Blood Bond

The sway of the warhorse was a torment. Each movement amplified the gnawing void inside me. It wasn't in my stomach, no, more like my chest, but from a depth far deeper than this body should hold, clawing its way out.

Shafts of sunlight glared through the forest canopy, each ray a searing intrusion. The blue flames rippling over Stonehand's dark iron armor burned my vision. His scent – leather, horse, old steel, earthy and metallic – churned the air. My knuckles turned white where I gripped the pommel, every muscle in my body strung taut as I fought to slam shut the thing thrashing to get out. It was trying to claw its way free with each powerful rise and fall of the mount beneath me.

Focus. Calm. Stillness.

We broke out of the forest trail onto a wider road. Through the haze of my delirium, I noticed a chilling change. The throngs of pilgrims –no, refugees– that had previously choked the roadsides had mostly vanished. As our column rounded a bend, a harsh sight cut through my stupor: grim-faced soldiers prodding people like cattle into a crude, open-topped wagon. They were mostly men, the sturdier ones, their faces sunken and vacant as they trudged toward their fate. Beyond them, only a few truly haggard stragglers now dotted the edges of the main road.

"What is.. happening to them?" The image of the herded men carved itself into my mind.

"Who? Them vermin?" Stonehand followed my gaze toward the distant wagon, then made a short, dismissive wave of his hand. "We cleaned them up. One less draw on our stocks. They served their purpose here."

There was a protest at my throat, but the thing inside of me thrashed and I clenched my jaw, pushing it back.

A flicker of movement at the edge of the trees ahead resolved into figures. I tensed. Stonehand's hand went to his axe.

The foremost figure lowered the hood of his cloak. Pointed ears, a refined, almost delicate face, and eyes the color of amethyst – Prince Jarlen. He offered a bland, cool smile. Two grey-clad elves flanked him. They weren't covered head to toe like before, instead they seemed to be wearing more casual gear, suited for normal travel: a grey cloak wrapped around simple cloth tunic and pants. And beneath their sharp eyes was just a small triangular face-wrap that covered their mouth and nose. Their stillness was as unnerving as it was previously.

"Ah, Lord Stonehand," Jarlen's voice, smooth as oiled silk, carried easily over the sounds of the road. "What a delightful surprise to encounter you out here. I heard you were engaged in a rather… fanciful errand." His gaze slid over me, lingering for a split second before returning to Stonehand. "But it seems you have succeeded. As have I, in my own assigned mission."

Stonehand grunted. His eyes narrowed as he scanned past Jarlen and his escorts, to the treeline beyond and then above us. "You're rather prepared for a chance encounter, elf." I followed his gaze and caught glints of movement high in the branches, the subtle outline of grey-clad forms, and flickers of light against the whites of their eyes. My breath hitched. We were surrounded.

Jarlen chuckled, a light, airy sound that held no real mirth. "One can never be too cautious in these times, Lord Stonehand. Mother always told me to be mindful of the pits and cracks on these ill-kept roads."

Stonehand's lip curled. "That sheepskin witch?" He spat out the words, as if tasting something foul. "I'd be glad to have no more need of her advice. That kind of nectar is too sweet for my liking."

Jarlen's smile didn't waver, though his eyes grew cold. "Such strong opinions, Lord Stonehand. Still," he continued, his tone smoothly shifting, "given the… unpredictability of these roads, and the shadows that might gather, perhaps it would be prudent for our parties to travel together as friends and comrades? As we elves like to say, 'A single mask harks to tragedy, while many hails divine comedy.'"

Stonehand snorted again, the sound like rocks grinding. "Comrades? You're just the hired help."

Jarlen's smile remained perfectly in place, apparently unbothered by the insult. Instead, he gestured towards the deeper woods from where a rustle amongst the bushes announced the return of two more grey-clad elves. They dragged a freshly killed Gladehart between them, its white coat stained crimson.

"Ah, excellent," Jarlen purred, his eyes crinkling at the corners as if genuinely pleased. "It seems my hunters have been successful. Lord Stonehand, a midday meal to fortify us before we continue our journey? A small gesture… between friends."

The eyes of Stonehand's men lit up. One of them, a burly man with a scar bisecting his eyebrow, nudged his companion. "Anything's better than that slop the Moonshade cook tried to pass off as stew last night, eh?" I glanced over to him and he had the galls to wink at me. I bit down a response, rubbed at my constricting chest, and looked up to Stonehand who had his eyes glued to the carcass as well.

"Lord Stonehand? Surely you're not thinking of accepting his offer. It's obviously a trap." My voice was a thin tremor against the rough sounds of men dismounting and the crackle of an already started fire.

He laughed again, rumbling and dismissive. "Bah, what's he going to do, girl? Try to poison an Earth Juggernaut? Let them try."

Stonehand gave a curt nod of assent to his men, and they rushed forward. Soon, a proper fire was blazing, and Jarlen's elves began to butcher the Gladehart with a disturbing, almost ritualistic efficiency. The scent of blood, sharp and metallic, mingled with the woodsmoke, a combination that made the void inside me churn with a sickening blend of revulsion and anticipation.

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As the meat began to roast, the smell of cauterized blood made me grimace while the men around me licked their lips. I withdrew to a fallen log away from the fire. Jarlen settled down beside me, his silks rustling, a faint, cloying scent of exotic spices I remembered from the carriage clinging to him. I fought down the instinct to run. "What did you do with Meris?"

Jarlen twirled one hand in the air. "Oh, the maid? It seems that she was rather adept at running, rather annoyingly so. We had to give up the chase, for more important matters. Though, one thing is rather interesting. You know the Dire Bear Brigade?"

He looked over to Stonehand, who reluctantly pulled his gaze away from the smoking meat. "Aye, a nasty pack, but they'll do in a pinch. What of them?"

"Well, when I came back from the chase. I found them all dead, their corpses all dried up, with a curious sheen of frost over each of them. It seems, her highness' little helper had disposed of them. Twenty on one."

Stonehand whistled as they both glanced toward Kael, who had his eyes locked onto us. Jarlen rubbed at the blue crystal on his chest. "It's not a skill that I've heard of, so it is… curious."

—

The air was soon inundated with the aroma of burnt blood; it stabbed at my senses, an affront to the thrashing void inside of me. It was wrong, a waste of what could have sated me. The elves produced skins of what they called "Deepwood Berry Wine," its scent overly sweet and pungent. From somewhere amongst the grey-clad retinue, the delicate, intricate notes of a stringed instrument began to weave through the clearing, joined by a breathy, almost ethereal flute. The melody was unlike anything I'd heard, complex and haunting, strange points of brightness amongst the crude fire and the grim company.

The flute player had his mask down, and I was drawn to the otherworldly beauty of his androgynous face, the way his pointed features flowed into his refined curves, like the rise and fall of his music. Stonehand's men, however, seemed oblivious to the scenery, they were drinking rowdily, and singing off tune to the music. Kael, brought forward by one of the other elves, took an offered skewer of meat and a small cup of the wine, his expression carefully neutral, his eyes missing nothing.

Despite my revulsion to the smell and my misgivings, I took a slice of cooked meat that Stonehand tore off of the torso turning over the flames. I looked at the thing detachedly, clear sinew, strands of muscles, rendered fat, grey, unappetizing. All around, men slobbered as they tore at their chunk of heated flesh, savoring each bite, while I shook from that other deeper hunger wracking my body. What have I become?

I took a small, hesitant bite. The elven music swirled around me, intricate and almost painfully beautiful. The morsel went down as the notes from the flute wound upwards, the strum of strings join it as my stomach began to digest the cells, the melody rose toward a crescendo as the nutrients poured into my blood, along with a familiar torrent of crystals alight with sparking arcs. Cytarabine? What is that doing here? But this wasn't the same as the flood coming out of the needle maw. It felt different… a creeping cold, as if microscopic tendrils were reaching out from the crystals into my cells, freezing them from the inside out, halting their very essence.

How? The question ripped through me, cold and sharp as broken glass. How could these elves possess something so advanced, so modern like chemo? These aren't naturally occurring chemicals!

Then, chaos.

An Ironfell warrior near the fire gave a sudden, choked groan, his eyes rolling back as he clutched his stomach. He slumped forward, scattering embers, his limbs stiffening. Another cried out, a harsh, rasping sound, before collapsing, his body unnaturally still. One by one, Stonehand's men were falling, they'd spasmed briefly, then lay rigid, stiff, as if turned to ill-formed statues.

"Damn you sharpears! I'll crush you!" Stonehand bellowed, lurching to his feet, Grief-Giver half-drawn. His face contorted in rage. He took a staggered step, then another, a deep groan tearing from his chest as an unnatural stiffness began to claim his powerful limbs. Through my blood in him, I felt his own blood rushing through his arteries up toward his soul crystal.

Antidote!

The word resonated out of his crystal as my blood rushed past it. Power seeped into his bloodstream, setting blood cells aglow. But the torrent of crystals raged onwards, oblivious to the glow. Their tendrils reached into cells when they collided, freezing them. He crashed to his knees, then fell heavily onto his side, conscious but rapidly becoming paralyzed, his furious, golden eyes blazing at Jarlen.

Kael, too, had succumbed. His cup clattered to the ground as he crumpled, his body seized by the same unnatural rigidity.

I felt the poison searing through my own system, the icy tendrils reaching for my cells. A desperate, analytical clarity seized me. I focused inward, picturing the diagrams of enzymes, of proteins, that I had seen in my search. I willed my blood to change, to form countermeasures, to create molecular "keys" that could somehow cut or shatter these freezing tendrils. In my mind an image coalesced, of jigsaw pieces turning, spinning, reshaping, to fit against the crystals. My blood was finding a way. Pain seared between my eyes, the hunger momentarily eclipsed by the strain of my control. My breath came in ragged gasps; the world narrowed to the microscopic battlefield within.

A shadow moved off the edge of my vision. Jarlen stopped beside the fallen mound of Stonehand. He kicked aside his axe and spat at him. "You buffoon. You think Mother would spare you of all people, any nectar? No, you're beneath her words." He leaned over Borin and lifted up his neck guard. "Oh, we will definitely have fun with this seed. By the time we're done, you'd wish you didn't have the fortitude."

The jigsaw snapped into place. My blood within had found the key and now each cell took on that shape and spread outwards dispersing the torrent as the keys severed the tendrils at their crystalline source, shattering the structures. I jerked free as if suddenly released from the binding.

Jarlen's purple eyes locked on me, narrowing into a hard frown. Then his eyes swept down to the torn off section of meat that had fallen to the ground. My tiny nibble mark was on it, just a small indentation. His lips curled into a skewed smile. He nodded to himself as if finding the answer to an unvoiced question.

"Your Highness, you really should eat more." His voice slid like silk over steel. "You're barely skin and bones as is…" His gaze flicked over the paralyzed men.

"But alas," his purple eyes were cold and assessing when they returned to me, "it seems we have unfinished business."