The Unfettered Child

by Michael C Sahd

  “Please . . . please,” the woman continued, still hiding behind her arms.

  Rolling her eyes, Zayra wove magic around the human. The woman’s breathing slowed, and she looked around, confused. When her gaze stopped on the elf, she smiled.

  “Oh. Hello,” she said, sounding surprised to see Zayra. She stood up, embarrassed, and brushed the front of her robes with her hands. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Can I help you?”

  Zayra repeated, “You saw a child destroy the stone building?”

  The smile left the woman’s face, and she said, “It was terrible. First, we saw General Khalid al-Jarrah’s fortress collapse. We all thought it was an earthquake, and we gathered in the plaza.”

  The human walked to a window and pointed at the wall. “There, that’s where we gathered.” She shook her head, and her eyes became glossy.

  “Through the doors, like a ghost, a little girl stepped out. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. But she was pale, her eyes were black like the night sky. She . . . she . . . she was an efreet!” The woman put her hands on her cheeks, her jaw opened wide to release a terrible wail. “She killed them with hell fire.”

  “I heard that you saw her leave.”

  “Yes, she ran west, following the road.” The woman sobbed.

  Chewing on her lower lip, Zayra could hardly believe what she had heard. A human child? From the barbarians?

  Replacing her hood, she left the crying woman. When she went outside, the blue and red auras confirmed the human’s words; they were heading west. Illtud intended to take the girl home.

  Chapter 13: Barely Alive

  Pressed against a cliff face, Orin was protected from the elf above, whose musical laughter dropped on him mockingly. He edged carefully to the area he thought he might be able to climb. The elf kept him pinned to the rocks. Every time he tried to bolt down the hill, an arrow would thud into the ground close by.

  The slope leading up to the cliff seemed to become steeper as he crept along, and he found he had to grip the rocks to keep from sliding down. When he neared the climbable crevice, he prepared to hoist himself up. Probably to his death, he reflected, but he would rather face his enemy on level ground than play this elf’s game.

  No sooner had he begun climbing than a snicker sounded behind him. Turning, he saw the other elf no more than five feet from him, pointing his bow at Orin’s chest. He had long, black hair and a long, hairless chin. Disappointment and fear shaped the frown on Orin’s face, but anger still blazed in his eyes. “Go ahead!” he shouted. “Kill me then!”

  The elf in front of him smirked, and the one above cackled. He tweeted in his musical language, then repeated in broken Havallan, “No . . . kill.” With his head, he motioned back to the camp. “You . . . come.”

  Glaring at the skinny creature, Orin stayed firmly at his spot. Rolling his exaggerated eyes, the elf motioned with his head again, annoyance clear on his elven features.

  Growling, Orin leaped at him. The elf’s eyes widened, and he let loose the arrow. The blacksmith met the bolt in midair, and it plunged deep into his gut. Lost in his wrath, he felt only a slight sting. He came down on top of the elf, which collapsed under his weight.

  On their way to the ground, Orin clutched his opponent’s face and pushed it into a rock. There was a loud crack, followed by a terrible wail from atop the cliff.

  Seizing the bow with his free hand while still gripping the corpse’s face, Orin maneuvered around the tree, carrying the limp elf and the bow with him. He rested on the other side, while the elf above bellowed in his musical language.

  Breathing in quick gasps, Orin pulled on the arrow in his gut, but as soon as he touched the shaft, a sharp pain wracked his body. Sobbing loudly, he tried to pull himself together. He wanted to see his Natalia one last time, but it hurt to move. It hurt to not move, too, but moving was excruciating. Taking a deep breath, he snapped the shaft close to his body, biting back a scream.

  Panting and grimacing, he slowly used the tree to help pull himself up. He was about to take off running down the slope when the other elf dropped down in front of him.

  The elf’s teary eyes were slanted in an angry scowl. He pulled his bowstring back and sang something at Orin that sounded angry. Closing his eyes, Orin steeled himself for death. After all the distance he had traveled, this was it.

  He heard a thud, immediately followed by the twang of the elf’s bow, and jumped in spite of his mental preparation. When he felt a rush of air pass by his temple, he slowly opened his eyes.

  Before him stood the elf, mouth agape in agony, a gory spear tip protruding from beneath his chin. Orin watched the weapon retract, pulling the elf down, then ripping out of its neck, carrying torn flesh and sinew along with it.

  Nikolai stood in front of him, frowning and shaking his head. “You look like a pile of mammoth dung,” he said, straight faced but slightly disgusted and angry.

  Orin stared at the boy, incredulously, but his expression shifted to a broad grin as it dawned on him that he was still alive. Nikolai had saved his life, then told him he looked like dung.

  Chuckling, Orin grabbed his knees to lessen the pain. Disbelief slowly overtook Nikolai’s expression, and Orin started guffawing, but stopped as pain shot through his body.

  “You’re an idiot,” Nikolai said, shaking his head and smiling slightly.

  Orin stood up straight, wincing and getting his laughter under control. He suddenly felt very faint and teetered for a moment. Shaking his head, he said, “Your mother’s alive, and there are only five men left.” He stumbled forward, and Nikolai caught him before he fell face first.

  Struggling under the bigger man’s weight, Nikolai said, “You’re in no shape to fight.”

  Orin straightened once again, alleviating the weight on Nikolai. “We don’t have a choice,” he growled, summoning his anger to ease his pain. He took a deep breath, wincing, and walked down the hill. Nikolai began to follow, but Orin said, “Grab those bows and arrows.”

  Nikolai scrutinized the foreign weapons doubtfully but picked them up. Following the blacksmith, he asked, “You saw them? They’re alive?”

  “Some of them,” Orin said, curtly, without turning around.

  “Aunt Natalia?” Nikolai asked. There it was. Orin had known he would ask, but the pain was still too fresh. He ignored the question, and Nikolai, traveling behind him, missed the tears that began to track down the side of the big man’s nose. Orin heard the boy stop walking behind him, then rush forward. “I’m sorry,” Nikolai said, and Orin grunted in response. The pain of losing his beloved still freshly searing his heart, he refused to allow the boy to draw him into any further discussion and picked up his speed.

  As they neared the tree that he had been tied to, Orin began to creep stealthily closer, and Nikolai followed his lead. Two people were dragging the bodies away from the tree. One dragged the youth while the other dragged Natalia’s naked corpse. Orin glared at the man mistreating his wife.

  Toothless no longer lay collapsed by the tree, and Orin wondered if they had dragged him off, or if he still lived. One of the men complained loudly enough for him to get nearer to them without being heard.

  They had their backs to him. One wore a heavy hide cloak taken from one of the mountain men or nomads, and the other had a fur cap made from what he assumed was a badger.

  Charging in, he sliced at the fur cap while plowing into the man with the cloak. Gore splashed from the man, whose fur cap went spinning off, making a mess of the dead youth’s face and hair. The other man dropped Natalia and backed away.

  Leaping at him, Orin wrestled with the cloaked man. Orin should have easily subdued him, but the man twisted the arrow in his gut, causing a sharp convulsion throughout his torso.

  Falling to the ground in agony, he watched while the man yanked his sword from its sheath. Raising the sword into the air to bring down on Orin’s head, he hesitated when Nikolai came running out, shouting and point
ing a bow at him.

  His adrenaline pumping again, Orin grasped the man’s feet and pulled them out from under him. He landed on his back and Orin heard a crack. The man screamed and grabbed at his broken collarbone. Orin stood and stomped on his face until he stopped moving. Nikolai slowed as he neared, gazing upon Orin’s brutality with a mixture of fear and dismay.

  That was how the last three men saw Orin when they neared. He was standing straight up with nothing but a rag of a shirt wrapped around his waist. Sweat, blood, and grit smeared most of his brawny body, accenting his muscles. His chin jutted forward, his chest heaved, and his bare foot was covered in the gore of their comrade. They approached carefully.

  Yanking the sword from the cloaked man’s hand, Orin held it out in front of him. “Drop your swords and I will let you live. I came for elves, not men,” he said, taking two intimidating steps toward them.

  The skinniest of them quickly tossed his sword to the ground and ran. A man with a thick, black beard said, “Nadar, get back here!” However, Nadar continued to run. Black Beard turned back to Orin, who glared at him through narrowed eyes. “Ah well,” he said, and threw his sword to the ground, chasing after Nadar.

  Shifting his glance to the final man, Orin said, “And you?”

  Like Orin, this man kept a trimmed beard, but he had the build of a shorter, darker-skinned Havallan. With his free hand, he pointed at the two fleeing men and said, “Those two are fools. They have nowhere to go, and Lady Amastacia will do worse things to them than death.”

  The man lunged forward, stabbing at Orin’s gut, only to find his blade parried. The man backed away, on guard. “We humans must learn our place among the elves. If we listen, we’re treated well.”

  Jumping in and feinting toward Orin’s head, he switched to a low swing, avoiding the blacksmith’s parry and cutting a thin line across his stomach. Then he backed away, sword out in front of him. “Those who challenge the elves will die by their cunning. Even Emperor Khalil will someday learn this.”

  Orin backed out of the man’s reach, giving his deadly, smaller swords a wide berth. “Follow the other two,” he told Nikolai. Dodging the man’s swings, Orin used the trees as obstructions, backing up to where the elves had their tent, where he hoped to find his gear.

  The man stopped his advance. “You’re obviously a good fighter, but you have seen what Lady Amastacia can do. Give up, come with me willingly, and she may favor your compliance by making you one of her personal guards. Guards are treated more favorably than other slaves.”

  Spotting his gear just inside the tent where he had killed the elves the night before, Orin turned and ran for it, saying, “If she doesn’t kill me first, I’m going to kill her.” The guard followed close behind.

  Turning, Orin threw the smaller sword at the man, distracting him long enough to duck into the tent and grab his blade. His feet sank into the yielding material that covered the floor.

  The bearded man dodged the projectile easily enough to take a swipe at Orin while he stooped for his sword. Toppling over midswoop, he barely dodged the fatal swing aimed at his neck.

  Lying on his back and panting heavily, he had difficulty dislodging his sword from its scabbard. His stomach felt like it was on fire, and his back still ached from the rock he had lifted. The man’s shorter sword came point down for a stab in the ribs, but Orin used the still-sheathed claymore to push the blade aside.

  Doing his best to ignore the pain, Orin kicked the man after his sword sank into the soft floor. Rolling over, he crawled outside, snatching up a handful of dirt and dead pine leaves. He turned in time to see the man exiting and threw the soil into his face.

  Stumbling backward, the man wiped grit from his eyes and spat mud from his mouth, giving Orin time to gain his feet and draw his sword. The two of them faced each other. The shorter man held his longsword out in front of him, while Orin pointed his longer version skyward and to the side of his head.

  This time when Orin parried a swipe at his throat, the bearded man had considerably more power and momentum to deal with, causing him to stumble. Despite the weight of the claymore, Orin returned a slash, disemboweling the bearded man.

  The man dropped his sword to catch his innards before they fell to the dirt. His eyes bulged from their sockets as he dropped to his knees. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a gurgle.

  Orin stood still for a moment, gasping heavily as he waited for more to attack. As time passed without incident, his breathing slowed, but the pain progressed with each intake of air. The stub of his thumb throbbed, and he hardly noticed his ankle, but his back and the arrow in his gut made him want to scream.

  Grabbing his clothes and gear, he slowly made his way back to Natalia. He mused upon the fact that, while he didn’t feel pain when he fought, afterward, he could hardly move.

  Nikolai had freed all of their tribesmen, who now stood around Natalia’s corpse, along with some of the mountain men he had seen the day before. Somebody had taken the time to cover Natalia with the clothes that had been cut from her.

  As the blacksmith neared, the people cleared a path for him. He stopped, looking down at his wife’s lifeless body, and cried. He had saved the remainder of his tribe, but he still felt like a failure. He had lost his daughter, then his wife.

  He dropped to his knees next to Natalia’s body, and Nikolai came and put a hand on his shoulder, followed by Accalia. He leaned into his sister-in-law, grateful despite his incredible grief. The two of them cried together, and after realizing their freedom, the rest of the captives wept with them.

  *****

  Nikolai led his family and the other captives into the valley, followed by a contingent of mountain men, or Clan An’Blathain, as he had learned they called themselves. They had been circling north of the elven camp when he had found Orin in his predicament with the elves.

  After Orin had deserted him, he had met the mountain people, and though he couldn’t communicate with them, he had been prepared to trust them. So when they had gestured kindly for him to follow them, he had accompanied them to their village.

  While he was there, he met with another guest of the clan, and although he had been only seven when he had last seen her, he had still recognized the Havallan woman that Orin had brought to their camp those many winters ago.

  With her assistance as a translator, he had told his story and convinced the mountain men’s leader to assist him in rescuing his people. When Priestess Samara, now Grand Mage of Havalla, had learned of Orin’s foolish behavior, she had insisted that they go, immediately.

  Glancing back at Orin, Nikolai was amazed at the man’s endurance. He had insisted on carrying Natalia’s body, but he could hardly move. Accalia walked close to him, doing her best to stabilize him, but she was hardly in any condition to do much herself.

  The arrow still impaled the side of his stomach, he was covered in blood, his back was slightly hunched, and his left hand lacked half of its thumb.

  It was fortunate that Nikolai looked back when he did. Orin stopped walking, teetering in place. “Orin?” Accalia said. The bulky man started falling forward, slowly at first, like a tree that has been felled.

  “Help!” Accalia shouted, grabbing her sister’s body while trying to stop his fall with her back. Nikolai ran to help his mother. Even with both of them working together, they struggled under the large man’s weight, but soon, others came to help.

  Laying him on the ground gently with the help of a few others, Nikolai watched his eyes dart around while he muttered feverishly about the hallucinations only he could see. The man’s forehead felt like a fire pit, Nikolai observed after placing his hand there. He had been about to get some of the tribeswomen to help carry Orin when several of the forest men came and hoisted the blacksmith up, carrying the slumped man ahead of the group.

  Nikolai gestured his thanks to the clansmen, then turned to his mother, who sat on the ground holding her sister close to her bosom. He gently wrested his aunt’s bod
y from her. “I’ll take her, Mother.” Straightening with Natalia in his arms, he waited for his mother to stand and start walking.

  As they continued toward the clan’s village, he asked, “Mother, how are you?” The stench surrounding his people didn’t escape his attention, nor did the clear signs of abuse. Accalia looked sickly, her eyes were sunken, and she had been wincing and holding her stomach as they marched.

  She didn’t answer immediately but bowed her head and kept walking. He noticed her shoulders shaking. He would have hugged her right then, if not for his burden. “Oh Nikolai,” she sobbed and stopped walking. “It was terrible!”

  Nikolai stopped as well, and Accalia wrapped her arms around him. He could feel her sobbing against him. Others came and followed suit. Aunts, in-laws, and cousins gathered around him and sobbed. He was overwhelmed and started crying along with them. He thought of his father, and of Sigmia, and of the others, and he sank to his knees beside his mother, holding his aunt’s body to his chest.

  Gritting his teeth, he bit back his sobs. He was a man now, the chief, and he needed to show strength. He let his people release their emotions, but after a while, he stood up straight, holding Natalia. Flashing his gaze around his tribe, mostly women, he announced, “We are all that is left.”

  Letting that sink in among the cries of disbelief and the bombardment of questions, he gazed down on his mother, ignoring the others for the moment. She gaped up at him in horror.

  Sadly, he said, “The day you were taken, Chief Yaroslav led men to save you. They were slaughtered. Pyotr escaped, but then the creatures descended upon our camp.” He sighed and took a deep breath.

  “Pyotr is gone then?” Accalia asked. Nikolai nodded, and his mother dropped her head despondently.

  After debating with himself whether to tell them about little Samara on the night of the attack, he decided against it. At least not yet. “We fought, but . . .” He turned away from them. He didn’t want to lie, so he said, “Everything is destroyed.”