Page 6 of Captive
With the non-magical tribe members gone, Ochrehand moved quickly and surely. She selected herbs that might help bridge the gap between organic and synthetic, crushed crystals that might stabilize failing systems. But even as her magic flowed into Sebastian's body, she knew it wouldn't be enough.
"The Heart Tree is the only answer," Doechaser bent to lend more magic. "You know this."
"I know the council won't agree in time," Ochrehand replied, her magic struggling to contain the damage as another synthetic component failed. "By the time they decide, it'll be too late."
"Then maybe it's meant to be," the elder shaman suggested. "Not all visions show paths that can actually be walked."
A grinding sound came from Sebastian's chest as another synthetic component tore loose. The noise, metal scraping against bone, bore no resemblance to the precise engineering vampires prided themselves on. The wall crystals dimmed in response, their light darkening to the deep purple that preceded death.
"This one has to be walked," Ochrehand insisted. "I've never had a vision so clear. So urgent." Her hands trembled slightly as she applied more healing magic. "There's something in him worth saving. Something that remembers what his kind were before brass and steam replaced everything natural with artificial precision."
Doechaser studied her for a long moment, then sighed as she stood. "The council meets soon. They'll debate until nightfall at least. If he lasts that long..."
"He won't," Ochrehand said with certainty. "Not without the Heart Tree's magic."
The elder shaman's eyes held ancient wisdom as she stepped toward the door. "I'll speak with Moonsinger. Maybe together we can sway enough voices." At the threshold, she paused. "But Ochrehand... be careful what paths your desperation leads you down. Some choices, once made, can't be undone."
After Doechaser left, Ochrehand worked with renewed focus. She tried every healing technique, every herb combination, every magical pattern she knew. Nothing stopped the cascading failure of Sebastian's synthetic components.
Minutes later, the drums called council members to formalassembly. They'd talk and argue while her patient died by inches. They'd reach their decision long after it mattered.
The last working component in Sebastian's throat sputtered and died, releasing a flood of dark fluid that spread across the healing house floor. The crystals' light fluctuated wildly between crimson and black, the unmistakable warning that death was coming.
No more time for meetings and rules now.
Grim-faced and determined despite her inner doubts, Ochrehand gathered what she would need. The Heart Tree protected its sacred chambers zealously, but her position as shaman gave her knowledge of its hidden paths. She knew full well the price of going in uninvited. The consequences of defying both sacred tradition and her warchief's direct command.
But she also knew what her vision had shown. What would happen if this vampire died before his transformation could run its course.
As dawn's light spread across the village, while the council's debate echoed from the Heart Tree's highest chambers, Ochrehand made her choice. With quiet determination, she lifted Sebastian's failing form onto the travois, covered him with a blanket, and slipped out the healing house's back door, heading for the one place that might save him.
The one place the council had forbidden him.
The sacred depths beneath the Heart Tree, where the oldest magic flowed.
Chapter Four
The Heart Tree's council chamber hummed with tension as dawn light filtered through crystalline windows. Eleven carved seats formed a circle around a table whose surface had been polished by centuries of deliberation. One seat remained perpetually empty, a reminder of prices paid for past trust, when vampire promises had proven as hollow as their synthetic hearts.
Moonsinger was the first to speak, her aged voice carrying the weight of the Heart Tree's wisdom. "The shaman has brought danger into our midst. A vampire noble lies in our healing house while their scouts search our borders."
"I've seen him," Boarstaff said, taking his place at the head of the circle. "And I've gone over Ochrehand's explanation."
"Her visions have proven reliable before," Rockbreaker acknowledged reluctantly. "But this goes beyond mere foresight. She's risking everyone on the belief that a vampire noble can be... transformed."
"Madness," Thornmaker spat, his scarred hands tightening on his spear. "They've raided our borders for generations. Displayed our dead as trophies. My children..." He broke off, pain shutting his throat.
Boarstaff understood Thornmaker's hatred better than most. He'd been there in the aftermath, had helped cut down the bodies the vampires had left displayed at the border. Had comforted Thornmaker through grief that nearly broke him. Had led the retaliatory raid that had earned him the scar he still carried.
"I don't dismiss your pain, brother," Boarstaff said quietly. "Nor the threat this vampire represents."
"Then order his death," Thornmaker replied, his voice steadying. "Grant him mercy before his father's scouts find him here. Before theybring armies to our doorstep."
Boarstaff closed his eyes, memory washing over him unbidden. He was seventeen again, newly chosen for warrior training, following his uncle, the previous warchief, into the ruins of a settlement that had trusted vampire word. The bodies had been left where they fell, synthetic precision evident in the efficiency of their deaths. His uncle had moved through the carnage with steady purpose, naming each fallen warrior, honoring their sacrifice.
What haunted him most were the slaughtered children. Not even spared for their innocence, cut down with the same mechanical efficiency as the warriors who had tried to protect them. Their bodies arranged in grotesque displays that spoke of contempt rather than even the respect one might grant a worthy enemy.
"They see us as primitive," his uncle had said, voice heavy with old grief. "Unworthy of even the basic dignity they grant their human servants. They believe our natural form inferior to their synthetic 'improvements.'"
