by Alex Aguilar
Syrena may have seemed mysterious, even a bit inauspicious.
But ‘evil’ was far too strong a word…
“What is your angle, love?” he asked suddenly.
“My angle?”
“We’ve all got one… The farmer here is clearly kissing Sir Viktor’s arse and ultimately hoping to join the royal guard someday by making the right friends.”
“You know nothing!” said John, and his anger only grew when the thief decided to mock him.
“He presumably also wants to get into the princess’s knickers, which is all fine I suppose, it’s a noble cause if ever there was one,” Hudson said with a grin, then began pacing slowly around Syrena. “I want my ransom and my freedom, I’ve made that clear… But you… What do you desire?”
For the first time since she met him, Syrena felt his aggression. She’d seen him direct it at others, but never had she spoken to her in such a tone, and when he did her eye began twitching again. She found herself questioning whether the thief had been sincere in any of his actions; after all he was well renowned for being a lying, cheating crook. For a moment, he wasn’t the same man she met while imprisoned. And she wondered which man was the real Hudson Blackwood, if there was even a real Hudson at all.
“I want the same thing as you,” was all she said.
“Oh darling, you struck me as many things, but not stupid… Do you honestly believe the king would pardon you?”
There was another silence. As much as she wanted to react against his tone, she knew that at some level he was right. As if reading her thoughts, the thief continued.
“For centuries, humans have hated every living being that isn’t human. Not saying I agree, I’m simply stating facts… D’you honestly believe the noble ruler of a kingdom of humans will allow you to live, knowing you’re one of them? If you were smart, love, which I fully trust that you are… you will do as I will and walk away…”
“If Viktor says the king will grant her freedom, then that is what he will do,” John interrupted all of a sudden, out of fear of losing them both. “Both of you will be free when this is done…”
“That so?” Hudson shifted his attention to the farmer again. “And tell me, why should I trust you, mate? You’re the reason I was locked up to begin with… The same farmer that turned me in to the authorities suddenly needs my help, eh?”
John’s unresponsive expression said enough. He knew he had lost any leverage he had. He could have fought the man and though he was more than willing, he knew he had survived the last fight by sheer luck. “You’re right,” he said. “I can’t ask you to trust me after what I did… And I’m sorry…”
The thief’s expression shifted, his eyes softened, he became conflicted all of a sudden.
“But… if we’re gonna save the kingdom,” John said, “We will have to learn to work together.”
The thief scoffed, hesitant to yield. “You say that like it means something, mate.”
“Doesn’t it? Really… Does it not mean anything to you? You would sit by and allow for some heartless bastard to come here and dictate what’s right or wrong?”
Hudson was struck with awe. He closed both his eyes and sighed, unsure himself of what to do. He often loved to play the part of the emotionless selfish man but even he admitted to having a shred of humanity every now and then. “Damn it all to hells,” he whispered under his breath.
John nearly had him… It was vivid, as it always was, in the thief’s eyes…
And so Hudson turned his gaze towards the only person he had any form of trust towards.
“Syrena, my dear,” he said. “Do you trust this farmer…?”
John’s eyes glanced immediately at the witch.
She turned back and forth between them. If she had been perfectly honest with herself, she would have said she wasn’t sure. She would have turned and ran from both men, especially now that she was back in the Woodlands, in her home…
But something, somehow, kept her from moving.
Loyalty, perhaps? Or was it dignity? Or worse, honor?
Syrena of Morganna took a long deep breath and did something she would normally object to and yet she’d done more than once since meeting Hudson Blackwood. She took a risk…
“Yes,” she said. “I trust him.”
John felt the immediate relief in his chest.
And Hudson sighed for the hundredth time, fighting every impulse to walk away.
“Even if we did make it to the coast on our own, mate,” he said, a dubious expression plastered on his face, the hesitation clear and poignant. “Even if we did make it to Drahkmere and even if we sneak into the dungeons, it won’t matter… It’s the way out that’s the trick…”
“You’re Hudson Blackwood,” Syrena said, stepping forward, as confident as a lioness. “I saw you escape a prison cell with nothing but your own spit… Nobody can do that… And somehow you did.”
“I’ve escaped many dungeons in my life, darling, but I am simply one man,” Hudson found himself sharing more than he would with anyone he had met since childhood. And something like vulnerability was aching his chest. “I can’t sneak an entire company in and out of Drahkmere’s dungeons… That’s a hell of a trick to pull and it is far out of anyone’s reach.”
“So you’re afraid?” John asked.
“Afraid of having my head cut off? Shit, aren’t you afraid, mate?”
John was afraid and he knew it… He hadn’t been more afraid in his life…
Day and night, his mind kept haunting him… He kept seeing the image of Princess Magdalena, of her glistening green eyes as she questioned him back at the palace gardens… He kept seeing the image of Thomlin, of his innocence and his trust towards him… The image of both of them being captured because of him… Because he’d been so reckless that he decided to be a hero, because he yielded to his hasty impulses, because he was thinking only about himself… And now they were both gone, the princess and the boy, two innocent souls taken, because of him…
“Tell you what,” John said, a look of humbleness on his face. “Come with me to Wyrmwood. Plenty of connections there, we can ask for any information on Sir Viktor Crowley… If he’s dead or nowhere to be found, then… then I suppose we can part ways. And your contract will have been fulfilled.”
Hudson hesitated, he could see the look of pain in John’s expression, a look all too familiar to him. And the feeling in his gut only worsened when he heard the witch speak.
“Come, love,” Syrena said, taking him by the hand with a subtle smile. “Let us go to Wyrmwood… And then, wherever the wind takes us…”
Hudson made a noise, conveying both his frustration and guilty conscience all at once.
It was, to some extent, even humorous.
“Fine,” he said, nearly shouting. “But if he pulls that sword on me again, I’ll gut him.”
And then John Huxley smiled, sliding his blade back into the scabbard.
“Fair enough,” he said.
* * *
The Copperstone Bridge was not made of copperstone at all, it was just a name.
It was hardly even a bridge, the old thing, more like a bunch of misshapen slabs of stone piled together, hardly supporting each other over the wide river flow. It had been built many centuries prior and was long forgotten, hardly ever used, and there were vines growing around the granite. And yet it was necessary to cross in order to reach the path that eventually led to the kingdom of Halghard.
Viktor Crowley, knight-turned-mercenary, crossed the bridge first to make sure it was safe enough. He walked and pulled his white horse by the bridle, gently and cautiously, while the rest of the company watched for any sign of a nudge among the rocks. He kept on until he reached the other side, immediately slowing his breathing when his steel-clad boots sunk into the dirt again.
“Come gents,” he called out. “She’s sturdier than you think.”
Jossiah Biggs went second. He unclipped his sword and shield so as to lighten the weigh
t and tossed them at Cedric. “You drop that and I’ll throw you in the river to fetch it, lad. Understand?”
Cedric nodded nervously. One by one, they crossed the ruined bridge, wary of the water below, which was flowing with a great fury between the gaps.
Safely on the other side, Viktor splashed water on his dirt-stained face. He could feel the layer of thick stubble on his jaw, like a piece of rough sandpaper, and he felt a sting when he rubbed his hand against his cheekbone, noticing a bruise he had no idea was there. In fact, there were several of them, on his face, his arms, his legs… It was a funny thing, the way he hardly ever felt the bruises until after the fact.
He wiped his wet face with his handkerchief and combed his greasy golden hair away from his brow with his fingers, taking a deep inhale and closing his drooping eyes.
His mind raced… Little silences like these were dangerous for him, for the silence had a tendency to make him overthink everything.
And when he would overthink, it wasn’t long before he started to doubt himself.
And when he doubted himself, well… that’s when lives were more likely to be lost.
It was the burden of being a knight commander. A bit of doubt could make all the difference.
He opened his eyes again, felt the heat of the sunlight start to bite at his face.
There was not a minute to waste, he knew. They had to keep moving west.
If John Huxley had survived, he hoped to reunite with him eventually. He couldn’t say the same for the thief and the witch, it was his mistake to trust them in the first place, and the mission was far too important for futile distractions.
When he brought his gaze up, he caught something in the corner of his eye, an unusual movement in the water. And, out of instinct, he twitched, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
A figure was bathing along the edge of the river… A person, it seemed… Only the head and part of the shoulders were exposed, the rest was underwater, somehow managing to withstand the rapid current of the river. The figure was moving gently, caressing itself with the clear fresh water. From a distance it appeared human, except quite thin and pale and with straight hair as silver as the steel of Viktor’s armor.
Viktor stood up gently and began taking careful steps towards the nude figure. Whatever it was, human or otherwise, it had its back to him. Out of precaution, he preferred to keep it that way. He noticed as he got closer that the figure wasn’t only pale, but there was a subtle blue hue on their skin, like the color of the skies on a cloudy day.
Viktor’s heart began thumping…
The figure emerged from the water, becoming suddenly taller, almost as tall as Viktor, and the water was just low enough that their back and some of their posterior was exposed. The water hadn’t had a chance to warm up yet and was icy cold, but the pale figure did not appear the least bit bothered by it. Their slender shape and lack of body-hair made them appear almost female, a rather fit strong-armed female, though it wasn’t entirely clear.
Viktor’s feet refused to take another step, mostly out of respect, as the figure stepped out of the river and onto the earth, exposing the rest of their nude body. He felt the impulse to look away but he succumbed to his carnal desire, finding himself paralyzed by the beauty of it all, a weak man unable to resist temptation. The figure’s body was smooth and hairless and pale, beautiful in its own way, unlike any body Viktor had ever seen in his life.
And when his eyes moved up, he realized why…
He could see an ear sticking out from within the silver hair, nearly twice the size of a human’s ear, sharp and pointed rather than round…
A Woodland elf, Viktor realized. An unbelievably beautiful Woodland elf…
Had those ears not been there, they could have passed for a human. And though Viktor felt a rush of unease all over his body, he found himself unable to look away.
That was, until the elf looked in his direction…
Viktor hesitated. He couldn’t read the elf’s expression from such a distance, but their body language was not at all defensive. The elf moved gradually, reaching for a linen cloth and soaking up the water dripping from their body, gently and slowly, as if Viktor was nothing but a harmless bird observing from afar.
Behind him, the rest of the men in the company were chattering among themselves, distracted and careless. Wyll Davenport was the last to cross the bridge, his face as red as his swollen eyes. And when he reached the end of the bridge, Thaddeus Rexx gave him an unwelcomed pat on the shoulder.
“Air’s warming up,” Cedric made an attempt at small talk, kneeling before the river and washing the dirt and sweat from his palms.
“Aye,” Jossiah spit on the ground, a bit too close to Cedric’s boot for the young man’s comfort. “Enjoy it while it lasts, boy. Soon you’ll be sweating all over.” He then tossed a bent whetstone at the young man’s lap. “Here,” he said. “Make yourself useful, will you? I need to piss something awful.”
Cedric took the whetstone and unsheathed Jossiah’s elegant blade as the former knight walked off into the trees. He slid the stone against it, softly at first, then gradually adding more and more pressure.
I can get used to this, the young man thought. It certainly beats serving ale and cleaning up vomit.
From the corner of his eye something fell all of a sudden, a bright leaf, twirling gracefully in the air. It looked far too green, far too young to have fallen on its own. And when two more just like it fell, he grew nervous and sweaty. He glanced up in a fright, and the whetstone slid from his fingers and fell into the river.
“Thad?” he called, a shiver in his lip.
“Hmm?”
“Do tree nymphs move during the day?”
“They can’t,” Thaddeus said. “The sun’s light won’t let ‘em. Why?”
“I-I think… someone’s up there…”
“You’re hallucinatin’, lad,” Thaddeus scoffed. “Trees move. They drop leaves. It’s nothin’, just let it go.”
But Cedric’s eyes wouldn’t move, his hands gripped Jossiah’s sword tighter. After what they had gone through, it gave him some relief to be holding a real weapon, yet not nearly enough for he hadn’t the slightest idea how to use it properly.
Then there were footsteps… And Cedric twitched and held the sword up…
It was Viktor Crowley, wide-eyed and noticeably anxious.
“We need to move,” he said as he approached his horse. “Now, lads.”
Tell him, Cedric’s nerves poked at him. Tell him now.
“S-Sir, I believe there’s something in th-”
Cedric felt a bone crack in his back as something heavy fell from the trees on top of him…
The shiny blade slid from his fingers and a hand snatched it immediately.
It was a woman, dressed in a hunting outfit made of fur, with greasy blonde braids and black paint around her vicious green eyes. Her knee was pressed against young Cedric’s back, keeping him pinned against the mud, and she had a wide conniving grin like a hyena.
“Hey!” Thaddeus ran towards them, but the woman held Jossiah’s blade up.
“That’s close enough there, tiny,” she mocked him.
It wasn’t the sword that made Thaddeus come to a halt, it was the serrated dagger the woman was pressing against Cedric’s neck with her other hand.
“What in all hells is this?!” Jossiah stepped out of the trees, tying his trousers back up.
Viktor approached them with his sword unsheathed, ready to strike the woman down. But the woman did not look like the patient kind; her brows lowered with displeasure and she pressed the knife down harder, and Cedric released a distressing whimper.
“P-Please don’t… we mean no harm,” the young man begged her, speaking rapidly and nervously, a tear escaping his eyes. “Please, w-we serve King Rowan of Val Havyn… We mean no harm! Please!”
The woman looked down all of a sudden, and her eyes softened a bit, as if she hadn’t realized she was pressing the knife agains
t the neck of a timid boy and not a man.
“Let him go,” Viktor said, calmly yet standing his ground. “He’s only a squire. If you want to start trouble, start it with me…”
He took a step forward.
And it was the last step he took before a piece of cold steel pressed against his own neck.
“Drop it,” said another voice behind him.
Viktor didn’t look back. He dropped his sword where he stood.
It was a man, also dressed in a hunting outfit made of fur, quite similar to the woman’s. He had short blonde hair at the top of his scalp, slicked neatly back, and the sides of his head were shaved, revealing an assortment of decorative black tattoos. His green eyes were eerily similar to the woman’s, as were the rest of their faces, except for perhaps his more robust jaw.
The woman whistled. And, out of the trees, about a dozen bows appeared.
And every single archer was a blue-skinned elf…
Everyone in Viktor’s company fell silent, nothing but the sound of the river’s flow between them.
“What do you want?” Viktor asked the woman, assuming that she was in charge due to her rigid manner. But the woman said nothing, only whistled loudly again.
“Please,” Cedric kept begging, his face twitching amid the dirt.
The woman found herself easing the pressure from the dagger. And Cedric took the opportunity to look up as far as his neck would allow him. The woman had numerous scars along her cheeks and jaw. The braids on her head were messy and the black paint around her eyes was smeared with sweat.
A raider, Cedric guessed, for the Woodlands were crawling with them.
“That’s my sword you’re holding,” Jossiah sneered.
“Is it now?” the woman spat on the dirt. “Come get it, then.”
Taking it as a challenge, Jossiah took a step forward, his face wrinkled like an angry hound.
“Stay where you are, old boy!” Viktor ordered him, the blade on his neck itching at his stubble. The two raiders shared a look and a half-smirk, and the elven archers stepped closer and caged the company in with their bows at the ready.