The Onyx Vial (Shadows of The Nine Book 1) (31 page)

The Sentree set his jaw. “Something is happening below,” he explained grimly. “Intruders.”

Hunter glanced at Perry, his eyes wide.

“Are the others in danger?” Perry asked.

The Sentree shook his head. “There's no way to know from here.”

“Take us down,” Hunter said.

“It will,” the Sentree replied. “In just...about...now.”

They were in freefall.

Hunter hugged the vine with both arms, gritting his teeth to keep from yelling. Though with his stomach in his throat he probably couldn't have made a sound.

In half the time it took to go up, they were down. Finn, Dilyn, and Tehya stood alone where they had left them, identical looks of confusion on their faces.

“What's going on?” Tehya asked. “The other Sentree just took off.”

Before he could respond, the whinny of a horse rang through the trees and, like thunder after lightning, hoof beats.

“Drop,” the Sentree said.

They did so, lying flat, hiding as best they could on the wide root. A moment later, a black horse streaked down the path from the fields. The sun had set, and the horse was hardly visible in the dusky twilight. But it was clear that the horse had no rider, no saddle.

“Mustang,” Finn said.

"That would not have been cause for sounding the alarm," the Sentree said.

Part of Hunter filled with a strange and giddy hope—that the Mustang had sought him out the way Rillet had sought Master Philpps in
Masters of the Unusual
. But the other part of him suffocated under a dark foreboding. The horse drew closer. He could make out its eyes—wide and wild with fear.

This Mustang wasn’t running
to
him, it was running
away
from—

“Huntsmen,” Tehya hissed.

They emerged from the front line of trees like an infestation of roaches. Six of them. Riding upon the Mustang with incredible speed.

Why?

A bright gold flame appeared in one of the Hunstmen’s hands.

Helpless horror rose in Hunter’s chest.

The Huntsman hurled the flame at the Mustang, drawing close to where he and the others hid. The burning ball streaked through the air, casting a golden glow on the primeval jade surroundings. With a rushing roar, it clipped the frightened beast’s side, and careened into the trunk of the tree where they hid.

The flame caught and spread on the giant, ancient tree. The Mustang screamed and crashed to the ground.

The Sentree stood. He would help the Mustang. Surely, he would help. He leapt from the root and disappeared in the brush.

Where was he going? Hunter peered through the growing darkness. Were there more Sentrees hidden in the branches, waiting to strike?

The Huntsmen converged on the Mustang as it struggled to its feet. Ropes flew around the horse’s neck and legs, tethering it in place. As the Huntsmen slipped from their saddles, white cloaks rippling, fire ignited in the palm of each one's hand, a glinting weapon unsheathed with the other.

The men were looming masses of muscle and malice, their hunger for blood almost palpable in the gleam of their harvest moon eyes.

Where were the Sentrees?

The Mustang struggled feebly against its bonds. Hunter wanted to stand and scream into the trees. Was anyone going to bother to save the poor beast?

Perry, Dilyn, Finn and Tehya all shuffled away from the edge of the root, disappearing in shadow. But something stirred in Hunter’s heart that refused to let him sit there and do nothing. He shifted into a crouch, one hand on the hilt of the dagger. If he had to use it, he would. 

“Hunter,” Dilyn whispered urgently. “What are you doing? They’re going to see you.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “Stay here.” He didn’t turn to look at them. He was sure his face did
not
reflect the confidence in his voice. 

He crouched and slid down the sloping curve of the root before the others could stop him. Before he could stop himself. His boots hit the ground with a soft thud.

One of the men, if man was the right word for the human equivalent of a grizzly bear, spotted Hunter and growled.

The rest of the hunting party refocused, shifting their eyes—and the points of their weapons—in Hunter’s direction. For the first time, he could see their faces clearly.

His stomach dropped.

He knew these men. He’d met them with Ariana in Rockwood Pass. The Grizzly was a new addition. There was the scrawny, reptilian one with his rusty metallic voice; the dark man—Marek something—and of course, the Commander.

What were they doing two provinces north of Ladria? They couldn’t have been following him. Could they?

Recognition sparked in the Commander’s eyes. “
You
,” he said, his lips splitting in a greedy leer.

Hunter steeled himself.
I can be this brave. I’ve faced worse in my dreams. All I have to do is act like I do there.
He squeezed the hilt of the dagger tighter.

The Commander’s blade disappeared with a swish of black cloth as a wicked smile spread across his broad, panther-like face. “Bring him.”

Grizzly stalked forward with careless confidence. Hunter held his breath as he backed into the root. He was outmatched in strength and power, with nowhere to run—not that he would get far. Hunter would be trapped—with or without a fight—in seconds. And they all knew it.

But they didn't know he had a weapon.

He forced the cold air to reenter his lungs, took a step backward, then held steady.

One touch with the dagger and Grizzly would be dead. Hunter wouldn’t even need the stealth Harold Stratton had used to kill the other Huntsman. That image was a vivid stamp in his memory. He’d been glad to see the light leave the man’s eyes. But would his feelings be the same if he had to deal death with his own hands? Most importantly, would using the weapon, even as a dagger, be risking too much? If any one of them recognized it, he would have to kill them all. And who knew if the Mustang would survive long enough for Hunter to reach it.

He shifted his gaze from Grizzly to the Mustang snorting and digging its hooves at the ground behind him.

A last resort. I’ll only use it if I have to.

Grizzly opened his arms for an embrace, twisted into malignance by the downward angle of the blade in his hand.

Hunter exploded his weight off his back leg, launching himself, shoulder-first, into the brick-wall gut. Catching the Huntsman mid-stride, Hunter’s momentum sent him stumbling backward.

But the brute didn’t fall.

No time to panic
. The Commander would strike faster than he had last time.

Hunter surged toward the Mustang as the grunting shout of his would-be-captor sent the others into visible fury. They lunged at him, their blades engulfed with hissing heat. Hunter slid, feet first, through the rough gravel path, stalling out beneath the Mustang’s middle.

It reared and neighed. The Huntsmen’s move toward Hunter had left their ropes slack. Suddenly, the fear of fiery blades was stamped out by the prospect of hooves lodging into his skull.

Hunter rolled out from under the frightened beast. The Huntsmen pulled back and the ropes drew taut again, making it clear their priority was the Mustang.

A blazing python of fire seared through the semi-darkness, heading straight for him. He leapt to his feet, but the flames split, encircling him in swarming, blinding heat. The flames climbed higher, arched inward, and encased him in a half-sphere of fire. It was like a snow-globe warped into something wicked, the buoyant white flecks replaced by black smoke. The noxious swirl crawled into his lungs, its sharp claws digging at his flesh.

Hunter choked. Two sets of bright yellow eyes flashed between the flicker of flames, accompanied by vile, nasty grins.

A boulder settled at the pit of Hunter’s stomach. His mind raced in search of a etâmic defense and found nothing but dark, empty fear. He hadn’t had enough training.
But that doesn’t mean you can’t fight.

Burns could be healed—worse burns than the quick slap of a fire. He gritted his teeth. If he moved fast, maybe it wouldn’t hurt at all.

He dove toward the sneering men, ignoring the heat against his skin. This time, when Hunter burst through the flames and hit him, Grizzly fell. Hunter scrambled to remain upright. The Commander backpedaled gracefully out of Hunter’s path, clearly expecting him to attack. But Hunter was aiming for the ropes.

He launched his weight onto one, his hand sliding across the horse’s side to catch hold of the rough braided twine. For a moment, Hunter was suspended. Then the rope went slack and he slammed into the ground. Dirt flung into his mouth and eyes. He flipped over, rope in hand.

The Huntsman released it. A wide, gnarled smile billowed on his face. He stood in his place, looking smug.

Hunter’s legs rooted to the ground. His body locked in its position. He couldn’t obey his desire to run.

A flash of light on his right.

Hunter raised his hands in defense against the roiling stream of flame. The fire rushed over his head, deflected. But not by him.

“Over there!” One of the Huntsmen pointed toward the tree root.

Fear shot through Hunter’s spine. He turned, disobeying the voice in his head again, which told him with sincerity:
do not look.

It was Finn.

His face looked pained, his hands extended slightly in front of him.

Before Hunter could warn him, fire streaked toward Finn. The boy’s face contorted. A foot before the flames collided with him, they were snuffed out. For a moment, Hunter couldn’t process what he saw. Then he realized: Finn had managed to create some sort of shield.

The Commander growled, “Hadeon. Gruon. Get him.”

Grizzly thundered toward the root with Gruon, the thick Huntsman Hunter remembered, on his heels.

Finn’s concentration faltered. He took a step away from the ledge as an arrow plunged into Grizzly’s left thigh. The man barreled forward, not even fazed by the shaft protruding from his leg. And then he stopped cold.

His left foot had, literally, taken root to the ground. He roared and swatted at the shaft, but whatever etâme was in those arrows had turned his leg into a tree trunk.

More arrows rained from the sky.

Hunter looked toward the canopy, catching a splash of color like an autumnal sunset midway up the tree—then a flicker of yellow gold farther in the distance. Tehya and Perry. Somehow, they were moving into the safety of the treetops, Dilyn likely along with them.

The Sentrees had finally come. He couldn’t see them, but then, that was part of their defense. The arrows fell as if from the trees themselves.

The Huntsmen scrambled for their horses.

Hunter didn’t hesitate. Disregarding the fact that he’d never ridden before, he leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of the rope still around the Mustang. A Huntsman—the reptilian one—would not release his end of the rope. Using that stubbornness to his advantage, Hunter balanced a foot on the rope and hauled himself onto the Mustang’s back.

The cord tightened dangerously around the Mustang’s neck. Without thinking, Hunter snatched the dagger from its sheath and slashed at the rope until it fell away. Only then did he realize that the hilt was glowing.

“Get that boy!” the Commander yelled over the chaos of whirring arrows, neighing horses, and thudding hooves.

Hunter met the Commander’s eyes, and the truth was as plain to see as the written word.

His heart dropped. He fumbled to stow the dagger away, the voice in his head chanting,
I'm the target. Somehow, they followed me.

He had to get away. 

As if the Mustang understood, it lurched forward, aiming straight for the darkness of the trees. Hunter wrapped his arms around its neck instinctually, barely catching hold before he slipped off.

Someone let out a strangled scream.

Hunter whipped his head around in time to see Gruon and Grizzly dragging Finn off the root before he was swallowed in the underbrush of the forest.