The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

way as the creature attacked. But their terror left them unable to flee, and it would only be a matter of time before the vampire pounced upon them.

If not for Mag.

She ran up to the beast from behind, lunging the last pace. It heard her at the last instant and spun—but just a bit too slowly. Her spearhead slashed a deep rent in its side, and it fell back, giving a horrible, guttural screech.

The vampire crouched, hissing and showing its teeth. Mag fell back to defense, her shield up. The vampire began to edge left, trying to circle her, and she did the same, so that they maneuvered around each other. She got herself between the vampire and the bystanders.

“You should be going,” Mag said over her shoulder. The townspeople stared at her for a moment in terror before turning and scrambling away.

The vampire’s eyes shifted away from Mag to watch them go. It tried to leap over her to catch them, but Mag predicted the movement. Her spear stabbed upward, the head sinking into the vampire’s shoulder. It screeched and landed hard on its side in the street, rolling and coming up in a crouch. It glared at Mag and hissed again. Over its head, she saw the townspeople vanish behind a building.

“Good,” she said. “Let us finish it, now.”

She leaped to the attack, and the vampire lunged to meet her. Her shield blocked its first swipe, and her spearhead sank into its gut. The vampire screamed as it fell on its back, trying to escape. But Mag followed, thrusting harder on the spear. It pierced flesh and guts, driving through the vampire’s back and into the ground below. The skin around the wooden spear haft turned black and wilted, curling back and away from the wound like paper in a flame. The vampire tried to seize the spear—to pull it out, or mayhap to snap it in half. Mag kicked its claws away.

The vampire shuddered and died.

Mag looked up just as Ashta ran into view. The constable’s eyes fell upon Sinshi lying dead in the street.

“No!” she cried, falling to her knees beside him. She tilted his head to look into his eyes, but they only stared blankly through her.

“Are you hurt?” said Mag.

Ashta shook, gripping Sinshi’s shoulders hard. At last she mastered herself and looked up.

“No.”

“Good. I have to go after the others.”

“What others?” said Ashta. “They have gone.”

Mag paused. She straightened and cocked her head, listening. Lan Shui had gone utterly silent. No more screams, and no more bestial roars.

The fight was over. And deep inside herself, with the ease of long practice, Mag released her trance. Her emotions, her fears, everything came rushing back. For a moment it was overwhelming, and she took a deep breath to maintain her calm. Her shoulders rose and fell, and she was back.

“The wounded will need help,” she told Ashta. Even in her own ears, her voice sounded completely different than it had a moment ago. “Whatever you can do, do it. I have to find Albern.”

Dawn broke.

There were many dead strewn about the streets. The constables—those who remained—began to organize the townsfolk to collect the bodies and to heal the wounded. We gathered Dryleaf from the Shades’ hideout, returned him to our inn, and went to help the survivors.

Yue found us shortly after the vampires fled. She stopped dead on the street, staring at us, and we met her gaze. She looked beyond weary, swaying on her feet, her eyes blinking too rapidly. It was a far cry from the proud, stocky warrior we had met when we first arrived at the town.

I wondered what she was thinking, in those long moments. Did she blame us for the attack? We had returned to the town full of pride and boasting of victory, but those boasts had proven hollow. Yet we could not have known, any better than Yue could, that the vampires had gathered in numbers.

At last she spoke. “We are collecting the wounded at our station,” she said. “If you are not leaving town, then help us bring them.”

We did as she asked. That part was easy, for the dead greatly outnumbered the injured.

It was Northwood all over again. I saw the same despair in the face of everyone we passed, the same confusion. Why? Why had this happened to them? They were simple folk. They farmed, and they worked, and they crafted, and they lived their lives. Horror and death had come upon them without warning, without reason. They did not deserve this, and they could scarcely hope to combat it.

When we had fetched all the wounded who had been found in the town, Mag and I stood silent in the street for a while. The night air was cool, and it helped to chill the heat we had worked up with our grisly task. I looked up into the sky, trying to regain a sense of space after spending several hours looking only at dead and dying townsfolk within arm’s reach. Mag stared down at her hands.

“Let us get food and something to drink,” I said at last.

Mag only nodded. I led her through the streets to our inn. Dryleaf was in the common room, leaning against a wall in the corner, nodding into his chest. I did not want to wake him—the old man had been up most of the night, and he deserved a good rest.

As I went to the barman and ordered breakfast and tea, Mag slumped at a table near the hearth. She stared at her hands the whole time, even as food was brought to us, even as I began to eat. She did not touch her own food. I kept glancing over at her, but she did not meet my gaze even once. Something was weighing on her, that was clear.

Finally I had had enough. “Come on, Mag,” I said. “Eat something. And say whatever it is you must