We reach the edge of the woods. Here, the light dims, filtered through the thick canopy into rays dotting the floor. Dense layers of fallen logs pile in a green blanket of moss and ferns. The scent of cool, damp earth surrounds us, and from somewhere far away comes the faint trickling of a stream.
As time goes on, I start to notice the finer sounds. The drip of water on a leaf, the thud of a frog leaping onto soft soil. Corian walks several yards away, but our bodies always turn in sync with each other, used to years of our rhythm.
Then I notice a snapped twig against a branch. I pause and lean close for a better look.
Corian senses the shift in my movement without even looking at me. A moment later, he’s at my side, warmth radiating off him, his stare focused up on the twig too.
I sign to him with my gloved hands. “See the angle of the break?”
Corian signs back. “It’s down,” he replies. “Not sideways. Broken by something taller than this branch.” He points into the wood. “Came from that way.”
“Stag?” I ask.
“Would be more snapped branches here, if it was.”
“A scout, maybe? A spy?”
“Could be,” he responds. “I heard the southern patrols caught a prisoner of war fleeing through the valley this morning. There might be others.”
A glint of something wet on the forest floor catches my eye. I crouch. “Blood,” I tell him as I stare down at the single, fresh dot of crimson, the color a shade noticeably darker than human.
Corian nods in agreement, his lips pulled into a tight line. It’s not a stag or a scout. We have tracked hundreds of Ghosts. By now, the smallest hint is enough to let us know they’re nearby.
I point up once at the trees. “Take top watch. I’ll wait for your sign.”
Corian taps a fist quietly against his chest at the same time I do. Then he heads for the trees. In two steps, he pulls himself up into a nook. There he crouches, nearly invisible against the dark wood.
I shift toward the thick undergrowth near a pile of mossy logs. During training, I would glide across floors littered with stacks of coins, careful not to disturb any with my boots. Now I pass between the logs without a sound until I settle into the crevice of a hollow trunk.
Long minutes drag by.
A bird’s trill catches my attention. Corian’s call. I turn my eyes up to him. He’s still hunched in the shadow of the tree nook. He signs to me again, pointing three fingers to my right. Then three fingers toward me.
“Three Ghosts east of you. Three Ghosts north. A hundred feet away.”
They’re here.
My hands rest against the hilts of my swords. I always choose them first. They are the quietest, they have the range I need, and above all, they let me move quickly. In the trees, Corian pulls a gun from its holster and rests his finger on the trigger.
Another pause, followed by an abbreviated sign from Corian: “Warning. Close by.”
The forest’s silence gives way. The crack of twigs against rotting feet. The crumble of sodden leaves.
Then, finally, I hear it.
The gnashing of fangs wet with blood.
To my right comes the first trio. They move on all fours in a jolty skitter, their arms stretched longer than their legs. An iron cuff circles each of their necks to protect their vulnerable vein. The closest of them turns its milky eyes skyward, searching the treetops before continuing on. New blood drips down its humanlike chin.
I have seen countless Ghosts on the warfront. And yet, to this day, that four-limbed skitter still makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
They edge closer. As they do, the second trio comes into view. They reach up on two legs, stretching themselves tall as they peer between the trees.
My gaze focuses on the leader of the group. It is bigger than the others, its cracked muscles more prominent. Like alligators in the southern lands, Ghosts continue to grow in size and strength until something kills them. If nothing does, they will live forever. Some, I hear, tower higher than elephants.
When this one stretches itself up to its full height, it looks like a hulking beast, its skin cracked and bleeding.
Up in the trees, Corian rises into a predator’s crouch and lifts his gun. I tense, willing him to be safe. My hands close on the hilts of my swords. The stillness