The Witchstone Amulet Page 3

  The sour ball of anxiety swelled more. That didn’t add up either. And he knew it.

  He needed answers. And he wasn’t going to get them here.

  With a hand cupped over his brow, he circled about and scanned the entire horizon. He couldn’t just wander aimlessly across an unfamiliar countryside. He needed a direction. Some sign or indication that civilization was out there.

  He spotted a thin tendril of gray in the distance, nearly indiscernible against the unspoiled azure of the afternoon sky. Smoke. He’d almost missed it. It originated somewhere beyond the next hill—how far, he couldn’t tell. But that didn’t matter. Smoke like that wasn’t natural. It meant people. And if he could see it, that meant he was within walking distance.

  So he started walking.

  THE ROLLING countryside had an eerie, postapocalyptic isolation about it, as if no one else existed. He encountered no roads, no other buildings. Not a single jet stream cut across the sky. That in and of itself was disconcerting.

  Again, he tamped down the compulsion to panic that, if left unchecked, he knew would overpower him. First, figure out what was going on, he told himself. Then decide if it was worth panicking over.

  The afternoon slogged on as he marched in the direction of the twisting gray thread, which turned out to be farther than he originally estimated. Each time he crested a rise in the terrain, he expected to see the source, but it was always beyond the next one, and then the next. An unobstructed sun pressed down on him. Sweat cascaded down the center of his back, soaking through the fabric of his T-shirt, and his crotch and thighs were starting to chafe under his jeans. His mouth felt like he’d rinsed it out with sand.

  It was the wrong temperature for a day in March, but he pushed that unsettling detail from his mind too. He pulled the T-shirt off over his head, wiped his brow with it, balled up in his hand, and then tugged it through a belt loop. At least he could work on getting his summer color back.

  Around midafternoon, from the top of a high hill, he saw something different along the horizon. A tree line. The smoke rose from the canopy.

  He was closer.

  He quickened his pace, ignoring the raw chafing of his thighs. Yellow grasses gave way to red rock and bracken. Thorny branches scratched and poked at his skin as he negotiated his way through. The thicket transformed into a forest of twisting and misshapen trees.

  He slowed, despite his burning need for answers. The terrain seemed in pain. Tortured. Each tree trunk reached out of the stony ground in a distorted mockery of what a tree should look like. Limbs writhed in frozen agony, the leaves more brown than green. He felt unwelcome here. Like an intruder. He was tempted to turn around and head back to the open fields. At least there it was warm and beautiful.

  But something rose above the moan of the wind. Voices.

  Some instinct told him to crouch low and hold very still with his breath locked in his lungs. The sound came from up ahead. Very close.

  4

  THE SOUNDS were guttural and savage, like someone clearing their throat and trying to form words at the same time. If it was a language, it was one he’d never heard before. He imagined it was how bears might sound if they could talk.

  He crept forward, trying to avoid the fallen twigs littering the ground, but still each step made him cringe. He might as well stomp for all the good his attempt at stealth was doing. The wind shifted, and he could smell the smoke and hear the crackling of a fire too—but he saw nothing through the trees ahead of him.

  He soon discovered why. As he inched closer, the ground ended at an abrupt rocky ledge. Hunter crawled on hands and knees to the edge and peered down over a steep drop-off.

  The three ghastly misshapen creatures grunted and growled with each other around the roaring campfire. One paced about the small clearing casually swinging a crude club the size of Hunter’s leg as if itching to bash something in, while the other two sat on the ground looking like lumpy clay sculptures only half formed. They resembled something human, but only in the sense they had two legs and two arms and walked erect. Their skin was a sickly gray-green and covered in scars, their limbs bulky with muscles that would make gym grunters weep with envy. Their heads were almost comically large and covered in coarse black hair. They had grotesque pointed ears, laden with rows of iron hoops from lobe to tip. Drool-covered tusks shot out from their lower jaws.

  He couldn’t breathe. His heart thumped like thunder and the world around him tilted dizzily. Holy shit, I’m having a psychotic breakdown. It was the only explanation. Creatures like this simply didn’t exist. Which meant he had to be lost in some wild hallucination.

  But did people actually having a psychotic break ever think that’s what was happening to them?

  Burlap sacks and wooden crates circled the periphery of the camp to form a makeshift border. One of the crates near the natural stone wall directly beneath Hunter was cracked open and the contents were spilled out onto the ground, a pile of medieval-looking weapons. Maces, flails, swords.

  The creatures hadn’t heard him approach. Thankfully. The last thing he needed was to gain their attention. With their battle scars and weapons assortment, friendly certainly wasn’t a word he’d use to describe them. They fit in this ugly and unforgiving landscape as they grumbled and snarked at each other like bored Girl Scouts.

  The question was could he sneak away now without being heard. He wasn’t so sure. It was a wonder they couldn’t already hear his pounding heart. And were there more of them? Would he haplessly stumble upon another group of them traipsing through this forest?

  One of the seated creatures lifted to his feet. Hunter pushed himself lower to the ground, worried he’d been spotted, but the creature only stomped over to a woodpile to fetch more logs. But movement snagged his eye. Positioned behind where the creature was seated was a man, hogtied and gagged, squirming to get himself free.

  The thief.

  He thrashed against the ropes that bound his hands and ankles. The creatures gave him no notice, as if they’d forgotten he was there. Hunter’s jaw clenched and his insides hardened. The little fucker had probably tried to steal from them too. Served him right. For a moment he was tempted to back away and let these creatures deal with him. But something in his gut made him stay put.

  The conversation between the creatures seemed to turn. Their disagreement intensified. They barked at each other louder, and the creature swinging the club stopped his pacing, spat on the ground, and snarled something to his comrades. Even though Hunter couldn’t understand the words, the animosity behind them was clear, and it sent chills racing over Hunter’s skin. The creature looked over at the thief. He thrust the club to the ground with an air of decisiveness and pulled a long knife from his belt.

  That needed no translation.

  The thief must have understood what was about to happen. His struggles against his bindings intensified to frantic. The creature’s mouth broke into a yellow grin as it stomped toward him. The other two made low throaty chuckles and watched.

  Hunter’s jaw clenched. That man was his only hope of finding answers. And Hunter wanted his mom’s broach back.

  During a match, Hunter was always driven by instinct. Get to the ball, then improvise. Do what was needed to defend the line. Figure out what to do next later. It was a strategy that always served him well.

  But on the pitch, he understood the rules. He knew how things were supposed to work. Here, he had no idea how any of this was even possible, and he didn’t know anything about the creatures or what they were capable of.

  He leaped down off the ledge.

  He landed hard but silent into a crouch, feeling the impact in his ankles. The creatures didn’t appear to notice him—but the thief did. His eyes shifted from the creature standing over him for a second, narrowed, then widened again with sudden recognition.

  That’s right, Hunter thought. It’s me.

  Hunter reached for the first weapon that caught his eye. A spiny mace. He adjusted his grip on the le
ather-bound handle, surprised at the weight of it, then sprang for the one still seated on the ground.

  He cocked his arm back, the head of the mace behind his head, and put the full strength of his shoulder into the two-handed swing. The back of his brain questioned what he was even doing, but he was already committed. Would the beastly thing even notice? It looked like it could sustain the direct hit of a semitruck. All Hunter could hope to do was stun the thing. And then the full attention of the other would shift to him.

  Then what?

  The mace struck the massive head behind the ear.

  Some years back, he’d broken someone’s nose during a match, felt the cartilage shatter under his elbow. When the mace made contact, he expected to feel something similar. It was nothing like that. It was extravagantly worse.

  First came a terrible crack, like the sound a tree makes when it begins to fall. The force of the impact rattled the handle, and the vibrations stung his hands. The creature’s skull caved in on one side, and the gray-green skin tore apart like tissue paper while the side of the face was wiped away. Blood exploded outward, the hot liquid splattering Hunter’s face and chest. The body rolled forward like a wave cresting onto the shore before it collapsed face-first into the firepit.

  Hunter stumbled back, stunned at the impact. His stomach heaved, but he choked it down.

  The other two looked down at their dead companion, their grunts freezing in their throats, then made a painfully slow turn toward Hunter. Their eyes narrowed, and their lips pulled back into a yellow snarl.

  Hunter realized this was a poorly conceived plan.

  The closest one lunged at Hunter, a ham-sized fist careening toward his head. Hunter leaped clear of the swing, but a second swing followed. He sprang to the side, ducking his head, but this time wasn’t quite fast enough. The fist grazed the top of his head and sent him reeling. He hit the ground on his shoulder, air rushing from his lungs. He rolled and skidded to a hard stop. Had the punch landed better, he’d be dead, head crushed.

  His head throbbed, and the world spun as he tried to recover. Doubts he entertained that none of this was real were fractured. The pain sure felt real enough. And falling unconscious seemed a genuine possibility as well. He shook his head to clear the fog and tried to stand but could only manage to get himself onto his knees. From the corner of his eye, he saw the second beast closing in, too, the thick knife lifted in its meaty grip. He grunted something unintelligible to his companion.

  Yep, this was a very bad idea.

  The first creature made a swipe for him, thick fingers splayed wide to grab him. The plan was obvious: hold him while the other one skewered him.

  If he didn’t act fast, he’d be dead.

  Hunter didn’t know hand-to-hand combat. But he did know how to tackle. He dropped the mace, ignored his spinning vision and urge to vomit, and launched himself directly at it.

  Head low, he sprang into the beast’s tackling radius and dipped underhand, reaching for him. He aimed carefully. A knee to the face would put a quick end to his plan. His shoulder locked against the thigh just below the waistline, and he thrust his legs.

  The beast grunted in surprise as Hunter put his back into a lift. He coiled his arm around the back of its thick leg for control, slimy sweat from between the thighs coating his skin, and he hoisted the beast off the ground. It was bigger than any player he’d been up against, but it was a solid hit and he had fear as a motivator.

  The beast’s legs flew up, and the torso dropped. Hunter drove through on the lift with all the strength he could rally. Once the creature was horizontal, legs in the air, Hunter shifted his weigh and dump-tackled the beast directly on its head.

  As luck would have it, he landed directly on the mace Hunter had dropped.

  The creature made a piteous groan and flopped heavily onto its side. Blood seeped from a jagged gash on its forehead, and one of its tusks was bent at a painful angle. He’d live, but for the moment, he was out of the fight.

  Hunter turned about as the last beast roared and launched at him. Knife clutched in its ham-like fist, it swiped at his midsection. Hunter clumsily sprang backward, arms flailing. The knife slashed the air an inch from his side.

  Head still spinning, Hunter shuffled his feet and kept himself out of range. The lumbering beast drooled and snarled as it herded him around the campfire. It made quick little pseudo-lunges at him intended to keep him off his guard. Hunter sustained the safe distance, his arms spread out, ready for the next attempt. His only hope was to find a way to escape.

  Could he outrun it?

  He doubted it.

  But the thing was craftier than Hunter gave him credit for. Without realizing it, Hunter was corralled right into a trap. The beast made a series of sharp lunges that backed Hunter up against the natural stone wall behind him.

  The beast’s eyes narrowed at Hunter, and the drooling lips retreated into a sneer. It knew it had won. Hunter had nowhere to go. It lowered into a crouch, its stance wide in case Hunter tried the same trick he’d done with his friend.

  Its arm pulled back.

  Hunter braced himself. His only hope was to try to block or redirect the swing. But he had no idea how to do such a thing, and was pretty sure that its strength could overpower any attempt he made anyway. His heart beat wildly, and his hands shook as he waited for the attack to come.

  As the creature leaned in to start its assault, it stopped. The massive body froze in place as if someone hit a pause button. Its ugly sneer melted away as its face contorted and its eyes rolled back. Then it dropped to its knees and collapsed to the side. The thief stood behind it with a bloody knife clutched in his hand.

  5

  ADJUSTING THE knife, the thief stepped over the slain creature and strolled casually over to the one still on the ground.

  The remaining creature rolled over, a veil of crimson over its monstrous face. It saw the thief’s approach and scrambled to lift itself from the ground. But the thief was on it too quickly.

  Hunter’s stomach heaved, and involuntarily, he turned his head from what was coming. But that did not protect him from the sound of the knife entering flesh and an almost gentle sigh that came from the creature as it died. He braced his hand against the natural wall to prevent himself from falling over. His head swam, and his knees were ready to buckle.

  “Fucking hell!” He dropped his head low as he tried to get his breathing under control. Bile reached up to burn the back of his throat.

  “You’re welcome,” the thief said.

  Hunter shot him an acidic glare over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  The thief wiped the blade clean on the body and tucked it into his belt as he walked off. The hooded cape from last night was gone, giving Hunter his first real look at him. He was about the size of Billy the Hobbit, the squad’s scrum half, a full head shorter than Hunter, and like Billy, he had a tight, muscular frame. But his hair was coal-black, and he had eyes to match. He wore a brown leather vest buckled over his chest, with a sleeveless linen shirt beneath it, exposing arms that would make an Olympic gymnast put on a sweater in shame. He had loose brown pants buckled just below the knees, and high black boots.

  Using the heel of his boot, the thief rolled one of the beasts over onto its back. Thick arms flopped out at its sides. The beast’s mouth was open in death, and its tongue protruded out like a rotting tenderloin. The thief removed a pouch from its wide belt, loosened the drawstrings, and dumped the contents into his hand.

  A few crude-looking coins spilled out first. Then what looked like a collection of teeth. Lastly, the broach he’d stolen dropped into his palm.

  Hunter sprang from the wall. “I’ll be taking that back now.”

  He grabbed for the thief’s wrist. Strength alone would be enough to overpower this little shit. His arm was deflected with surprising ease, and a fraction of a second later, a sharp pain materialized under his chin. He glanced down to find the point of the knife at his throat.

  The thief
glared up at Hunter, his hand steady as iron and ready to thrust.

  “That’s mine,” Hunter growled.

  “I just saved your life. I’d say we’re square.” His voice was rich and oddly melodious. Hunter couldn’t place the accent. It seemed a strange amalgamation of dialects. British maybe. Eastern Europe too. The thief lowered the knife from the Hunter’s throat and tucked it away again in his belt as if Hunter posed no threat to him.

  “Bullshit,” Hunter replied. He touched the skin under his chin with two fingers and looked at it. No blood. The knifepoint hadn’t broken the surface. “These things would have slit your throat if not for me.”

  “I had it under control,” the thief said.

  “You were flopping about like a fish.”

  “The amulet stays with me.” His voice had a tenor of finality. He turned his back on Hunter dismissively and tucked the broach into a leather pouch at his belt.

  Hunter stared at the thief as he circled about the campsite, pulling lids off crates and opening sacks. The cold arrogance of this guy made Hunter’s blood seethe. Hunter weighed his options with a tight jaw. Should he try again? But he’d anticipated Hunter’s first attempt with ease and reacted faster than Hunter would have thought possible.

  Hunter looked around at the carnage. “Where am I?”

  The thief tugged things out of a sack and tossed them onto the ground. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

  “You broke into my place, thief!”

  “And if you had gone to his dwelling like you were supposed to, I would have been long gone.”

  Was Darren in on this somehow? He’d wanted them to head out to his place in the suburbs. Hunter’s apartment was closer. “With my mother’s broach.”