“Greater Fief,” screamed a pair of men coming out of seemingly nowhere. Falon had been so focused on the fight with the Pink Princess that she had completely missed their arrival.
Without missing a beat, the Princess ignored the staggering Falon and smoothly shot one of the men through the throat while using only her knees to guide her horse into a spin. The other man managed to chop his axe down with punishing force on the Princess’s well gowned side, and Falon saw the dress harden in response to the attack but other than stiffening in her saddle, the Princess appeared unaffected as she smoothly drew another arrow and shot that man through the leg.
Princess and horse once again had their backs to her, and Falon knew she was never going to get a better chance. Lunging forward, she figured that even if the Princess’s dress was as strong as full armor plate, being thrown from her horse still had to hurt.
Falon got to within four feet of the back legs of the horse when the Princess glanced over her shoulder. Falon heard the Princess click her teeth and just before Falon’s sword could go for the hamstring of the Lady in Pink’s mount, the warhorse kicked out with one foot.
Something crunched in her hip and Falon had a brief sensation of falling before she landed on the ground with a thump. She had been too slow. Completely stunned by the double impacts of hoof and earth, Falon was unable to move and everything whited out.
Not knowing where she was or what had happened she just lay there until the Princess loomed over her. Falon stared up at the perfectly coifed hair and immaculate looking dress of the highborn lady with the fatalistic realization that the woman on that horse was going to be the last thing she saw.
“My apologies,” the Princess offered coldly, reaching down to her quiver and grasped nothing but air, finding the last of her ammunition spent. Placing her bow across the saddle horn, her mouth made a small moue before returning to a pleasant mask. Reaching down beside her leg the Pink Princess produced a thick, two foot long rod of red metal. Saying a word in a loud, commanding voice that left Falon’s ears ringing, the rod quickly expanded into a very thin, very wieldy, and clearly deadly six foot spear.
Once again, perfectly armed, attired and, even in the heat of combat, perfectly poised, the Pink Princess ruthlessly stuck to her genteel courtly manners as she nodded her head in Falon’s direction.
At that moment, everything about the foreign Lady seemed a personal rebuke. The fine weapons and magic clothes could have been shrugged off as paid for by her Father, or with great family wealth, but magic was something given to no one—it could only be earned. The effortless way this Princess had just transformed that rod into a weapon with one word bespoke great skill and dedication. Falon was unable to claim, even in the privacy of her own mind, that the Princess had seen everything handed to her.
“Ladies don’t go to war or kill people on the field,” Falon finally choked out, throwing out the only thing she could think of that might save her life.
“Such may be the case in your country,” the Princess replied with a delicate shrug. “However in mine, we say that the Lord of the Field first made man, then he made woman—but the teachings of the Three Great Mysteries made us all equal.”
In that moment she hated the Princess with a passion she had never felt for any living person, and Falon opened her mouth to tell the Lady exactly what she could do with her half-baked platitudes. Falon actually had half a plan: if she could just keep the other woman talking for another few seconds then she might be able to throw her sword at the horse she was riding and maybe—.
Before she could say or do anything, the Princess leaned forward in her saddle with the unwavering tip of her spear pointed at Falon’s heart. Falon tried to twist to the side, desperate ploys involving sword tossing flying out of her head in an instant, but something punched her and looking down, she saw the spear had taken her in the left side of her back, and its slick, red tip was now protruding from her belly.
Falon’s body twisted and arched, and she was more than a little surprised because for as long as she had been with the army she had thought that her death would have an enraged, male face attached to it.
“We’ve got her, your Highness! As well as anyone who fell from their horse but still lives, like Astrid,” came a cultured sounding, but at the same time very deep and masculine voice, “your Pinkness we must ride! We need to go now if we want to avoid their patrols.”
“Then we ride,” the Princess replied, her melodious voice cracking with command. Falon barely even registered when the Princess withdrew the spear from her torso; everything was coming to Falon as if it was at the distant end of a long, dark tunnel.
The last thing Falon heard was the Princess spurring her mount away, followed by the thunder of the fleeing horses’ hooves.
Epilogue: Not Just Binding Moonlight
The moon was high as the man walked through a field of corpses. Officially, he was looking for anyone who was still clinging to life, but in reality mostly he was just trying to make sure he got a few more choice pieces for his pockets. He already had a new sword and chainmail shirt, which he was wearing.
Seeing a fallen figure lying on its side that looked like his clothes were still on—even the boots, which was always a good sign that either he had been on their side or no one had looted him yet, or both.
The man cursed when he brought his lantern near and saw it was a smooth-faced boy with the armband of the Kingdom still on it. His prospects of finding anything of value, even if his comrades hadn’t already stripped him of valuables, had just plummeted. Then he stilled, because still clutched in the hands of the boy was an actual sword. It was short and didn’t glisten in the moonlight like it should have, but there was no mistaking it once the lantern shown on it.
A knife in one hand, because far too often those that only appeared dead came up swinging, the man reached down for the hilt of the sword. As his fingers touched the hilt and he started to gently pull it away, the lad’s hands spasmed.
“Curse it,” the man spat, grabbing a wrist to hold the boy down and readying his knife for the final, upward strike into the neck. Drawing back his arm, he jostled the boy and no one was more surprised than he when the act elicited a scream.
Once again he tried to pull the sword away, but the boy’s hand was held tight to it. He had just about pried it free when he heard footsteps. Of all the rotten luck, now he had no choice!
“I’ve got a live one over here!” the man reported, dropping the sword and sword hand of the boy. Standing up, he surreptitiously slid the dagger into the back of his waistband, careful not to cut himself. The two men who came up bore clubs just like himself, indicating they were the prince’s men out policing the field for the prince’s coffers. Unlike him, they didn’t look like they were very interested in looting, but maybe that was just because they didn’t know him that well.
“Who goes there?” the larger of the pair demanded suspiciously.
“Can you help me get him into the back of the healing cart?” the would-be looter asked with a winning smile.
The other man’s eyes narrowed, but the two of them helped drag the now unresponsive boy over to the cart.
“Nice sword,” the second of the new pair remarked.
“Yeah, little bastard won’t let go of it,” the surreptitious looter remarked before realizing how this might give him away.
The two of them shared a knowing look before the larger member of the pair cleared his throat. The moment passed and they went back to staring at each other suspiciously. The body was placed in the cart which then started back up the hill.
“Mistress, I can’t seem to heal these wounds,” said the apprentice healing wench who received the wounded cart, inside which was a single person. The last glut of the living had come in hours earlier, and now they were only coming in dribs and drabs. What wounds and the night chill hadn’t already taken, the wolves had begun to see to, despite the patrols that were supposed to stop such things.
“Are ye
exhausted?” her Healing Wench asked with concern.
“No Mistress, that’s just it,” replied the Apprentice, “my draw is fine and the wounds seem to close at first touch, but no sooner have I healed the wound, fortified the body and moved to the next one than the first has opened back up again!”
“Hmm, let me try,” the Wench said gently pushing her apprentice aside. She gathered the abundant power of the Lady Moon into her hands and closed her eyes. Walking the moonlight path, she gently placed her hands over the damaged side wound and urged her healing energies into the young man’s body.
Looking down when she had finished, she was satisfied to see that the wound already healed. She moved on to the other wound, this one several inches to the side of the belly button, and when that one had also healed she uncricked her neck and looked back at the first wound. To her honest surprise, the first wound had opened back up.
To her even greater surprise, a series of moon-written tattoos appeared briefly on wounded man’s stomach, glimmering in the moonlight before gently fading away back to nothing. With a critical eye, the Wench also observed that the wound bled less than she would have expected. She nodded absently to herself, convinced that someone had invested more than a small amount of effort ensuring that this one might survive.
“See, Mistress?” her Apprentice said urgently.
“I do see, Cloe; perhaps more than you do yourself,” the Wench said with a nod, and then just to be thorough she asked, “were there—or I should say are there any other wounds?”
“Just a chest wound that had slowly filled the lung with blood,” the Apprentice reported with a blush, “but that healed up quickly enough and more importantly it stayed healed. Unlike these other two, I didn’t even have to cut the shirt off for full hand contact with the wound. That one healed was almost too easy for such a puncture wound.” If anything the young woman’s blush grew as she explained herself.
The Healing Wench was about to comment on such unprofessional conduct concerning a critically injured patient, when her eyes widened slightly and she recalled something she had only heard about. Her face darkened and thoughts of scolding her apprentice flew into the night breeze.
“I think these wounds might be beyond our power to heal,” the Wench said with a sigh of frustration as she bit her lip, “leave him in the wagon and have the drover take him to the main hospital site—but look for a faded blue tent. I think the woman there will know what to do. Assist her as necessary, then return when it is done.”
“Not straight to the main hospital you mean?” Cloe the Apprentice asked uncertainly. “Mistress, why?”
“Certain wounds cannot be healed by moonlight,” the Wench said tightly.
“I’ve never heard of a wound like that before…not unless the person is already dead or there was a lot more damage than this g—” Cloe stuttered on the word, her eyes wide, “I mean person has taken,” she finished with a shifty look and a weak grin.
“When you get over there, tell the woman in the tent that I believe these wounds were made with a Naanth,” the Wench said sternly. She had no time for whatever girlish games her apprentice was playing at, “Now go.”
“A soul stealer,” the Apprentice gasped.
“Foolish girl, they don’t steal souls. Now go,” the Wench scolded.
“Hello,” called the healing apprentice, “my name is Cloe and I was told to come to this tent.”
There was a groan from inside, “Go away, fool girl. Come bother me again in the morning.”
“My Mistress told me to bring this…person to the woman in the blue tent behind the hospital,” Cloe said firmly after a slight initial stumble.
“This had best be good, girl; no one wakes Madam Tulla from a dead sleep after she had spent the previous six hours healing men of the wounds inflicted on their bodies for the entertainment and gain of our beloved ruling class,” snapped Madam Tulla.
“I have someone here who will die without your help,” the Apprentice cried out.
“Have someone else heal him, I’m not the only healer in this camp,” growled Tulla. “Go find one of them and get lost.”
“Please, we tried but the wounds won’t stay closed,” Cloe pleaded with the old woman who was now physically blocking the doorway of her tent.
“Not my problem, now go away,” the old woman said shortly and then closed her tent flap.
“My Mistress said the wound may have been caused by a soul stealer,” Cloe blurted.
The older woman paused inside the tent before curling a lip contemptuously. “Then she’s not only trying to waste my time, she’s a fool; there’s no such thing as weapons that steal the soul,” Tulla said sharply, but the faintest thread of interest was wended through her voice.
Cloe turned a crimson shade of red, realizing that this was the second time in the same night that she had been rebuked for using the term ‘soul stealer.’
“Uh…my Mistress may have called it a Naanth…I was the one who called it a soul stealer,” the Apprentice admitted, glad that the moonlight hid her blush of embarrassment.
“Is that man a member of our beloved ruling class?” Tulla asked sharply.
“You mean you’ll only help if he can pay?” Cloe demanded with outrage.
“Quite the opposite,” Tulla snapped, “I’ll help no invader during what should be my time of sleep, unless his friends have a sword to my throat.”
Cloe looked over at the figure still on the cart and then back at the tent. “Well, in that case…I’m not exactly sure,” she replied after thinking about it for a moment.
“Well come back when you are—or rather, don’t come back at all if, thee take my meaning,” the old woman snapped.
Cloe rushed over to the cart and had the driver bring his lantern close. The warrior looked like a native Old Blooder in the dark, but even if the wounded person didn’t, Cloe firmly decided that she would lie and say otherwise. No one was going to die because of some prejudiced old woman, not if she could help it! That anyone dedicated to the healing arts should refuse to care for someone who had just fought for their Prince and Country because their family came to this land only two or three generations earlier was not just wrong—it was criminal!
Angrily she beckoned for the driver to pull the cart to the entry of the tent, and then she gestured for the man to help carry the injured young warrior into the tent.
“He’s a native, I’m sure of it,” Cloe said rushing over to the tent flap. She would lie through her teeth if she had to.
“He had better be,” the old woman said in voice filled with dire promise, even as she tossed back the tent flap.
The driver carried the wounded warrior inside and then set their patient down on the ground, as directed by a sour-faced Tulla. Before Cloe could think to say anything, he pushed through the tent flap and took his leave.
Fumbling around in the dark, the old woman lit a pair of candles, holding them over their patient’s face and Cloe heard a sharply indrawn breath.
“I know this one. He’s a half blood! Earth and Field, I thought thee said he was a native,” the old woman cursed at her. Cloe instinctively began to make the sign of the evil eye before stopping herself. Her aborted gesture did nothing to sweeten the old woman’s disposition as she sat there glowering at Cloe.
Trying to think fast, Cloe stared at Madam Tulla with ever-widening eyes. “I said he had native blood in him,” she said quickly.
“No, thou…” the old woman trailed off into an angry muttering before quickly stopping herself, “fine!” she snapped, giving Cloe a withering look before heading outside and cupping her hands in the moonlight.
“We already tried that,” the apprentice was quick to tell her.
“If thy Mistress is as stupid as thee then I’m not surprised it failed,” the old woman said meanly.
Cloe closed her mouth and watched. It was clear as glass that anything she said was only going to make things worse.
When the healing spell of this wom
an quickly proved to be just as ineffective as their own, Cloe sighed in relief. It would have been so embarrassing to have come all this way only to have the wounds healed traditionally. Then she silently admonished herself; what was important here was saving a life! The old woman’s attempt at healing him had failed, and Cloe’s shoulders slumped in resignation.
“I suppose it was a long shot. Thank you for your time,” she said as nicely as she could manage, “I’ll go and find a man to help us move him out. Maybe one of the healers in the main hospital tent will be strong enough to make it stick.” She started to get up when a hand which seemed to be made of iron clamped down on her wrist.
“We’re not done here yet, lass,” Tulla said grimly, “not by a long chalk! I tell thee now that there’s nothing those Invader Wizards can wrought that a Witch of the Bloodlines can’t undo, given the time.”
“You’re a witch?” the apprentice wench asked, her eyes bulging.
“Why else would thy Mistress send her apprentice to me,” the old woman spat, indicating just how idiotic she thought this question with a derisive snort.
“Oh,” Cloe said in a small voice.
The old woman pulled a bent, brass key out from her bodice and leaned down to open a small battered chest. Pulling out a small bundle of items, she looked up sharply.
“Do you know the old letters?” she demanded.
“I guess,” Cloe said, taken aback and then at the old woman’s sharp look, quickly clarified, “yes!”
“How familiar are thou with the ley lines of the body and its cardinal points, do thee know those also?” Tulla pressed.
“I’m an apprentice healer,” Cloe said trying for dignity, but at the look in the Witch’s eye she hurriedly expounded, “yes! I am quite familiar.”
“Can thou trace them by feel?” Tulla continued.
“I can if I’m in a light trance,” Cloe said curiously, “why do you ask?”
The Blooding Page 39