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The brothers’ Madaras silence has soured of late. Their fellows can’t see—it is a subtle change, after all—but it is a Master’s duty. There’s a…trick to reading them, you know. Even though their Byrgenwerth overseers taught them speech, they still reside in quiet. I cannot speak their silence with them, but I can see it. There’s something in how the older grips his weapon. The slight wilting of the younger when the hunt is over. Their eyes under their masks.
That, and that he has followed his brother from time to time. Not like the close, single-file of their cooperation—he’s tracking the elder. Which means he also suspects something.
There have been odd beasts in the forest of late. Larger and more reckless prey. It has kept us busy, always summoning, always hunting. But for as many hunters as this has brought into our ranks, it has killed more. No, someone must have killed more. Even among these loathsome nights, this bloodshed is unnatural. The defeat of so many hunters is unnatural.
Where is he going? I have waited to act on my suspicions, for the very thought of a traitor within the League turns my stomach. I’ll rip his throat right out of his neck if he is guilty, rend the writhing vermin out of his putrid innards.
It is time for me to step in.
****
League gatherings were not commonplace. But where there was prey, there were Hunters. On long nights it was only a matter of time before they found each other.
This time, five groups of hunters had converged in the woods, each pursing a different Darkbeast. The small hunting parties merged into a swarming pack, which slaughtered all five beasts en masse. A sopping ring of blood and gunpowder was all that remained on the forest floor—not even scraps of flesh for the dogs to pick clean. After such lavish carnage, it was miraculous that any of them noticed the sky was beginning to blanch.
Many of the group vanished into motes of white light as the sky turned purple with the coming dawn. The remaining hunters seemed to form a core group, with all of them falling into step behind a lean man heading for high ground. A few scourge-ridden huntsmen, drawn by the carnage of their hunt, swatted wildly at the hunters with harrows and swords, but they were dispatched easily. One hunter at the rear swung his cleaver straight through the beast’s neck. The leader struck another through the skull. What remained were finished with volleys of bullets from the rest.
Once they found relative safety, they turned, first, to business. Slim bars of saddle soap and polish came forth to revive worn gloves and masks. Vials of blood and oil were passed among them freely until both hunters and weapons were fit again. Their rituals of care loosened tongues and shoulders, clearing blood and the fog of battle from their minds.
One hunter, however—a broad man in a pointed hood—laughed louder and drank deeper than the rest, and egged his fellows on to do the same. The man had even brought out additional syringes, sharing blood freely from his own stock.
After such a glorious hunt, it was easy for the mood to shift from one of quiet work to indulgence. Though all hunters knew the dangers of the sweet blood, they were also closest to its pleasures—a few extra doses was barely a half-pint. It would not intoxicate a hunter easily.
Inspired by the bawdy joy of the man in the pointed hood, others—even the eldest hunters—began to join in, passing vials and tin cups among themselves ’til the gathering transformed to pure carousal.
The Master never participated in any post-Hunt revelry. Usually, he would stay with his confederates during their festivities—a fixed point in the throng, like a clean stake jutting proudly amid a sea of bodies. He would pace in his uniform and helm, speaking to the wounded, and giving congratulations to the victors. He would remain until they were all satiated, but would himself refuse every drink—blood and spirits alike—with a polite salute, and rebuff every proposition with a tilt of the head or a gruff laugh.
But tonight, the Master was quiet. He did not intervene in his hunters’ gluttony, nor tend to his charges. Not when a trio of fellows melted into a shadowy corner for a quick tryst. Not when a few blood vials turned to ten, twenty, loosening their movements ’til they staggered and leaned. Not even when someone brought out stronger potions, sedatives and elixirs, leaving them glassy-eyed and slack-mouthed.
In fact, so unobtrusive was he, and so unchecked the debauchery, that no one could say for certain whether he had really been there at all.
*****
Brother hides something. Even from me. He chooses different hunts than mine, comes back after the others. Leaves in the day-time when he thinks I sleep. The village always talks secrets—they have too many words for secrets—but I don’t care about theirs.
I could follow him. Sometimes. But he’d know. He would hear. And Madaras doesn’t worry. That means brother’s safe. So I don’t have to either. But we’ve never had secrets before. What does brother hide?
*****
Tonight is my chance. If my suspicions are true—if he has already sunk so low—then I doubt my presence will deter him now. It is a perfect temptation. With so many confederates gathered, minds and bodies full with blood, he should have easy prey. As will I.
“Another glorious night ended, my confederates!” I bellow and salute them. The vise in my chest tightens when they raise their hands to me in unison. They are mine. I see the ghosts of their fallen comrades—they, too, are still mine. And I must fail them no more.
“Madaras!” The elder stiffens. I point to the younger. “You’re in back. Let us make camp before disbanding.” I feel a smile come and make sure they hear it in my voice: “Your spoils must be rich tonight.”
Dark laughter travels through the lineup. Madaras does not join. Is he solemn? Is he yet my confederate? But he makes my skin prickle and writhe. His eyes dart to his brother, then move through the crowd.
As the hours pass into daybreak I watch him urge his fellows to drunkenness. He remains lucid despite the volume of blood he has used. The younger brother sits near him, behind and to his left. He tugs on his sleeve, once, and looks into his eyes. He is disappointed with what he sees—or at least, he was denied what he asked for. He retreats a few steps.
My hand reaches for the stock of my gun. Pure instinct. But I cannot act with haste: he is a confederate. I must have proof.
The elder Madaras’s skills are sharp tonight, for he ducks behind the slumping drunkards in the time it takes for one of the stumbling confederates to knock down his brother. He is grabbing the wrist of an unseasoned hunter—a hunter fresh off the heels of the dream—one who has not quite yet learned the limits of his waking body. His wits must have been drowned in the blood: he has no lantern, no firearm, no coat, no balance. The hunters vanish into the dappled grey light that begins to dot the forest.
When the younger snaps upright, he first looks for his brother and pivots sharply when he cannot find him. He does not even pause to search the rest of the camp, but tilts his head as if to listen before heading in his brother’s direction. My blood sings even though the moon fades; it pulls me to follow him. The night may be near its end, but my hunt has just begun.
*****
Brother walks so loud it’s like he doesn’t even care. He’s running and crunching on twigs and leaves, and there’s another with him who’s surprised by the snakes in the grass and stumbles over the ground.
Why hasn’t brother done something? I can’t keep up without being too loud. But if I don’t hurry, the other will find Madaras, and he will think she’s a beast, hunt her like a beast and he can’t.
That new hunter. What was his name? Brother’s talking to him, speaking words like it comes naturally to him. The hunter trips again and yelps. Mumbles something back. Brother keeps going. Is he going there on purpose? …Is he taking him there?
How could he? What is he thinking?
…I haven’t seen Madaras in weeks. That means I shouldn’t worry. Brother said I shouldn’t worry. But I do, now. She can’t be safe like this. He can’t be right either, what is wrong with him…
I must stay low. Step lightly. Stay quiet. Be like you were when we were children, and let the forest take you with it. Hurry.
*****
The poor lad can barely stand, I can hear it in his step. I may be too late. I will have to risk detection and run.
*****
Thwack!
The broad man in the pointed hood smacks the other hunter on the back of the head. He slumps forward onto his knees, his head dangling and a trickle of blood trailing from his temple. The attacker catches the hunter by the chest, hoists him from underneath his shoulders, and drags the limp body through leaves and dirt. He looks back and forth and spins around once, watching his back. Then he crouches down. He puts his ear next to the hunter’s mouth and two fingers under the hunter’s glove, feeling for a pulse. The hunter’s chest still rises and falls weakly.
The broad man lifts the hunter over his shoulder then walks across the rock for several meters until they reach a murky pool. Tiny glowing insects buzz above the water. The man steps around the rim of the shallow basin, and once he reaches the other side, he begins to whistle, sharp but quiet.
The beat is jaunty despite its low timbre, as if it were a song for working or walking. But the melody slips in and out of tune, warbling while he walks.
Then, discord builds—from a hum, to a buzz, then into a pulsing hiss. The noise does not shake the broad man; he walks towards it, whistling still though his song is drowned in the sound. He stops and places the hunter on the ground with both arms, making sure the hunter lands gently. He stops whistling.
Out of the darkness before them a massive, scaled trunk emerges, slithering across the dirt. An arrow-shaped head sits atop the long, coiled body, and it reaches its snout over the supine hunter where it meets the broad man’s waiting hand.
A forked tongue, large enough to dwarf the man’s arm, flicks out from the snake’s mouth. Its head bobs up, then side to side, then back to the man’s hand. He moves the snake’s head down slowly as he crouches, then nudges it backward, only stopping when its flickering tongue brushes the hunter’s body. It surveys the hunter, its tongue brushing along his body until it finds warm skin. The snake’s head is nearly as wide as the hunter is tall.
The broad man has stepped back by this point, and rests on his heels in a crouch. His eyes shine through the holes in his mask.
Slowly, the snake draws its head back, its body brought into a tight coil. It hisses and spits once, poised to lunge.
But, before it can snap up its prey, both snake and man turn to look towards their left.
Someone is coming.
The broad man lifts his blunderbuss.
Out of the darkness, the younger Madaras brother dashes into the clearing with his firearm at the ready, eyes fixed on the snake and wide with worry. But he skates to a halt and cocks his head when his eyes meet his brother’s.
The older brother’s lips draw tight and thin, and he advances towards the younger. The younger twin doesn’t move except to reach his hand out to the snake; instead, his older brother takes his hand, then turns and holds his elbow too. His brother escorts him to the snake.
Once he’s close, he frees himself from the older’s grip to bump his forehead against the snake. He runs his hand across its scales. He pulls his hood off and puts his face close to the snake, inspecting its head and the top of its underbelly.
The snake, for its part, curls towards the younger twin and moves its head obligingly. But the older brother’s eyes never leave the snake, and his hand never leaves his saw cleaver. The snake’s tail twitches, and it seems to be breathing heavily, though it nuzzles the younger brother with familiarity.
The younger brother, seeing that the snake is safe, turns his attention to the hunter on the ground. “Tom,” he hisses and shakes the hunter’s shoulder. “Tom!” the hunter flops his hand like a drunk swatting at a fly and moans. The younger brother holds his grip on the hunter’s shoulder and looks up at his brother. His eyes blaze.
The older brother nods, and the younger nods back at first, but then tenses his forehead. He seems to be waiting for something. The older twin’s expression is still. They stare at each other.
“Brother…I don’t understand,” the younger croaks after a long silence.
“Why did you bring him here?” The younger brother accuses. “They could have found her. He could have killed her!”
The older brother shakes his head and holds the younger by the shoulders. He throws his brother’s hands off.
“I…I don’t understand. I can’t. …What do you mean?” The older brother does not move. His expression is blank, and he remains silent.
“…Why do I have to talk? I don’t understand. Why can’t you show me!?”
He is yelling, now, and clenching his fists. He speaks every word carefully—separately, as if they take great effort to push from his lips. He bites his cheek, then his lower lip, then his expression crumbles when his brother’s silence stretches.
Finally, the older brother heaves a sigh, then beckons the younger to him and draws him into a hug. Then he cradles his head with one hand, covering the younger’s eyes as he pulls him close to his chest.
“Shh,” he whispers. With one hand on his brother’s forehead, the other levels his blunderbuss at the hunter’s body. His eyes meet the snake’s and he pulls the trigger.
The bang makes the younger flinch, and he struggles for a moment, trying to wrench his brother’s hand from his eyes. The older twin brings him into a full embrace to subdue him.
When the hunter’s blood hits the air, the snake lunges, too quickly to be seen, and snaps the hunter in its jaws. It twists around him, and the crack of bones echoes through the woods. The snake constricts the hunter’s legs, leaving his torso limp, hanging from the snake’s mouth at an unnatural angle. Its jaws stay wide open as it maneuvers the hunter head first, drawing the hunter’s broken body farther into its mouth, then down its throat. As the snake closes its jaws, a telltale lump protrudes from its body and inches down towards its middle. The snake flicks its tongue lazily and curls up into a tight ball.
It is over too quickly. The older twin frees his brother’s eyes. The younger dashes over to the snake, but stops just short of touching it. He eyes the bulge and he freezes, opens his mouth then closes it, then drops to his knees and holds his face. He is shaking. His brother—finally—speaks.
“She’s so hungry.” He looms over his brother. “I was worried, at first. But look! Look at how she’s grown. She’s strong now.”
The younger Madaras brother looks up at his twin from under his hair. He doesn’t need to ask any questions, like why or how long. There’s hunter’s blood splashed on his brother’s gloves and the tops of his boots. It is dark and drying.
“We don’t need to keep her a secret anymore. We can protect each other, now. All three of us.”
—stupid … stupid, you didn’t see
“But you can’t let her get too hungry, now that you know.”
Brother, you look like one of them, everything but the robes, your eyes—
“Because Madaras will…well. She’ll eat anything, now.”
The older brother smirks, and tilts his head, then flings one of his bloody gloves at the snake. The snake snaps it out of the air, then hisses, and rocks its head back and forth. It clacks its jaws together, gnashes its teeth, and begins to uncurl itself. The feeding lump has disappeared.
The snake’s eyes are bulging, and it’s tossing its head now, starting to stretch itself out towards the twins. The older brother snickers.
A screech of grinding metal startles them all. Before they can find its source, the snake shrieks and rears back. Dark blood sprays from its middle, and the snake whirls around to face the surprise attacker.
The early morning light is too dim for the brothers to see who is there. But the sound—the screaming mechanical whir—sends shivers up their spines. They know that sound: it is the sound of spinning saws shredding through a body. The Whirligig Saw.
*****
Noxious traitor, foul beast, I am too late, LATE, damn my bloody caution to the depths of the Gods’ tombs.
That husk of a hunter will teem with vermin when I shuck open his rotten skin.
*****
Younger Madaras is frozen, off to the side. His eyes dart among the snake, his brother, and Valtr, as if he can’t quite believe what he is seeing. He shuts his eyes tight until they wrinkle, and he presses his hand to his forehead—as if it were all a bad dream.
Valtr swings at the body of the snake, ripping thick gashes into its side before the snake can pull away. The snake rears back, circling on its tail, and then goes to strike its attacker. But Valtr follows its body and hurls the saw blades down into the fresh wound. Blood splashes over his helm when the teeth tear through the snake’s insides, the weight of the saw grinding flesh into the ground. As he swings behind to hook the saws onto his back, he steps to the side, easily avoiding older Madaras’s cleaver.
The sounds and smells of bloodshed fill the clearing. The two hunters dance around the beast. Valtr is quicker and surer on his feet, circling around the snake and dodging just out of Madaras’ reach.
But then, older Madaras feints to the right, and the snake covers him as he winds up his weapon. Valtr dashes in, ready to press the attack. But Madaras is already swinging his cleaver. He lands two solid blows, a staggering one-two, that knock Valtr back, hot blood spurting from his chest. Valtr only just avoids falling and rolls back instead. He punches a blood vial into his thigh.
Having gained the center ground, the older Madaras twin presses forward, his cleaver slicing the air. The snake, for its part, begins to shake off the shock of Valtr’s blow. It brings its head down low and starts to slither across the ground.
Valtr dashes around older Madaras and begins to wind up his club, but he is nearly caught by the snake’s jaws. He dodges back towards younger Madaras, then turns and runs past him into thicker woods, pulling bullets from his blood when he escapes the snake’s gaze. The older brother hesitates, then pursues and cuts a wide path around his brother. The snake does not follow, though, its attention held by something in the clearing.
Someone yells. A shot rings out. Then another. Neither Valtr nor the traitor are holding their firearms.
Younger Madaras is holding his forearm close to his chest. It is mangled, an arc of puncture wounds torn deep into the muscle—a snakebite. His blunderbuss is cocked in his good hand. Fresh blood runs down his apron covering its purple stains in bright red. His eyes are angry, but clear. Sharp.
The snake rears back and shakes its head. Black, clotted sludge—foul blood—splatters over the dirt.
Valtr and the older twin freeze. The snake shrieks. Its heat pits have been ripped clean through by two 12-gauge shots on the left side.
Valtr looks at the younger twin and pauses in what might be the start of a smile, but before he can, the older brother charges forward and clips Valtr’s thigh with the teeth of the saw cleaver. Valtr growls and rolls away then thrusts the point of his club into the circular blades behind his back. He smacks Madaras’s next blow away, the metal grinding hard enough against Madaras’s weapon to send sparks flying.
“Confederate!” Valtr’s voice booms over the whirling metal screech. “You are a hunter, are you not? Then finish it. Slaughter your prey!”
Younger Madaras is still hunched over, one arm still broken and useless, cradled against his side. But he hears. He nods even though no one can see him, and never stops staring at the writhing, spitting snake. His prey. Madaras turns away from his brother and his master. He holsters his gun and lifts his axe, nestling the long end against his bad arm, holding it steady with the good arm. He crouches, low and tight, and draws the axe back, twisting his hips as he steps back. He waits for the snake to make its move, his eyes bright and cold, his axe charged and ready to strike.
*****
I see them. I can see them. Squirmy, wiggly…disgusting.
Brother, you did it. You did it. She’s a beast. She’s a beast like the rest of them and it was you. Eyes all mushy and cloudy. Both eating things you shouldn’t…
She attacked me. She tried to kill me. She will eat anything, you say. Anything. Eat anything. Kill anything. Like you…a beast. Brother…a beast…a beast!
*****
The snake lets out a deafening shriek. Young Madaras’s axe is stuck halfway through the snake’s trunk, blood pouring onto the ground. He yanks on his axe with his good arm, and with two great heaves he cleaves the beast in two. The shriek softens to a gurgling rasp, then into nothingness.
The snake’s upper half swings around and writhes even though its eyes are dull and dead, knocking leaves and low branches aside with its heft. It gives one final wriggle then stills. Its body explodes into a fog of blood and thick mist, the first rays of sunlight shining on the ruby droplets that now rain down on the three hunters. Younger Madaras heaves a sigh, clicks the contraption on his axe to shorten it, then turns back to Valtr and his brother.
The older Madaras is limping now, but his eyes are crazed. He is shouting, and giggling. Raving incoherently. Cackling as the blood of his snake splatters over his face. Younger Madaras does not appear to hesitate—he drops his axe and runs into the thick of the duel with his firearm raised.
The older brother snarls and snaps his head forward, forehead cracking against the younger twin’s nose, knocking him back in pain and surprise.
But younger Madaras gets his shot, though he falls back and stumbles. The older brother drops to his knees, head lolling back, too fast for a natural fall. For a moment, the clearing in the forest is silent. The sunlight begins to take on a golden hue. The older brother could almost look peaceful with his eyes gazing towards the heavens, his arms slack at his sides.
Then, older Madaras’s eyes widen and his body stiffens. A clear sound, like a tiny bell, rings out across the clearing. Valtr’s helm appears behind older Madaras’s shoulder. His fist has disappeared inside Madaras’s back; his taut forearms strain against the blue fabric of his coat. A dark circle of blood blooms in the center of Madaras’s apron. Madaras looks down. His face wears an expression of disbelief that twists into rage, the lines of his mouth and forehead creasing in a visceral scream.
Valtr wrenches his fist back, painting his front red with the stream of Madaras’s blood. It drips off the buttons of his coat onto his boots. Older Madaras collapses forward, his face still mangled with fury. But before his body hits the ground, younger Madaras shoots him again. Then again. And again. He slaps his brother’s face with the blunderbuss, wrenching a sad few drops of blood from his nose. Younger Madaras throws the gun to the side and dives after the fallen body, beating its sides and stomach with his fists. A sob fights its way out of his mouth. Tears stream down his face and wet his mask. He punches the body again. His breath begins to hitch into little pants and his body begins to shiver, but he does not stop yet. Minutes pass.
Valtr remains silent, a few paces away. He puts away the blades of his saw, but keeps the club in his hands.
Madaras’s sobs have blurred into breathy wails. The body below him is unrecognizable. Madaras makes to hit the body again, but freezes mid-strike. Slowly, he lowers his shaking hand to the gaping gut wound left by Valtr. His tears stop even though the sobs continue. He grasps something in his hand and lifts it out of the body.
Madaras stares at his hand. A long, thin creature with innumerable, spindly legs squirms in his palm. He bites his lip. Takes a breath. Then carefully, keeping his hand loose and gentle, lowers himself to the ground to lie on his side. He tucks his legs up, his knees close to his stomach, and curls forward to keep his hand with the creature close to his face. His crying is little more than a few hiccups, but his body still quakes.
Valtr is staring at Madaras’s hand as well. His eyes never leave it. Valtr pads forward, stepping slowly and lightly, as if he were approaching a frightened animal, or a lost child. He kneels down on one leg next to Madaras, his calf brushing the twin’s back. He cups Madaras’s shoulder.
“Easy, lad. You’ve done well this night. Now then. You know our mission.”
Madaras curls tighter around the creature in his hand and clenches his jaw, as if harnessing great effort to speak. “Master, I…I…” He shuts his eyes. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t…”
Valtr holds the fabric of Madaras’s sleeve in an angry fist, but his voice is even and quiet when he speaks. “You will fulfill the League’s mission.”
Madaras’s shoulders jump. He opens his eyes, looks at the creature in his hand. He tenses his fingers, but can’t close them. He winces.
“That thing,” Valtr continues, “Vermin, is filth. It deserves to be crushed.” The vermin twists over on itself, exposing its underbelly as it tries to free itself from Madaras’s grip.
***
“…all right,” Madaras whispers to me. He opens his eyes and squints at what I cannot see in his hand—he tenses his mouth, breathes deeply. But he cannot do it, poor wretch.
“You know he was lost. You’re a hunter; you sensed it.”
He stills at that. Frowns. Then he turns his head back and looks up at me with clear, pleading eyes. I finally see a confederate’s resolve. The flash in his gaze is unmistakeable: vermin… I can almost see their little impure legs quiver in his hand.
Madaras reaches out his hand towards me and I don’t need speech to tell me what he desires.
I grip his hand tightly. I close his fingers with my own and press. He threads his fingers through mine as he snaps his fist shut on the filth. The leather of his gloves creaks with the strain and he lets out a little gasp. I dig my fingers into his palm, and for just a moment I can feel the warmth of the sweet blood spill into my hand, the vermin’s body squishing, cracking under my nails, crushed between my knuckles.