The side of her face is starting to puff up, her lip bleeding, blood leaking out of her nose. But she doesn’t cry, doesn't pause. She positions herself, holding the sword at shoulder height.
The man comes toward her. He’s three times her size, and when he brings down his sword, he holds nothing back. The sword strikes the back of her head, and she falls immediately, crumpling to the ground.
I see blood leaking through her hair. The cut on her scalp is bleeding profusely. But the guy lifts the wooden sword again. He’s about to bring it down to the small of her back.
I know, know, it’ll break her spine if it connects.
And it does connect. I hear the excruciating crack of her bones.
Her spine breaks, but the little girl lies there, and she doesn’t make a sound. She’s still conscious; I can see her face contorting into a terrible grimace, a gaping moan of…complete silence.
“Take her away,” says the man standing above her, tossing the wooden sword beside her head, spitting down to the ground, right beside her.
Two men scurry forward, their heads bowed. When the man steps away from them, I notice a dark crown on his head, pushed back from his face.
Is he a king?
The little girl is carried away, and though the men carrying her are being as gentle as they can, one at her shoulders, the other at her feet, her face remains stuck in that contorted grimace. They take her through stone corridors, lanterns guttering along the walls, until they reach a whitewashed room. They lay her down on a bed, and then they disappear, fading into the background.
A woman, clad in white, approaches the bed and the little girl lying there, who seems to be incapable of moving. Is her spine severed? I stare in horror at the little girl, at the tears silently leaking out of the corners of her blue eyes.
The woman has jet black hair, just like the girl’s, and her skin is pale, too, but there are curving tattoos moving up from her wrists, fading into her arms, the color of smoke.
“Be still, lovely girl,” the woman says quietly, smoothing Charaxus’ hair away from her forehead. Then the woman stands, pressing her palm to the top of the girl’s head.
Light radiates from the woman, flowing down her arm, over her hand, pulsing: bright light that washes over the girl’s body, spiraling until it sinks down into the bed beneath her and disappears.
Charaxus sits up, wincing, her hands at the small of her back.
“Why must this happen?” asks the woman then, crouching in front of Charaxus, preventing her from rising off of the bed. She rests her hands on Charaxus’ knees, and she gazes up into the girl’s face, her own expression perplexed, concerned. “He shouldn't do this to you.”
“It is I who let this happen,” says the little girl solemnly, gazing at the woman with unflinching blue eyes. “It is my fault. I must get better. Then father cannot break me.”
The woman stands, folding her arms in front of her as the sick realization of what Charaxus just said sinks deeply into me.
The man who just broke her back…
That was her father?
What the fuck?
“You are too small and too young, sweetling,” the woman soothes her, voice gentle. “No one your age is as skilled as you are. No one is as hardened or as graceful with the blade. That is enough. You must stop this foolishness. Stop asking your father to fight you. You cannot win. You are yet too small.”
Charaxus gazes up at the woman, her long lashes dark against her skin. “Healer Alanna,” says Charaxus then, so serious, “it was kind of you to heal me. Thank you. I am sorry you must. I will try to do better next time.”
“Sweetling,” says the woman, Alanna, reaching out and gripping the little girl’s arm as she pushes off from the bed, standing on the stone floor and grimacing a little as she stretches.
Charaxus meets the woman's gaze, but she doesn’t say anything, and—after a long moment of silence—Alanna drops Charaxus’ arm.
“Sweetling,” she repeats, and her voice is soft, quiet, “you must know that your father may kill you one day. You may be hurt so badly that the men will be unable to bring you to me in time for healing. And I don’t think,” she says, her jaw tightening, “that your father will be remorseful. You know he is a very hard man.”
“Yes,” says Charaxus, her voice thin. She shifts her gaze, staring straight ahead as she lifts her chin. She’s so small, and in the soft light of the lanterns placed around the room, she appears very fragile, with her large eyes and white skin.
She bows low to Alanna. “Thank you, healer,” the little girl says again, drawing in a deep breath. “I promise to do better next time.”
“You shouldn’t have to do better, Charaxus.” Tears threaten to spill from the healer's eyes. But she blinks them back, folding her hands in front of her as she inclines her head toward Charaxus. “Stay safe, princess,” she whispers with a long sigh.
Charaxus nods, and—limping—she leaves the room.
The image in front of me starts to warp, and I see many things all at once. Charaxus growing up, slowly but surely. Pain, so much pain, so much struggling and trying and falling down and getting back up again.
So much blood. So many broken bones, broken over and over again. The healer, Alanna, weeping as she heals Charaxus; I lose count how many times. She probably does, too.
It’s a blur of sadness and despair, the hundreds of times that Charaxus faces off against her own father.
Now I see Charaxus on the back of a black horse. She’s riding steadily along a path through the woods, and Charaxus looks more like the woman I know now—though younger, a teenager, maybe. Her face is already hardened, the frown lines well refined, but there’s a softness to her eyes that hasn’t been taken away yet.
It’s fall: the leaves on the trees drift around her and her horse. There are mountains in the background, soaring above the trees, their austere, gray facades ascending toward the equally gray storm clouds brooding on the edge of the sky. I think Charaxus is high up on the slope of a mountain, actually, and—in the distance—nearly at the summit of one of the tallest mountains, steep and slick with snow, is a grim, gray castle with squat turrets. It looks pretty damn inhospitable. And cold. The place looks incredibly cold.
Charaxus' horse skids on the mud as they turn a corner, the hooves kicking up earth as it thunders along—but then Charaxus is pulling up fast, hard, the reins taut in her hand as she frowns, staring at the path ahead.
There are ten horses at the edge of the woods, mounted by riders wearing black armor just like hers.
The horse in the lead bears the only man without a helmet, and he grins as he stares across the distance between himself and Charaxus.
A few things occur to me all at once: That’s not a nice grin. A bit deranged, actually. And…wow. He looks shockingly similar to Charaxus. This could only be her younger brother.
“Ho, sister!” calls Charix.
My gut reaction to this guy is that he talks and acts like a colossal asshole. I have instant revulsion for him. He pulls his own horse up short, and the horse's breath is coming out of its nose, fogging the air. It’s a cold morning. “Where are you going?” he asks, his voice so haughty that it’s nausea-inducing.
Charaxus says nothing, only gazes at the group of men guardedly, reaching forward and patting her horse’s neck with a gloved hand, trying to calm it. The horse snorts, pawing the ground with a mighty hoof. There’s tension crackling in the air as the siblings stare at one another.
“I heard father bested you again today,” says Charix, rising up in his stirrups and standing in his saddle as he gazes smugly at his sister. “You fight him once a moon now. There’s truly nothing more pathetic.”
Charaxus, still, says nothing. She gazes between her horse’s ears, her jaw set, her bright blue eyes flashing.
Charix glances back at his men, all of them shifting uncomfortably in their saddles, watching the one-sided exchange. The helmet of the man nearest to him boasts five spikes, as op
posed to the three on the others' heads. I suppose that must mean this man is more important. A country that denotes rank with ugly-looking spikes… Not a place I'm eager to visit.
Five Spikes leans forward a little, clearing his throat. “Lord, the dignitaries from Vella will be arriving before the sun sets. We must go back to prepare for them.”
Charix frowns, and his eyes are as dead as a doll’s. “If the dignitaries came from Vella to see me, they will not mind waiting, will they?” he says almost sweetly to the man, who blanches but remains in place, his arm resting on the pommel of his saddle.
“Lord, dignitaries make—”
The man was bracing himself, and I suddenly understand why, because Charix reaches out, and as casually as you flick a mosquito from your arm, he brings his closed fist against the side of the man’s helmet. The sound of the impact is deafening in the quiet of the woods. Somehow, the man stays in his saddle, but he bows low over his horse’s withers and backs his horse up, away from Charix.
“They will wait,” says Charix, with a wicked smile, before he turns back to confront his sister.
“Careful, brother,” says Charaxus then, her voice that familiar, low growl. “Dignitaries kept waiting are more likely to start wars.”
“War, sister?” Charix cocks his head and rises up in his stirrups again, his face taking on an even more sinister smile. “War,” he murmurs, licking his lips, “is what I live for.”
Charaxus shakes her head a little, and she urges her horse forward. I watch in shock as she squeezes her legs, giving her horse its head to start walking toward the group of men and not away from them.
This makes the guy that Charix clobbered nervous, obviously nervous; he leans toward Charix again, his voice pitched low. “Lord, we must return to the castle.”
Charix turns in his saddle with a small shrug. “I haven’t gotten my training in today,” he says to the man, rolling his shoulders back. “It’ll be a fine warm-up for me to spar with my sister.”
Charaxus flicks her gaze to her brother, and—much closer now, close enough that the horses are only a few feet apart—stops, sitting down in the saddle.
“How many times have I beaten you since the snows melted, sister?” asks Charix, grinning grotesquely. “And, pray tell, how many times have you beaten me?”
“I’ve not beaten you yet,” says Charaxus, her voice steady. “But I will.”
Something flickers across Charix’s face: it comes and goes as quickly as a bird diving from the sky, and I almost miss it.
It's rage. Pure, incandescent rage.
And it seems vastly out of proportion. Charaxus answered him simply. Elegantly. I’ve not beaten you yet, but I will. Yet, for some reason, that string of words fired up his anger.
He’s drawing his sword over his shoulder in one smooth, sweeping motion. The horse beneath him starts to dance in place, sweat breaking out on its glossy black neck as it tosses its head.
For Charaxus’ part, she does nothing. Her sword remains where it is, in her scabbard, and she doesn’t take her hands from her reins.
“Let me pass, brother,” she says, flicking her gaze to him now, her bright blue eyes as steady as a star. “I have no quarrel with you.”
“That’s the problem, Charaxus,” he snarls, spitting out her name like a curse. “I have a problem with you. It should have been just me. Just me,” he bellows, beating his chest piece with a closed fist, the leather smacking against the metal. The rest of his men wince, and the man closest to him—Five Spikes—glances from Charix to Charaxus in a state of near panic.
Apparently the royal kids aren’t supposed to be fighting like this.
But nothing is going to stop Charix. He goads his horse forward, scooping up the reins and swinging the sword in a rather clumsy arc toward Charaxus.
All Charaxus has to do to evade that sword is lean forward a little over her horse’s neck, and she does, effortlessly, squeezing her right calf against her horse’s belly, causing the horse to trot sideways, away from Charix.
It’s easy to see that Charix has brute strength—and, I’m guessing, he’s the type who doesn’t always fight fair. But as I watch the two of them squaring off, both on horseback, I wonder why Charix has a history of beating her...
And then I see the other men drawing their swords. They edge their horses closer to Charaxus.
Oh.
That’s how he does it.
Ten against one.
Those are impossible odds, even on the best of days, for the best of warriors.
Charaxus’ neck stiffens, and her gaze flicks to the side, surveying the men gathering around her. She glares at her brother again, and her jaw sets. Hard.
And Charaxus reaches over her shoulder. With a shing of metal against metal, the blade leaves her sheath, the hilt held lightly, gracefully, in her leather-clad hand as she turns the weapon in the air, each movement effortless, the metal glittering in the afternoon’s overcast light.
“Come fight me, brother,” says Charaxus, holding her head high—but the words sound weary.
Within a matter of moments, Charix’s men have overpowered Charaxus. She fought well—she was a maelstrom—but there’s only so much you can do to stave off ten armed men before you’re dragged off of your horse, before you’re held back by your arms—your sword removed—and your brother stands before you, gloating.
Charix looks sickeningly smug, his lips pursed as he watches his sister, standing with quiet dignity between two men, her head still held high. A single drop of blood oozes from the cut he made on her mouth, tracing its way down her chin.
She didn’t make a sound when his hilt struck her jaw. She bore the pain silently, like she does now, staring straight ahead, her blue eyes shining dangerously.
“Ah, but you’re not defeated yet, I see,” says Charix, throwing his sword into the ground, blade first. The sword sticks up, quivering from the force of his arm. He turns to the one man who remains mounted, the man with the five spikes on his helmet, his second in command.
“Oslo,” says Charix almost companionably, grinning at the guy. “Can you come here? I require your services. As the wolf, if you please.”
Oslo shifts uncomfortably, but he obeys.
I watch him dismount; I watch him say something soft to his horse. And then he takes off his helmet, placing it on the ground, and the metal pieces of his armor fall away…
And Oslo, dizzyingly fast, transforms into a wolf.
Oh, my God.
He’s a large gray wolf, and maybe I’d be a little more shocked about the werewolves-are-real thing if I hadn’t already witnessed magic and come to realize that there are other worlds out there that I didn't know existed.
Still, it’s pretty strange (and that’s an understatement) to see his hands become massive paws, his hair grow long and gray. And then a mournful howl fills the air. A howl so sad, so aching, that it physically hurts to hear it.
“Now,” says Charix, rocking back on his boot heels, folding his arms in front of him after gesturing to his sister, held tight by his men. “You must be hungry, my dear friend,” says Charix, and he grins with more teeth than a wolf probably possesses. “So, feast.”
I watch in horror.
Charix is telling that guy—that guy who transformed into a wolf—to maul his sister.
I remember what Alanna said to Charaxus: someday, there might come a time when Charaxus was so injured that her wounds would be beyond healing.
And then I remember Charaxus telling me that she doesn't like dogs, remember the deeply uncomfortable look on her face as she stepped back from Sammie. Sammie, who’s just as big as a wolf, who looks a little like a wolf...if you squint.
Grief floods through me as the wolf pads forward, as he crouches, snarling, and springs toward Charaxus—Charaxus who is held, defenseless, an offering to a beast.
But Charaxus is not helpless, after all. And she is no offering. One moment, she’s pinioned between the two men, and the next, she’s wre
nching free of their grip, rolling forward, grasping her sword from the ground. She holds the hilt tightly, and then she’s turning, the blade shimmering in the air…
She points her sword at the wolf, but she faces Charix, her bright blue eyes full of menace. “Call him off, Charix,” she spits, blood dripping from her chin. “Now.”
But Charix does no such thing. He raises a brow, as if somewhat intrigued by this development, but that’s all he does.
The wolf, Oslo, snarls, snapping his jaws. And Charaxus does not move, though I can tell her body wanted to take a step back.
Finally, the wolf lunges.
And Charaxus brings up her sword.
It’s sudden, bloody, and brutal, the way that the wolf is killed, and while Charaxus is standing there, blood pooling on the end of her sword, her face blank, unreadable, eyes wide, Charix stares at the remains of his second in command.
That’s when Charix picks up the blade that he stuck into the ground. He snarls just as angrily as the wolf, and he’s whirling, dancing with the sword, savagely advancing on his sister.
Charaxus gazes at him wearily, but there’s a sharp shine to her eyes. She lifts up her blood-soaked blade, and then the two siblings are fighting hard, metal clanging against metal, the rest of his men watching, unable or unwilling to step in and aid their leader.
That’s why what happens next is so surprising. Surprising and seemingly impossible, considering the fact Charix has pushed Charaxus up against the dead wolf’s body, her boots sliding in the blood on the forest floor. Charaxus slips, but she uses it to kick Charix’s feet out from under him, side-swiping them with her boot.
Her chest heaving for breath, she rises over him on her knees, her blade pointed at his throat as he lies, flat on the ground, his sword out of reach.
Charaxus has won.
Her brother glares at her with such hatred in his eyes, hatred that, I'm guessing, has been there all of their lives. He has always hated her, every moment.
Charix hates almost everything.
But he hates his sister the most.
I watch as Charaxus stares down the blade of her sword, and—in that moment—I feel everything that she’s feeling. The pain and despair, the inability to understand why her brother has always despised her. Furo, their country, is patriarchal, and her brother will ascend to the throne when her father is gone. She has never posed a threat to him, and yet, from an early age, she knew that he loathed her, loathed the sight of her, and she could never grasp why.
A Dark and Stormy Knight Page 20