Free Bloodwalk by James P. Davis Page B

for the Hidden Circle. The knots represented the four precepts of their faith—the past, present, future, and fate.
    Hanging within each braid was a single dried fethra flower, its bell upside down in the belief that the blessing of Savras would pour out and give them luck in battle. The standards held no individual markings, no sign of clan or leadership. This was a new tradition and belied those ancient times when the hunters were of the Shaaryan tribes and fought amongst themselves for position and status. The lack of decoration made them all equal and reminded them of their oaths of service and the humility of their chosen profession.
    Each hunter wore traditional archer’s armor. The primary piece was a shoulder and arm guard called an eshtahk, made of layers of lacquered leather and decorative cloth. The opposite arm required free movement for drawing arrows from back-slung quivers. This side was protected by a special cloak woven from wool and the fibers of the ironvine plant that grew on the southern borders of the Qurth Forest. The cloaks were flexible but resistant to the bloodthorns and razorleaf bushes that thrived in the forest. They’d even been known to deflect a blade now and then, though this was often attributed to the oracles who blessed the garments.
    Dreslya Loethe stood on the wall with the gate master, prepared to officiate the gathering. In truth, she awaited the arrival of her younger sister, Elisandrya. Some said the Loethe sisters would be the next high oracle and lord hunter, though only out of earshot of Sameska, who discouraged such wild rumors.
    Dreslya grew more and more impatient, hurriedly acknowledging the calls from below with a sign of welcome as the other hunters announced themselves. She knew Eli was prone to tardiness, but she worried all the same. She did not understand her sister’s love for the open plain and always tried to hide her concern when they met—with little success. Ever since the loss of their parents, Dreslya had withdrawn to service in the church and Eli had run wild, sparked by wanderlust and a sense of adventure inherited from their late father. They spoke little of their lost parents, though the subject seemed to hang between them like a net of thorns.
    Soft thunder rumbled far to the west, beyond the edge of the forest. Dreslya pulled her cloak tight, turning her head to the east and the empty balcony outside the stained glass dome of the temple.
    She imagined Sameska stood hidden behind that glass and watched as the hunters came from far and wide across the Reach. Dreslya shivered, remembering the cold in the high oracle’s voice and demeanor. She needed no divination or cup of fethra petals to tell her that something was wrong.
     

     
    Evil was coming to their doorstep, and a ghostwalker strolled behind it.
    Sameska paced nervously in front of the glass dome of the temple, wringing her hands and revisiting her dreams and visions. A terrible prophecy had come, and the pain of it still ached her old bones and stiff joints. The vision had meaning—and the ghostwalker, probably a nomadic Hoarite, had some part to play. This was troubling, for the Hoarites’ actions were often unpredictable, as were their allegiances. She’d watched him fight viciously against monstrous enemies, though she knew not if he lived still.
    Surely he must, she thought. Savras has shown him to me—surely this wanderer comes at the All-Seeing One’s bidding to aid us, but why this one? A foreigner?
    Sameska rubbed her forehead with both hands, weary of contemplating her disjointed memories. She’d replayed them a thousand times, over and over, and still Savras’s mystery eluded her. She would be cautious at the gathering, revealing only enough to make her followers aware of what might occur, not send them screaming into battle against an unknown foe.
    She must remind them that the soul of prophecy is patience, though little of it soothed her growing anxiety. Flickering remnants of a