savage 04 - the savage vengeance

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Bracus brushed the velvet of Briar Rose's nose, her breath frosting in the coolness of air that was slightly above solid ice.

  It made the ground treacherous, slick and difficult to fight in.

  For they would fight.

  He watched Briar Rose give a backward look at the fragment which stood between them and the sphere and gave a flick of her tail in agitation.

  “Aye, girl. We do harm this day.”

  Matthew looked at Bracus. “We have not enough.”

  Edwin laughed. “That is always the way of it.”

  Matthew looked down at Clara and said, “Do you ken what I have taught you?”

  Clara nodded her head. She had been taught basic maneuvers of defense. She had not had sufficient time to explain that Calia had demonstrated a few methods as well.

  Matthew pressed her face against his chest. “We may not prevail against them. I need you to stay close to me, but if one comes near, use how you appear to disarm them. Your manner and appearance are your strengths, Clara. Use them.”

  Clara said nothing but nodded against his chest.

  She had been scared before. But there was something most different about seeing an enemy before you that you knew, than one that snuck about, stabbing at a person until there was too much gone to live. Fractured but never whole.

  The past held more terror than the present which faced her.

  Matthew handed her an extra dirk, hilt first. One that he had used in the past to train the lads of the clan, a small agate gleamed softly in its hilt. Clara watched Matthew scowl, then swallow his anger, his inability to offer full protection.

  “Matthew,” Bracus intoned quietly.

  “They come,” Maddoc said, looking at Evelyn. His face mirrored those of all the Band. How would they defend their women against so many?

  The Band met each other's eyes for a suspended moment, bloated and full in the stillness of the open field. Putting their fists above their hearts, Bracus said, “To avenge, to protect and persevere against all foe!”

  Rowenna had her hand full of dirk and dagger. She gave a grin that Clara found vaguely disturbing in its contained menace.

  Bracus looked at her. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded, once. “Aye, I am.”

  He wrapped his huge hand around the back of her neck, squeezing softly. “As am I.”

  They pressed forward, Philip adjusting his mail as they walked.

  As they did, Bracus saw Daniel and Calia and breathed a small sigh of relief.

  Daniel meant greater defense against their primary enemy.

  Then Bracus frowned. He saw that Daniel was heading straight for the leader of the fragment. He would know that abused face anywhere. The scars of Matthew's fists laying clearly upon it.

  What sense was this?

  Clara smiled. She knew what Daniel was about.

  And she was entirely sure what Calia would do.

  Entirely.

  Clara's smile faded as she hid the dirk inside the waistband of her borrowed ensemble. It fit perfectly in a hidden pocket meant for such things, the cold of the metal leeching through the leather. It chilled her skin, her heart already growing cold from the certain knowledge of what lay ahead. The potential of violence.

  Violence Clara might perpetuate.

  Premeditation seemed as alien to her as the Travelers who had visited her world.

  Tucker watched the group advance and gave Daniel the signal to bring the girl and join him in the dissemination of the group. He was already counting the females and thinking he wouldn't need to trade for years if he could move them all.

  He had special plans for Clara, however. He had decided long ago he would never trade her.

  Very special plans.

  Daniel and Calia walked toward the group of fragment. He held her arm tightly, affecting an artifice of contained violence toward her. It would look real to Tucker. He'd only the time given to him until the fragment that remained alive came upon them and told of his allegiance.

  That it wasn't with the fragment of his youth, that he was more Band than even he'd surmised.

  He asked Calia while still out of hearing of the fragment, “How many?”

  Calia studied the fragment closely, taking in their injuries, size, readiness. “Mayhap five. If I am quite fortunate, one more.”

  Daniel and she spoke the language of war. They weren't talking about how many stood before them. He'd asked her how many she'd murder before she'd be overwhelmed.

  Calia had understood instantly.

  “Do you... how can I...?” Daniel began.

  “...you help me not when you hover. I will yell for assistance if and when I require it.” Calia forced a confidence she felt not, for she was not fully healed from the blow to her head.

  Daniel vacillated. He felt the need to protect her beating inside his skull with a velvet press, not easily ignored. Yet, he knew if Calia took them by surprise... he glanced at the Band which advanced from the opposite direction. Philip's mail winked like burnished pewter in the filtered light of winter.

  They may have a chance for survival.

  His eyes narrowed on Tucker. He'd be the first to die. Taking him out, the evil glue which bound the whole lot, might be enough to squash their resistance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tucker grinned when he saw Daniel.

  “You are here? Where are the others? We face the Band!” And Tucker turned as the first of the Band came within fighting range.

  “They met with trouble!” Daniel yelled over the noise of weapons escaping their bindings.

  Tucker had a moment of intense confusion, a million jagged pieces of understanding coming together in a sequence that gave him more than he wished, his marred face contorting in a mix of rage and perfect epiphany.

  In that moment he realized Daniel was a traitor.

  Daniel saw the understanding come over his face and shoved Calia to the side as Tucker's blade sheared a strand of hair from her head on the downward arc.

  Daniel met his pass as Calia swiveled, feeling her strength was half what it normally was and grabbed her matching daggers, swinging at the nearest fragment. She swung a dagger up and embedded it to the hilt in the belly of the nearest fragment while taking a straight swipe at the neck of another. Not before he threw his blade at her and she tore the dagger out of the belly of the one and met the strike in the middle of the air in a clash of metal.

  Calia heard the fighting all around her. The sound was like an echo gone astray, the noise not being where it ought, the strangeness of the meadow throwing it around like a fine ventriloquist. She turned when she should have avoided and a fist landed on the most delicate part of her jaw and she was flung backwards into the arms of another fragment.

  Her whole body convulsed from smell recognition. It was the one that she had bashed in his face—twice. She lay stunned for one moment, her head ringing from being battered. Calia threw her head back and it hit his neck instead of the target of his face. He squeezed his hand on her throat and began to drag her off, his grip a brutal clamp of flesh, pressing into her tender throat slits.

  Calia fought for her life, twisting like an eel in water captured as she was, but Calia did not have her greatest weapon at her disposal.

  Surprise.

  Without it, she was fragile before the fists and abuse of the fragment.

  All hope was lost as a mighty fist of the other fragment rose to rob her consciousness. Calia knew once gone she would later awaken to a future of degradation and enslavement. Then a sound like musical metal broke through and a blade the length of her torso and head drove through the back of the fragment, his fist frozen mid-air, the end protruding like a gruesome hook. He hung there suspended for a heartbeat. Two. The blade was jerked out with a wet sucking sound, he slid down the leg of the steed that held a rider with chain mail. The low silver dulled by winter sunlight and use.

  Philip.

  Calia had a moment of hope and relief so acute in its combin
ation that it was almost painful, making her chest tighten in an uncomfortable tangle of tension.

  Her eyes met Philip's and tears burned from what she saw lay there.

  Purpose.

  Devotion.

  And mayhap more.

  Much more.

  Calia began to fight in the vile arms of the fragment which held her, his ruined face motivation for tightening his hold, anger driving him harder than anything could have.

  Philip leaped off the steed, his legs coming together in a smooth line of precision, kissing the ground and bouncing with a practiced hop toward Calia.

  Calia felt the icy press of metal against her throat and went still. It dug into one of her throat slits and was painful, the cold metal against the open heat of her breathing apparatus uncomfortable in the extreme.

  And of course, there was the small matter of her possible death.

  Her golden eyes met ebony, then Philip's black stare shifted to a point behind her.

  “Leave her, or I will kill her in this moment,” the fragment said from behind her, his rancid breath like a fouled cloud of fruit surrounding her face. Calia could feel the press of the blade, the first, swollen drop of her blood running a heated pathway against her flesh. Freezing where it ran in the icy air.

  Calia's eyes widened as two of the fragment came behind Philip and it was only part and parcel of the warning he received, as their footsteps were a herd of horses which proceeding their advance. He swung without looking, his long blade making fortunate purchase in the neck of one fragment. Buried deeply, he then turned and met the dagger of the other. The fragment twisted to best advantage and unsheathed a small dirk from his back, landing it perfectly in the slot between the mail. Philip grunted from the impact even as he drove the dagger through the underside of his enemy's soft chin, the tip exiting the skull with the force of his thrust.

  Philip tore the blade away simultaneously with the long sword and swung to face Calia, in the hellish embrace of a badly beaten fragment.

  They were gone.

  No!

  Clara and Matthew fought in a loose circle, Rowenna and Bracus with their backs to them.

  Actually, Clara stood and squeezed down on the fear that threatened to overwhelm her as males twice her size attacked Matthew as he provided protection for her.

  They were being overtaken.

  Everywhere she looked there were three of the fragment to one of the Band. Clara's hair blinded her as it had come undone from its bindings in the melee.

  Which is why Tucker got to her, she was sure.

  Clara was torn away from Matthew as he was three deep in fragment and unable to stop it.

  Matthew heard Clara's screams and his arms became like the tornadoes of legend, spinning and cutting a random path of slicing abuse everywhere they met resistance. The blood became so thick he was choking on the metallic fragrance of it. It was in his eyes, splattering his gills even as he threw the flap of his tunic up to protect the openings at his throat.

  Clara, his mind raged, desperate to get to her.

  Tucker took the queen by the hair that hung like a handle for him and him alone. He had watched Lyle drag off the other select and felt like they were making progress. He hauled Clara to her feet and she slapped him before he knew that she could, before it occurred to Tucker she would. He stood shocked for a moment, his flesh stinging in the cold air.

  Tucker punched her in the face, her head lashing back. He hit her just hard enough to keep her conscious but for Clara to be aware who truly ruled here.

  It was he.

  Tucker was almost to the woods, a woozy and now compliant queen staggering against him. He would strap her to a tree for later reckoning. He smirked. Right now, he was needed back in the battle, he would crush the Band once and for all, then take the women.

  Clara was shaking with rage and pain, her head literally swam in a fog of disorientation. She clutched the dirk in her hand and prayed to the Guardian that she could strike true.

  However, the Guardians were a false god. Sent to harm, not help. It would be Clara, and she alone this day. In this moment.

  Calia had said the best defense was one that was unexpected, that directive was the only one that now beat in her brain like a dull roar.

  Tucker looked at the battle which raged behind him and pronounced it equal. If he could lend a hand, they would win. He turned and gave a long look to Clara, he could give her a small abuse at this moment, insuring her continued suffering. He used one hand to draw her close to him by the nape of her neck, her hair a soft and warm weight above his palm.

  However, something remarkable happened at the exact time his hand touched her flesh.

  Tucker had never actually touched a select in this way, only beaten or slapped a face.

  The point of contact burned like a fire lit.

  Tucker's eyes widened in surprise and he snatched his hand away, the battle behind them forgotten for the interim. Tucker stared at Clara and she met his eyes, her cheekbone seared from his abuse.

  Against every fiber of his wretched existence, every imperative he had just given himself, he drew her back into his embrace.

  Tucker had to know, he couldn't think but for the compulsion to have her close to him. The driving instinct swept every other thought out of his mind.

  He grabbed the back of her head, craning her head back and put his mouth over hers.

  It was the first kiss Tucker had ever given.

  It would be his last.

  Clara felt his lips press onto hers in the softest brush of skin as she sunk the small dagger into the vulnerable side of Tucker. Then she did the last thing to assure his demise, forcing past her hesitation to end life.

  Clara twisted the blade like the hands of a clock.

  He grunted with the impact and his eyes got wide just as Matthew rushed to her side, his tunic covered in blood and other gory bits.

  Tucker looked at Clara in awestruck surprise. The minute drops of genetic fiber coming together in an instinctive mix stole his breath. He looked down at her battered face, their bodies pressed together by his kiss and her violence and felt the greatest urge of his life come crashing home:

  Protect.

  It was an instinctual deluge unlike anything he'd ever known, completely foreign, undeniable in its insistence.

  When he felt the blade press home and twist he felt an emotion foreign to him.

  Sadness.

  In that moment of clarity, he saw Clara for what she was, what she was meant to be.

  To him.

  To all.

  Tucker fell on his side and looked up at the male of the Band that had disfigured his face and knew he would die at his hand, the blue eyes blazing out of his face like dull azure jewels of deadly intent.

  Tucker's regret was powerful.

  In that moment, at the terminus of his life, he realized what it meant to be Band.

  Then the blade came down on his neck and Tucker knew no more.

  *

  Matthew wiped his dagger clean on the tunic of the one he had beaten soundly over a year past and straightened. A wrong righted, a circle which closed.

  His eyes went to Clara just as she began to sway, her knuckles white around the borrowed dirk hilt. He sheathed the weapon and clutched her small body against his, his palm fitting solidly between the fragile bones of her back.

  “I killed him,” she whispered against his chest.

  “Nay, you began it. But it was my blow that ended his miserable existence.”

  The weapons sung and clanged around the pair as she gazed into his face and they heard as the music caused by the weaponry diminished, the grating clatter spiraling into silence.

  “He was Band, Matthew.” Tears fell from her eyes in streaming rivulets of glistening water, pathways of dirt and blood from her wounds and the evidence of others washing away as he studied her. “He was Band,” she said in a hoarse sob and he wrapped her tighter against him, his gaze sliding to the fallen fragment.
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  Not Band enough to be true, Matthew thought, but Band enough to recognize others, yet- not all. Matthew's stare went to Daniel as he jerked his blade out of a fragment.

  Not all.

  Daniel swung his gaze around, looking for Calia.

  She was nowhere.

  He counted who remained and found Philip missing. His eyes swept the perimeter and thought he saw a flash of metal that was not a weapon.

  A hulking form winked out of the meadow into the shadows of the forest.

  Daniel checked that the bodies of the fragment which lay strewn everywhere to make certain they didn't rise.

  Satisfied that they'd suppressed the enemy, he tore after Philip.

  Philip loathed that the sound of the mail did not allow stealth. The fragment would have every evidence of his approach. Therefore, Philip made no attempt to quiet his advance. He crashed through branches that were as thick as his arms.

  He barreled after the man who had laid hold to the female that was his perfect match. Whether she be aware of it or no.

  Calia.

  He sprinted, his huge body devouring the distance between him and the fragment.

  When he came upon them Calia was screaming, the extreme duress of her voice caused him to leap the the two horse lengths of a small ravine where a dry river bed lay, asleep during the winter.

  Or so he thought, his foot sliding on the slick hill and crashing through a thin layer of ice, burying him to his thigh in a river that had masqueraded as a creek.

  Philip roared, the tenor of her voice reaching him as a shrill alarm. He felt a slow panic that began like evil heat that licking at the soles of his feet and roared up as a flaming inferno to crest at his head. The muck at the bottom of the river sucked like insidious quicksand at his boot. He fought to free it from its prison and almost succeeded when Daniel appeared behind him.

  He swiveled at the hips and bellowed, “Get her!” His eyes pegged Daniel and he reacted instantly.

  Daniel looked down at Philip and did not want to have them both stuck. He grabbed a branch that was stout and straight, using his longsword, he swept it up with both hands and cleanly broke it off at its base against the trunk of the tree. Using it like the pole it was, he vaulted across the waterway to the other side.