The Nine-Fingered: The Saga of Tarod the Nine-Fingered, #3

By Steven E. Wedel

Escaping Minnea with his life and weapons and little else, the wounded Tarod finds unexpected sanctuary in the home of and enemy's son. Healed and refocused, Tarod sets out to help the victims of his follies by rescuing travelers captured along the United Road. The quest takes him to the ancient city of Eun-Sarns, where he must face horrors beyond his imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MoonHowler Press
• Release date: May 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223556855

Steven E. Wedel

Steven E. Wedel lives with his dogs, Bear and Sweet Pea, and his cat, Cleo. A lifelong Oklahoman, he grew up in Enid and now lives in Midwest City, with numerous addresses in between. He is the author of over 35 books under his name and two pseudonyms, but still has to rely on his day job of teaching high school English to keep himself and his furry dependents eating in air-conditioned comfort. Steven has four grown children and three grandsons. Be sure to visit him online and sign up for his newsletter.

Book preview

Blood and Cravings

Shafts of sunlight pierced the roof of foliage and stabbed the leaf-ridden earth. The thin spotlights danced and flickered as the greenery shifted in the faint breeze, a breeze felt only among the topmost branches of the trees of Malatia Forest. It was dark beneath the trees. The blades of sunlight that fell between the branches served only to punctuate the impression of dusky dimness on the forest floor.

Small forest animals chittered and called, occasionally peering at the stranger among them for a moment before quickly disappearing again. Birds sang strange songs from perches hidden among the leaves. Insects swarmed in stinging, buzzing clouds. Sometimes a larger denizen of the woods lumbered or glided by, usually sending the moaning, clumsy outlander scurrying for cover.

It was rumored that there were other things lurking in Malatia Forest – things most men never saw, only felt. No one had seen the rumored occupants and come out of the forest to give an account of their looks. Some said the eyes people felt watching them were ghosts of travelers who had become lost. Others said they belonged to demons who were trying to lure humans deeper into the woods so that no one living could hear the screams and the sounds of feasting.

It was this feeling of being watched that sent Tarod wheeling to look behind him once again. His vision swam and his legs nearly buckled beneath him. He steadied himself against a thick, cool tree trunk, one hand reaching for the hilt of the scimitar he was too weak to draw. The large, bulky bandage on his stump of a finger sent waves of pain up his arm as it bumped the steel pommel. Fresh blood reddened the dirty cloth. Tarod gurgled on the cry of pain, his head turning up so that he was facing the green roof of the forest. Vertigo overwhelmed him and he collapsed onto the carpet of dead leaves.

His eyes rolled toward the inside of his head and he feared he would lose consciousness again. He tried to talk, hoping the sound of his own voice would once again keep him awake.

Unintelligible words spilled from his mouth as bits of dirt and dried leaves worked their way in. He felt the grit between his teeth and swallowed, wishing desperately for food.

But more than food, he craved drink. The creek he had followed into Malatia had continued for only a few hundred yards beyond the edge of the woods. He had feared returning to the plain beyond the forest because he felt sure the soldiers of Minnea would be searching for him. The only other source of water he knew of was the Seren River itself, and he could not go there. The only road through the dreaded Malatia Forest was the one that followed the course of the Seren River. That road was heavily traveled, and Tarod knew, even as he neared delirium, that he must stay away from people who could recognize him.

Wine ... the lotus ... I would kill for those pleasures now.

His throat burned and rebelled as he tried to force the dirt and leaves into his belly. He retched, his entire body convulsing with the effort. Finally, a ball of thick, bloody mucus dotted with flecks of leaf and earth fell from his gaping mouth. The taste it left behind was awful, but worse was the strength sapped by the act of heaving. His arms trembled, then gave out. He fell face first into his vomit. All he could do was turn his face to the side, smearing the muck across his cheek and into his hair.

Tarod feared for his life. If the thirst did not kill him, the infection that was spreading through his right hand would. If he was found by another human being, he would likely be taken back to Minnea and hung for his crimes. If something that wasn’t human found him ... Tarod didn’t like to think about that.

The image of Jamoth, hung from the palace gates so that peasants could throw stones and garbage at his corpse, swam before Tarod’s bleary vision. He closed his eyes against the memory, but it did not go away.

A quick death by hanging would be agreeable now, he thought. He imagined the blessed feeling of a rope tightening around his neck and ending his thirst and pain.

Let the peasants do what they want to me then. I’ll be dead.

He slept.

When he awoke, he thought at first there must be blood spewing from his swollen head and falling back down on him. But the blood was cool. Have I been dead long enough for my blood to cool? No, it was too thin. Water! He believed at first it was raining. He raised himself on his elbows, his mouth open to catch the drops. Small, pitiful begging sounds escaped his throat.

Easy there, a voice said. Only take small amounts at a time. You’re nearly dead.

Tarod forced his eyelids up, feeling the scratchiness against his dried eyeballs as he did. It was still dark in the forest. He saw a trickle of water falling from a wet cloth held above his face. He reached for the cloth and lost his balance, falling onto his side. Blackness claimed him once more.

Preparing to Meet the Gods

Tarod awoke with the memory of the strange voice still in his ears. His eyes opened immediately, but he did not move. He listened intently to the noise of his surroundings, but heard nothing except the sounds of the forest. The canopy of tree limbs was above him; he realized he was now lying on his back. Touching his face, he found that the vomit had been cleaned away. He remembered eyes looking down at him, but couldn’t place them in a face; the memory added an unearthly tone to the voice in his memory.

He slowly turned his head to the left and scanned the small clearing where he lay. He saw nothing but grass, and so turned his head to the right. A small cup of hollowed wood stood a few feet from his head. Tarod pulled himself to it, already smelling the sweet water he knew was inside.

He sat up, taking the cup in his hands as he did. Waves of nausea made his head spin and his vision go dark so that he had to sit very still, clutching the cup hard between his hands, careful to hold his wounded finger away from the hard wooden surface. He lifted the cup to his lips and suddenly suspicion overcame him. He lowered the cup and looked around, sure that the remembered eyes were watching him again. The smell of the water was overpowering and he lifted the cup again, but once more stopped without drinking.

The stump of his missing finger was bandaged in a fresh, white cloth. Tarod pulled the hand off the cup and gave the bandage a closer look. A new smell filled his nostrils; he brought the cloth wrapping closer to his nose and sniffed at it. A sharp, foul smell caused him to wince and jerk the hand away from his nose so quickly that his other hand sloshed some of the cool water out of the cup.

Without further hesitation, he drank.

Drink it slowly. I’ll be back soon.

The voice that went with the eyes. He recalled the voice, a man’s voice, telling him to take only small portions of water at a time. He pulled the cup away from his begging lips and then returned it, taking only tiny sips