Saving Fate

by Billy Wong

  They had already made it halfway to Kulten when, with Kyle away looking for food, Mark and Ann received a visitor. They were lightheartedly discussing Ann's intended shopping in Kulten when a gaunt old man ran into the grove where they had set camp, red-faced and panting, and tripped to his hands and knees.

  "What's wrong?" Mark asked while the man struggled to catch his breath. "Is something the matter?"

  "R-robbers! My home's been taken over by robbers!"

  Ann's eyes blazed. "Where? And how many are they?"

  "Three, no, four!" He looked them over, his gaze pleading. "You must be warriors, aren't you? Please help me, if we don't hurry back my family could be killed. I'll give you anything you want!"

  "Come on, Mark, let's go. It'll be a welcome release for me to punish some deserving brigands."

  Mark would have warned her it might be a trap, but thought the Duke probably wouldn't go to such trouble when he could just take them in camp. Besides, the old man seemed honest enough. They followed him over lush meadow and past a pond to a lonely farmhouse, Mark a bit flustered by his lack of speed for a desperate person. He would not look forward to being old.

  He and Ann peeked into a window. Inside the large front room, three leather-clad ruffians harassed an equal number of tied up, seated peasants with their backs to the wall. Where was the fourth robber? Mark would be glad for him to be away, so they could deal with one less at this time.

  Mark noticed the captives were all male, one of middle years and the others younger. Three generations of men, including their old supplicant, but where were the women of the family?

  Ann stormed into the house, sword drawn, and Mark rushed to follow. Two of the robbers spun to face them; the other kept his back turned. "It's not enough for you to steal their things," she said, "but you have to take over their house too? Bad idea, boys. You should have left while you still could."

  "Oh?" asked the heavyset man who had not moved. "But we've been waiting here just for you." Finally he turned, and Mark recognized the hammer-wielder who had tussled with him and Lindy prior to her death.

  "It is a trap," he muttered as the supposed captives stood, shrugged off their ropes, and grabbed nearby weapons off the floor. He looked behind him to find more armored men filing in through the door. The old supplicant, however, had vanished. Maybe he was a real farmer, coerced into helping. How had the Duke found them? Mark supposed they would have to avoid the roads from now on, if they survived this.

  "They call this a brigandine," the hammer man mused, fingering the studded leather garment he wore. "An appropriate choice of costume, don't you think?"

  Ann scowled. "It's brigantine. And don't sound so sure you've won yet. You think just the"—she glanced back and counted—"ten of you can stop me?"

  "Well, then we'll just have to see, won't we?" He motioned with his hammer, and his comrades closed in from both sides.

  The battle started, Mark standing back to back with Ann against the enemy. He had improved as a fighter from his training with her and Kyle, but still could do little beyond warding off the attacks of the opponents who outnumbered him. Even though the door prevented them from reaching him all at once, they could remain fresh by attacking him in turns while he struggled alone. Already, his sweat-slick hilt threatened to escape his grip.

  Ann on the other hand deflected blows and struck back, cutting repeatedly into flesh. Even now, it was almost like she outnumbered them.

  One of the men dressed as bandits screamed and stumbled away, clutching the spurting stump of his right arm. Another fell silently, dead from the look of his ruined chest. The rest deeper inside backed towards the walls, and even those who faced Mark before the door hesitated. Some, he noted, favored their apparent leader with expressions of anger and doubt.

  Ann charged the hammer-wielding man, who retreated into the midst of his helpers. Two tried to bar her way. She slashed one's throat, smashed the other aside with her hilt. She dashed onward, sword drawn back for a deadly blow. Her target stomped on the wooden planks seconds before her blocked hit knocked him down; for what reason Mark did not know, until behind her a section of floor she had just passed began to rise.

  "Watch out!"

  She turned just as the trapdoor opened, revealing the warrior hiding beneath. But it was too late. The man fired the crossbow in his hand from a distance of less than two feet, burying a quarrel in her gut. At such close range, the bolt pierced so deep that its head burst from her back.

  Ann doubled over with a shriek of pain, but did not fall. Straightening herself with gritted teeth, she lashed out with her sword. The man's crossbow broke in twain, but he drew a short sword and attempted to climb up. Ann held him off, beating at his guard with her heavy blade. The hammer man stood and came at her from behind, swinging to crush her skull. She ducked, kicked backwards into his groin. The one who'd shot her slashed at her ankles, forcing her to jump away. He tried to scramble up. Before he could clear the ladder, Ann chopped into his skull, and he dropped back into the darkness below.

  At the sight of Ann wounded, the men who faced Mark pressed the attack with renewed vigor. He kept them at bay with wild swings, but his arms grew leaden with fatigue and he feared they would not obey him much longer. A thrust got through his defense, ripping a gash along the side of his arm.

  The last of the false peasants lunged at Ann, stabbing at her face. She leaned back so his blade passed over her shoulder, and her reply cleaved his neck. Upon his death, the hammer-wielder seemed to decide discretion was the better part of valor and made his escape by leaping out a side window.

  Meanwhile Mark still fought a losing battle against four foes. Ann staggered to his aid, cutting down one unprepared man. Another blanched and fled, unwilling to risk meeting the fate most of his companions had.

  Two enemies left, yet they might well be the bravest of the lot and Mark knew Ann must be weakening. "You're hurt," he said softly.

  "I'm fine." She swallowed, as if to force down blood welling up her throat. "Let's finish this."

  For moments they paired up with an opponent each, but Ann reeled on her feet and Mark realized she was rapidly failing. Pushing his man back with a kick, he interrupted her duel by parrying a slash at her neck. She took advantage of her opponent's distraction to slice open his belly. He fell and the last man backpedaled, eyes wide with fear.

  Mark rushed after him, and Ann tried to follow. But her wound slowed her steps, and the distance between them grew. Mark took an overzealous slash at the man's head. He ducked and a dagger flashed in his off hand. Before Mark could recover, the warrior stabbed him in the side. Clutching the wound, he fell to his knees.

  The man slashed down, but Ann stumbled into him and shoved him away. She limped after him, swinging. Blood dripped from the quarrel in her stomach. He stood his ground, deflecting her blows with sword and dagger. Sweat ran down her face as she struggled to keep up the pace. The dagger poked at her eyes, and she raised her arms instinctively. Mark watched in horror as the sword joined the crossbow bolt in Ann's abdomen, half its length emerging from her lower back. Not again...

  She gasped, legs shaking, but managed to raise her blade and swing. The man pulled out his sword just in time to block, shoved her away. She tottered back, stopped herself and raised her sword again. But when she made to step forward, her knees buckled and she fell.

  Then Mark was on him, the rest of the world a red haze in his vision. Frenzied he struck again and again, hardly registering his opponent's fall or that he stopped moving. The bastard had killed Ann, and would not pay enough if he suffered a hundred deaths. His gory sword rose and fell, rose and fell, even when Mark could no longer feel his arms.

  "That's enough," Ann's voice said, and he looked to find she stood behind him. "He's quite dead." Her shocked eyes made him aware what he was doing, and his sword dropped from trembling hands. He averted his gaze from the red mass at his feet. Had he really done that?

  Ann collapsed then, falling backwards. Mark
stumbled to her side as she tried to rise, whimpering and hugging her destroyed middle while she made to sit up. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

  "No, don't. The fight's already over."

  "Let me go!" she said, blood pouring over her lip. "I'm fine."

  "No you're not." Gently, "At least, take a minute to catch your breath."

  Ann fell back, shuddering. Her face was white, and a heartwrenching wet sound accompanied her every breath. He touched her cheek and began to sob.

  "What are you crying over?" she asked, half opening her eyes. "We won."

  He shook his head. "A hollow victory. The world will be a worse place without you."

  "Without... what?! Do you mean what I think you do? No! I don't plan on dying."

  Mark wiped at the blood leaking from her mouth, uselessly; it just kept coming. "Planning has nothing to do with it. You're gutstabbed, bleeding inside."

  She gave him a weak smile. "That rule? Since when have I been one to follow rules, anatomical or not? Now stop being such a downer and help me."

  "Yes." He reached down to lift her.

  Ann pushed his hands away and turned to her side with a groan. Before he could stop her, she lurched unsteadily to her feet. "I'm not going to be a burden," she said, "even if I am wounded."

  Mark would have said something about her pride, but the desperation in her eyes stopped him. She was so scared, and perhaps attempted to retain some measure of control by rising under her own power. Despite the incredible disregard for pain she showed, he was unconvinced she would live. The fact was unchanged that her insides must have suffered terrible damage. Still, he tried to help her. He reached towards the wreck of her abdomen with shaking hands, not sure where to begin.

  "Here," Ann said, "help me get the crossbow bolt out." She turned so he could see her back. Close to the gash where the sword had exited, the iron head protruded from her flesh. The wounds were gruesome. Mark didn't know how Ann could stay conscious, let alone stand and talk calmly.

  "Break off the head?" he asked meekly.

  "Yeah, but push it through a bit more and hold the shaft steady before you do. I don't want you twisting the bolt around inside me, any more than you have to."

  He snapped off the head, then drew what was left of the quarrel from her belly. More blood gushed out. Dark, dark blood. Ann doubled over in pain, her knees bending feebly under her weight, but somehow did not fall. Mark could only stare as she tore a strip from a warrior's cloak and began to wrap her wounds. "Gods, you're tough."

  "You fought well, Mark. Saved me the trouble of getting my second wind and killing him."

  He shook his head, fright overwhelming him at the thought of himself slashing apart human flesh in a berserk frenzy. "Ann, weren't you scared? I mean, what if I hadn't recognized you when you talked to me? I could have killed you..."

  She put a hand on his shoulder, smiling. "Me, scared? My voice is too good not to get through to anybody. Besides, I could always kill you if you turned on me." He gulped. Noting his discomfort, she added, "But I like you too much to do that. Maybe I'd just wrestle you down, and force-feed you whiskey until you were calm."

  "Ann."

  "Yes?"

  "You're wonderful."

  With a smile, she headed for the door. Then she stumbled and nearly fell, barely catching herself. He held onto her for support. "Don't worry," she said. "I'm okay."

  #

  Halfway back to camp, Ann sat on a rock, breathing heavily, and said she needed to change her bandages. Mark was not fooled. She needed to rest, and this was her excuse. But when he sat by her and lifted her shirt, he saw that her bandages were indeed soaked through. He replaced them with a new piece of cloak, and she stood and resumed walking. He tried to convince himself that she would be fine.

  Later on, when they came into view of the pond they had passed before, she asked to stop again. He asked her why, and she replied with a weak grin, "Need to wash my hair. Can't have Kyle see me looking this bad."

  That she could still be vain with such wounds unnerved Mark, too much for him to try to stop her. He watched as she knelt and lowered her head slowly towards the water. Suddenly her face twisted with anguish and she coughed, spewing blood into the water which the ends of her long hair had just reached. She frowned to see a red stain cloud the surface, then fade to pink.

  "Can't even bend over," she said in a disconcerted tone, and raised herself away from the pond. "Forget it. Let's just go."

  Ann was sleepy by the time they got back, and Mark helped her lay herself down in the tent. She giggled as he tucked her in, pulling the blanket over her bandage-swathed body. He watched her fall almost instantly asleep, then went outside and sat on the ground, pondering his actions at the end of the battle with dread. Was this the great destiny his mother always spoke of? Mark imagined himself at the front of an army, frothing as he cleaved his way through the lines of the enemy. There were plenty of legends about great warriors famous for their rage. But Mark didn't want to be that kind of hero.

  Yet if he had been more of one, he might have been able to save Ann.

  Kyle returned with a large fish in hand, his eyes quickly focusing on Mark's filthy clothing. "There's blood on you."

  "It's not mine, mostly." Though painful, his own wounds were relatively shallow. "We were set up and attacked by the Duke's men." He took a deep breath. "Ann was run through..." The knight's hand went to his sword. "Wait! She's not dead—she's inside, sleeping."

  Dropping the fish, Kyle rushed into the tent. Mark heard a storm of shouting and cursing. Then, a short silence. "How is it?" Ann's voice asked.

  "You'll be fine."

  A girly laugh. "Of course I will be."

  Kyle emerged from the tent, his mouth set in a tight line. Mark recoiled to see the knight's eyes glisten with tears. "I lied to her, boy. Her wounds are mortal. She will die."

  "Mortal?" Mark whispered. "Are you sure? But she was fine—barely slower than usual, when we walked here!"

  "Aye, she has an inhuman tolerance for pain. It is a gut wound; for most, it would be an excruciating death which might last hours or days. For her, the pain seems bearable enough. But she is still dying."

  Mark shook his head, tears flowing freely now. "There must be something that can be done! Aren't there magics, potions and salves, which can heal such wounds?"

  "I know of no magicians nearby. Even if her innards were to be mended, the wound has already fouled. I doubt she could be saved."

  "No... Ann..."

  "Stop crying."

  "What?"

  Kyle met his eyes. "Stop crying. She does not know how badly she is hurt, and your grief would give it away. Let her last hours be happy."

  #

  They waited until Ann woke up, then cooked the fish and invited her to eat with them. Ann recounted the day's events to her bodyguard, joking and bragging all the way, but tired quickly and retired to her bed. The men joined her, lying down on either side of the stricken princess. Mark wondered if she would see another sunrise.

  Mark awakened to the noise of someone dressing, and opened his eyes to see Ann putting on her boots. "Why such late risers today? Up, boys! Don't you remember we have urgent business in Kulten?"

  Kyle sat up, watching her carefully. Mark knew what he was thinking; Ann should have weakened over the night. But she seemed largely unimpeded by her injuries, though her face was paler than usual. "Are you sure you want to go on, Princess? You're seriously wounded."

  "Come on, Kyle. Would I let a little scratch stop me?"

  "There was a horse and cart back at the farm where we were ambushed," Mark said. "You could ride more comfortably there."

  "That poor horse must be half-starved by now."

  "Then maybe it'll be grateful to us for setting it free."

  Kyle nodded. "You go get them. I'll stay here with Ann."

  She shook her head. "No, you go. You're better at taking care of yourself, in case there are more men there."

&nb
sp; "I will not leave you unguarded, Princess. You are wounded, and as you said I am a better bodyguard than him."

  Ann glowered at him. "We'll all go, then. I'm more than up to walking a few steps."

  They retrieved the cart and padded the inside with blankets from the house, and Ann climbed aboard. "You get up there with her," Kyle said to Mark's surprise. "I'll walk."

  For the rest of the day they continued their journey west this way. The men tried to behave as though nothing were amiss, but Ann seemed to notice their unease and grow worried. "I'm cold," she said, despite the actual warmth of the summer air. Mark blinked back tears while he covered her with his cloak. By early afternoon the princess appeared exhausted, dozing off as she leaned against Mark's side. Her breathing grew faint, and Mark found himself touching her neck to assure himself she still lived. She did not wake.

  She was still sleeping when they stopped to set up camp for the night, and Mark lifted her out of the cart in his arms. She stirred, her voice small and weak. "Mark? This scene is getting a little too commonplace."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Of course. Set me on my feet."

  He would not, and she did not fight him.

  When the men once again flanked the slumbering Ann inside the tent, Kyle said, "She will not survive the night."

  "I hope you're wrong. But I'm sorry I couldn't protect her."

  The knight took a deep breath. "I should hate you, Mark. Leo is not only my king, but my brother and friend, and because of you I have failed him. But I do not, because I know you love her and that you tried your best." So they slept.

  The first thing Mark did when he woke was check Ann's pulse. Amazingly, it was still there. "Look, Kyle. You underestimated her—she's alive."