Eleanor

by S. F. Burgess

  “Irrelevant. Have you any idea how many you could have killed?”

  Eleanor wanted to apologise, an image of the Protector Rand had kicked in the head fresh in her mind, but then she remembered the sound of hysterical cheering the crowd had made as Conlan had been shoved to the ground. They did not deserve her pity – they were ruthless, violent people. It suddenly occurred to her that they were the same people who were chasing them, and fear twisted her stomach so hard she was glad she had not eaten anything recently.

  “Conlan, I’m scared,” she whispered.

  “Good, you should be! Remember this feeling the next time you have the desire to do something suicidally brave!”

  “I was just trying to help you,” she said, trying very hard not to whine, to sound strong and justified. “You can’t tell me you wanted those Protectors to flog you.”

  “It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

  Eleanor had no response to that and lapsed into silence. Conlan slowed Rand’s headlong gallop to a bouncing, bone-jarring trot.

  They had been travelling for several miles before Eleanor realised that Conlan’s breath was whistling through his teeth at every jolt. As he did it again she turned and caught the grimace of pain on his face.

  “You’re hurt; you can’t keep this pace up,” she said.

  “I’ll manage,” came the hard, empty response. Eleanor gently nudged her elbow into his side. Conlan gasped and moaned, his head dropping briefly onto her shoulder as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “Oh yeah, Conlan. You’re just peachy,” she muttered.

  As the sun set, the encroaching darkness forced them to slow Rand down to a heavy-footed walk. The animal panted. Sweat had formed a lather that coated his chest and legs, flecks of saliva covered his face and more saliva dripped from his mouth with each panting breath as it steamed in the chilly air.

  “Conlan, it’s really cold. I’m tired and Rand is all sweaty; shouldn’t we stop?” she asked, working hard to keep the complaint out of her voice.

  Conlan shook his head slowly. “Our only chance of escape is to run through the night; Protectors don’t like to ride at night. It will give us the extra time we need to make it to safety. We can’t stop.”

  The closer they got to the mountains, the colder it became. Snow began to appear in areas that had not been reached by the sun, until they were walking through a blurry, white landscape that glowed eerily pale blue in the moonlight. Eleanor fixed her gaze on the mountains. Her bare arms and hands were numb with cold, her nose and ears were not far behind and her breath came out in small grey clouds. Yet, despite her discomfort, she felt a strange excitement. The mountains were so close now that she could see the snow-covered crags and the path that led up into them. It was so very beautiful that it made her breath catch and brought tears to her eyes. She tried to explain the feeling to herself, but the closest she could get was that it felt like home – which was odd for a place she had never been. The burn on her wrist began to itch. If she could have prised her frozen fingers from Rand’s mane to scratch it she would have, but as it was, she simply added it to the list of aches and pains and forgot about it. It began to snow – large, soft, dreamy flakes settling on her head, and then melting and running down her neck. Eventually Rand came to a stop; his head bowed, flanks heaving.

  “We walk from here.”

  Eleanor jumped at Conlan’s voice after the miles of silence. She turned to object, to beg for rest, but she met green eyes filled with agony and stern resolve. She promptly shut her mouth. He was pushing himself far harder than he was pushing her, the danger must be very real. He let go of her waist and slid to the ground. The jolt as he landed made him groan, and he crumpled in on himself as he collapsed into the deepening snow, eyes squeezed closed, lips pulled back over clenched teeth. Moving as quickly as her cold, tired body would allow, Eleanor swung her leg over Rand’s back and, holding on to his mane, lowered herself to the ground. She knelt in the snow at Conlan’s side, with no idea how to help him. Eventually he fought down the pain and glared at her.

  “Get me up, we need to move.”

  Eleanor put her shoulder under his arm and struggled to get him to his feet, as she did she looked back the way they had come. There seemed to be dancing lights in the distance, moving towards them.

  “Conlan, what’s that?” she asked, pointing back down the trail. Conlan turned to look and his whole body tensed.

  “It’s them, the Protectors, riding at night. We have to go!”

  Eleanor could hear the fear in his voice and it sent a shot of terror through her soul. Turning up the track, away from the lights, Conlan trudged onwards. Eleanor followed, with Rand faithfully bringing up the rear.

  The track became steeper, twisting and turning through the crags and revealing some dizzying drops. Eleanor noticed, distractedly, that her wrist had begun to hurt. She rubbed it absently as she looked behind her; the lights seemed closer.

  Conlan fell.

  Eleanor pulled him up, practically dragging him forwards. I should be dead on my feet. Yet, she felt energised, powerful. A strong heat began to radiate through her body, spreading through her frozen limbs and bringing a strange vitality. The exhaustion faded slightly– it was still there, but it did not seem as urgent as it had been.

  “I need a moment to catch my breath,” Conlan gasped. Eleanor nodded and supported his shaking body as best she could as he panted. The heat in her wrist turned to an intense burning, heating up her muscles and melting the snow that settled on her bare skin. She rubbed at the mark, wincing. Conlan noticed.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Yes, it has done for a while and it’s getting worse,” she said, her voice shaking, although whether that was fear, the bitter cold or the heat she could feel surging through her, she was not sure.

  “Good. Eleanor, there’s a narrow gap a little further up this trail that leads to a small canyon; we need to get there,” his words were barely audible over the pounding in her ears of her frightened heart and his rough voice dissolved into coughs, spasms wracking his body, blood flecking the snow at his feet. Eleanor struggled to keep him upright. As the coughing subsided she pulled more of his weight over her shoulders and dragged him forward. Conlan weakly pointed the way.

  Once in the canyon, Eleanor looked around. It was shaped like a stone goldfish bowl. The snow was not as deep here, and in places, where the walls curved inwards, the overhang had stopped any falling at all. Eleanor looked up and saw the stars and moon in the frigid sky through the gap above, filling the canyon with an ethereal, silvery light. She could have made it out of the hole, but Conlan never would and Rand, who stood shivering in the dark shadow under one of the overhangs, would have no hope either. Looking back, she realised that the entrance they had used was also the only exit.

  “Conlan, where do we need to go from here?”

  “This is where we need to be,” came the rasping reply.

  “It’s a dead-end, we’ve no escape; we’re going to have to fight,” she pointed out.

  Conlan staggered again and Eleanor lowered him down against the canyon wall under an overhang. He lay with his arms wrapped round his chest, panting. Despite the cold, sweat stood out on his forehead, and his face was drawn, pained. Eleanor gently prised the sword from his cold fingers; he gave her another deep, penetrating look.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t think you’re capable of putting up much of a fight right now,” she muttered, not voicing her fear that she did not think she was very capable either.

  The frown deepened. “Do you even know how to use a sword?”

  “I’m sure they’ll get my ‘point’,” she said with a lopsided grin, trying to convey a confidence she did not feel. Conlan nodded, amusement camouflaging the pain in his eyes for a moment.

  “You just have to hold them off. Buy us time, Eleanor, help is coming.”

  Eleanor doubted it, but she got up, again feeling another surge of warmth run
through her body, heating her cold muscles and filling her with vitality she was well aware she should not possess. A concern for later. Right now, this strange energy was too valuable for her to question its provenance. She gave the sword some experimental swings. She had taken some Kendo classes at summer school years ago, but the heavy metal felt very different to the bamboo ‘shinai’ swords they had used.

  Standing in front of Conlan she faced the narrow entrance to the canyon, raising her weapon as the Protectors entered. There were six of them – they carried lanterns and all drew their swords when they saw her. The slick swish of the metal as they were released from the scabbards made her flesh crawl, a feeling compounded as her gaze tracked the row of sharpened steel glinting in the lantern light. One of the men was talking to her. She had no idea what he was saying, but the gestures he made and the laughing from the other men left little to the imagination. Hers would not be an easy death. Fear made her hand shake, but she fought to control herself as they fanned out around her. She swung her sword at those who moved too close. The two to the right jumped back as she came within a hair’s breadth of slicing flesh. The man who had done the talking laughed. He moved forward, casually, then twisted suddenly and aimed a hammer blow straight at her head. Eleanor reacted purely on instinct. Feeling the power surge through her, she raised her own sword to block the blow. The jarring force as it landed made her teeth rattle in her head, the sound of ringing metal momentarily deafening as it echoed around her. A look of surprise flashed briefly across the man’s face, before he pulled back and thrust at her side. Eleanor twisted and swung the sword at the back of his neck. He ducked and blocked. He was playing with her, she knew it. He brought another hammer blow down at her head again, but this time she shifted her weight slightly, allowing his blow to slide harmlessly down her blade. As his weapon cleared the tip of hers, Eleanor allowed the tension to release and the sword flicked up. Seeing an opening, she thrust her stolen sword, with all the force she could muster, into her opponent’s throat. He looked shocked, but then again, so was she. She watched in amazement as his life blood pumped out of the ruptured main artery. He grabbed the wound with rubbery, useless fingers and collapsed, gurgling his last breaths.

  For a moment there was silence and the metallic smell of blood. I killed a man, was her first thought. It was far too easy, was the second. Horrified, Eleanor looked at the sword. Her hands still trembling, she tightened her grip. Then, raising the wet, glistening weapon again, she turned to stare grimly at the nearest Protector, who stared back in astonishment. The silence was shattered by one of the other men yelling at her, his obvious fury making him sound like an animal as he made his point in his snarling, growling language. She turned slowly. The fight had taken her away from Conlan’s side. Her place had been taken by the man doing the yelling – he was thin and wiry, with a nasty grin. Crouched over Conlan, he had pulled his head back by the hair and was holding a wicked-looking knife against his captive’s throat, dark malice staring at her from black, hostile eyes. The man said something, looked at Eleanor’s sword and then dragged his blade across skin to emphasise the words. A thin line of blood dribbled down Conlan’s neck. Despite the barrier of the strange language, she understood exactly what the Knife Man meant and flung her sword away from her. So much for playing fair. One of the other men circled behind her. She knew he was there, but there was nothing she could do about it. Forcing herself to breathe slowly, Eleanor concentrated on not showing fear. The man holding the knife to Conlan’s throat growled orders. He seemed to be in charge now. Two of the men went to stand by the only exit from the canyon. Just in case I felt like running for it, Eleanor thought, fighting back her hysterical panic.

  Knife Man called to a younger-looking man, his features soft and frightened; the kid nodded and knelt, holding his own knife to Conlan’s exposed neck. Standing slowly, Knife Man moved towards her. He smiled and licked his thin lips, running his gaze up and down her trembling body. Death was coming. Eleanor could see it in his eyes, but first he was going to make her suffer. She had a strong flashback to another life, another man threatening her, gunshots, agony, regret. Knife Man raised his blade and gently, almost as a caress, ran it down her left arm. Thanks to the cold, Eleanor was able to control her reaction; she saw the trickle of blood before the pain hit. It was not a deep cut, but it required her to clamp her teeth together over a cry of pain. She would not give him that satisfaction. Behind them she heard Conlan struggling, yelling something in their growling language. Knife Man barked an order without turning round. There was the dull slap of fists hitting flesh, accompanied by a pitiful, animal-like whimpering and then silence. Is he dead? Eleanor could not bring herself to look. If he was, at least it had been quick.

  Looking annoyed by the interruption, Knife Man grabbed at her chin with his free hand. Eleanor flinched away, taking an involuntary step back. The other man was there, right behind her. He reached an arm round her chest, pinning her against him. The rank smell of sweaty, unwashed man filled Eleanor’s nose, driving her to panic. She struggled, attempting to get free, but the man’s arms were like steel. Knife Man sneered at her, growling what appeared to be his amusement at her futile efforts. Anger flared, and with the heel of her foot Eleanor stomped down, hard. The vice-like grip was released and the man howled, landing on his backside as he tried to massage the pain from his crushed toes. Unfortunately, before Eleanor could take advantage of the chance for freedom, the point of Knife Man’s blade thrust at her face. Again, instinct kicked in. Raising her arms, Eleanor’s right forearm took the force of the jab instead of the eye Knife Man had been aiming for. The pain was immediate, running up her arm and filling her head, lightning flashing through her vision. Crying out, she staggered back, clutching at the injury. An alarming quantity of blood – warm and sticky – oozed between her fingers. She watched it drip, the crimson terrifyingly vivid against the snow. Her body suddenly weak, the situation beyond her comprehension, Eleanor dropped to the ground stunned, shaking uncontrollably. Knife Man stood menacingly over her. In an abstract way she knew death was imminent, but time seemed to have stopped. She raised her head. Knife Man was staring at her, horror and disgust on his face and enough fear in his eyes to reach through Eleanor’s shock.

  What’s he afraid of?

  Utterly confused, Eleanor looked about, wondering if the mythical help Conlan had alluded to had suddenly made an appearance.

  “Harish!” Knife Man yelled, backing away – the knife held in defence now, not attack. His retreat was halted by a hollow ‘thwack’. Knife Man’s eyes opened wide, his features frozen in terror. The fletched feathers of the end of an arrow were protruding from the top of his head, like some sort of bizarre headdress. His eyes rolled back in his skull and he collapsed. Behind her, Eleanor heard another ‘thwack’ and turned as the other man, just having got back on his feet, toppled over, an arrow sticking out of the top of his head. The two by the exit fell with hardly a sound, arrows sticking out of their chests, before they fully realised what was going on. That just left the kid next to Conlan. Eleanor turned to face him. His soft brown eyes flicked around with panicked fear; he gazed at his fallen comrades, promptly flung his sword and knife to the ground and fell to his knees with his hands behind his head.

  Eleanor forced herself to stand. Her body continued to shake. Conlan was lying still. She was too far away to tell if he was breathing and too afraid to get closer in case he might not be. Shadows moved across the gap above her – those who had released the arrows, she guessed – but were they friends or more foe? The pain in her wrist became an agony that overwhelmed even the pain of the injury Knife Man had inflected. She cradled it with her left hand and waited, paralysed, for whatever was coming next. Eleanor jumped when a voice called out from the canyon’s entrance.

  “You must be Earth. Who taught you to fight?”

  Eleanor spun round; a woman and two men were entering the canyon. It was the woman who had spoken. She was tall and willowy, with long blac
k curls tied down her back. Cold grey eyes regarded the world from a beautiful, solemn, ivory-skinned face. The two men could not have been more different. The older one was tall and pale, blond hair and deep-blue eyes in a handsome, rugged face. He moved his lithe, muscular body with a sinuous grace that rivalled Conlan’s. The shorter, younger one had skin like polished walnut, a sturdier, stronger looking physique and closely cropped black hair over dark, almost black eyes that shimmered in the lantern light. He had an amused smile and an open, friendly face. They moved towards her with calm confidence, swords at their waists swinging against their legs as they walked. The blond man carried a bow, which he handed to the woman as he passed them, moving quickly towards Conlan. Eleanor felt a surge of relief. She was home and here were her family. She had never met these people before in her life, and yet she felt closer to them than anyone she had ever known. The pain, fear and confusion of the last few days fell away and she smiled through tears she had not realised were falling down her face.

  “I’m Eleanor,” she managed between sobs, stepping over the dead man at her feet and staggering forwards. The woman almost ran towards her, welcoming her. As they touched, the pain in Eleanor’s wrist dropped immediately to a dull throb. Burying her face into the woman’s shoulder, she smelt lavender and the vague, comforting impression of incense; the woman stroked her head gently.

  “I’m Amelia. We knew you were close when our brands started burning, so we came looking for you. Conlan always said this was a good place for an ambush. He’s my man, Will,” she said, nodding towards the blond man crouching over Conlan. “The other one’s Freddie.” Freddie had dragged the cowering young Protector a short distance from them, so that he would not get in Will’s way. Eleanor watched anxiously as the blond-haired man gently assessed Conlan’s injuries.