by Ana Mardoll
His family was dead or lost on the wind. Even if by some miracle they were alive, the best he could do to help them was what he'd already planned: kill the warlord who so inexplicably sought their deaths. Nocien did not expect to survive the encounter, but should he escape after his kill he would look for them after tonight. For now, all he could do was wait while the sun dipped low in the sky and sank into the horizon's embrace.
The largest tent in the clearing was pitched near the center and marked with the biggest of the blood-red banners. Lit on all sides by campfires, it would be difficult to approach unseen. Nocien would wait until the fires burned low and the watchmen were sleepy. He could be patient and await the perfect opportunity to sneak in and kill Guyon where he lay. If the warlord died loudly, Nocien would have to fight his way out; if not, there was the slenderest of chances that he could slip away without anyone noticing.
A soft gasp brought him back to the moment, jerking his gaze down to the ground below his tree. Beneath him stood a girl, her arms holding a basket almost as big as herself, filled to the brim with clothes for washing. She stared up at him in the dim starlight with wide eyes and his heart sank.
Knowing he hadn't a moment to lose before she screamed, he dropped from the tree and touched a finger to his lips. "Shh!" he warned and then almost gasped aloud; the girl before him was his sister Eira.
"Please don't hurt me." Her whispered pleading was all wrong; she didn't recognize him, and he realized with a bittersweet pang that he was mistaken. She was the same height and build as Eira, but her hair was a glossier black and her eyes the color of stormy skies.
Nocien sighed and shook his head, trying not to let the disappointment he felt show on his face. "I'm not here to hurt you; my quarrel is with your autarch. You're their captive, aren't you?" The bruise blossoming around her right eye suggested as much, enough for him to hazard a hopeful guess.
She chewed on her lower lip and shot a fearful look behind her at the camp. "Yes."
He couldn't let her return to the camp after seeing him; she might warn them and everything would be ruined. "You can run away. Tonight. Right now. They won't come after you; they'll be busy with me."
Temptation flared in her eyes but she shook her head, lips set in a surprisingly stubborn line. "You think it's that easy? I don't know this land! I'd run out of water; I'd die."
"Take this!" He stepped closer; she dropped the basket in fear and he pressed his water-skin into her hands. "Head northeast and find the lightning-struck tree; there's a pool at its base with clean water. Then go east to the sea. You'll be safe and free."
He saw the hesitation in her face but her fingers closed possessively around the neck of the water-skin. "The penalty for trying to escape—"
"Guyon dies tonight." Despite his anxiety, he forced his voice to stay low. "They won't come after you. They'll be too busy dealing with me, or I'll be dead and they'll be fighting for leadership."
She snorted and looked away from him, her eyes dull and weary. "Many people try to kill him, but none of them succeed. Why should you be any different?"
"I'm not one of his drunken kinsman looking for a brawl or a sleepy fighter caught by surprise in the night. I've trained for this. He killed my father, Autarch Cadfen, my brothers and my mothers." His heart beat faster with each heated word and Nocien knew he sought to convince more than just this girl. "Either he'll die at my hands or I'll die trying to kill him. I've sworn it on my name."
She stared at him, her eyes wide and unblinking. "What is your name?"
He softened at the question. "Nocien, son of Cadfen. What's yours?"
She risked another glance behind her, but they were alone. "They call me Flur. But my name is Ishild."
Nocien nodded his understanding, pronouncing her true name with care. "Ishild, please run. I can't let you go back to the camp and tell them I'm here. Go to the pool under the charred tree and then east to the sea."
Ishild hesitated a moment longer then nodded. "Good luck, Nocien, son of Cadfen," she whispered, then plunged into the brush without another word, running away from both him and the camp.
He had earned a reprieve but not a long one. The girl had been sent to wash clothes for the camp, away from the drinking wells. She would be expected to take some time, but they would want her back before the fires burned low. If they suspected her of running away they would rouse the camp to look for her, which meant torches and alert men carrying weapons, and the element of surprise lost entirely.
Yet if waiting were not an option, neither was simply storming in. With so many men still awake and moving about, he'd be spotted the moment he stepped into the clearing and cut down before he found Guyon. He needed a distraction, something to get the fighters away from the warlord's tent or to flush the warlord out of his tent to a place more easily accessible to Nocien's blade.
His eye fell on one of the fires dotting the perimeter of the camp, the flames casting shadows on the canvas of the nearby tents. Fire, he thought, the kernel of an idea taking root. Fire could be very distracting.
Canvas caught fire like dry kindling on the hot summer night, belching smoke and flame into the sky. Hidden in the brush, Nocien watched men scramble to contain the blaze, calling for buckets and water from the wells. Women were pushed aside and made to stand back; not, he decided, because the men wanted to protect them, but because they didn't trust the women not to spread the fire further.
The man who haunted Nocien's nightmares stormed from his tent as the flames roared louder. Guyon was in a state of undress, pulling his tunic over his graying hair as he stalked out. His sword-belt was fastened tight around his waist, Nocien noted, but his boots were laced only halfway up. He took in the chaos before him with a cold glance and spat out orders to the men who scurried about.
He wasn't alone and asleep as Nocien would have preferred, but distracted and unattended would have to do. Crouching low, he stepped swiftly through the brush and into the perimeter of the camp. Campfires bathed him in light, but the kinsmen were too busy in their rushing panic to notice one quiet stranger. He gripped his saber behind his back to avoid the gleam of metal catching his target's eye.
"Pull down the bordering tents so they can't catch! No, pull them away from the fire! You!" The warlord turned as he gestured towards flapping canvas, his eyes falling on Nocien. "Get a bucket and help, boy!"
Nocien wondered if he might be able to play the part as a ruse to get closer, but the man's eyes were already narrowing with suspicion. Nocien looked out of place here because he was; he was a stranger with his hands behind his back and a flagrant disregard for the fire threatening to set the camp ablaze. Perhaps, too, the hate in his eyes could only be tamped down so far before it boiled over.
"You're not one of my men." Guyon pulled his blade from his belt in an instant but he did not leap forward to attack. He watched Nocien with wary interest, as if trying to place him. "Where do I know you from?"
The advantage of surprise lost, Nocien brought his blade from behind his back. Another step closed the distance between them, his eyes darting between Guyon's blade and his surroundings. "You see in my face the family you butchered," he spat, his hands trembling as he held his blade. So long anticipating this moment and now he was here. He needed to be absolutely perfect.
The warlord had the audacity to chuckle. "I've butchered my fair share. Help an old man with his aging memory."
"Two years ago." He took another step, circling around to watch for anyone sneaking up on him. Guyon turned in his place easily, neither falling back or pressing ahead, just watching and waiting. "You killed my father, Autarch Cadfen, and my brothers, Iolen, Emrys, Aneirin, and Morcant. You killed his wives, my mothers. We had done nothing to you, and you slaughtered them in the night. Now you pay."
For the span of a heartbeat, Guyon's eyes widened and Nocien saw fear in those depths. Then recognition dawned and terror was replaced by disdain. "I know you. That wine-red birthmark splashed over your cheek; you're the gir
l who got away. You came back to torch my camp?" He shook his head and slashed the air with his sword, warming his muscles. "Child, you've made the worst decision of your short life."
The man leaped forward but tension in his foot gave away the attack and Nocien met him with steel. Saber and sword clashed with a jangling note that rang through the camp, the sound of battle unmistakable even in competition with the roaring flames. Nocien knew he had to finish this quickly and lashed in a wild strike, leaving himself unforgivably open to the shame of Master Hilon were he there to see. Guyon met the strike with an easy parrying blow and the fighters parted to circle one another again.
Nocien was lucky to be unbloodied after such an impetuous swing, but confusion outweighed his relief; his opponent ought to have taken advantage of his error. Guyon's circling movements struck him as odd. The man was clearly no beginner with a sword, yet his feints and jabs read as far in advance to Nocien as if they'd been called out in warning. This was nothing like a duel with Master Hilon and barely like one with Lykos; Guyon seemed bored, as though he were so confident of the outcome that he felt no inclination to waste his efforts.
Perhaps the closeness of his men made him arrogant. Yet even as they rallied around the fighters and Nocien's heart sank, the warlord waved them away. "She's only a girl," he announced to knowing chuckles.
Nocien's lip curled in a sneer that looked braver than he felt as his saber struck metal with another jarring clang. "You claim not to fear girls, Guyon? You weren't so courageous when you slaughtered my mothers, Ceinwen and Meinwen. They never did you any harm but you cut them down like the coward you are."
Guyon's blade met his easily as men jeered and laughed around them; as lackluster as he was with his half-hearted attacks, the man's parrying strikes were a testament to skill. Worse, Nocien's taunts hadn't riled him into making a careless opening. "Child, the only threat those women represented lay in their wombs."
"Why?" The cry ripped from Nocien's throat as he flung himself into another attack, less reckless than before but still parried with ease; he was tiring, he could feel it, and he hadn't so much as drawn blood against the older man. "What possible threat could a baby be, you monster?"
The warlord struck with more force, the impact shuddering up Nocien's arm as his saber met the attack. "Not a baby; a son of Autarch Cadfen. That is why you, girl, are not a threat, because no girl is a threat. The greatest soothsayer in the north swore I could only be killed by Cadfen's son, and that line is broken!"
Guyon's final word was a roar of triumph. His sword lashed out and Nocien reeled away, jerking backwards as Master Hilon had taught him and narrowly escaping the blow. Not quite, he realized a moment later, as the sting set in and spectators cheered; the wound was shallow, but blood wept from a puncture to his stomach. He slapped his hand to the cut but his mind was occupied with the words still washing over him.
Helplessly, Nocien began to laugh.
The sound was shrill in his ears, almost manic with raw hilarity. Guyon watched with bored eyes, and somehow this made the situation even more funny. Shaking his head and choking back guffaws, Nocien brought his gaze to meet the man who had wounded him, who had murdered his family, and who would almost certainly be the death of him. Nocien was now perfectly confident he would return the favor.
"What's so funny, girl?" Guyon's voice was as bored as his gaze. "The thought of your impending doom?"
Nocien snorted, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade. "You never realized." He laughed once more, a ragged burst of air he couldn't hold back. "Guyon, I am a son of Cadfen. His last son, the sole survivor. And you've given me every reason to kill you."
A heartbeat passed as Guyon's eyes widened and his misplaced confidence fled. His sword-arm faltered in a tiny, uncertain dip and Nocien saw his chance. Lunging forward on the balls of his feet, he let his body close the distance his shorter arms could not. His saber sliced through the man's tunic to the skin underneath and carved a wide path from armpit to armpit; as blood began to flow like summer rain, he flashed a brilliant smile at the shocked man. "I'll admit that your impending doom gave me a chuckle as well."
The body of the man whose existence had so marred Nocien's own crumpled to the ground before him, the last expression on his face one of pained astonishment. Nocien turned, clutching the wound in his stomach, and regarded the men surrounding him. They too seemed shocked by the death of their leader, but he knew that would not last. The men would rally, capture, and kill him, and he could only hope to take a few of them with him before he succumbed.
Or so Nocien thought until the first spear drove through the chest of one of the men, followed by the shouts of invaders rushing the camp from the surrounding darkness.
He thought they were ghosts, or the visions of a dying man succumbing to a wound that must have been more serious than he realized. Then battle joined and there was no time to think, only the flash and clash of metal. Men fell to the onslaught of spears he knew as intimately as his own hands, and those who tried to run found their throats cut with slender knives wielded by women they'd kept in captivity. Screams rent the air and the scent of blood and smoke and fire overwhelmed his senses.
Nocien found himself lying on his back on the ground, his head cradled in Mother Rhonwen's lap as Mother Tegwen tended to the wound in his stomach with her gentle hands. Eira handed her bandages while little Mabyn clung to Tesni, who had shot up almost as tall as Nocien in the time since he'd last seen her. Branwen and Eurwen moved about dousing fires and communicating with the camp women. Eurwen was having an easier time with her hands than Branwen was with her words, finding the captive women did not all speak the same language.
"How did you know where to find me?" Nocien's voice sounded ragged in his ears, his throat raw from smoke. "I didn't know where to look for you. Master Hilon sent scouts but so much time had passed—"
Rhonwen shushed him, leaning over to kiss his forehead. "We didn't. Forgive me, my own heart, but when you didn't return we were certain that you were dead. We've been on the move ever since, picking up kinsfolk who ran that night wherever we could find them. We stayed on the move to avoid the warlord, for we knew he was hunting us. He has been scouring the land while we struggled to hide from his scouts."
"He believed one of Father's sons would kill him," Nocien tried to explain. Soothsayers were rare and not a part of his life in either Cadfen's kinship or Hilon's, but Guyon must have had access to one. Did the soothsayer know that his prophecy would cause the death of so many in Nocien's family, or would all this have happened without his prediction? Nocien couldn't begin to guess.
"I know." Tears streamed over Rhonwen's cheeks as she bent again to kiss him. "My beautiful, brave boy. Ishild told us, and I couldn't run here quickly enough."
Nocien was light-headed from loss of blood, and the soft onslaught of his mother's kisses did little to halt the spinning of the stars above. "Ishild? The laundry girl?"
The girl poked her face out from behind Eira at the sound of her name, watching with wary eyes. "They caught me running from the camp. I told them about the prophecy Guyon always bragged about, how he could only be killed by Cadfen's son."
"And she told us about the boy who sent her running," Tegwen said, shaking her head with a soft smile as she worked. "A child of Cadfen carrying a wine-stain birthmark on his cheek. Who else could it be but you?"
"You came to rescue me," Nocien breathed, lost in the happy warmth of his mothers' hands. "You brought your spears to save me and the captive women."
Rhonwen wiped tears from her face and smiled, a fierce huntress once more, embodying everything he'd feared never to see again. "Yes. Some of us have wanted to attack for a while. We knew we couldn't run forever, so we thought to take the fight to him and win or die together, but we disagreed on the time and place. You forced our hand with flame and steel, and I could not be more proud of my strong son."
"He'll be stronger in the morning," Tegwen declared as she finished binding his wou
nd. "And then we can decide where to go from here, or whether to stay a while. It's a nice campsite."
"East." Nocien's voice was a soft whisper. He smiled up at them, drifting away on a warm haze as the pain ebbed to a low throb. "Tomorrow we travel east, to the sea. There's kin there I want you to meet." His smile widened at the idea of seeing Master Hilon again. "You'll like them, I know."
Daughter of Kings
Content Note: Misgendering, Parental Bigotry, mention of Parental Death
"Finnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn! Where aaaaaaare you?"
Finndís twisted in her saddle at the bellow of her nickname. Giving a light clench on the rein and a nudge of her heel against the horse's barrel, she moved her gelding around to face the howl on the wind. Beside her, Torjei's spine unconsciously stiffened as he sat straighter and whirled his horse in time with her quick movements.
"Is that Rúni hollering?"
She nodded in response, her eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun as she searched the hills behind them. There; the telltale gallop of a horse and the sight of her little brother cresting the green horizon. He was alone—a thing the young prince ought never be—and riding his horse hard, leaning into the animal as he squeezed his legs into its sides for more speed. Finndís felt her breath catch in her throat and urged her ride forward at a brisk canter to meet the little prince and his frantic steed.
The boy's mare tossed her head and shied away from the approaching geldings. Finndís scowled; the dun mare was the most willful beast in the stables and she had begged Father not to give her to Rúni. She touched her heel to turn but before her gelding could correct course Torjei was there, hands reaching to secure the mare's bridle and draw her to a reluctant halt. "Rúnolfur! What are you doing out of the castle?"