Chapter 018

To be noticed is to risk your life.

Walk softly, and keep your blade hidden.

Dark came all too soon, and found Harker using the wire he’d stolen from Garon’s for several simple snares. He set them around the perimeter of his camp, two quick layers sure to catch anything that might stumble nearby. If you were lucky, he might even catch a meal.

The camp proper was set on a stretch of dirt abutting a wind-worn outcropping of stone. He made a fire, piling up kindling and lesser sticks into a small stack before striking a spark with flint and steel. It burned, slowly.

He also removed several plants from his pack, carefully placing them onto a flat rock and separating the leaves. He took the stems, replacing them in a separate portion of his bag, and chopped the leaves into a small pile. Lastly, he squeezed out a dollop of sap from a tree he’d passed an hour prior. It pooled atop the leaves, coating the pile before he took his knife and mixed them vigorously.

Leaves of the stellanara and sap of the venna tree. The former was a simple binder used in many salves, but when mixed with the oils from a Sea-touched stellenara—the mixture hissed, the sap dehydrating in a series of rapid puffs, until it was nothing more than powder atop the rock.

Harker scooped it up with his knife blade and sprinkled it over the flames. The powder fell heavily, clinging immediately to the sticks and kindling. It didn’t affect the flames or even the heat, but the wisp of smoke that had started to lift from it vanished immediately. It didn’t return, even as the fire grew larger.

Smokeless Powder. It was a useful piece of woodcraft, one that had proven invaluable when he’d been out on hunts—or on the run from enraged Valefolk.

He made a quick meal of his rations as well as a handful of foraged berries and nuts. They were unripe and tasteless, but at least they barely filled his stomach. He filled the rest with water he’d collected from a small stream.

Time passed. The sky darkened into true night, and the wind whistled through the tops of the trees. Harker let the fire burn down. He didn’t cook anything—he had nothing to cook—and the night wasn’t as cold as it had been. Just enough to justify the fire.

It’s time. Harker fiddled with the chain around his neck, but forced his hands down to the sandy soil. As casually as he could, he activated his Talent.

“Sovereign Sight.”

Water poured through him, harsh as always, and it arced outward fast. At three feet, he cut it off. After a day’s effort and experimentation, he’d found his limit. A swirling maelstrom of details invaded his senses regardless, enough that his vision blackened at the edges and his head pounded—but he retained his awareness.

The small camp jumped into sharp relief, even as disorientation and dizziness addled his body. Harker let out a choked gasp and fell over into a half roll, putting his back to the fire and face toward the outcropping.

Waiting.

Nightjars called and insects chirped, more than the day prior, none of them silencing at the approach of a predator. And yet, Harker felt it. A shape invaded the edge of his awareness, a presence he couldn’t explain or properly see. It lingered far beyond the range of Sovereign Sight, and the Talent was inactive anyway—but a curious effect of his new Talent was that it slightly heightened Harker’s senses for a short period after stopping its use. Not much, but enough.

The presence drifted closer. Pieces of it filtered through the edge of his awareness, and Harker frowned at the stone. It felt…twisty. There was a leaf shadow that fluttered across the camp’s edge, then a stretch of discolored bark detached from a tree. A nightjar swooped low but never left, hopping closer until the brush bent away from it in too large a section.

Feet, cold and pale as the Winter sky, stepped into his camp. A body came with it, one that slunk into his periphery, small eyes and stouter than any human. It was short, no bigger than a child, but fear coursed through Harker.

You are hunted. It was an insidious tone, beyond hearing, slick as cold oil. You are cold. You are hungry. There is no way out.

The words plucked at him, reaching at the root of his skull. His skin prickled, but his mind spun with too many thoughts to count. He knew the thing. A creature out of legend, a thousand times worse than Aberrant, Illwrought, or hunter.

Whisperfolk.

Tideling.

Eidhrin.

Tales of the Deep Children were as many as the stars above. While the Illwrought were Stitcher-made horrors and the Aberrants were monsters that clawed out of the Infinite Sea, the Eidhrin had always been.

The old tales, the ones his mother regaled him with on cold winter nights, spoke of them living in vast empires just beyond the rain. They wormed their way through rivers and lakes, crawling just beyond sight, only to appear in someone’s most desperate hour. Why was uncertain, but the tales spoke of their many, dark appetites.

Had it followed him since his dunk in the Gallant? Had it crawled out of the banks after him?

“You flee from certain death. It drew ever closer.”

How did it know that?

“You cannot do this.” It stepped closer, its claws grazing Harker’s shoulder. “Give up.”

Harker gritted his teeth. If that was what it was after, he would gladly deny it. He’d spent too long letting others tell him what he couldn’t do. No more.

The Eidhrin moved, and for a brief moment Harker could feel every piece of it: the way the air shifted around him, the rustle of his cloth, the texture of clammy skin and slick scales, and teeth that split as his oily voice slipped.

It reached out a hand. Mortal. You cannot—

Harker rolled over, and without looking could almost make out the creature’s surprised recoil. It had barely pulled its claw back when Harker hurled a handful of dirt at it. The thing hissed in pain, rubbing at its beady eyes, and darted aside.

Harker was already there.

He lunged forward, fighting against his own instincts, and the creature fled with a surprised curse. It hit the outside line of his camp, banging directly into his snares. Wires tightened around both legs, yet the Eidhrin couldn’t be stopped. It slipped free, wriggling like an eel and twice as fast. It darted around Harker, to the other side of the fire.

“Got you!” Harker buried his knife into the abandoned snare, but the blade came back without a drop of blood. He stared at it in confusion. “Where—?”

To the side, the creature slowed. Stopped. It gave a surprised huff of breath, like a laugh it couldn’t quite loose. And here I thought you’d seen me.

Harker swung again, eyes fixed into the middle distance, and this time the Eidhrin chortled. It took all of his concentration not to look directly at the true threat, and Harker slowly circled, hunting for the creature everywhere it wasn’t.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The chortle became a full-fledged laugh. Of course you cannot see me. This was just a trick! It wagged a stumpy finger at Harker’s back. Naughty human. Your senses are annoyingly sharp, but you’re still too weak to truly matter.

That burned him, but Harker relaxed. He sheathed his knife, still scanning the edges of his camp. “Must have been the wind.”

The creature’s finned ears wiggled eagerly as it stepped closer, adjusting a too small necktie. Now listen to me, human. You cannot make this journey. Not without help—

“My thoughts exactly.”

Harker hurled his fist forward, and firelight glinted along the loop of his necklace. It slung around the creature’s neck, and the Eidhrin screamed. Harker twisted it tight, and the bite of cold iron drove that scream into a deep, pained hiss.

“You—!” Claws seized the chain, but they pulled back as if burned. So they swung at Harker instead.

He danced back, but his impromptu leash wasn’t very long at all, and the second strike clawed open Harker’s forearm. Blood splashed against the sandy dirt, sizzling in the campfire. Harker turned aside, kicking at the dwindling flames. Embers and ash puffed against the creature’s wet skin and clothing, leaving char marks behind.

“Bound fast in cold iron and branded by fire: stand fast and do no harm.”

Harker’s words struck like a thunderbolt. The creature stopped struggling, its claws falling to its side and its chest rising and falling as if it had just run miles.

For a moment, there was silence, then it opened its maw of overlapping fangs and laughed. “The old words! They cannot halt me, human. Not from the likes of you.”

It leaned forward, and Harker felt the strangest pressure against his own chest. Just as soon as it appeared, however, it faded. The creature still hadn’t moved an inch.

Its yellow eyes widened, a fishy, alien alarm tugging at its face before suspicion took over. “Trickery!”

The extra piece of awareness sputtered out from Harker’s control, and he was suddenly just a young man standing before a diminutive monstrosity. His heart hammered, audacity providing refuge for his better sense, but fear waited in the wings to take over in case he failed. Harker took a long look at the Eidhrin for the first time.

It was less than half of Harker’s height but stoutly built. Its clothing was strange, a style that had long since fallen out of favor, something that a mayor might have worn a century ago. A shirt, necktie, striped vest, trousers, and fraying suspenders. Its head was squat and fishy, covered in those scales with large, finned ears that now quivered in rage.

“How long have you been following me?” Harker demanded.