The boy visibly shrinks under Orion’s scrutiny. “Sluagh, sir. A horde of Sluagh are heading right for us.”
“Why didn’t you start with that?” Orion snaps. He vanishes into thin air, leaving the shaking boy alone with Rachel in his tent.
“What’s a Sluagh?” she asks, taking the last sip of wine.
The Halfling’s eyes widen as he finally seems to notice her. “It’s the souls of the restless dead. Men who didn’t receive their last rights. How—?” He snaps his attention over his shoulder. “Coming!” The boy runs off.
She sets the goblet on the empty tray and makes her way to the tent’s entrance. Men run around in full body armor, armed and ready to die. Orders are barked, though they can’t drown out the screams of the dying. A fire blazes nearby, the smoke and flames already visible through the canvas’ opening. Horses gallop past, trampling those who aren’t fast enough to get out of the way.
Rachel ducks back into the tent, only to find Orion dressing in his uniform in a hurry.
“From what direction did you come?” he asks, buttoning up his shirt as he walks over to the table with the map. “This is where we are right now.” Orion points to where the red stag had been earlier.
Rachel studies the map, noticing the black strip on the western side of the mountain range. She points to it, before she drags her finger to where she guesses the Harrowsgate had opened and let her out.
“You came through The Barrens?” He eyes her with that same stony glare.
“Is that what you call the place with all the rocks?”
“Yes,” Orion says.
“Then yes. Why?”
“You led the Wild Hunt right to us.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” she says.
Without warning, he’s gone again. The shrieking increases around the camp, screams grow louder. The world spins around her, faster and faster, until her equilibrium is so off-kilter, she doubts it’ll ever recalibrate.
Breathing becomes harder as smoke fills the tent, while beads of sweat take shape on her hairline. Rachel blinks away tears, her eyes burning as the gossamer plumes surround her.
“Ziggy,” she coughs, coming back to herself. Rachel backtracks to the opening of the tent, searching the ceiling for the Fae light. Smoke tickles her throat. “Ziggy, we need to go.” Another coughing spell wracks her body.
Ziggy descends, blinking gold to signal his arrival.
She grabs hold of the sphere and pivots, rushing out into the open. Flames lick at the canvas, eating away at whatever is inside. Waves of heat roll through the area as a slight breeze picks up, pushing the fire through the encampment.
Rachel steps forward, ready to move east, to where the fire has not yet spread, when a horse runs past. The soldier on the animal’s back raises his sword high. She ducks out of the way just in time.
“Isn’t that Journey?” she says, looking down at Ziggy.
One flash.
“No ...”
The soldier screams his battle cry at the top of his lungs and disappears into the shroud of smoke. Journey’s loud neigh resounds through the camp. The horse’s fear is unmistakable, makes the threat a reality. Another frightened neigh—cut off too soon, too unnaturally.
Rachel chokes back a sudden sob, her heart breaking for Journey.
Metal meets metal, a groan, and a yell of fury.
Ominous silence succeeds the clash.
Something heavy drops to the ground, followed by a squelch.
Thump.
A severed head rolls out of the smoke, blood still flowing from its neck.
Her heart feels like it’s about to pound its way out of her chest and her mind screams at her to run. Rachel is unable to move, can’t even breathe. She usually has two go-to responses in situations like these—fight-or-flight. Now, however, a third f-word has made itself known: freeze.
A ghastly humanoid creature steps out of the smoke, an apparition from the lowest levels of the eternal abyss. Shriveled skin hangs from its bones, its modesty hardly preserved by the tattered rags it wears. A white skull peeks out from thinning black hair, a chunk of flesh missing from the right side of its face. An axe, too big to wield for an ordinary being, drags behind the creature, leaving a trail of scarlet in its wake.
One large foot lifts above the soldier’s amputated head before stomping down. A sickening crack resounds. The soldier’s filmy eyes first bulge, before one pops out of the socket and the other squishes into oblivion. The foot lifts again. Another stomp, then the heel grinds into the remaining mess.
The Sluagh turns its red eyes on Rachel.
Snap out of it!
Parts of her brain shut down completely—specifically the part regulating pain—in preparation of the inevitable end.
The Sluagh narrows its eyes, confusion twisting its already questionable features into a heinous grimace that promises unending torment.
Hands suddenly wrap around her waist. Then, an immense pressure quickly crushes in around her. She sucks in what could be her final breath as the scene evaporates into nothingness. Darkness replaces smoke, nausea supplants fear. Her blood feels like liquid metal, moving sluggishly through her veins, burning her from the inside. The sudden weightlessness sets in a heartbeat later, combined with the horrible sensation of being ripped apart molecule by molecule.
The world tilts and then rights itself before the nothingness dissipates into a living room. The immense pressure evaporates, leaving her feeling almost hollow.
“Are you insane?” Orion shouts. “You just stood there.”
The residual dizziness after having been glissered to safety makes her feel faint. He catches her before she can crumple into a heap and gently sets her on a plush, red carpet.
“That thing killed Journey.” Her voice warbles. “It killed the soldier ...”
“That’s what Sluaghs do. They kill,” Orion says. “Stay right here,” he enunciates each word.
Rachel nods, still holding onto Ziggy, and Orion vanishes again.
Through blurry vision, she shifts her attention toward the granite mantle where he’d been mere seconds ago, then moves higher to the oversized white sheet covering something against the wall. She looks around. More white sheets protect pieces of large furniture.
“Where the hell am I now?”
