who are you?” the leader asked from
his seat, voice a drawl. He was thicker than I had first thought, and his
slitted eyes were a bright, fantastic green.

“Just someone searching for something
that was lost,” I said. Immediately tension spread through the room. Magi-wards
appeared, powerful knotted ropes of purple, blue, and yellow, the same caliber
as the man’s had been at the entrance. I hadn't seen such good ones in a long
time. The knots remained lifeless and cold as they waved them towards me.

“She’s clean, Yeloff,” a tall woman
standing next to the leader said. He nodded, chin in his hand.

“So you aren’t one of Traken’s tricks.
You… you must be his companion from earlier. The mercenary. How brave. What
have you done to Geram, our man guarding the door?”

“He has merely been subdued. I do not
wish to fight,” I said as a couple in the circle finally drew weapons. “What
you have taken is mine, and I only want it back. You have put yourselves in
incredible danger by taking it.”

“We have put ourselves in danger
either way,” Yeloff said, sitting back with a cringe. His tone and body
language were weary. “Everything is so that we can get him. Tell him… tell him
that.”

“He will not come,” I said. “What you
have taken isn’t his. He has no interest.”

“I assumed his curiosity would be
enough,” he said rather dismally. “This is all or nothing. I cannot give you
what you want until I get what I want.”

Valentina’s cry was pulsing like
actual sound against my ears now, and I could see the muscles in the young
leader’s face begin to constrict. He seemed a mostly level-headed sort of
person, but I wondered how long that would last under my sword’s raging
pressure. I stepped forward, and muscles tightened all around me.

“There is no need for this,” I tried,
grasping through my memories for the words in the pages of my book. There had
to be some way to hinder the inevitable. “Please reconsider what you’ve said. I
will not stop you for your attempt at revenge, for I would not stop myself.
However, that sword… it will bring you nothing good. I am asking….” I bowed my
head, remembering the main lesson of my book.
Modesty.
“No, I am begging
you. Please return it to me.”

“No.”

The tall woman near him stirred, along
with some of his other followers. Their eyes were softening.

“We could allow this, couldn’t we?”
she asked. “The sword is unimportant, and it is obvious it was not Traken’s. He
would never have tried talking to us.”

“She does not seem like a bad sort,” a
man of Yeloff’s same stature said to my left. Yeloff moved forward in his seat,
lips set in a grim line.

“This is not a game that we are
playing,” he said. “Lives have been lost, and still more may be. Traken is an
unpredictable, cold-blooded enemy. We cannot pretend to know his tactics.” He
stared at me longer, voice growing low. “Pretty things are often beasts in disguise.
You can never trust the surface.”

Oh, how true. The words resonated in
my soul.

“Then do we… kill her?” the tall woman
asked uncertainly. A young lad next to her pulled nervously at the bandages on
his arm.

“It doesn’t seem right, does it? We
ain't killers. Not
those
kind of killers.”

“But we are at war, and war requires
sacrifices,” Yeloff said. I thought there was a general grumble of surprise at
this comment, but I couldn't make out the expressions on their faces. Just as I
was wondering when Valentina’s pull would become too much, Yeloff reached
behind his chair and pulled her from a pile of clothes. The moment she was in
his hand, I saw the expression on his face contort and change. Her blade
glittered with the intense fury of helpless damnation.

No
, I thought to her, as if she could hear.
I'm coming
for you. Don't do it.

“You say this sword is yours. Do you
know what this blade is?” Yeloff asked. I thought it a rather odd question, but
nodded.

“I do.”

“The color and design… no one makes
such a blade anymore. I have heard stories, which were passed on by my father
and his. These stories are of two blades, one red as blood and one brilliant as
the sun. The tragic lovers of yore.”

Murmurs fell through the ranks of
watchful eyes.

“My family has passed along a story of
these swords, and we have even tried to design similar ones in the past. They
are supposed to be powerful blades of destruction and nightmares. They were
last seen in the hands of one legend only, as my father’s history lessons went.
The Blood Fox.”

Now the murmurs stopped, and a cold
chill swept the room. I kept my eyes steady, face still shadowed by long locks.

“If rumor is to be believed, and it
often is, the Blood Fox is still alive to this day, trapped in a young body,
roaming through the dark parts of the world. To say that this is your sword…
you would either have to be the Blood Fox, or have defeated them.” His nose
wrinkled. “The little, meek thing that you are, I can’t imagine you of either.
Where is this sword’s partner?”

“Safe,” I said. “But you are not. You
must put her down. Now.”

“Her?” Yeloff’s voice had risen, and
his tone was full of ridicule. “You speak of a weapon as if it were a living
being? You are becoming a ridiculous waste of time.”

“You are not listening to me. Even as
we talk, she has hold. Try to move your arms, and you will find they are no
longer yours.” 

“What lies slip through your teeth,”
Yeloff said, standing suddenly. A crazed gleam was entering those brilliant
eyes, a look caught in a flood of rage. Despite his words, his hands did not
move, gripping the hilt of the sword as if to make it one with himself.
Valentina’s war-like wrath was a storm that could easily overthrow the weak and
desperate. How many nights had I woken from my curse-fraught dreams on the side
of a long road, only to find a thief’s body mere feet away, throat ripped apart
and cold hands still gripping my swords. Those unstable blades had saved me
many a time in my wilder years, but at a costly price.

Even though we had a bargain, I was
not positive our bond would save me even now. She was pure emotion, ecstatic
and vengeful; what was one person to her transcendent fury?

“She sings for your blood,” I warned
Yeloff, falling into a partial crouch and sliding one more dagger out of my
sleeve. “If you lift her to swing, you will kill me... and your people, and
yourself. You can't give her what she wants.”

“A sword is a weapon,” Yeloff scoffed,
stepping closer as his own people bristled and moved, unsure whether to stay
still or attack. “It is not about what it wants, but what
I
want. And I
want justice. We were a great, proud line. What right did that lord have, after
we had done so much for him, to kill my father? He and his mutt Traken are
going to answer for it.”

“Your pain is understandable; it is
justified,” I said, voice low. “However, your actions at this moment are not.
You said your father told you of these swords. Did he not tell you the danger
of them?”

“I will not be disconcerted by your
words,” Yeloff said, eyes blazing. “If you are here, that means Traken must be
nearby. All we need do is draw him in and we have won.” The sword flashed in
his hand, but still did not move. His arms trembled.

“That is a tad presumptuous,” I said.
“Traken has lost nothing, and will not come. Do you honestly think that killing
me will change his mind? You do know him, right?”

“We will only know after trying,”
Yeloff growled; and then he lunged.

I moved purely on instinct, ducking
his first swipe. Valentina’s wail was a howl in my blood, and it staggered me.
Shouts erupted, and the others moved as if to attack as well. I reeled
backwards, holding up my hands with the dagger points down to show peace.

“Stop,” I begged them. “Don’t move,
don’t come closer. He doesn’t have control of the blade.”

Some did seem to falter, but others
ignored my pleading. Those few uninjured enough to do so attacked, and I had to
roll into a corner to avoid their weapons as well as Yeloff’s mad swings.

“Valentina,” I called. “Be calm. I
have Phernado, and I'll bring you to him. Believe me.”

“You are not in your head, pleading
with a sword while you fight a living being,” Yeloff shouted, pulling his sword
arm back as he ran towards me. The sword flung out behind him and buried itself
into the soft flesh of one of his comrades. Cries and shouts went up as the
young man collapsed to the ground, dead almost as soon as he hit the floor. For
such a wild swing, the blade had managed to slice exactly at his neck.

“Terrance,” someone screamed. “Boss,
Terrance is down.” The room cleared as many raced to the young man’s side.

Yeloff did not notice. Rather, he
could not stop. He came after me again, and when I dodged he followed through; Valentina
sunk into the middle of the tall woman who had spoken earlier. Her hard eyes
shot wide-open in horror as she fell to her knees, the red blade mixing with
her blood.