FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Luto's broad paws padded over the settling snow without a sound. His ears perked as sharp as Onja's, silent breaths steaming before their faces. Only a vilkhund could outrun a wraith-- be it hunting or fleeing. Bound about in aketon and boar-leather, the flesh she wore was almost as tough as his, but she wore no helmet. Nothing could impede her sight. Off in the lightless wood, 20 paces either direction, her comrades prowled. The caribou carcass they hung hadn't been touched, the hounds had detected nothing, and she was getting restless. It was either on to them, or content enough from its last meal to be asleep still. The former was far more likely.

To her left, Elitsja signaled a halt. The trine converged like an arrowhead, fanning out to face one another; each hunter saw over the other's backs. Rime clung to their whiskers and hung from their chins, frost blotting their orange and black faces to the dull grey of night.

"Move the bait?" Onja signed "Likely followed fresh snows."

"The girl went missing here." Vitak's brow knit with frustration. "Can't have gone far yet."

"Going to walk in circles until dawn?" her lip curled at him. "We need to fan out."

"Both of you stop." Elitsja's face was a glacier. "Not out here." She turned to address Onja. "We should finish searching this area before we move."

"Because he said so?" she scowled at Vitak, who laid his ears back. "We would have found it by now."

"Because we need to move together." Elitsja practically slapped her three fingers into her palm. "You two will be the death of us."

"Let her." Vitak glowered at them both. "I've slain five. You think you can hunt better?"

Her teeth grit so hard her jaw ached. "I'll have it in the hour."

"Stop it!" Elitsja's gestures came choppy and exaggerated. "V, we are trine."

Before she had finished, he was off, darting deeper east. The ghost of a growl escaped Elitsja's throat as she goaded Bitor to follow, beckoning Onja after them both.

Pinpricks bit the thick pads of her palms, she gripped her reins so hard. With a snort rising in a puff of mist, she jerked them to the north.

This would be her hunt.

Timber raced past her. The invigorating bite of wind filled her flaring nostrils. Luto soared, master of his element, over the white expanse. Blood filled her ears and frost-nipped fingers afresh; this was where she was alive. She listened as intently for signs of the beast as she did for pistol-fire from her comrades. A shot meant that it was found, and either they were in danger, or Vitak had made good on his word; neither was acceptable.

Four. That's how many she'd done in. Three with Eli, one by her own hand. All as trine. Five would be her sole victory.

A shudder carried up through Luto's shoulders. She smelled it, just after he did; flesh, raw and frost-burnt. He slowed at her gentle tug, and they crept towards the source. Her wide pupils took in every trunk, every branch and stone, scanning for any sign of it. This was where her true training lay-- not in pistol or blade, but her own body. Carnivore's eyes, whetted with instinct and rigorous discipline, always found their mark. Flitting movement, hunkered prey, footprints in churned snow.

Scarlet.

Even though the muted tones of her dress and striped fur dulled to scales of grey in the night, the flesh hanging from her bones popped out like holly on the branch. Her gaping torso dripped with entrails, half-eaten, half stored for later. Her legs and tail, the only parts of her yet untouched, dangled from the branches almost lackadaisically. On her back, the beast's assault was writ in open skin, peeled from delicate shoulders like petals from a ruby rose. The trees served a firnwraith well, keeping its meal from thieving foxes. It made no difference if that meal was caribou, cattle, or maiden.

Onja's longsword glinted in her right hand, pistol full-cocked in her left. She slid smoothly from Luto's back to the forest floor, ears on the swivel. Even if it wasn't here now, she could pick up its trail. Time enough to recover the girl when it lay dead.

Her heart thrummed; even after two years, the fear remained. There was always the fear. The Lashet who didn't chill at the thought of their only predator wasn't long for this land. It beat faster yet at the tracks, handprints of four slender fingers, leading from the wraith's macabre larder and snaking beneath her own feet. The edges were crisp, the marks deep. Fresh. She followed, Luto prowling behind her at a distance.

The tracks circled, meandering about the thicket until they ended before a grizzled old spruce. Slashes, oozing sap like blood from a wound, scrambled their way up the trunk. Her veins turned to ice. She jerked her head up and fired, even before she saw them.

Two white pinpricks, twin searchlights fixed on her. Fixed on prey.

Quicksilver blood spattered down onto her like spilled shot before she could roll away. When she did, it was barely fast enough, a bladed hand sweeping so close past her it grazed fur from her cheek. Her blade arced at the creature. She missed; it leaped back before she could find its arm.

Luto howled. Onja dropped her spent pistol, hand moving without thought to her second. The firnwraith skidded around to face her in all its wickedness.

Parchment skin, transparent, clung to its spine over its emaciated belly, ribs buckled out like a great spider clinging to its torso. Each tree and stone showed through it, rippling like water. It slunk about on scrawny arms and legs, doubled over at its hunched back. But the true terror was its face; round and featureless but for its soul-scorching gaze. In the daylight, it was invisible, but in the dark those hateful embers betrayed it. It flared a frill of blades from its neck and hunkered for a charge.

Luto bowled into it mid-leap, throwing it to the ground. There he held it, by its snakelike gullet. It kicked up against him, scythe-like claws raking the armor on his underbelly. Seizing her chance, Onja took aim again, growling at the creature as it keened back, face splitting to reveal a baleen of needles. It jerked against Luto's grasp; her bullet punched into its shoulder, where its head had been when the flint fell. A fresh spray of mercury thumped into the snow. Luto yelped around his mouthful. The wraith sank its hundred teeth into his paw, ripping it from the ankle.

"No!" She bolted towards it, sword-mid swing. It kicked free of its weakened captor, ducking from her blade and swiping upwards.

The pain froze. It did not sear, it did not sting, it did not flash with blood. But it ached, chilled to her soul. The strike blew her backwards into the powder, knocking the breath from her lungs and the blade from her hand. The stars swam above her, Gods witness to her hubris. But... The sky seemed so much smaller. Where was the Lark?

Her eye. It had taken her eye.

She forced herself to her feet with a groan, head still swimming. Globs of blood, already ice, clung to her fur below her right eye. Her swaying vision locked onto the wraith, ten feet away, limping around her on its mangled back leg and shoulder. Where were Eli and Vitak? Why didn't they-- no, she had run too far. Even if they heard her shot, they wouldn't get here in time to help her. Only to find her.

Her right ear rang. Her face set to stone. Her hand found the rondel at her hip. The creature wailed at her again, and she smirked, beckoning it on. Neither of them would survive this night.

Time itself slowed, sluggish in the cold. The firnwraith bounded towards her, lopsided on its wounds, screaming its defiant last. She opened her arms to it, inviting it to wrap its spindly limbs about her as it had the girl. It threw her like a sack of sand to the ground, bladed fingers popping the stitches of her quilted armor down her back, through her skin. Its mouth gaped for her throat-- but her knife was already there.

With a sickening pop, the stiff blade thrust up through its chin, pinning its mouth shut just as it fell against her. Fresh quicksilver ran down her hand and onto her chest. She roared, driving it further into the construct's skull, the last of her strength cracking palate and shifting bone.

It shuddered, one low, stifled moan as its eyes flickered and died, leaving its face blank and dark. With a great effort, she rolled it off, liquid metal running from her front and pooling about her.

"Five."

Her eye numbed. The deadness crept out from her wound into her skull. Exhaustion caught up with her all at once, every limb heavy. Hoarfrost would take her soon. She knew that. Take Luto's leg, too. Maybe at least he'd get back to town in time for the Astor to stop it. Her good eye searched the twinkling lights above until it settled on the Lark, six bright beacons that would guide her past the Firmament. Drinking in their beauty, the last she'd ever see, she let her tired lid drift closed, and let go.