The Girl With Red Hair (The Last War Saga Book 1) Read online

  Brengan Teller always left the door to his home wide open, an invitation to any that sought company or a good story. Seeing it now, Sachihiro felt only dread. Something told him that it was not warm laughter or a mug of ale that awaited him.

  Furniture was scattered about the sitting room. Sachihiro let out an involuntary noise of dismay when he saw Brengan’s favorite armchair had been reduced to little more than kindling. Small claws marks ran the full span of each wall and were evident on every surface Sachihiro could see.

  “Uncle!”

  He paused for a moment, but only further silence greeted him. Nausea rolled deep in his belly. His skin crawled. It was not a feeling he was used to, and it shook loose a rage deep within him. Anger and action could suppress all else. And a stiff drink wouldn’t hurt, either. But that would come later.

  The kitchen and bedroom were empty as well, but thoroughly destroyed. More indecipherable claw marks. Sachihiro ran his thick and calloused fingers over the grooves cut into the bureau. What did this? he thought. And how do I kill it?

  He looked around the bedroom one last time. Maybe he got out. Maybe he’s safe. Just as the idea floated into his mind, instilling a bit of hope, he saw it. A puddle of crimson crept from the crack beneath the closet door, slowing seeping into the floorboards. Blood. Sachihiro stared for several moments, wishing it would vanish, wishing hope to return. When nothing changed, he set his jaw, renewed his rage, and threw open the closet door, a hand going instinctively to the short sword at his side.

  There, hanging from the back wall of the small storage area, was Brengan Teller. A splintered table leg jutted from his chest, suspending his torn body a foot off the ground. Nude, his body was a tapestry of bloodied cuts and torn flesh. His thickly bearded head hung at an awkward angle, it too draining blood onto the floor at Sachihiro’s feet. The musician fell to his knees, hands pressed into the gore. For a moment, time stopped. It was still warm and fluid. Sachihiro raised his eyes to the lifeless body. His flesh wasn’t rotted like Gaelin’s.

  He sniffed, miming an action he often chided Tannyl for. Somehow, the Hunter’s strange ways seemed the most practical. Death had yet to scent the air, but something else wafted across his senses. Something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck and curled his hands into fists.

  “He begged for me to end his life, you know. Almost before we began our moonlit dance. It was rather disappointing.”

  Sachihiro whirled at the voice, rising and drawing his sword in one motion. Leaning against the bureau, running delicate fingers over the same scratches Sachihiro had touched just a moment before, was a stunningly beautiful woman. Hair black as night and a form-fitting dress of the same shade covered skin so pale it was nearly translucent, but it was more flawless than a dream. Her eyes were deep pools of black and swirls of gray, a storm of possibilities. Sachihiro thought her human, but without seeing her ears it was hard to be certain.

  She smiled and locked eyes with the musician. She no more walked than glided, and, in a blink, had a hand to Sachihiro’s face. Sachihiro shivered at the cold touch as she caressed his scruffy cheek before gliding away to lean seductively in the bedroom doorway.

  “He was a coward. Hardly like you, Sachihiro,” she said softly, her voice smooth and even. It reminded Sachihiro of lullabies his uncle had sung him as a child. It brought his rage to the surface.

  He lunged for the woman, his vision pulsing in tune with his heart. His sword struck the door frame, biting deep into the soft wood. His blade had been destined for the woman, but now she leaned casually against the opposite side of the door. He hadn’t seen her move. She blinked slowly, as if she were bored. Sachihiro growled and yanked at his blade, but couldn’t free it.

  “Who are you? How do you know me? And what did you do to my uncle?” Sachihiro shouted. He ended the string of demands by swinging his meaty fist at her.

  The woman in black merely smiled and shifted smoothly out of the way. His knuckles crunched against the wood though they had sought flesh. Time seemed to have slowed in that moment. She ran a finger along his jaw as she glided to the bed, alighted with a whisper, and crossed her long legs. She brushed a strand of hair aside. She never broke eye contact.

  “I had really thought he’d have more fight in him. How can one so interesting have been raised by one so… drab?”

  Her eyes danced at this. Was it amusement that shone within?

  “Who. Are. You.” His teeth were clenched again, bared in a snarl. It took everything he had to just free those few words. The pain pulsing from his knuckles only fueled the fire within.

  “I’d temper that anger if I were you. It did your uncle no good and it will do you less.”

  He dove for her, seeking to pin her against the bed and unleash his full fury. But as soon as the impulse reached his limbs his entire body was thrown back in the opposite direction. His head smacked the wall and he came to his feet with a face full of blood. Lights danced and played across the room. He took a disjointed step forward, raised a fist, cursed, and fell.

  The woman sighed and stood. She seemed disappointed again. “Soon, Sachihiro,” she said calmly. “Soon.”

  And then she was gone.

  Chapter Two

  AS HE STALKED through the underbrush on the outskirts of Woodhaerst, Tannyl couldn’t help but think of melding into their shadows and disappearing. Just vanish. He had done it enough times in his life. It was as easy as breathing. No, easier. But he couldn’t. Not again. He shook his head and reasserted his dominance over his emotions. He wasn’t that man anymore. He couldn’t be that man anymore. There were answers that needed to be found. There was justice that needed delivering. Vengeance to be sated. And there was Fae’Na.

  He was nearly to the Square when he heard the cry. Though muffled by the walls of the house it came from, it was plain enough to Tannyl’s trained ears. Anguish, like an animal in a snare, waiting for death. Without giving away his position, Tannyl stole silently to the building, recognizing it immediately. He had spent enough time within. Without thinking, he ran a finger across the thin scar at his shoulder, one of many wounds cared for by the Healers. He would have died more than once without their care. Part of him cursed them for it, but he put aside that thought as well.

  He leapt into the branches of a nearby tree, and climbed until he was level with the small vent in the side of the timber building. He molded himself to the shadows as he lowered his eyes to the opening. Even the shadows could not have seen him as anything but their own.

  Jaydan was wailing. Kneeling beside his parents, the young Healer was wailing with a fury Tannyl didn’t know him capable of. Blood covered the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling of the small bedroom. Part of Tannyl wanted to call out, to abandon his perch and offer Jaydan whatever support he could. This feeling he banished, shrugging it off as someone would a chill breeze. It was a weakness he could not afford to show. Weakness got people killed. Cold, calculated focus was his most honed and trusted weapon.

  In the blood-splattered bedroom, Jaydan reached for his father’s hand and grasped a small wooden box. Whatever the item was, it silenced the cries of mourning. Tannyl could hear only the most silent of breezes in that moment. He took solace in the silence, his senses telling him that it would not last. And the Hunter’s senses were never wrong.

  Suddenly, Jaydan whirled, standing as if struck by a bolt of lightning.

  “Who are you?” the Healer shouted.

  From somewhere out of view a voice responded, but it was far too soft for even Tannyl to hear. It was little more than a shift in the wind, but it had the rhythm of speech. Whatever was said enraged Jaydan. The Healer jabbed an open hand straight in front of him and the room was engulfed in light. Thunder peeled a fraction of a moment afterward. Tannyl nearly lost his balance, having to reach back and steady himself against the trunk. His vision swam and his ears rung. He had seen magic used often enough in his travels and knew Jaydan had some ability with it, but never had he witnessed
such a demonstration. Though, to be honest, he wasn’t sure what he had seen. His senses were scrambled.

  Jaydan stumbled from the Healers’ cottage in a stupor. The last few steps were taken on his hands and knees. He had just regained his footing when Tannyl appeared as he usually did—like a mist from the shadows. The Hunter was rubbing his temples and repeatedly opening and shutting his mouth. The still-simmering rage caused the sight to appear double.

  “Find anything?” Tannyl asked after a moment. All business. Emotionless.

  Jaydan stared back until his vision centered. The small wooden box pressed against his ribs, promising only more questions. His temples pulsed and magic swirled around his body, waiting to be used. Begging. The Healer shook his head and set his jaw. The skin along both forearms and hands was already beginning to blister. He could smell the scent of his own burned flesh. The pain was a welcome distraction. As long as he didn’t think on it too much.

  Tannyl nodded slowly and grunted. He then swiveled and looked down the path leading out of Woodhaerst. Jaydan followed the gaze, but it was several moments before Sachihiro came bounding into view, nearly at a sprint. Jaydan shook his head. It always amazed him how sharp the elf’s senses were. But, for once, Jaydan didn’t envy him.

  Sachihiro was breathless when he reached them, but still managed to blurt, “Dead. That. She. Uncle. Dead. Bitch.”

  Jaydan’s heart leapt into his throat. He had spent enough time with the musician to catch full meaning from his fractured statement. He had seen her too. Jaydan’s teeth ground loudly and magic crackled at his fingertips.

  A distant shout arrested the attention of the disjointed group. Tannyl’s eyes shot in the direction of the Square. Again, a distant cry rang out. Even Jaydan could sense the desperation in the shout. The others did as well. They ran as one.

  As they stumbled from the forest, Jaydan at once took in the scene. The center of the Square was… gone. Typically a place of feast and festival, the Square had been turned into a wasteland. A black hole of bleeding smoke and shadow cratered the soil. Bodies littered the ground. Those still with faces, he recognized. Flitting shapes darted in the air, screeching and clawing. And at the center of the swarm was the village Elder, Fae’Na.

  Before he could act, Jaydan heard the quiet twang of a bowstring and two creatures fell from the air. Jaydan looked back at the trees. Tannyl had another arrow nocked and pulled back, the green fletching tight against his cheek. His eyes followed the line of the shaft.

  “Save her,” he whispered, though to Jaydan it sounded like a shout. It left no room for disagreement.

  Jaydan turned and the rage returned. His village. His family. It rotted around him and fed something dark within him. He had been too weak to save them. Even before, he had failed. But no longer. He would become something more. Something stronger. Something to be feared. His eyes found the nearest shadowy creature flitting about on smoky wings. Magic flowed to his body at the coyest thought. He brought the energy into his being, shaped it, changed it, and unleashed it.

  Sachihiro swung his lute around until it rested between his shoulder blades, and with his other hand freed the short sword at his hip. He nearly lost his balance as a narrow streak of flame darted over his right shoulder, followed by an arrow slipping just above his left ear. But he maintained his charge. Woodhaerst had been attacked. He could not tell by what or for what reason, but it lay in ruin. They had not discovered a single survivor until now. If he could get to her, save her… What? his mind screamed. It wouldn’t bring back his uncle. Whatever answers Fae’Na could provide would not be enough. Could never be enough. But that was more thinking than he cared to do. Especially now. Sachihiro pressed on, his knuckles burning white with desperation.

  He slid to a stop at Fae’Na’s side and stabbed at a passing shade. His clumsy strike missed, and the creature snapped shadowy fangs at him as it flew past. His eyes darted to the others. It was hard to identify the number of attackers, and even harder to identify what they were. Their heads were serpentine, their wings a mix of misty shadow and tightly stretched membrane. None were larger than a cat, but each of their four legs was tipped with sharp talons. And they moved quick enough to leave him dizzy.

  “Get out of here,” Fae’Na shouted.

  The Elder was wielding a quarterstaff and swung it at any creature that got within range. Arrows continued to fly overhead. Some took the creatures from the air, but most seemed to hardly perturb the winged demons. The bolts of flame and magical energy did even less. The body of one creature dispersed for a brief moment as Jaydan’s flame struck its center, only to reform again with a hiss.

  “We’ll save you,” Sachihiro shouted back with his best stage voice. “I once—”

  A swooping creature clawed at Fae’Na and she let out a snarl as her flesh immediately faded to a mottled black beneath the ethereal talons. Sachihiro was struck a glancing blow to the temple and went to his knees more as a retreat than from the strike.

  Fae’Na looked over his head and Sachihiro saw her wince, though he hadn’t seen her attacked again. She shook her head, braided hair twisting like ravenous serpents.

  “All of you,” she bellowed. “Get out of here!”

  Sachihiro knew the others would not heed the words. Tannyl was the most stubborn man he had ever known, and there had been something glinting wickedly in the Healer’s eyes when he last looked into them. No, they would fight. There needed to be hope.

  “Don’t worry, Elder,” he said with gusto. “I know just the thing to drive the bastards away.”

  Dropping the sword, Sachihiro twisted his shoulder, bringing his lute to face with practiced precision. But there would be no applause here. He traced his fingers over the runes etched into the lacquered wood. His uncle had never permitted him to even touch the lute, claiming that he needed to first understand magic before attempting to charm it with song. Sachihiro had dreamed of the day he would be allowed to use the treasured instrument, but now it only reminded him of losing the very man that wielded it so deftly. Handling it now brought with it a twinge of guilt, and for a moment, he regretting taking it.

  Before he could think on it further, his thick fingers found the strings and he began to play. Even in the moment, he knew it seemed foolish. He knew Tannyl was cursing him and Jaydan was certain to be rolling his eyes and grumbling. With demons of shadow swirling about and his home in ruin, the musician did the one thing he knew how to do: play. The runes carved along the neck and etched into the base of the beautiful instrument began to glow warmly as he flowed into “Gregor’s Cry,” a ballad of battle and triumph. The world changed. Time slowed to a crawl and all other sounds faded away as he focused on the jarring notes and smooth refrain.

  As he played, a familiar energy swept over him and then a less familiar charge swept through him. The first pulse of energy startled him and his fingers slipped from the fret, but he recovered quickly and continued. The second shook the lute from his grip completely, and the third deafened him.

  Tannyl reached for the small quiver at his belt and cursed as he felt only the stitched leather. His eyes never left her. Standing tall, wielding her staff like a cudgel, he could not have been more proud. Or more horrified. He knew in that moment that no matter his path, he would never find peace. Death would follow him for all of time.

  He turned his eyes to the others, quickly assessing their condition. Sachihiro had fallen to his knees at Fae’Na’s side. Weariness hung plain on Jaydan’s face. Though foreign to magic himself, Tannyl knew the toll it took on the mind and body of those that used it. In another moment, Jaydan would collapse. If he was lucky.

  Tannyl unstrung his bow and stuffed it in the empty quiver, drawing his hunting knife in the same motion. He despised leaving the shelter of the forest and always preferred a bow to the knife, but now…

  Before he could move, music played across the Square. Tannyl started and stared as Sachihiro began strumming a disjointed tune on his lute amid the chaos. The elf Hunter
swore and bolted for Fae’Na. Clearly, the musician had lost his mind. If Sachihiro survived this, Tannyl would kill him. Jaydan fell to a knee as Tannyl raced past, tendrils of smoke drifting up from his body. But Tannyl’s eyes never left her. She was all that mattered, and he was all that was left to protect her.

  A brief pulse of light played between her and the musician. Then quickly, a second flash of blinding light. It seemed to emanate from Sachihiro, but that couldn’t be. Tannyl knew him to have command over a few simple charms, but nothing more. The third pulse of light brought with it a dull whump and a wave of pressure that sent Tannyl sprawling to the dirt, launched fifteen feet back the way he had come.

  It was the second time in the same night that his senses had been culled. He recovered far faster this time, and was on his feet in an instant, charging again.

  “What an amusing display of magic,” the woman holding Fae’Na said, her voice hiding a dangerous edge. “You’re even more interesting than I had thought.”

  Sachihiro nearly collided with Tannyl as he scrambled away from the newcomer. Tannyl felt Jaydan at his back shoulder. The Healer was breathing heavily. Alive, for now. That was good.

  The jeweled dagger at Fae’Na’s throat held firm, a thin line of blood wetting its edge. Tannyl made to move again, knife at the ready, but Fae’Na’s eyes told him to stop. She was one of a few that he heeded without question, and though it burned at him, he complied. It was growing increasingly difficult to suppress the emotions that threatened to tear through him.

  “Let her go,” he hissed through clenched teeth, blade still held high.

  The woman tossed back a strand of dark hair as she laughed. Her eyes were pits of fog and her mouth was wet with anticipation. His body and mind warred with one another. The shadowy winged serpents continued to swirl around the two women. The gnashing of spectral fangs sounded like laughter.