Free Etherwalker by Cameron Dayton Page B

in time, rolling quickly to his right.
    Her reflexes were quicker. A cold hand snapped around his ankle like a vise of frosty iron, and Enoch found himself being pulled under the empty smile. She had her dagger at his throat in a flash. She leaned over to kiss his forehead—the blessing of a Serpent Wife before sending her victim to hell.
    The lips were ice on his brow, and Enoch felt no breath on his face. A voice at the back of his head commented, she doesn’t even breathe.
    Enoch opened his eyes and paused . He saw them. The glowing lines, the swirling motes of power and energy. They were hard to see, buried under the coat of flesh, but they were there. The whorls and sparks danced in a pattern more intricate than those in the windmill, even more than the coldman’s weapon. Enoch didn’t know where to push, if he could even interrupt the complex system woven through her skeleton. The woman’s dagger slid slowly across his neck, and warmth began to run down his chest.
    In desperation, Enoch pushed with his mind. Pushed everywhere, twisting lines of force and stirring bright motes with frantic abandon.
    The dagger stopped. A shudder passed through her, and then she was still. Enoch crawled out from under her dagger, hand to his neck to staunch the blood.
    First a crackle, then a hiss came from the witch frozen at his feet.
    “Ssss . . . an etherwalker . . . Ssstill alive!”
    Enoch looked deeply and saw that the lines and motes he had pushed were rearranging themselves rapidly. Whatever he had done, the witch was repairing. A pale hand flexed spasmodically, and the hissing turned into a whine. Her dead eyes widened and in one swift movement, she lurched to her feet.
    “You must be what the blackssspawn sssearch for. The Hunt! It sssearches for you.”
    Enoch pushed again; the witch crumpled to the ground and was still. Still, but not dead—after a few heavy seconds of silence, a faint whirring sound whispered from her chest. Enoch decided to escape while he could.
    Grabbing his swords, pulling them over his shoulder with one hand, he limped to the ragged door. His neck was still bleeding, although it had slowed—luckily her dagger had only cut through skin. Enoch’s ankle was numb where she had grabbed it. Peering through the thin cloth veil, he could just make out several forms striding toward him. The other thieves had heard the struggle and had come to investigate.
    Enoch cast around frantically, desperate for an escape. At last he saw a collapsed hallway behind the altar. The sputtering copper lamp provided meager light, and it was difficult to see if he would be able to fit through the tumbled masonry. He lifted the lamp, and it dawned on him.
    As the first thief lifted the veil to enter the temple, the lamp smashed into his face. Both veil and brigand burst into flame as the oil doused them, and the wind fanned the fire until it caught onto the few thieves unlucky enough to have crowded in behind him. It was enough of a distraction for Enoch to squeeze himself through the stones of the collapsed hallway unnoticed. Near the back, he found a crack large enough for him to slip through. And just like that he was outside the temple, with the sound of the shouting thieves behind him. He pulled his hand away from his neck and wiped the blood on his pant leg. The bleeding had slowed.
    I did it! They’ll never find me in these ruins. I just need to put some distance between us.
    Enoch’s confidence died as more thieves rounded the corner of the temple.
    *  *  *  *
    Rictus stirred from his dreamless sleep to the shouts of angry men. Cursing soundly, he rose from his tomb and decided to take a look at what had them so excited.
    And at this time of night they’re bound to wake the dead.
    Rictus often joked with himself. Sure, he’d heard it all before, but as he was fond of telling himself, the commentary keeps away the crazy. Even stale commentary.
    After a few millennia, you run out of new material.
    So the