Page 15 of Bite Sized Bride
I will not forget it again.
9
MIKANA
Terror is a physical thing. It has a taste, coppery and sharp like blood, and a sound, the frantic, desperate drumming of my own heart. It is the feeling of mud and wet leaves clinging to my skin as I scramble backward, away from the thing he has offered me. Away from the head of the dark elf scout, its dead eyes staring at a sky it can no longer see.
He drops it. The head lands with a soft, obscene thud in the dirt. He doesn’t seem to understand my reaction. He presses his massive, blood-stained hands to the sides of his own head, a look of raw agony twisting his monstrous features.
“Kael,” he rasps, the sound like a rockslide.
He begins to chant, a desperate, guttural rhythm of self-affirmation against the encroaching madness. “Kael. Kael. Kael.”
My terror wars with a fresh wave of pity so profound it steals my breath. He didn’t offer me the head as a threat. It was a gift. A trophy. A grotesque, horrific, and undeniably protective gesture. He killed the scoutfor me. He is a monster, a creature of nightmare, but his violence has become my shield.
The understanding does little to calm the frantic beating of my heart.
He continues his litany, his amber eyes squeezed shut in concentration, and I know we cannot stay here. The scout will not be alone. The scent of blood is a siren’s call in this forest.
“Kael,” I say, my voice trembling but clear.
His chanting stops. His eyes snap open, locking on me. The raw pain in them is a physical blow.
“We have to go,” I say, pushing myself to my feet, my limbs shaking. “Now.”
He seems to understand. The urgency in my voice, if not the words themselves. He gives the dead scout and the battered pine tree one last, haunted look, then turns and lopes toward the edge of the grove, expecting me to follow.
I do. I have no other choice. To be captured by Malakor is a fate far worse than any death this beast could offer me.
We move for hours, a silent, tense procession of two. He leads, a hulking shadow against the gloom of the ancient forest. I follow, my senses screaming, every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves sending a fresh spike of fear through me. But my fear is no longer just of him. It is of what hunts us.
As we travel, I start to see things. Patterns. He moves with a purpose that is more than just flight. He skirts a wide patch of ground where beautiful, bell-shaped flowers with bright blue petals grow in abundance. I recognize them from Vexia’s poison stores. Numiscu blossoms. A single drop of their sap is a fast-acting paralytic. He knows this. He leads us around them.
Later, he stops, his head raised, his nostrils flaring as he tests the wind. He changes our direction, veering sharply to the east. A few minutes later, the faint, unmistakable scent of a Miou patrol’s campfire smoke drifts to me from the direction we were just heading. He smelled them long before I did.
He is not a mindless beast. He is a survivor. He is a creature of this wild place, and the curse, for all it has taken from him, hasgiven him instincts that are keeping us both alive. The Urog is a monster, but the orc within, the ghost of Kael, is a warrior.
The realization does not make him less terrifying. It makes him more so. A mindless beast is predictable. A thinking, grieving, rage-filled creature of his size and strength is a force of nature I cannot possibly comprehend.
The light begins to fail, the forest sinking into a deep, oppressive darkness. We need water. My throat is a desert, my lips cracked and dry. I spot the glint of a stream through the trees, a ribbon of silver in the gloom.
“Water,” I rasp, my voice hoarse.
Kael stops, turning to look at me. I point toward the stream. He gives a short, sharp nod and moves toward it, but he does not let me lead. He goes first, his massive form parting the ferns, his eyes scanning the banks. He is clearing the way. Checking for threats.
I kneel down by the stream, the water so cold it makes my teeth ache. I cup my hands, drinking deeply. It is the best thing I have ever tasted. I am so focused on the simple, life-giving pleasure of the water that I don’t see the other thing until it’s almost too late.
It moves with a liquid speed, a flash of dark purple and lurid yellow-green stripes uncoiling from the muddy bank where I am about to place my hand. A Nyoka. A venomous serpent, its bite a swift and agonizing death.
I have no time to scream, no time to even scramble back. My life narrows to a single point: the snake’s triangular head, its fangs, needle-sharp and glistening, striking toward my wrist.
A roar of pure, unadulterated fury rips through the air, so loud it feels like it might tear the world in two.
A black shape slams into the space beside me. Kael. He moves with a speed that defies physics, his massive hand shooting out and clamping down on the Nyoka mid-strike,inches from my skin. He doesn’t just catch it. He obliterates it. His fist closes, and the serpent is reduced to a mangled pulp of scales and blood.
He throws the remains into the forest with a guttural snarl, his chest heaving, the red storm blazing in his eyes. He turns to me, his gaze frantic, scanning my body for injury. His eyes lock on my wrist, the spot where the fangs almost found their mark.
He is wounded.
