Chapter One:

A Sickness of Revenge

"Are you heading out, my dear?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to kill some soldiers, Mother."

"Oh. Well. Have a nice time, dear."

Sadness dulled the edge of Therasia's simmering fury. Her mother was never quite right again after the stroke. Physically, she'd recovered remarkably well thanks to Thera's ministrations. Her long, dark curls frizzed more than flowed, streaked with grey. Her working hands showed more strength than softness. But she stood straight and true in her simple dress, awake before the sun, kneading bread at the counter of her large, rustic kitchen. Thera was proud that she helped her mother recover from something so often fatal or debilitating. That was the catalyst for Thera to commit herself to the medical profession. After the miracle job she performed healing her friend Arnalta, she received a call to study with the Mountain Monks, south of Lorda. She qualified as a surgeon and returned to her little village a few years ago.

But there was still something wrong with Mother. Inside, Therasia felt that this was her mama. Definitely. She was warm and loving, hard-working and forgiving. Strict without being cruel. She always seemed to say exactly what Therasia needed to hear, like she was an extension of Thera's own subconscious. Despite that, Mother sometimes didn't seem to understand all that happened in the world. If the morning went badly this might be the last time Thera ever saw her. Heavy heart pounding out a rhythm of fury, Thera pulled back her determined chin, crossed the kitchen and gave her mother a quick hug, a peck on the cheek. Mother returned the gesture with gentle grace.

"Ah, but you're so skinny! Have you had breakfast? You must eat, Thera! Here, take this." She smiled and handed Thera a chill, stone bottle. "For when you're done. You always get thirsty."

Yes. This was exactly what she would need for later. If she survived.

"Thank you, Mama," she said and tucked the small bottle into the square, leather pouch hanging from her waistband.

Thera crossed to the back door and slipped out into the rear garden. The dark sky held a faint tint of faded orange, promising dawn. Over the forested hills to the east that wash drained colour and contrast from the dim world. Heading down the stone path, the grass brushed all the way up to her knees. Father would be out with his scythe soon. Now the sun shone it was time to make hay. But there would be no rolling in the barn for Thera this year. Not after what the soldiers did.

Beyond the stone wall at the rear, the apple orchard sprawled. The low trees melted into a tangled mass in the indistinct light. Only the scent revealed their nature, crisp and sweet on the cool air. Early-ripening apples were just beginning to turn. And in other fields, all over the village, grapefruit and cucumbers, broccoli and beets. Therein lay the problem. As late spring faded into summer the city of Tolosa came to negotiate the early harvest. They sent soldiers to guard their strongbox and officers to hammer out a deal.

The city and their hammers.

"Thera!" her father called, emerging to ambush her from the back shed. A candlestick with three stems lit the workshop behind him, a small light and warmth in the pale dawn.

"Ai! Not now, Father!" she said, extending her long stride towards the orchard. He may be the village head man but he was still a farmer and rose early. Especially now, with so much work to do. She expected him to be out in the fields but something needed attention in the workshop.

"Where are you going at this hour?" he called.

"To do my job."

"Someone is ill?" He emerged further into the grass, a wood-chisel in one hand, a look of genuine concern on his face.

"My other job."

"Oh. Have a care! Do not upset the soldiers!"

Thera rounded on him. Her anger rose to burn all thoughts of caution from her mind.

"You ask that of me? You know what they did to her! And you ask me that?"

"Ah, now. I have sent a letter. The commandant, he will visit this afternoon!"

"Then I will give you something to talk about!" She turned, stalking apace and headed for the small, wooden gate in the low, dry-stone wall.

"Thera! No! You must-"

Something stirred. A flicker of that other thing, that strangeness living inside her. She turned a glare upon the local head man. "Do not speak again!"

Her father recoiled, blowing and blustering. He said nothing, either through fear or because the inkling of a spell slipped out and silenced him.

She crossed into the orchard and headed out. From the ordered rows of the apple trees she paced into the chaos of the broad coppice that backed her small village, coating the hill behind, shading the village stream that fed the little settlement. Shadows still lay heavy under the canopy. That suited her mood.

Veering towards her prepared trap, Therasia let her threads flow into the world. She found all manner of little animal friends to help her. Some, not so small. She gathered the birds, the spiders, her buzzing jar already tied to her waist. The mad wolf required less subtle nudging but it ran as she herded.

Smaller branches lay scattered among the twigs on the floor of the coppice. She gathered straighter sections and expertly cracked them to form sharp stakes. Heavy, hard wood. They stirred bloody intent as she wrapped strips of rag around to form the handles. Good for murder. Metal would not flow into that ... other realm.

Therasia marched the long way around to her pyre.

The sun had yet to clear the hills but the day already started warming by the time Thera reached her wood piles. It took all of yesterday to properly clear the grass and debris, gather enough fuel for these long, low bonfires. The wood was dry. None of it green. It would blaze hot and quick. A few fresh leaves on top would generate a bank of smoke far too broad and close to the soldiers' encampment for comfort. There was but one open patch of land between her lure and the gathering of canvas that contained the city-folk. Thera had a spot picked out in that dry, dusty meadow.

The fire caught, quick and fierce. The crackling blaze matched Thera's own mind. She tossed greenery onto the heap, waited to stamp out a few, stray embers, then stalked into her chosen position. The harsh smell of smoke lingered in her nostrils.

She wondered what they would send. A lone scout would be hardly worth the effort. If the scout failed to return, however, they might send numbers of a size that Thera could use to make a statement.

The sun rose.

A distant thumping began.

It was a squad supporting two walkers. Boots crunched across the dry hillside accompanied by the loud grating stamp of the iron beasts as they made one step for every three of their support. The buzz from the lightning jars crackled faintly under it all.

This was the first time Therasia experienced these mechanical monstrosities. She felt the weight of each step. This was a strong response. Her father's letter had some effect, if not the one desired. She thought, maybe they'd send a patrol, six strong. She could deal with six soldiers. This was a kill squad. A worrying quantity of men and machinery that sent cold into the pit of her stomach to fight with the fire. Her palms sweated at the sight of them but her rage burned too deep for fear to gain purchase. She wanted revenge and cared not if it cost her own life.

Besides, she had a buzzing jar.

The metal beasts lumbered along. Surprisingly small. Barely wider than she could reach, a little over twice her height. The backwards knees on their four legs accentuated their beast-like appearance. Each leg moved, one at a time, in some strange parody of a living thing. They seemed to crouch, traversing the uneven pasturage like dark bugs in a slow scurry. It was the hellish gun, mounted on top, that settled dread over the land. Six barrels that blasted shattering shells into crowds. Death en-masse. The machines' bodies were nought but armoured tubs with three dragoons inside to pilot them and operate those dread cannon. Brass accents glinted against the galvanised steel.

The marching soldiers wore no jackets in deference to the season's heat. Some even rolled the baggy sleeves of their shirts. They retained their long waistcoats in vivid blue with gold piping and hats with brims folded up such that they could carry their muskets on either shoulder. Metal buttons shone bright and polished.

The soldiers sang as they marched, women carrying the melody while the men bore the bass:

"A! Ca ira, ca ira, ca ira! (Oh, it'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fine!

"(When the King comes home in peace again!

"(Oh, it'll be fine, it'll be fine, it'll be fine!

"(The mutineers cannot perforce maintain!)"

They sang of drinking to the return of their "King" who was absent since the last great war nearly a century ago. The promise of his return was something the cities used to hold power over those within.

She couldn't take them all. However, she could do some damage. She frowned behind her mask. Three jumps? Could she manage that? Usually, it was jump in, wreak havoc, and jump out if any survived. This would require more effort. She'd prepared for a fight. This might be too much. They were so desperate to intimidate that they sent two metal monsters and twelve soldiers to investigate what might turn out to be a charcoal burner working an early load. They wanted to play with their new toys and cower the locals.

It was always thus. The nobles who ruled the cities tried to claim more than they deserved. The farmers called on half-fey, like her, to make them pull their heads back in, back behind their walls and wastelands, behind the humming wires that carried their lightning buzzing about making the night day. Making the people who lived in those cities so lost to the natural rhythms of the world that they grew insane. So many people. Thousands upon thousands in each walled cesspit. They all deserved to be fed. But the farmers deserved to be paid fairly for their labour. Something the nobles hated. Cities exploited the people within mercilessly. It was a source of endless frustration that they could not exploit those without.

Stalkers like Therasia were too strong.

The woman stood alone in the dry, open meadow. The metal beasts stamped closer and closer.

The foot-soldiers clustered in three groups of four. One group marched behind each stamping monster, carrying their new, three-barrel muskets. Nought but a quick flick of the wrist between each shot. Worrisome in their own right. The last fire-team trailed behind them all. Command and squad support. This group lurked at the back, hiding the adjutant, a signaller, a medic ... and a fusilier with his long, rifled musket.

That's what she feared the most. That sharp-shooter. One single click, from further than she could affect, and it was all over.

Perhaps she should kill him first?

At their most convenient, they would still be at least a stone-cast away, uphill. She'd prepared a hidey-hole, behind an old log up towards the treeline, in case she became exhausted and couldn't make the entire distance to the safety of the woods. The soldiers might be too close.

Very unhelpful.

Three jumps then.

The soldiers looked, saw her, and dismissed her, like the grass, flowers and weeds dotting the dry slope. She wore a yellow top and green britches. Natural colours like daffodils, marigolds and buttercups. The mask of tree bark helped as did the vines woven through her belt and over one shoulder. Also, none of them concentrated. It was easy to flick their minds away. They sang. They were still half a league distant from the smoke. Their machines marched with them. They were unafraid. Un-alert.

She would make them afraid.

Gathering her resolve Therasia leaned into the elsewhere, folding away from solid into ... the other. Time slowed. The air became thick about her. She swept up to the troops. Some of them were mid-step, boots hanging in the air, drifting towards the dirt. Some of them laughed, mouths distorted, chests caught mid-pulse, collapsing in strange, slow distortions. One of them spat and the spittle pushed torpidly through her lips. Therasia dragged her feet, kicking up a storm of dust, leisurely trickling skyward from the hillside. One circle around the command team and she dropped the effort, coming back to the same space as the real, both her stakes plunged deep into the fusilier's back, leaning there as she caught her breath.

The dust rose.

Soldiers heard the snap and crack that was the real speed of her dragging in the soil. They glanced about but didn't register what happened. The command team kept walking, confused at the swirl of grit rising around them. The fusilier tried to breathe but coughed loudly. He softened, weakening. As he let his rifle fall, Therasia caught it deftly and aimed, one handed, at the signaller. The first call of alarm came from one of the other fire teams. "FEY!!" Ah. They'd seen her. Therasia flicked the contact on the underside of the rifle. Lightning flashed between the two strange cylinders projecting in a "V" from the back of the barrel. It flashed from the bottom of one to the other, through the barrel, through the powder inside, igniting, exploding. The weapon's kick surprised Therasia such that she dropped the awkward weight. The heavy, lead ball flew wide from the musket, shattering glass tubes on the back of the signaller's large lightning-speaker. Close enough.

Sparks flew. Dust rose.

Planting her feet, the half-fey grabbed both stakes and lifted the dying fusilier. She threw him off at the adjudant. A shot rang out, inaccurate through the dust-screen. Another. Something buzzed past.

A woman screamed, "Hold fire!" Others: "Don't shoot us!" "Hold Fire! Fix bayonets!" That was the shorter caporal. A woman.

Another shot. More orders screamed. By this time, the dying fusilier flattened the officer in charge. Therasia followed up, plunging a stake into the side of her neck just above her officer's pin. The tip cracked into her spine. The officer stared at Therasia in surprised pain, convulsing, dying. Thera felt hot blood slap the side of her hand. Her heart stirred but she had no use for sympathy.

Time to move.

Her plan was ambitious and would likely kill her. Therasia felt the bloodlust pumping. Probably because of the thread she kept towards that wolf down by the stream, shrouded in mists at the bottom of the slope. Rage demanded she take them all. The medic cowered. The signaller curled up on the ground screaming in panic. Dust rose, starting to dissipate.

She leaned into the elsewhere, folding, thrusting with both legs. She threw a dozen threads out to the starlings she'd brought from the coppice, wings flapping slowly through the air. Another dozen threads.

The city-folke climbed into their metal monsters using steps on the side of their legs. Therasia flung herself at one.

Instead of only using her jump she pulled with her arms against the threads, using the motion to tuck the stakes into their belt-loops. The birds above dipped and adjusted. She used much less strength to cover the distance and was able to aim precisely with one foot. Then the elsewhere began to shift and flow in a most unnatural way. It was dangerous to attack the walkers from behind. That's where they kept their lightning jar inside the beast. She started to lose track of her extremities. The unnatural confinement of the lightning distorted the other world. She fled the horror of it and folded back to the space that had weight and smell.

Fortunately, she was past the nearest group of soldiers. They stared back at the decimated command squad. The walker hid her from the other group on the ground. Momentum carried her. She landed and grabbed at the hand-hold. Her other hand pulled the knot on the clay jar at her waist.

The walker stopped at the first call, buzzing and crackling, as three dragoons scrambled about inside getting the gun ready. Therasia was able to balance on the single foothold, jump to the one at the front. The pilot yelled something into the body but hadn't closed down the grill. She tossed the jar inside. As it shattered she threw all her threads to the arctic hornets. "Fear! Defend! Kill!" Two dozen angry buzzings grew louder than the lightning jar.

The screams grew louder still.

Hanging off the monster for a moment Therasia caught her breath. The effort drained her but she was young, strong and in the mood to misbehave. Stakes out. The fire-teams stared at the remains of the command squad in confusion, rifles up, all peering into the hazy cloud of dust. Then the screams from the walker attracted their attention.

Filling her lungs, Therasia dropped just as the team below her glanced up. She landed beside one fantassin with both pointed, wooden daggers sinking into her back. Kicking up, she knocked a barrel away, extracting her weapons now slick with blood up to the wrappings. The caporal was out of reach, raising her weapon. The last squad member was on the wrong side of the monster's supporting limbs, sprinting around.

A shot fired from the kicked musket, going high. That soldier swung the bayonet down, a desperate slash. The blade locked into the weapon's spine in the middle of the three barrels. Not fast but heavy. Its metal blade sang, wicked sharp. Steel. Therasia threw herself back and away from the slashing edge. She thumped into the monster's leg.

An underhand flick took that one through the liver.

The caporal adjusted her aim. Therasia threw a stake at her but the woman was quick. She jerked herself back, under the flying, wooden spike, eyeballed her shot and fired before she hit the ground. The lead slug shattered against the walker's leg. Shrapnel scraped along Therasia's side. The hot metal caused her to flinch. Blood. The other squad closed in, guns up. She had no weapons left.

Time to go.

The caporal recovered. She grabbed at her rifle and flicked the next barrel around to the lightning pegs at the top. Therasia looked towards the stream at the bottom of the hill, leaned strongly in that direction, and folded. She sprang the other way. The rifle fired. A horrific, hollow boom echoed within the elsewhere. The shot screamed out, unbelievably swift, tearing at the unreal. It flew past Therasia before she'd taken two steps. So fast.

Before she'd taken three, the effort began to tell. Pain screamed from the scrape at her side. She did not have enough breath. The log was close. Too close? Would they see her? She released the thread holding the wolf in place and rushed danger at it. Her trajectory cut perilously close to the caporal. Air could not move into her lungs fast enough. Her muscles began to burn. She flicked her feet onwards using her arms to haul on the birds, keeping her step light and hidden.

Desperate to reach the log, she leapt, allowing herself to fall through the fade. The landing might not be pleasant. Grimly, she held onto the fold until she'd almost settled onto the ground, tucked behind her cover, pulling on starlings at the very last moment to soften her crash. As the real crunched back upon her, she slammed into the rocky dust.

Everything hit.

Everything hurt.

Three jumps. Too much noise? Far enough away? Therasia lay panting, small lights dancing in her vision, a desperate hope that her plan would work.

This was always the case. She pushed. She strained. She tried harder than everyone else. No wonder she was so thin. No generous milkmaid's bosom for her. Arms like sticks, legs almost shapeless. No matter how much she ate.

Soldiers yelled, shooting in panic at the landscape. None at her. Confusion reigned.

The log lifted at one end. Therasia painfully shuffled along with her shoulder-blades until she could peer underneath that gap. The soldiers stared streamward. Excellent. She felt the panic of the wolf as it bolted. Would it run into the trees? Would they miss it?

"There! She flees!" cried one.

Everyone looked. Therasia sighed and took the opportunity to scatter the guarding spiders from her mother's stone bottle of creamed fruit she'd hidden under the log. She needed something in her stomach.

"By the stream!" called another. "Hammer and sparks! She turned herself into a wolf!"

Poor pup. She'd wrapped a yellow scarf around its neck and forequarters. An off-cut from old Saliesa's green skirt around the hindquarters completed the look. Yellow and green like her outfit.

Shots cracked out but none of them were snipers. The three-barrelled carbines didn't have the range of the longer, rifled, fusilier's musket.

Therasia gulped the creamy juice through her mask, savouring the silky texture of her mother's old recipe.

The sudden, horrific BOOM! of the walker's six-barrelled long-gun worried the air, causing Therasia to spill. She peered under. The huge, steel bullet shrieked towards the running wolf but ditched well short. It struck a stone and shattered into fragments of shrapnel, as was its design. The stench of gunpowder filled the air. The next barrel flicked round on the monster's cannon, aim adjusted. Thera watched the operation of the cannon with interest. A fascinating collection of levers to spin, lock and fire.

BOOM!

Poor, poor little wolf. Rabid, vicious sheep-killer and good riddance. Two birds with one stone. But she couldn't help feeling sympathy.

"All after! All after!" someone called. The soldiers ran obliquely, trained not to get into the line of fire from the cannon. Even the remaining monster crackled and whirred into motion stomping down the slope. Its gun boomed again. So fast.

But one stayed. The caporal who dodged under Therasia's stake. Thera's escape ran close to the woman and the woman felt it. The caporal looked everywhere, confused but trusting her gut.

"Wait!" she called to her comrades. Her voice rang surprisingly round and sonorous. "That's just a dog! It's…"

The caporal came from some high-born house. Perhaps one fallen low. Or the woman rebelled against her parents and- Therasia stamped on that ant-trail of thought. This woman was the enemy. Prey for the hunter. The caporal twisted her gaze all about. She even looked behind where her eyes fell on the log. She squinted, puzzled, and flicked the last barrel of her gun around.

Smoke and grime. That was the worst.

Therasia cautiously gulped the last of the drink. The richness of it her body urgently needed. There was plenty of meat down there to be had. The fusilier hadn't even finished dying. Fresh. But that was the wolf talking. Maybe. Blood still dripped from the scrape along her side. The low shrubbery was a short sprint away. She would die if she tried it.

Yells and shots came from the soldiers running the wrong way. Screams no longer sounded from the remaining walker. Only the low buzz of the arctic hornets. Even if anyone was still alive inside the monster they were swollen, paralysed, and unable to breathe. Death would come soon enough. The caporal stared at the droning behemoth. She turned and charged at the log, bayonet extended, a low roar of deep fury building from her.

Therasia timed it as best she could.

With what little remained of her strength the half-fey flicked the stone bottle at the woman, catching her on the side of the head. Therasia rolled to her feet. Crack! The gun fired. Therasia's heart leapt into her throat. The shot went wide. A spray of dust.

Thera staggered up. The caporal had a rifle, so her attacks were obvious. Therasia could attack with anything. She backed into a stance. At full strength she could have folded forward, reached into the woman's chest, and pulled out her heart. Exhaustion swam her senses. She'd have to do it the slow, dangerous way.

The caporal screamed, leaping the log. Her landing made her position predictable. That gave Therasia her window.

A flick of the foot swept the gun aside. Therasia continued the turn, lashing out with a hearty slap, which the soldier ducked, catching her footing. This woman was fast. Fey blood? Or a natural fighter? More likely Therasia was slow without her threads to draw strength and speed.

Spinning and spinning, Therasia stepped in with her turn, back to her enemy, wrapping an arm around the gun as the caporal tried to bring it up. She back-heeled the soldier in the shin, as a distraction, and slid the bayonet free.

Now she had a knife.

The caporal flicked the contact. The rifle didn't fire but a sudden jolt ran through Therasia. She sprang away with a cry of alarm. Lightning shock. Nice trick.

The caporal sliced at her. Therasia had the blade so the attack swept past harmlessly. Therasia slashed in return. She lacked strength. The knife didn't sever the soldier's arm. It opened a wide gash down from the elbow. The woman screeched in pain and staggered back, toppling over the log to the ground, clutching her wound.

Therasia picked up the fallen gun and stood for a moment, staring at the caporal. Only her writhing boots were visible over the top of the log. The uniformed woman dragged them down and peered over, furious in her fear. This female caporal didn't rape Thera's friend to death. Besides, the half-fey had no strength left for the kill. She turned and limped for the brush at the forest's edge. Rage still burned but exhaustion weighed her down with its dizzying grip.

The other soldiers yelled and distantly shot their loads into the stream at the bottom of the hill. The living walker avoided the boggy ground, buzzing and clanking around up the slope, firing down into brush and damp. All too remote and noisy for this scrap to have caught their attention.

The treeline embraced her. Glancing back Therasia saw the medic edging cautiously forward to attend the wounded caporal. The soldier glared over the log with raging passions at the retreating half-fey, a sickness of revenge in her heart.