Though beasts may rise, or hordes travel in packs, no number is too great for you, for I have made you supreme in the land—the Book of Law, The Sacral Compendium

  Maro sat huddled in his dark grey coat, pulling it tight against the dropping temperature. Clouds rolled in while he slept, and from the looks of it, the Autarch wasn’t done making a shitty situation worse. The winter had been dry, the last rain months ago, and now as it warmed up, here came a cold snap.

  Any moment now, he’s going to piss on me, the insufferable little shit.

  A drizzle would make an already miserable Maro more unbearable, but he doubted a light sprinkle awaited him. It didn’t help his perpetual state of coldness, and sitting here, shivering in his boots while the sky drenched him, wasn’t appealing. It reminded him too much of his time in the army.

  Bloodbane let him sleep first, and the apprehension of handing over his weapon while slumbering didn’t bring the best rest. Had it been any other situation, a refusal would be in order. With the mimic so close that Maro mistook it for a genuine chuckle made his asshole clench tighter than trying to hurry to the privy at night. The way he saw it, if he died by Bloodbane’s hands while he slept, it beat having his throat torn out by some animal.

  He wouldn’t have brought me just to kill me.

  A soft rumble overhead prepared Maro for the worst—nothing more terrible than being cold, unless you added water to the situation. A gust of wind kicked up, causing the trees to sway with an angry hiss like a swarm of distant hornets. He wrapped his arms around his chest, tucking each hand into the pits of his opposite arms.

  Damn you, Autarch; you must really hate my ass.

  And if the Everlasting Autarch did, Maro could blame no one but himself. Did the Almighty have some running joke, or did fate have a sick sense of humor? Maro’s time in the army had been some of the worst experiences in life: exhausted, sleep-deprived, terrified, cold, wet, with people allowing strange fungus to grow on their feet. Every day brought another dice roll to see if you lived, or what other afflictions plagued you. Maro found himself profoundly grateful no rot grew on his nut sack, not like that poor kid, McNeily, who bitched and whined every day. He refused to change or wash his underwear because he thought they were lucky.

  The man survives one firefight, and he attributed it to his shit-stained drawers.

  Maro felt sorry for the kid, but more troubled by what became of him; however, his demerit of intolerance wouldn’t allow for such sentiments. McNeily’s stupidity got him in the end, and when the healers finally made their rounds, castration only staved off the inevitable.

  Ain’t no way to live.

  Maro shook his head, closing his eyes while the chilly wind numbed his face.

  McNeily laid screaming until someone felt pity enough to feed him a musket ball. When the smoke cleared, no one thought less of the man who pulled the trigger, and Maro never knew who’d done the deed. He didn’t want to. The official reports said McNeily shot himself because he couldn’t bear the pain anymore.

  He grunted. Without a reason to go on, I’d shoot myself.

  He made many mistakes in life, and not insisting on McNeily’s hygiene was one of them, but he couldn’t decide for people. Each had their own lives, and he could only hope they did their best. Advice was marvelous—when you asked for it. Otherwise, it festered like an irritant.

  Maro glanced at the snoring bounty hunter under his wagon, amazed to find him wedged between the undercarriage and the suspended pallet. Bloodbane was a mound underneath, a log between the two axles. This brought a chuckle to Maro, but he stifled it as to not wake him.

  He turned away, gazing out over the tall grass, the wild oaks, and the cedar trees tangled through the vegetation like Runnel’s untamed beard. Maro let his mind drift to his childhood, anything to take his mind off the monotony of keeping watch, and to keep his thoughts from drifting back to McNeily, but it didn’t work.

  Thinking about McNeily soured his mood. When he’d been younger, his uncle, Cosanto, his mother’s brother, told him about a monster called an ekayu. As a little boy, he could never remember the name, so his uncle told him it was the butt monster. If Maro didn’t behave, the ekayu would come out of the darkness and bite him on the butt. For the next half-year, his poor mother watched him prowl around the house, holding his cheeks, making sure no monster came within striking distance. His mother, being a devout woman, prayed for him, not knowing the cause of such brash behavior, and their religious order, the House of Lust and Candor, told her not to worry, that he’d grow into a fine follower and produce many offspring.

  I’m thinking those holy men are full of shit. No kids, and no woman to tango with, and I ain’t been to the holy house in I don’t know how long.

  A single splash against the brim of Maro’s black hat broke into his thoughts. He shifted his shoulders, his eyes scanning the darkness.

  “Shit,” he muttered to himself.

  And here it comes, the rain, the Autarch’s way of pissing on me, and showing how little he cares for my wellbeing.

  Of course, if Maro became a god, he’d do a lot worse than bringing thunderstorms. Knowing his temperament, he’d drive people insane. And if no one could resist his power … he let the sentiments die.

  Damn good thing I ain’t a god.

  His eyes swept left to right as the singular droplets picked up, becoming a slight drizzle. Now, out there in the darkness, everything moved. Almost every tree limb rocked up and down as the water hit the branches, and with the gusts of wind, they moved back and forth. They were like monsters coming alive, stuck in the ground because dirt and rock covered their feet. He glanced at Bloodbane. The Mium still slept in that contraption. As long as it didn’t flood, he’d stay dry.

  Lucky bastard.

  Drallus’s warning and Horace’s words still caused Maro to doubt Runnel’s intentions, not to mention the shovel, a strange tool for a hunt, but maybe Bloodbane spoke the truth? Did the Mium intend to bury him should he die?

  You’re going to be disappointed. I don’t kill easy, and I refuse to die until I’m good and ready to give up the ghost.

  The precipitation came heavier now, and Maro took a quick peek skyward. Water splashed on his cheeks and got into his eyes. He blinked to clear the water.

  The Autarch’s making it easy for him, freezing me to death.

  Maro, still holding his arms to his chest, uncrossed his right hand and reached for the fire, coaxing the flames higher. The heat washed over him for a brief second before they returned to their normal size. He didn’t want to manipulate it too much, otherwise the curse would start on the tips of his fingers. Having the boons such as fire, water, and life also meant you had to contend with the curses. Too much of the corruption, and you’d turn into the Cursed. His uncle, Cosanto, didn’t need to tell him about the ekayu, not when real life bogeymen existed.

  And anyone of us could become them. That ain’t something they teach in school.

  Getting to his feet, he snagged a log from the pile they’d stacked before turning in. Wood placed, Maro grabbed his pack and set it over the remaining logs.

  Won’t do to have soaked wood. I’ll have to play with the flames to keep it going.

  As he turned back to his sitting spot, another movement shifted at the corner of his vision. He froze. His head snapped to the right, where the movement had been. The tall grass moved, but he couldn’t see anything. That creeping chill came back; it rolled down his arms. Maro squinted, willing the shadows to melt away, but nothing manifested. The swaying grass kicked up by the wind made it impossible to be sure.

  “Hmm.”

  Was it an animal, the wind, or the mimic? A tension pricked the space between his shoulder blades, like the tip of the knife ready to plunge through his soft skin. Remaining still, his eyes did the roving, a frantic, darting search of the trees, the grass, the spaces between shrubs, and the darkness blanketing it all.

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  Nothing.

  But the quiet … that foretold what he couldn’t detect. He took a deep breath through his nose, staring intently into the night. The oh-so-cold hand of trepidation slipped beneath his skin and held his belly like a man holding the swelling womb of a lover. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, and no amount of logical, self recrimination alleviated the sensation.

  “Get it together,” he whispered to himself.

  Tight bands encircled his chest, making it difficult to breathe. His hand shook from the cold, not the fear—at least, that’s what he told himself. His flesh blossomed with a fresh ripple of goosebumps.

  And then, he heard it: a grunt.

  His grunt.

  Shit, that’s what I sound like?

  The mimic had to be close enough to hear him, and considering the quietness of such a sound, he might’ve been right up on him. His scalp tingled at the thought. The mimic could’ve been a single pounce away from tearing out his back. His heart fluttered in his chest, realizing how close death had come, and turned away.

  Unless they have god-like hearing.

  Runnel hadn’t covered that aspect. Or perhaps he didn’t know? Either way, the thought settled into his gut as comfortably as a red-hot fire poker searing his insides.

  Maro heard his grunt again. His eyes shifted to the tall grass in front of him. The towering stalks swayed in a sudden gale, but not quite strong enough to howl.

  That’ll come soon enough.

  An owl hooted again, copied by two others. A ticking sound followed, like something coming from the back of the throat, a slow croak, the beginnings of forming a word.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Chill aside, and numb fingers, his hands shook all the more.

  Not terrified, not terrified, just the sudden urge to shit, that’s all.

  He knew this feeling well. It happened before all battles, when bullets started flying and people were dying, screaming out agony to their god, that’s when the body said, ‘Oh, lovely time to shit or piss or vomit,’ while your mind wrestled with the ludicrous reaction.

  Maro hobbled backwards, never taking his eyes off the grass. Now that he moved, he could feel the coldness in his legs. The wind and rain tossed the foliage and pasture in sporadic whims. A steady bead dribbled from the brim of his hat, dripping past his eyes. The back of his boots hit something, and he glanced down.

  The wood pile.

  Eyes back to the front, Maro reached for his bag sitting atop the stack with this left hand, rummaging for the bracer he bought from Ciacus. The metal brushed his fingers, pricked the tips, and he pulled it out, clamping it around his left forearm and outside his coat. At his right hip, he still had his single-shot pistol, but he didn’t plan to draw it until certain of this target. By then, it might be too late.

  Not that it’d do anything.

  Or would it?

  Bloodbane’s chuckle sounded from his left, and Maro snapped his head in that direction.

  What the hell? It moved?

  Followed by his grunt to the front.

  His eyes went back to that spot.

  Shit, both of them.

  “Wha’s tha’,” Runnel’s thick, sleepy accent called from under the wagon.

  “Mimics,” Maro said, his voice grating after so many hours of disuse. “Get your fat ass up.”

  The thunder crackled overhead with a mighty boom. If the mimics made any more sound, those precious seconds drowned it out.

  “Huh huh huh,” came Bloodbane’s deep belly laugh, but it still emanated from Maro’s left.

  Maro’s grunt, “Hmm,” came from the front.

  “Fuck.” Maro said.

  “Fuck,” one echoed back.

  “Huh huh huh.”

  An ungoldy, piercing howl came from the both of them. The screech was painful, enough to make Maro wince and cover his ears. Pain pierced him to his teeth, like when he ate snow or ice the first time. The horses whined in terror, and Maro spared a quick glance at the tethered Bitch. She stirred, trying to look around as he moved.

  By the Autarch, that stings! He rubbed the nub of his ear.

  Maro slipped his left hand to his belt, pulling his serrated knife from its sheath. Maro knew warfare, and these intimidation tactics meant only one thing. An imminent attack was coming; now, the mimics had to talk themselves into it—so to speak.

  “They come now,” Runnel said from somewhere behind him.

  Yeah, no shit. Maro’s eyes darted left, right, and center, frantic to see any sign that might give him a moment of warning.

  “Huh huh huh,” cackled one.

  “Huh huh huh,” echoed the other.

  His breath came fast through the nose and out of his mouth. He whispered, hyping himself for the coming battle. “Come on, you sons of bitches!”

  By now, Runnel had crawled out from under the wagon, and his footfalls placed him just behind Maro; the end of a long barrel musket poked out past Maro, and he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision.

  “Come, you dogs!” Runnel shouted.

  “Uhh …”

  That isn’t the smartest idea.

  “They think twice,” Runnel explained. “Now, two of us and them. By yourself, hunger makes them bold, but two?” He shook his head. “I think not.”

  “There’s one ahead of me,” Maro said, dipping his hat in that direction. The water beaded off the brim in a rush like a miniature waterfall. “Another to the left.”

  “Bitch is mine.” Runnel aimed his musket to the left, and the notable cocking of the hammer filled Maro’s ears. For a single, nostalgic moment, Maro was back with Jeb during those years with the army.

  Guns, rain, colder than dirt, and fucking terrified; it’s like I never left.

  Maybe that’s why the bounty hunter gig drew Maro in, a familiar touch he couldn’t turn away, why he wanted to track monsters.

  Send a monster to catch one.

  “Mine,” the mimic to the left repeated.

  “Bitch,” came from the front. “Hmm.”

  “Fuck.” Again, back to the left.

  “Maybe we should expand our vocabulary?” Maro muttered.

  “I like. Simple.”

  “We’re at a stalemate. Something’s got to give.”

  “Very well.” Bloodbane fired his one shot. The sudden explosion of fire, gunpowder, and metal was deafening.

  A yelp rose from the grass.

  Did the bastard hit one?

  From the front, the ‘huh huh huh‘ faded, as if the creature retreated.

  Maro let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The rustle of grass grew fainter as the beasts fled, but the wind and downpour picked it right back up. He couldn’t be sure they’d left.

  A feint?

  “Good shot, I think,” Runnel congratulated himself.

  “I’d reload if I were you.”

  “No.” Bloodbane shook his head in two quick motions.

  Damn the Autarch, why do I always get saddled with the halfwits?

  “In this weather? Wet powder will misfire.”

  Okay, yeah, he’s got a point, but it ain’t like I want him to stick the barrel up in the sky during a torrential downpour.

  Some of the tension from earlier eased out of Maro’s shoulders, and he turned to face the other bounty hunter. Runnel stood half naked—the top portion.

  Thank the Autarch for dinky miracles.

  His gut swelled out like he carried a child, and rain beat against his pale, so terribly pale, moon-lit skin. It hurt Maro’s eyes.

  “Damn the Autarch,” he said. “You glow in the dark. Should use you in a lighthouse.”

  Bloodbane let out his belly-filled laugh. “You funny man, Maro.”

  Had Maro not been watching him, he would’ve thought the mimics had returned. “You’ve said that before.”

  Runnel shrugged. “It’s true.” He shot fingers through the unruly tangle of his soaked beard. “Gods, feels good! Be happy! Hope it rains whole time.”

  Knowing the Autarch, he’d do that to spite my ass.

  “Ain’t you cold?”

  “No.” Runnel rubbed his belly, smiling with a malicious grin, but Maro thought his stomach more like a waterskin filled with honey. “I keep warm. Maybe you need fat?”

  Maro twisted his lips and suppressed a grunt. With the Crocottas out there, he didn’t need to give them something more to copy.

  Runnel ran his fingers through his curly, tangled locks, and now that the water added weight to the mess, it extended down to the middle of his back rather than hover around his collar.

  “Glorious!” said the big man. He smacked Maro on the chest with the back of his hand. “Agreed?”

  Maro shook his head.

  “That’s your problem,” Runnel said, wagging his finger. “You don’t enjoy moments. That’s story’s moral: life is moments. You see one big thing.”

  “I’ll remind you to ‘enjoy the moment’ when those mimics are ripping your balls off.”

  Runnel chuckled. “No matter how bad, could be worse.”

  Now, you’ve done it.

  “I don’t know,” Maro answered, “that’s pretty bad.” He cast a glance at Bloodbane. “No more women.”

  That sobered him for a moment, but with a shrug, Runnel said, “Could be dead.”

  Without the aspect of enjoying the finer things in life, or having a family, I’d rather be in the ground.

  But he wouldn’t voice those thoughts to Runnel. Besides thinking him touched in the head, Bloodbane might let Maro die.

  Let’s not give him any motivation to refrain.

  Another crackle of thunder came overhead, and a flash of lightning lit up the night, causing Maro to close his eyes in pain. In that moment of vulnerability, half-blind and head searing with pain, he heard it.

  The sounds of footfalls reached his ringing ears. Rustling of grass caused him to spin around and pull his pistol. The telltale snap of swaying branches made him scan the trees. Runnel reacted, too, aiming his musket towards the sounds.

  What the hell are you going to do with that? Damn thing ain’t loaded!

  Just as the thunder rumbled overhead again, something came crashing from the woods, sliding across the mud-slicked earth. As it neared them, Maro sighted down the barrel, aiming for the head sliding to a stop at his feet. He almost pulled the trigger.

  Staring up at him, first in terror, then in surprise, was a woman.