Pixilated

by Jane Atchley

  "If you make the same mistake every time you’ll get the same result every time," Kree called.

  Fergus picked himself up off the ground, once more dusting off his trousers. "What mistake?"

  "He's gulling you, laddie. There ain't a defense for that strike."

  "That's true." Kree pushed to his feet, grinning. "Lucky for you, I don't do defense. Next time Biggs hawks down, step into his strike, not away."

  "He’ll split my skull."

  "Not if you do as I say. Look." Kree took Fergus' sword and brought it to high guard. "Go for my head, Biggs, slowly, so he sees what I do." The man swung. Kree stepped to the right and dropped the sword to a left back ward stopping Biggs’ attack. A quick pivot brought him around to parry the next strike. Then he grasped his blade and using it as a club, blocked and knocked Biggs’ blade down, trapping it under his arm.

  "Huzzah!" Fergus cheered.

  "You do it." Kree watched them go through the moves. "Again," he coached from the sideline. "That’s better. Remember perception, distance, timing, and technique. Do the routine again, concentrate on timing. You can work on technique later."

  Fergus panted, sweat poured off him. "Man, you’re brutal," he gasped.

  Kree laughed. "Again. This time, punch Biggs in the face with your pommel when you come around." Biggs favored Kree with a skeptical look, but brought his sword to guard.

  "That’s not very knightly." Fergus protested.

  "I don’t do knightly either. Templemen ask me what it takes to make Gryphon. You have to win challenges, and you'll never win enough challenges if a knightly defense is your aim. Offense wins challenges. Now, do what I tell you, punch him."

  A dozen repetitions later, Fergus finally managed to trap Biggs’ blade, and after a short victory dance, he dropped to the ground beside Kree. "Why didn’t you let me fight you in the arena?"

  "Mother chose you because she wanted me to see something in you. I thought I might see it better if I didn’t pound you into the ground."

  "Are you sure you would have?"

  "Aren’t you?"

  The young fellow laughed. "Yeah."

  "Shouldn’t we be pushing on, boss?" Biggs poured water over his head to cool off shaking off like a dog, throwing off droplets of water in the direction of the ladies. They shrieked in mock outrage.

  "We should." Kree stood and offered his hand to Kayseri. He bowed to the princess. "Perhaps Your Serene Highness can find happier songs to sing us on our way."

  Sandahl looked up at him with merry eyes. "You don’t like Averill and Tam, My Captain? What could be happier than a tale of true love?"

  "They die, Princess."

  "Yes." Sandahl gave him a delicate lift of her shoulders. "But they live together in perfect bliss for three hundred glorious days."

  "At the end of which a demon eats them," Kree stubbornly pointed out.

  "But they have three hundred days," Kayseri chimed in.

  "Three hundred days," Sandahl echoed.

  Kree shook his head. He wouldn't win this argument. "Sing as you will, Princess." He went to see to his horse.

  The afternoon was fair. His little company traveled steadily northward unmolested. Kree felt confident he had lost their tail by sidetracking to Arbala. Toward evening Kayseri began singing The Star-Slayer Saga. If there was a song Kree hated more than Averill and Tam, this was it, and not solely because it featured himself as its hero. He shot her a sharp look stopping her mid-note. Funny. Kayseri had been very obliging today. Maybe she was merely making good on her promise to be helpful. What was he thinking? More likely, she was plotting some fine piece of pixie revenge for that disastrous night in his mother’s library. Not that he blamed her.

  They reached the first forested slopes of the Nhurstari mountain range at twilight. There was magic in these mountains. Kree felt it dancing along his skin. They pitched their tents, and Fergus started supper. It was a peaceful ending to a peaceful day. Kree had just decided to wait for Duncan when it all went to hell.

  He shoved Sandahl into Kayseri’s arms. "Make with your mischief, sweetheart." The Wilderkin vanished.

  "What in the hells!" Fergus said.

  Biggs chuckled low in his throat. "It might fool ‘em, boss, at least for a while."

  Kree’s sword swished from its leather scabbard. "Get behind us, Katie. Be quiet." He felt her hand touch his waist.

  A lone man rode into the circle of their fire's light. The wiry, mustached stranger wore black leather. He had a weathered face and dark oily hair. Hard eyed. Professional. He spit a stream of tobacco juice into the pine needles.

  "Well, lookie here what I found. You northern boys sure do love braids, don’t ya?" His gaze traveled over Kree. He spit again. "Guess you’re the champion who's been killin’ my men. I’ll take the elf girl now, champion."

  The man made champion sound like a slur. Kree adjusted his grip on his sword. "You'll have to go through me first." He did not make a habit of talking to men he meant to kill, and make no mistake, he meant to kill this one, but Fergus needed a few extra minutes to settle down. The boy was jumpy as a cricket.

  The stranger slid off his horse and walked toward them. "If you insist." He made a gesture with his hand that brought a dozen men armed with eight-foot spears out of the surrounding forest.

  "I’m good for two, maybe three," Biggs' voice was calm and sure at Kree's shoulder. "The laddie’ll get at least one. Figure you can handle the rest, boss?"

  Bloody sodden hell! Kree threw down his sword.

  His gaze on Kree, the man picked up the discarded sword. "A very good choice, champion. I’ll have your pretty knives too."

  Kree shrugged out of his weapons harness. Fergus and Biggs tossed their weapons on the growing pile.

  The leader spit a stream of tobacco at Kree’s feet. "All your knives, champion. Slowly."

  Kree’s boot knives joined the pile.

  The fellow looked around the campsite. "The elf girl, champion. I'm not askin' again."

  Kree said nothing.

  The man nodded slightly as if to say, ‘have it your way.’ "Kill the boy."

  "Colt, Lord Hueil does not want killing." A voice shouted from the darkness.

  The mercenary held his hand up staying his man. A tall slender Nhurstari moved out of the shadow of the trees and came to stand at his shoulder. He bent and whispered in the mercenary's ear.

  "Is that a fact?" Colt invaded Kree’s space. "My friend here tells me the elf girl might use some sort of enchantment to keep us from seeing her. Is that so?" He poked Kree’s chest with one finger. "Is that the deal? Drop the tents," he shouted to his men. The canvas fluttered to the ground. The mercenary captain spread his arms wide encompassing the campsite. "Where can she be?"

  At his signal, the spearmen brought their weapons to waist-high and closed in on the spot where Kree stood shoulder to shoulder with Fergus and Biggs. Just as the spears pressed into their clothing, the advance stopped. The mercenary captain thrust his arm into the triangular space formed by the three men's bodies, and tore Sandahl out of Kayseri's arms.

  Kayseri dropped her mischief. "I’m sorry, My Captain."

  Kree squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! They had not known about Katie. If only she’d kept quiet. "It’s not your fault, little girl."

  Colt shoved the princess toward the tall Nhurstari. "Your Captain is he?" He studied Kree for a long moment. "Ah, yes the little blue horse soldiers? I passed your tiny garrison just t'other day." He spat at Kree’s feet barely missing his boots. "Pitiful."

  The man grabbed Kayseri’s arm and pulled her against his body. "Well don't you look like a tasty little tart?" He licked her cheek. "Mmm...maybe I’ll find out just how tasty you are." His gaze never left Kree. "You got any more revelations for me?"

  Kree shifted a spear point away from his midriff with one finger. "Before this is over, I will kill you."

  The man flung Kayseri away. Sweeping Kree’s sword out of the pile of confiscated weaponry, Colt
tossed it at Kree’s feet. His hard eyes glittered as his own blade slid free. "Let's not wait?"

  Kree's gaze traveled the circle of spearmen before locking onto the mercenary leader’s hard black glare. "I don’t care for the odds."

  "Too bad. Cos they're the best odds you’ll be gettin'. I’ve got the elf girl." Burying a fist in Kayseri’s thick hair, he dragged her to her feet. "I’ve got your little caramel tart. And I’ve got news for you, champion. It is over. Bring ‘em."

  The mercenaries shouldered their spears and closed ranks around their captives, herding them up the mountain. The Nhurstari male led the way carrying Sandahl in his arms. Colt bore Kayseri before him on his saddle staying near enough that Kree saw man’s free hand roaming over her body, squeezing her breast, rubbing between her legs. She trembled with fear, and the man drank her terror up like fine brandy.

  Pressure built inside Kree's skull, the herald of the peculiar madness that sometimes rode him in battle, compelling him to actions men called heroic. He recognized this battle madness made him reckless. It endangered the men under his command. Freed from the affects of Goddess nectar, he had taught himself to control it. But as the stranger pawed Kayseri, madness swelled inside Kree until control was a slippery thing. The more he reached for it, the more it slid away until nothing remained but highly charged madness waiting for the right spark to touch it off.

  Three or four hours of hard hiking brought them to a hunting lodge. Four gigantic living trees formed the corner posts and spread their interwoven leafy canopies over the roof. A wide quarried stone porch complimented the structure's split timber walls.

  Another Nhurstari male stood on the broad porch dressed in a bronze colored silk tunic over black leggings and boots. Despite his unlined face, the gray frosting his blue-black hair hinted at great age. A thin silver coronet sat on his smooth brow. Kree sensed the elf’s power dancing along his skin through the haze of his madness, but it was of no consequence. Madness narrowed his vision to his enemy and Kayseri. He had nothing left to spare for an old elf.

  Their Nhurstari guide stood Sandahl on her feet before the elder. "Lord Hueil, Second of Nhurstari." He touched his forehead in a kind of salute before indicating Sandahl with a graceful sweep of his hand. "I have the honor to introduce to you, Sandahl, of Thallasi."

  At the same time, Colt dragged Kayseri off his horse, pulled her against his sinewy body, and kissed her. Brutally. Struggling against his grip and unable to break away Kayseri screamed. "Kree-e-e-e!" Madness erupted. The world went up in flames. Kree grabbed the man in front of him, snapping his neck with one quick hard jerk. Snatching up the man’s spear, he clubbed the next guard to the ground and surged toward Colt.

  Behind him Biggs yelled, ‘Holy Hells!’ The two Templemen jumped in to block the mercenaries threatening to take Kree from behind. He pushed his way toward Kayseri’s tormentor propelled by roaring madness. Colt shoved Kayseri aside as Sandahl broke away from the old elf, ran to her, and dragged her back to the safety of the porch. The ancient elf glided toward the fray. Kree didn't care.

  Colt drew his sword. His black eyes glittered eagerly in the moonlight. "Come on champion," he growled.

  Fergus screamed. Biggs went down hard. Kree swung his spear up using it as a staff to block Colt’s downward stroke. With a hard push, he brought the spear shaft over top of his adversary’s blade following through with a vicious kick to the mercenary’s weight-bearing knee. Colt’s leg cracked backward, but as Kree swung his spear around for the killing thrust, the old elf reached out, touched him, and spoke a single word, "Radam." Kree dropped in mid-swing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Red Fist squadron reached Kree's abandoned campsite at midday. First Lieutenant Aimery Duncan raised his hand signaling halt. He had not pushed his team hard enough. He scanned the ruined campsite filled with keen disappointment.

  "Maybe they took him by surprise," Chana said from his right.

  Duncan’s gaze swept the wreckage again. His voice betrayed none of his agitation. "The man is our captain and concerned enough to hire Templemen. How is it possible he would be taken by surprise?"

  Sliding out of her saddle, Chana bent to read the ground. "I didn’t say he was, but I don’t discount it. That Bruin girl has turned him up stupid."

  Duncan caught an amused glance from Chana’s longtime consort. If Duncan listened to his tracker, this one half-pixie woman was somehow responsible for everything from drought in the east, to typhoons on the southern seacoast.

  Bird rolled his eyes in a moment of shared mystification. "I think she’s jealous."

  Chana glared at her partner. "Scoff if you want, but you know the kind of man My Captain is. ‘See the hill, take the hill.’ It’s a marvel to me he doesn’t have a string of by-blows from here to Elhar. But with this Bruin girl he is different...the way he acts…" She gave a dramatic shutter. "You'd think he was twelve years old for all the sense he shows around her. I should know. I remember when he was twelve years old."

  "Now, I think I’m jealous," Bird quipped. He liked to get his partner’s hackles up.

  The men around them sniggered and Duncan raised his hand again silencing them. Having heard variations on this theme five or six times in the last three days, he suspected Chana’s familiarity with their captain’s youth clouded her perceptions. For himself, he wanted to find the man he had crossed the sea to serve, and he wanted to find him alive. Concrete useful information would facilitate this end, not speculation on his captain’s love life. Were he curious about that, he could have it in full color detail from his widowed sister-in-law.

  "Is there anything useful we can learn here?"

  "It looks like he was taken by a dozen men. Maybe more. They came through the trees on foot and surrounded him. Look at this." Chana picked up the overturned kettle, closed her eyes, letting her mind flow back envisioning the attack. "The captain is setting up the camp. He doesn’t hear them coming until they are almost on top of him. What does he do? He is out numbered. He knows we're tight on his tale. He does the safest thing for the Wilderkin. He surrenders."

  The First Lieutenant digested this theory. Pulling a map from his breast pocket, he consulted it briefly. The location Kree had marked on it was the only likely place to take prisoners. "Our mission, in that event, becomes extracting our captain. We will swing around this ridgeline and come down on the lodge, thereby gaining control of both the water course and the high ground."

  ***

  Kree’s head had exploded. Nothing else accounted for such intense pain. He was sure should he open his eyes he would discover little bits of his brain smeared across… He moved his hand. Wood. Smooth wood. Little bits of his brain smeared across a wood floor.

  "You are whole," a voice said above him, speaking heavily accented Elharan. "Let me say in defense of my people, Hueil could have as easily called for your death. It is within his Talent. Instead, he put you to sleep. I cannot guess why you are in pain. You should not be."

  Kree's eyelids cracked open just a little. "That’s good to know."

  The speaker crouched at his side peering down at him, another amber-eyed Nhurstari with moonlight pale skin. Sunlight coming in from somewhere overhead touched off bronze highlights in the rich brown hair curling around his pointed ears. He wore a pale green tunic of raw silk over dark green leggings and soft butter-yellow leather boots. When the elf rose, he was tall in the way Kree had come to expect of Nhurstari, but his lean body gave him an unfinished look betraying youth. He bowed from the waist. "Rian, Majority Apparent."

  His accent made it sound like Ree-an. Kree levered himself slowly to a sitting position and took the measure of the young lord. His gaze traveled around the space they occupied, a cellar of some sort, and touched on Fergus, Biggs and four other Nhurstari before coming back to Rian. "You don’t look all that apparent to me."

  Rian gave no sign of offense, only a slight lift of one shoulder, a curious bird-like tilt of his head. "You do not look like a legendary warrior
either, though your men say you are."

  So the Nhurstari lad gave as good as he got. Kree snorted. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips. "That was a very long time ago. I haven’t done much lately, but I take your point. We are neither of us showing at our best just now." Gaining his feet, he extended his hand. "Kree Fawr, Captain at Qets Garrison." After a long pause, Rian shook his hand.

  Kree flashed a crooked grin at his Templemen. "I’m glad to see my mad gesture didn’t get the two of you killed."

  Biggs shrugged, nodding toward Rian. "Thank him for that, boss. Turns out he’s a right fine healer."

  "Blood talker." Rian corrected.

  What place is this?

  "We are imprisoned in the wine cellar below my hunting lodge."

  A glance at Rian brought a smile, showing too many pointed white teeth for Kree’s comfort. The sunlight steamed in narrow windows set near the ceiling.

  What day is it?

  "This is the morning of the second day since you were taken." Rian gestured to the other Nhurstari. "These are my companions. The twins are my cousins come down with me to greet my betrothed, Eoin and Eamon."

  Kree made it OH-in and AY-mun. They nodded as one. Identical square-jawed young males clothed in russet tunics over brown leggings and brown boots. their short-cropped hair fell in jagged uneven spikes over their foreheads. They were the first blond Nhurstari he had seen, and they were strikingly beautiful fellows. They put him in mind of his first lieutenant who, by the hells, should be somewhere around here by now.

  "The big fellow over there is my brother, Garen."

  This elf was taller, broader, and more mature than the other Nhurstari. His hair was the same warm brown as Rian’s, but longer, held off his brow by a silver circlet. He wore a short fur lined cape rakishly flipped over one shoulder. His tunic was deep scarlet.