Page 9 of Bite Sized Bride
Blood, dark and glistening, drips from the Urog’s jaw, pattering onto the mossy stones. He stands over the bodies of his former masters, his massive chest heaving. He turns his head slowly, and his amber eyes, no longer merely confused, but blazing with a new, terrifying, and protective light, find mine.
The hound has broken its chain. And I, his quarry, am the only one he has not harmed.
6
KAEL
The red storm quiets.
For the first time since the unmaking, the ceaseless, roaring fire in my head recedes, banking to embers. The silence it leaves behind is vast and terrifying, a hollow cavern where a soul used to be. But it is not empty. In the middle of the quiet, there is a new feeling. A strange, fragile peace.
It comes fromit. The property. The small, dark-haired thing huddled against the broken altar.
My hands are slick and warm with the lifeblood of the master’s servants. The scent of their fear and their death clings to me, a familiar perfume. The curse within me sings a song of triumph.
Command fulfilled. Threats eliminated.But the song is muted, distant. The peace emanating from the small creature is stronger.
It stares at me, its dark eyes wide in a pale, rain-streaked face. The fear-scent is still there, a sharp tang in the air, but it is layered with something else now. Bewilderment. Awe. It does not scream. It does not run. It just… watches.
My gaze drops to the bodies. The one with the sneering face lies twisted, its chest a ruin of splintered bone and shredded armor. The other is a heap of black metal and broken limbs against the temple wall. They were the master’s tools. They carried his scent. They were a threat to… what?
To the command? No. The command wasretrieve. They were here to help.
My head throbs, a dull, pounding ache. The red embers flare, threatening to reignite the storm.Threat. Command. Retrieve. Threat.The words are a confusing jumble.
I look back at the property. It shivers, a fine tremor running through its slight frame. The thin, wet cloth it wears offers no protection from the cold.
Cold. Hunger.
These are simple thoughts. Clean thoughts. They cut through the confusion. The property is cold. It must be hungry. A tool cannot function if it is not maintained.
My eyes fall on the sneering one’s corpse. A leather pouch is still cinched to his belt. Rations. I have seen the handlers eat from such pouches.
I take a step toward the body, my heavy footfall a dull thud on the wet stone. The property flinches, a sharp intake of breath, but it does not move. I ignore it. I reach the corpse and nudge the pouch with the toe of my foot. It is heavy. Full.
I hook a claw under the leather strap and rip the pouch free from the belt. It lands in the mud with a soft squelch. I turn back to the property. The peace is still there, a steady, warming light in the vast emptiness inside me. I want to keep it. I want to nurture it.
I nudge the ration pouch with my foot, sliding it across the slick flagstones until it stops a few feet from where the creature sits. My hands… my hands are covered in their blood. The scent of it would taint the food. This is better. Cleaner.
It stares at the pouch, then back at me. The confusion in its dark eyes mirrors my own. It does not understand. I do not understand. Why does the sight of its shivering form make the hollow place inside me ache with something other than hunger? Why did the handler’s touch feel like a violation, not against me, but againstit?
Protect.
The word is a whisper from the deep, a ghost of a thought I do not recognize. It is not the master’s command. It is something else. Something older. Something… mine.
A howl splits the night, sharp and predatory.
My head snaps up. The sound is close. Too close. It is not the sound of a wild creature. It is an indicator of a trained hunter.
Another howl answers it from the east. Then a third from the west. They are circling. Converging on this place.
The property has heard it too. It scrambles to its feet, its eyes wide with a fresh wave of terror. It looks from me to the dark forest, then back again. It sees the truth. The cage is closing.
From the shadows of the forest, two shapes emerge. They are low to the ground, moving with a fluid, canine grace that belies their size. Batlaz. The master’s other hounds. Each is as large as a pony, their coats a mangy, dark fur, their eyes glowing with a malevolent green light. Saliva drips from their powerful jaws, and their lips are pulled back to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth. They are built for one purpose: to run down prey and tear it to pieces.
Behind them, a figure steps into the clearing. A dark elf, taller than the handlers, broader in the shoulder. He wears the burnished black armor of a Miou commander, his movements economical and deadly. He holds no spear. A pair of wicked, curved swords are sheathed at his hips. His face is a mask of cold fury, his platinum hair plastered to his skull by the rain.
“So, the rumors are true,” the commander says, his voice a deep, dangerous growl. He surveys the carnage, his eyes lingering on the broken bodies of his men. His gaze then settles on me, and there is no surprise in it, only a cold, hard certainty. “The beast has broken its leash.”
