The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 196

Gorgon edges closer, and I could choke on my fear. For there behind the fires is an army of Winterlands creatures—skeletal trackers in tattered black robes, Poppy Warriors, pale creatures with skin like chalk and eyes ringed in black. So many creatures. I had not realized. This appears to be their camp, shielded as it is by the cliffs. They sit with the dead, who appear dazed and unseeing.

“Stop!” a creature to my left says, and I feel Kartik’s hand hovering near his dagger. The creature is as gray as death. He pulls back rotting lips to reveal yellow nubs of teeth. His eyelids are lined in red, but his eyes are the milky blue of Pippa’s. “Have you come for the ritual?”

Kartik nods. I pray our illusion will hold.

Six trackers emerge at the arch. “Follow!” the hideous beasts call. The creatures rise, and the dead shuffle behind as if sleepwalking. With a last glance at Gorgon’s stony face, Kartik and I join the others.

The trackers thunder over the plains and we follow. The ground crunches like shells beneath my feet. I think I see a leg bone poking up through the grit and quickly look away. Calm, Gemma. Calm. Keep the illusion.

We come to a narrow pass. Pale, skinless creatures emerge from behind the rocks and from crevices, blinking against the dim light of the churning gray sky. The creature beside us snarls and gnashes his teeth at one of the pale things, which slips back under the rock until all I can see are its blinking eyes.

The crows circle overhead, crying. They lead us out of the chasm and my pulse quickens, for we are on the heath. And there before us is the Tree of All Souls.

The Winterlands creatures gather on the plains. Kartik squeezes my hand, and I can feel his terror joined to mine. Three of the dead are brought forth—a woman and two men. Beside me, Kartik draws a short breath. Just behind the creatures, on a magnificent steed, is Amar.

“The more we sacrifice, the greater our power grows,” he thunders as the dead are made to kneel before the Tree of All Souls.

“Do you give yourselves willingly to the greater glory? Will you be sacrificed for our cause?” Amar asks them.

“We will,” they answer numbly.

“These souls are ready,” Kartik’s brother says.

The vines move like whips, wrapping around the necks of the victims, pulling them up into the tree’s expanse like puppets. Amar draws a sword from a sheath at his side. He rides out, then turns, running hard for the dead like a knight in a joust.

On the heath, the Winterlands creatures watch; some cower while others chant their approval: “Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice…”

As we watch in horror, Amar’s sword comes down on the dead. Kartik starts, and I hold fast to his arm. Their blood drips, and the roots accept it greedily. With a terrible scream, the souls of the victims are drawn into the enormous ash tree. Before our eyes, it grows even taller. Its mighty boughs stretch out in every direction like giant claws. The sky bleeds red.

Amar and the trackers place their hands to the tree’s twisted trunk, drinking in what power there is, while the army of creatures looks on.

“One day, you, too, shall feed,” a tracker shouts. “After the sacrifice.”

The creatures nod. “Yes, one day,” they answer, believing it without question.

“Our cause is just!” another one of the trackers shouts. His robes open to reveal the howling spirits within.

“Freedom is within our reach at last,” Amar thunders. “She has set the plan in motion. All pieces come together. When she gives the word, we will sacrifice their great priestess and both worlds—the realms and the mortals’—will fall to us.”

The creatures shout and raise their fists in imagined victory.

One of the trackers sniffs the air. “Something is amiss,” he howls. “I feel the living among us!”

Snarling and shrieking, the creatures turn on each other, pointing accusing fingers. One of the beasts jumps on the back of another with shouts of “Traitor!” before sinking his teeth into the other’s neck. The trackers try to take control but it is hard for them to be heard above the din.

“Kartik,” I whisper, “we must leave.”

He still stares at his cursed brother, his eyes wet. I do not wait for his response. Quickly, I pull him away from the crowd and the terrible sight of what his brother has become. We slip carefully through the crowd, narrowly avoiding the punches thrown. As we come to the chasm through the rock, I hear Amar shouting for order amidst the chaos. The sky screams. Another soul has been sacrificed, and the creatures unite, cheering.

More skinless creatures slither from the rocks. They grab at our ankles with hands as slick and fast as fish, making me scream. It echoes for a moment, and I fear it shall be heard by the others. I kick at the thing’s hand. It slinks back into its hiding place, and I pull Kartik as quickly as I can toward the boat.