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Authors: Brent Weeks
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decision. The power
departed from him, and he felt an odd sense of victory.
Suddenly, it was as if the sun were rising in the south. Vi stood on shaky knees. A hundred paces away, at the enormous sequoys
of the Dark Hunter’s Wood, the air itself turned a brilliant gold, radiating magic. Even to Vi, untrained as she was, it felt
like the kiss of a midsummer’s sunset on her skin.
Then the color deepened to reddish gold. Every dust mote floating in the air, every water droplet in the mists was a flaming
autumnal glory.
When Vi was fifteen, her master, the wetboy Hu Gibbet, had taken her to a country estate for a job. The deader was some lord’s
bastard who’d made himself a successful spice merchant and decided not to repay his underworld Sa’kagé investors. The estate
was covered with maples. That autumn morning Vi moved through a world of gold, carpeted with red-gold leaves, the very air
awash in color. As she stood over the corpse, she had mentally retreated to a place where glorious crimson leaves weren’t
paired with pulsing arterial blood. Hu beat her for it, of course, and to those beatings Vi had mentally acquiesced. A distracted
wetboy is a dead wetboy. A wetboy knows no beauty.
The howl ripped through the wood again, freezing her bones. Moving fast, terribly fast, it changed pitch higher and then lower
and then higher, all in the space of two seconds, as if it were flying to and fro faster than anything could possibly move.
Everywhere it went, it was followed by the faint, tinny sound of rending metal. Then came a man’s scream. More followed.
There was a battle in the wood. No, a massacre.
All the while, the wood pulsed with magic. The flaming red was fading to yellow green and then to the deep green of vitality,
the scent of new grass, fresh flowers.
“Kylar has given it new life,” Vi said aloud. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew Kylar had put something into the
Wood—and that something was rejuvenating the entire forest. Kylar himself felt invigorated, well in a way he hadn’t felt in
the week she’d shared the bond with him. Whole.
Vi felt something wrong behind her. Her hands flashed to the daggers at her belt. Then she was on her back. Even as air whooshed
from her lungs, a crackling ball of blue energy hissed and spat through the air where she’d been standing a moment before.
The most Vi could do was gasp, trying to catch her wind. It was several blind seconds before she could sit up.
Before her, a man wrapped in dark brown leather put his foot on a corpse’s face and wrenched a dagger from its eye. The corpse
was wearing the robes of a Khalidoran Vürdmeister, and black, tattoo-like vir were still twitching under the surface of his
skin. Vi’s savior cleaned his dagger and turned. His feet made no sound. A multitude of cloaks, vests, pocketed shirts, and
pouches of all sizes covered the man, all of them horsehide, all tanned the same deep brown and worn soft from long use. Twin
forward-curving kukris were tucked into the back of his belt, an unstrung scrimshawed short bow was slung over his back, and
Vi could see numerous hilts protruding from his garments. He unlaced a brown mask that concealed all but his eyes and pulled
it back around his shoulders. He had an affable face; wry, almond-shaped brown eyes; loose black hair; and broad, flat features
with high cheekbones. He could only be a Ymmuri stalker.
Stalkers were reputed to be the greatest hunters of all the Ymmuri horse lords. They were said to be invisible in the forests
or on the grassy steppes in the east where the Ymmuri lived. They never shot prey that wasn’t running or on the wing. And
they were all Talented. In other words, they were grassland wetboys. Unlike wetboys, they didn’t kill for pay but for honor.
And fuck me if there isn’t more truth to the stories about them than there is to the ones about us.
The stalker folded his hands behind his back and
departed from him, and he felt an odd sense of victory.
Suddenly, it was as if the sun were rising in the south. Vi stood on shaky knees. A hundred paces away, at the enormous sequoys
of the Dark Hunter’s Wood, the air itself turned a brilliant gold, radiating magic. Even to Vi, untrained as she was, it felt
like the kiss of a midsummer’s sunset on her skin.
Then the color deepened to reddish gold. Every dust mote floating in the air, every water droplet in the mists was a flaming
autumnal glory.
When Vi was fifteen, her master, the wetboy Hu Gibbet, had taken her to a country estate for a job. The deader was some lord’s
bastard who’d made himself a successful spice merchant and decided not to repay his underworld Sa’kagé investors. The estate
was covered with maples. That autumn morning Vi moved through a world of gold, carpeted with red-gold leaves, the very air
awash in color. As she stood over the corpse, she had mentally retreated to a place where glorious crimson leaves weren’t
paired with pulsing arterial blood. Hu beat her for it, of course, and to those beatings Vi had mentally acquiesced. A distracted
wetboy is a dead wetboy. A wetboy knows no beauty.
The howl ripped through the wood again, freezing her bones. Moving fast, terribly fast, it changed pitch higher and then lower
and then higher, all in the space of two seconds, as if it were flying to and fro faster than anything could possibly move.
Everywhere it went, it was followed by the faint, tinny sound of rending metal. Then came a man’s scream. More followed.
There was a battle in the wood. No, a massacre.
All the while, the wood pulsed with magic. The flaming red was fading to yellow green and then to the deep green of vitality,
the scent of new grass, fresh flowers.
“Kylar has given it new life,” Vi said aloud. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew Kylar had put something into the
Wood—and that something was rejuvenating the entire forest. Kylar himself felt invigorated, well in a way he hadn’t felt in
the week she’d shared the bond with him. Whole.
Vi felt something wrong behind her. Her hands flashed to the daggers at her belt. Then she was on her back. Even as air whooshed
from her lungs, a crackling ball of blue energy hissed and spat through the air where she’d been standing a moment before.
The most Vi could do was gasp, trying to catch her wind. It was several blind seconds before she could sit up.
Before her, a man wrapped in dark brown leather put his foot on a corpse’s face and wrenched a dagger from its eye. The corpse
was wearing the robes of a Khalidoran Vürdmeister, and black, tattoo-like vir were still twitching under the surface of his
skin. Vi’s savior cleaned his dagger and turned. His feet made no sound. A multitude of cloaks, vests, pocketed shirts, and
pouches of all sizes covered the man, all of them horsehide, all tanned the same deep brown and worn soft from long use. Twin
forward-curving kukris were tucked into the back of his belt, an unstrung scrimshawed short bow was slung over his back, and
Vi could see numerous hilts protruding from his garments. He unlaced a brown mask that concealed all but his eyes and pulled
it back around his shoulders. He had an affable face; wry, almond-shaped brown eyes; loose black hair; and broad, flat features
with high cheekbones. He could only be a Ymmuri stalker.
Stalkers were reputed to be the greatest hunters of all the Ymmuri horse lords. They were said to be invisible in the forests
or on the grassy steppes in the east where the Ymmuri lived. They never shot prey that wasn’t running or on the wing. And
they were all Talented. In other words, they were grassland wetboys. Unlike wetboys, they didn’t kill for pay but for honor.
And fuck me if there isn’t more truth to the stories about them than there is to the ones about us.
The stalker folded his hands behind his back and
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