To Save The Broken Heart: Dragons, Griffons and Centaurs, Oh My! (Dragons, Griffons, and Centaurs, Oh My!)

by Margaret Taylor

  She wouldn’t free herself, just yet. She needed Golix to think she was complacent. Not so much to earn his trust, but to keep the element of surprise in her corner.

  Stretching out, she sighed, trying not to think or worry about Mithrin. She tried not to think about Terra, or Draven, or Arin out there all alone.

  To distract her thoughts, she went over a half-a-dozen of the books she’d read back home.

  She did calculus problems…

  She dissected an atom down to its base molecules…

  She calculated the mass of the ships anchored nearby versus how many pints of blood Golix would need to cover them…

  This had the opposite effect, leading her thoughts to Dinsa and for the first time, she allowed herself to cry. Hot tears stung the corners of her eyes and she snuffled, unable to cease the flow once it got started…

  ***

  By the time Phara reached Golbu, fear had settled in her gut like a grain of sand in an oyster. Acid gnawed at it, twisting the tiny molecule into a hard knot that she couldn’t get rid of, no matter how much she tried to distract herself.

  And, she had every right to be worried…

  Surfacing a good length from the port city, she could already hear the cheering.

  Was she too late?

  Surely not!

  Orcs loved their Arena, true enough, and this was a special occasion. Having the Abomination of Domas in their clutches at long last would bring in every ship in their fleet.

  She counted those anchored and gulped against the knot in the back of her throat.

  They were all here.

  Another cheer echoed across the bay and the knot twisted tighter. Urging Zesul toward the docks, she slid from his saddle the minute they were close enough and jumped to the wooden planks built into the side of a steep rocky cliff.

  Racing along, she didn’t bother to hide. No one was around anyway.

  Everyone from youngest to oldest was seated in the large circular pit atop the cliff. Another cheer rang off into the daylight and her heart pounded in equal time to her booted feet.

  She would make it. She had to make it!

  Sliding around a building at the top of the stairs, she sprinted down the twisting streets, thankful she’d thought ahead and left most of her armor back in the Caverns. The edges of her chest plate dug into her armpits, trying to rub them raw but she ignored it. The thigh coverings shifted, thumping against the chainmail around her waist. She lost her footing briefly on the moisture slick stones and skidded around another building.

  If Mithrin could see her now, he’d laugh, but she didn’t care.

  She had to get there! She would not fail Manus a second time…

  Pounding her way up the hill, she skidded to a halt at the top and took a breath. Rushing in would get them both killed. She needed a plan and Mithrin’s training choose that moment, thankfully, to finally kick in.

  Below her in the circular pit they’d dug, every citizen of Golbu was seated. No one paid her any mind. Their attention was focused on the Arena floor. Swinging her gaze that way, her heart dropped to the tips of her toes.

  Two contestants were locked in deadly combat.

  The first was tall but she couldn’t see who it might be. He or she was covered head to toe in black. From the face to the feet, there was no indication of male, female, or whether it even was an Orc.

  It had to be though. The Chieftain wouldn’t allow anyone less to kill such an important figurehead as Manus.

  It held two swords, one in each glove covered hand. Flames danced along the blades, black smoke curling into the air with each swing.

  Arin Manus, naked from the waist up and weaponless, was already covered in several gashes and looked utterly exhausted. His hair was matted and twisted, hanging in long sweaty strands down his back. The majority of his body was filthy and sweat cast a fine sheen through the dirt and dust. His eyes had sunk deeper and he looked much thinner than the last time she’d seen him.

  He had a deep slash across his chest, a stab wound just under his collar bone and a third, lighter gash, across his stomach. All three were bleeding and starting to take their toll.

  To his credit though, he danced back from the tip of one blade and pivoted, trying to avoid the second. He failed and the edge sliced through his upper arm. She expected a bellow of pain, but he said nothing, just spun away, the blade slurping across his skin with a sound that turned even her cast-iron stomach.

  Wrapping a hand around her own sword, she was on the verge of tossing it into the fray when the unthinkable happened…

  His opponent feinted left, right and left again.

  Arin tried to dodge, but the third move skewered him straight through the gut before he could. Taking two steps, the cloaked figure sank the weapon all the way to the hilt, the tip exiting near his spine. The flames extinguished with a sizzle she could hear all the way from her vantage point.

  Arin staggered back two steps, clutching the handle and went down, his sweat covered knees sending up small puffs of dust. Almost in slow motion, he teetered for a heartbeat then flopped over onto his side with a thud.

  “No!!!!!”

  But her bellow was lost in the raucous cheering of the crowd…

  ***

  Golix watched the fight play out in the vision pool. He smiled widely as the Chimera flopped over and didn’t move, waiting to see what the Orcs would do.

  They rocketed from their seats, descending into the pit as if they themselves had made the killing blow. A few lifted their champion into the air and paraded around the Arena with him on their shoulders. Many others jumped, dancing around the ones carrying him, patting him on the back or whatever part they could reach.

  For his part, the Champion lifted the remaining sword high, waving it victoriously.

  In the background, two of their brethren grabbed the Abomination by the arms and dragged him out of the pools scope, the sword sticking through his gut gleaming in the mid-day light. The only thing that would have made this day even sweeter, was if it had been his own horn delivering death instead of some flimsy blade.

  It wasn’t to be, so he satisfied himself with tapping a foot on the ground and replaying the entire thing from beginning to end.

  His flanks quivered when Manus took the first strike across the chest…

  His tail swished anxiously when he took the stab just under the collar bone…

  His hooves danced against the rocks when the third sliced across the stomach…

  And he whinnied loudly when the Orc rammed him through the gut…

  Oh my yes, it was good to be evil. Truly good indeed.

  ***

  Phara had always considered herself to be a fairly reasonable Naiad. A bit stubborn, sure, especially when she was right, but on the overall, mostly even tempered. She was usually the first to voice a plan, talk through what needed to be done before actually doing it.

  However, seeing the man she would walk away from her people for, hanging lifelessly between the two Orc’s dragging him away, sent her over the edge…

  Hot rage twisted through every nerve and everything Mithrin had ever taught her, slammed into the forefront of her thoughts.

  She moved to a rooftop and watched. Shaking from head to toe, she was helpless as the others carried the bastard, or bitch, on their shoulders, parading him about like some God or Goddess!

  How dare they!

  Arin was dead and they were celebrating?

  No, this simply would not do!

  Her hand clenched into a fist and a distant boom of thunder rumbled across the air. A crackle of lightening followed and a monsoon rolled in from the sea in the space of only a heartbeat or two. The hard rain and wind that accompanied the storm drove the Orc’s back into their homes and she was half-tempted to let it stay for a full Sun and drown them all.

  But no. She wasn’t about killing innocents in cold blood. She only wanted to kill one and waited while the cloaked figure dashed up the hill and into a thick struc
ture on the far side.

  When the rest had scattered, she jumped from the roof and stomped across the Arena, caring little that the now muddy ground clung to her normally pristine boots. Pausing to watch the last of Arin’s blood wash away under the torrent, she cut the building ahead a dark look, the emotions in her chest warring between rage, despair, sorrow and grief.

  She unsheathed her sword and charged up the hill, her only thought seeing the ornately decorated Rustac blade dripping with an Orc’s green blood before the next darkfall…

  ***

  Haydn ducked into her home, sweeping off the cloak and mask she’d worn during the fight. “Did it work?” she asked U’rad as she handed off the soaked garments.

  The Goblin nodded, double chins jiggling. “Aye. Are you injured? Do you need attending?”

  She waved him off. “I am well. Only a few bruises. Where?”

  Her servant hung the clothing on a nearby hook before answering, trying her already frayed patience. “To Aydenton, just as you requested.”

  She sighed softly. The storm that had halted the celebration had come out of nowhere and it did not fit with the overall plan. She’d hoped to use the revelry to slip away but now, she’d just have to use the rain instead. Slinging a bag over her shoulder, she reached for the front door again just as it slammed inward on a burst of wind.

  Backlit by the crack of lightening that followed was a female. A very angry female by the look on her face. The wind whipped long blond hair across her body and she gripped a short sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, her sea-blue eyes taking them both in. They dismissed her Goblin friend as no threat and came back to her, full of hate and death.

  “You, killed, him.”

  Pushing U’rad down the hall behind her, she smiled calmly. She’d been threatened a hundred times over the Suns. This was nothing new. Though who was doing the threatening this time, was a matter of curiosity. She didn’t remember anyone that looked like this woman that might have fallen to her particular talents though. “Welcome to my home. And you are?”

  The female didn’t answer. Her head dipped and a long, low growl rolled down the hallway ahead of her. Her booted feet stomped across the stones, ringing in time to her rage, her hands flexing around the hilts of both weapons as she stalked through the foyer.

  U’rad, the Gods bless him, had enough sense to slip out of the living area and into the rooms beyond. He’d be back, she knew, it was one of the reasons she trusted him. For now, she just needed to stall long enough for him to get in place as backup, should it be needed.

  Moving carefully around the hand-crafted furniture, she kept a table and long couch between them, heading for one of a hundred secret places where she stored any number of weapons.

  Sadly, the woman wasn’t having any obstacles in her way and the furniture splintered apart with a wave of her hand.

  Great. Magic. Not that she couldn’t deal with magic, she had her own, but still, her poor things…

  Slipping one hand behind her back, she called up a ball of flames and let the energy build on her palm. “I will ask one more time. And you are?”

  “My name is Phara Sylor. You killed my Mate. Now you die.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rygan slammed the empty mug down on the bartop. “Another!”

  The Ogre at the far end looked up, arching an eyebrow. He started toward him and Rygan slammed the mug down again when he didn’t move fast enough. “Now!”

  The man shook his head. He stopped mid-way, poured Bloodrum into a fresh mug and slid across the bar top.

  Rygan harrumphed, catching the drink. He’d have plenty more before the night was through. Anything to shut out the screams still ringing in his ears!

  He downed half of it, belching loudly. Swiping a hand across his lips, he threw back the rest, waiting for the burning sensation to spread beyond his throat. It didn’t and he bellowed for a fifth round.

  It wasn’t forthcoming. Instead the Ogre came up on the other side. “You have had enough,” he said, scooping away the empty.

  He snapped a hand out, wrapping it around the beefy forearm. “No! More!”

  The massive creature sighed and gently pried his fingers loose. “Go sleep it off.”

  He staggered off the stool. Grumbling something unintelligible even to his own ears, he weaved his way through the other patrons.

  Fine! He’d just find another establishment to drown himself in! Stumbling down the stone streets, he wandered, looking for any place still open this time of night.

  Twin half-moons cast everything in an eerie white glow and he snorted, his wings fluttering in the breeze rolling through the streets. Garzug wasn’t much to look at, more of a village than a real city.

  It was still big enough to get lost in, at least for a while.

  It wouldn’t last. Eventually the bastard he answered too would call again and he’d be off to do yet more dirty work.

  How in all the levels of the Nether Worlds had he let this happen!?

  What possessed him to let his life become such an utter, flagnocking mess!?

  Cause, you are a shallow, vain idiot?

  He punched a nearby lamp post. The metal caved, groaning loudly in protest. He couldn’t argue that point and punched it a second time. It screeched, toppling over and he continued, his feet shuffling the rest of his body along.

  He should have never…

  No!

  He wouldn’t go there again. He’d done what he’d done and would pay the price for the rest of his rotations.

  You could still help…You could go after her!

  He shook off the inner voice of reason.

  No, he couldn’t. His fingers curled around the medallion resting in the hollow of his throat. For the hundredth, maybe even the thousandth time since Golix had locked it around his neck, he gave it a hard yank, putting his considerable, if slightly drunken, strength into the effort.

  As before, it didn’t budge. The links didn’t even so much as creak.

  And because of it, several more lampposts suffered his wrath along the way. Sadly he couldn’t find any place still serving and had to satisfy himself with the buzz he already had. He just hoped it was enough to pass out before his brain could ask the same questions it did every darkfall.

  It wasn’t.

  They came, right on schedule, as he staggered down the streets…

  What in all the Nether Worlds had possessed him to sell his honor to a Unicorn!? And for something as paltry as an imagery spell?!

  He paused next to a storefront, seeing his true self in the reflective surface. Even now, all these Suns later, he shuddered and turned away from the charred, burnt face he’d always known.

  Flopping over a low stone wall, he stretched out in the flowers, staring up at the stars.

  According to the Harpy Crone, the day he was born, his mother screamed and tossed his tiny little body into the fire pit, mere heartbeats after he’d drawn his first breath…

  Unfortunately for him, the Crone had pulled him from the flames, tended the burns and raised him as her own. There were rotations, especially now, that he wished she hadn’t. He loved the Old Hag, he did, but seeing his reflection brought everything back in a crushing wave of self-loathing.

  She should have let him die. It would have been for the best.

  Looking back, it was bad enough being half-Ogre, half-Harpy, worse being burned over eighty-percent of his body, but what clenched his fate was the damnable wings! If he hadn’t sprouted those when he was just two Suns old, he might have been able to tolerate the horrified looks and screams he’d suffered as a child.

  They’d been nothing more than tiny little nubs of feathers at first, not fully coming round until he’d reached his early Suns. He should have reveled in the brown and blue softness, should have been able to enjoy flight where most of his kind could not.

  Harpies had long ago been grounded, though no one really knew why. Some said it was magic, others claimed evolution. In exchange
for the lack of it, his people had gained a healthy intellect and the knowledge of medicines.

  Not him though. As he’d aged, his wings filled in and he took to the skies.

  It didn’t stop the harassment though, if anything it made it worse. So much so that he’d eventually asked the Crone for help. He’d only wanted something, anything to ease the look of the burns, but she refused.

  He knew why now, but he’d been angry then and left Win-ra to seek a cure on his own…

  And that’s when he’d met Golix and vanity had gotten the better of his judgment. In exchange for a favor now and again, the bastard had sealed the medallion around his neck and he’d been the servant of evil ever since…

  ***

  Garax the Ogre crossed his arms. He should not be surprised to find his old friend sprawled in the yard, he’d heard something about a pub crawl the night before, but seeing him flattening part of the flower bed he’d spent many rotations cultivating, was a tad upsetting. He nudged the man’s knee with a toe. “Are you going to lay there all daylight smushing my petunias?”

  Rygan’s naked chest heaved into the air then deflated on a long sigh. “Probably.”

  Tollo, traitorous little fluffball that he was, trilled in his ear and rolled down his arm. Bouncing on the ground, his little feet popped out of his furry body and his little bug-eyes landed on their mutual friend, sparkling brightly. With a second trilling squeal that pinched Rygan’s features into a grimace, he scurried across the poor man’s stomach and plopped down again just under his chin. A wide, slobber covered tongue rolled free of the slit it had for a mouth and swiped a drool laden path up the bastard’s face from his chin to his forehead.

  Rygan sat up, sending the furball flying and coughed as he wiped his face. “By the Gods you wretched little thing! Leave me be!”

  He bent and scooped the Ilthe onto his palm and deposited him back on his customary perch near his neck, giving him a scratch behind the ears. “He missed you.”