He climbed toward his camp, but the sound pursued him, scratching at his ears, shredding his sense of solace. It was high-pitched, like the screech of a house cat. Irritation grew inside him — along with a trickle of curiosity.
What was wrong with it?
He reached his small camp and plotted how to break down his tent and clear out his gear to leave no trace of his trespass here.
Still, none of his thoughts lessened the ache of that cry in his ears. It was like hearing the scratching of a dry branch against a bedroom window’s glass. The more one tried to ignore it and return to slumber, the louder it became.
He had at best one more night alone in the desert. If he didn’t do something about that mewling, he would never enjoy his last moments of peace.
He stared in the direction of the crying, took one step, then another toward its source. Before he knew it, he was running across the sun-washed sand, flying over the dunes. As he drew closer, the sound grew louder, drawing him inexplicably onward. A part of him recognized something unnatural about this hunt, how it drew him, but he sped faster anyway.
At last, he spotted the source in the distance. The mewling rose from an acacia bush that cast a faraway shadow. The desert tree must have found an underground water source, its tough roots fighting for survival in this dry land. The thorny trunk listed to one side, a testament to the relentless winds.
Long before he reached the tree, a noxious smell struck him. Even upwind, the scent was familiar, marking the presence of a beast corrupted by the blood of a strigoi into something monstrous.
A blasphemare.
Was it that corrupted blood that had drawn him so inextricably across the desert? Had its evil impinged upon his already sharpened senses — senses honed from weeks of mining the sands for those malevolent drops? He slowed enough to pull his blades from their wrist sheaths. Sunlight flashed off the silver knives, ancient karambits, each curved like a leopard’s claw. He would need such claws to fight what lay ahead. By now, he could identify the scent of his prey: a blasphemare lion.
He circled the tree from a distance. His eyes searched the shadows until he spotted a mound of tawny fur, mostly hidden beneath the bower. In her natural form, the lioness must have been stunning. Even as a tainted creature, her magnificence was undeniable. The corruption had filled her form with thick muscle, while her fur grew thick as velvet. Even her massive head, resting between her paws, revealed an intelligent face.
Still, sickness throbbed in each weary beat of her heart.
As he drew closer to her, he noted black blood crusted on her shoulder. It appeared a wide swath of fur had been burned away across her flanks.
He could guess the origin of this corrupted lioness — and her injuries. He pictured the hordes of blasphemare that had accompanied Judas’s army during the battle fought here last winter. There had been jackals, hyenas, and a handful of lions. Rhun had believed that such beasts had been driven off or killed, along with the strigoi forces, at the end of that war, when a holy angelic fire had swept across these sands.
Afterward, a Sanguinist team had been sent forth to hunt down any straggling survivors, but clearly this beast must have escaped the fire and the hunters.
Even wounded, she had survived.
She raised her golden muzzle and snarled in his direction. Her eyes glowed crimson out of the shadows, their true color stolen by the strigoi blood that had corrupted her. But even this effort seemed to sap her remaining strength. Her head sank back again to her paws. She had not long to live.
Should I end her suffering or wait for her to die?
He moved forward, closing the distance, still unsure. But before he could decide, she pounced out of the shadows and into the burning sunlight. The move caught him off guard. He managed to roll to the side, but sharp claws raked his left arm.
He spun to face her again as his blood dripped onto the hot sand.
She lowered into a wary crouch. The skin on her muzzle wrinkled back into a hiss. The sound chilled even his cold heart. She was a powerful foe, but she could not spend much time away from the tree’s shadow. She was still blasphemare, and she would weaken quickly in the direct sunlight.
He moved to place himself between her and the safety of the tree.
The threat agitated her, setting her tail to swishing in savage arcs. She bunched her hind legs and leaped. Yellow teeth aimed for his neck.
Rhun met the challenge this time, jumping toward her in turn, a plan in mind. He spun to the side at the last second, dragging his silver knife across her burned shoulder. He landed in a roll, turning to keep her in sight.
Blood flowed heavily out of the laceration, pouring forth like pitch, thick and black. It was a mortal wound. He backed away, giving her the leeway to retreat into the shadows and die in peace.
Instead, an unearthly yowl burst from deep in her chest — and she was upon him again, ignoring the safety of the shadows to attack him in full sunlight.
Caught off guard by this surprising assault, Rhun moved too slowly. Her teeth closed on his left wrist, grinding together, trying to crush his bones. His blade fell from his fingers.
Twisting in her grip, he slashed down with his other hand — sinking that blade into her eye.
She screamed in agony, loosening her jaws on his damaged wrist. He pulled his arm free, digging his heels into the sand and pushing away from her. He cradled his damaged wrist against his chest, girding for another charge.
But his blade had struck true, and she collapsed on the sand. Her one good eye looked into his. The crimson glow faded to a deep golden brown before she closed her eye for the last time.
The curse had left her in the end, as it always did.
Rhun whispered, “Dominus vobiscum.”
With yet another trace of corruption removed from these sands, Rhun began to turn away — when once again a plaintive mewling reached his ears.
He stopped and turned back, cocking his head. He heard the soft skitter of another heartbeat. A small shadow sidled out from the shadows, moving toward the dead lioness.
A cub.
Its fur was snowy and pure.
Rhun stared in shock. The lioness must have been pregnant, giving the last of her life to give birth, a mother’s final sacrifice. He now understood why she hadn’t retreated to the shadows when given the opportunity. The lioness had been fighting him in her final moments to protect her offspring, to drive him away from her cub.
The infant nosed the lifeless bulk of its mother. Dread filled Rhun. If the cub had been born of her tainted womb and had fed on her corrupted blood, then it was surely blasphemare as well.
I will have to destroy it, too.
He collected the blade that had dropped into the sand.
The cub nudged its mother’s head, trying to get her to rise. It mewled as if it knew it was orphaned and abandoned.
As he edged toward the creature, Rhun studied it cautiously. While it scarcely reached his knee, even such small blasphemare could be dangerous. Closer now, he noted its snowy coat bore grayish rosettes, mostly dotting its round forehead. The cub must have been born after the battle, making it no more than twelve weeks old.
If Rhun had not stumbled upon the cub, it would have died an agonizing death under the sun or starved to death in the shadows.
It would be a kindness to take its life.
His grip tightened on his karambit.
Sensing his approach for the first time, the young cub looked up at him, it eyes shining in the sunlight. It sank back on its haunches, revealing it was a male. The cub leaned his head back and meowed loudly, clearly demanding something from him.