by Lisa Daniels
“You’re looking to fight?” Alyssa asked, wiping some of the sweat off her brow.
Faith shrugged, nonchalant. A challenge. She desired a challenge, one to set her heart pumping. But what glory was there in a fight when no one matched up to you? “Yes. I’m looking to fight several opponents at once. One is too easy.”
Erlandur raised one blonde eyebrow. Without his intimidating helmet, his fine, soft features contrasted strangely with the light southerner colors. He had a little tan to his skin, and dark blue eyes that sometimes seemed full of life, and other times as empty and remorseless as the Lunar Wastes they contemplated. “I’ve always wondered about combat witches. Your magic works differently, right?”
Yes. She never had to cast, or think, or feel. The magic permanently entangled itself into her, directing her every movement, causing her to react sometimes before she even knew herself where the threat was coming from.
A gift from your grandmother, Grace Corven. She carried the blood. And she answered the call when the legion attacked. She died bravely. She would have killed them all, if her magic hadn’t run out.
Her father’s words still rang through her head. She thought about him now, content at home with her human mother, tending to the fisheries of Ghost Lake. She never wanted that life. She wanted to die like her grandmother, deep in the teeth of the enemy.
But it did make for a lonely life.
“I challenge everyone who wants to test their skills against me,” Faith announced. “If anyone can strike one blow against my body, I’ll give them the Tear of the Warrior.” She held up her necklace, a last memento of her grandmother. “This belonged to the greatest combat witch who ever lived. It grants extra reserves of magic, and is quite valuable.”
One werewolf scoffed. “You want to challenge us all for that pretty trinket?”
“At the same time,” Faith smiled sweetly.
This caused a commotion, a stir. Some people acted downright offended of being challenged, and spoke up of her unfair terms upon herself.
“No. I’m making the terms fairer for the rest of you.”
Erlandur chuckled by the side-lines. He tossed two sticks to Faith, who seized them with unerring accuracy, and ten warriors chose to take up the challenge.
Alyssa and Erlandur included. Eight men with the strength of werewolves coursing through their cells. Faith couldn’t help but notice that all the Ghost Lake wolves had politely declined her challenge, and instead watched from the sidelines with knowing, smug grins.
Faith strolled to face her ten opponents – two with quarterstaffs, the rest with conventional swords and shields. Her challenge by now had drawn quite a crowd, who jostled to create an arena for her match. Faith clutched her weapons, closed her eyes, and felt the familiar pulse of her magic call to her.
“Any time,” she said, still keeping her eyes closed.
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, she heard the flutter of footpads on the ground, the rushing determination to take her up on the spar.
She appreciated none of them hesitated, or held back. Perhaps they sensed her supreme confidence, the little taste of arrogance as she regarded them like mere infants, unworthy of her time.
The power runs through me. It whispered to her as the first stick came whooshing at her side. She moved just enough to feel the air disturbance as it chopped down, then made one in step, slashing upwards, knowing, through her eyes being closed, that her opponent wouldn’t have time to react, given the air pressure, the electromagnetic field around their body and the space they occupied. Two smacks later, her opponent collapsed on the cobbled floor.
She stepped on them and leapt then, now opening her eyes, just avoiding two side swiped, twisting and spinning in the air, lashing out with one foot, landing on the chest of a runner after knocking his stick out the way.
One, two, three. They all fall down. Her blood pumped, her heart sang, and she pivoted, facing her next two opponents. She noticed the other five now attempting to circle her, to use their sheer numbers to overwhelm. Three steps forward. Dodge the thrust here, duck the swipe there – she straightened and snapped out her hands, before striking her opponent in what she perceived as his weak spot. The magic burned in her mind, heightened her senses beyond mortal comprehension.
She saw the world before her, perfectly mapped out, anticipating each action and reaction with her powers. She felt invincible, unstoppable, and roared in ferocity as two men sprang for her at once. She moved just right, knocked one out with a timed blow to the back of their skull, and in six moves, disarmed her next opponent. All of them were faceless, unskilled entities to her, just people to beat, to dodge, to disarm. In her moon blessed perception, the remaining four boxed her in. The first werewolf she took down lay feebly on the ground, groaning as his head rang from the impossibly accurate blows.
Every move you do, I’ll see it and block it before you even realize you’re doing it.
She filtered out the gasps of astonishment and amazement from the sidelines, and sprinted towards one of the four boxing her in, before they got too close. The magic coursed through her muscles, and her legs burned from the effort. She exchanged four swipes of her sticks before ducking and sliding diagonally to avoid a blow to her back, then backflipping to avoid Alyssa’s opportunistic thrust, landing on an opponent’s shoulder. She sprang and twisted mid air, roaring in triumph, delivering a series of blows to the man in front of her springboard. He crumpled, eyes bulging in shock and surprise, and she spun to fend Alyssa’s blow.
She advanced upon Alyssa, but Erlandur assaulted her from the side – Faith blocked four ferocious blows from him, then tripped Alyssa when she swiped herself off balance from an attack. The third opponent, Linther – three successive attacks on him sent him groaning to the ground, clutching his ribs.
She stood then, calmly facing Erlandur and Alyssa.
“Um,” Alyssa said, exchanging a glance with her brother, green eyes to blue. “How do you beat a combat witch, actually?”
Erlandur smiled, and gestured to his sister to encircle Faith, who didn’t stand around to wait for it.
Attack him! She launched herself at Erlandur, but Erlandur stepped backwards – Faith immediately divined his tactic, and spun instead on Alyssa, who fended one blow from her, then squeaked and made a forward roll away from Faith, but Faith didn’t give her a chance to recover. She attacked Alyssa, who deflected five blows, before Faith then turned upon Erlandur, then ignored him, taking the opportunity to incapacitate Alyssa.
“Drat,” Erlandur muttered.
Faith briefly appreciated Alyssa’s futile attempts to stop her, before she disarmed the woman, smiling as her luminous green eyes gaped.
Erlandur stood still for a moment, regarding the combat witch with his dark blue eyes, before smirking.
A chill went up Faith’s spine. One second later, she ducked under the lunge of one of Erlandur’s undead wolves, and side rolled out of the advance of another.
Her muscles were now getting tired, but her magic still flared strong – Erlandur advanced, his wolves flanking her.
Avoid the throat pounce here, snap under the attack there – straight onto Erlandur. She sensed she had about forty seconds to end the fight before her magic reserves dipped low, and she’d need to tap into the Tear.
Attack!
One slash, one uppercut, she had disarmed him.
The undead wolves stopped their movement, standing in eerie stillness as Erlandur chuckled.
“Not so bad, witch.”
Faith stared into his eyes for a moment, breathing fast. “Bringing in the wolves was dangerous.”
“I have a feeling bringing in the wolves posed no danger to you at all,” Erlandur responded softly, as the watching audience broke into cheers and murmurs.
“Combat witches,” Alyssa grunted, picking up her stick, “are insane. You were – you were like some unworldly being. Like you knew everything we were going to do. I’m so jealous!”
“W
hy?” Faith responded, smiling at the blonde as she scowled.
“Because I’ve trained for years to be good at fighting, and you can just use your magic and it’s like that training doesn’t even matter. It’s frustrating.”
Faith nodded, understanding the human’s sentiment. A lot of people expressed that with her. The idea of an unbeatable opponent, no matter how hard they practised, didn’t sit well in their hearts. In their position, Faith would feel exactly the same.
It was how she felt with the Shadows. No matter how many she vanquished, they never stopped coming. They never stopped killing. “It’s not as powerful as people think it is. The more opponents I face, the faster my magic drains. When I run out of magic, I’m reduced then to your ability. Though still formidable, I can no longer be as flawless in my actions.”
Alyssa bit her lip, considering Faith’s words. “I’m glad you’re on our side.”
Faith smiled.
Erlandur held out a hand for her to shake. “I have a preposition for you, if you’d like to hear it.”
She shook his hand, partially surprised at how warm he felt. Her mind reflected on Geraline’s observation. Did she really stare at him that much? That noticeably? “Alright. Shoot me with it.”
Erlandur pointed to the slice of mountain by ridged plateaus, visible from their vantage spot in the Spine encampment. “We’re planning to send a scouting mission to determine the best way to get into the city, and to see how Shadow activity is faring. I’d like you to come. Your magic will not deflect like it did on Yarrow, if a Supreme ambushes us. I’m not going to dismiss that kind of power.”
Their eyes locked for a long time. A ripple of electricity passed through their clasped hands, and Faith found her mind wandering to other places, quieter places where nothing but candlelight lit their features, as bodies intertwined with one another.
She shook her head of the notion, and forced out a smile. “You’re right not to do so. I promise you I’ll be an asset to our team.”
“I’m sure,” he replied, his voice taking on a strange, seductive slant. Alyssa huffed in disgust.
“No, brother.”
“No, what?”
“I see what you’re doing. And I’m saying no.”
Now Faith and Erlandur examined his little sister. They also finally let go of one another’s palms.
“I’ll see you later?” Erlandur said then, glancing over to the Ghost Lake wolves. “Unless you have anything big planned with your clan.”
“No. Nothing at all. They can wait.”
The smile they delivered to one another then made Alyssa exclaim in annoyance, before stalking off.
“She’ll get over it,” Faith supplied.
Erlandur twisted his mouth doubtfully. “I don’t know. She can be stubborn about these things.”
He winked at her then, before striding off, to engage in deep conversation with the Spine leader, Targun.
Faith absently chewed her lip as she watched him go.
Hmm. Maybe I do stare too much.
Chapter Two
Faith got to know Erlandur a little better over the next few days, though much of him still remained a mystery to her. He answered freely on some questions, and went as silent as the grave on others, making him difficult territory to discuss with.
He kept his secrets. There was more to the Fractured City than he wanted to admit, and Faith didn’t understand why he left the information out. Every sliver of knowledge counted. How would they know their foes if the one person most equipped to understand them revealed nothing of his true inner thoughts? No wonder some people suspected him, watched him as he patrolled with his heavy, Shadow tainted armor, his undead wolves, once companions with him on the trip to the Fractured City over three years ago. Everything about him reeked of conspiracy. Of danger.
But, somehow, he had motivated all these clans to come with him into the Fractured City. All the Spine wolves believed in him. Lunehill had sent the best of the best, barring Garcia, who needed to train new witches. Raine was supposed to be plucked for the role, but her skill in enchanting meant Erlandur wanted her with them.
Faith watched as several battle armored werewolves patrolled the outside of the fort. She sat in a pine tree, uncomfortable with the needles poking into her, but enjoying the heady, earthen scent the tree offered, the way snow tumbled off the higher branches, and the view it offered.
Her clan, Ghost Lake, sent only a small fraction of the warriors it boasted – the bravest and most reckless of them, along with four of their ten witches.
Ghost Lake, Dreadwood, Lunehill and Spine. So few, yet Erlandur and his close council believed these numbers would be enough.
Enough to deal serious damage to a foe that vastly outnumbered them.
Even with the Shadow armor, the weapon crafting, the ballista, and Yarrow’s corrupted power – something else must be boosting Erlandur’s confidence in the mission. Something he refused to drop on anyone else.
Faith intended to extract that information. By any means necessary. She noted Erlandur’s passing interest in her, and sought to exploit it. Feelings didn’t matter. Not when it came to destroying the Shadows. If she was due to scout with this man and a choice few companions, she didn’t want to feel that at any moment, the secrets he held onto might destroy them. That he might turn upon them in the last moment, and prove everything to be a lie.
Though her family remained at home, living as quiet a life as they could under the circumstances, her best friend traveled with her. Geraline, cool headed despite the flames she toted from her fingers.
Part of her suspected Erlandur was more interested in her prowess as a combat witch, the first one in many years after her grandmother had passed.
I’m nothing more to anyone than a fighting machine. No one sees me as a woman, not really – not when they know they don’t have the slightest chance of beating me.
A sliver of emptiness penetrated her heart, before she shook it out.
Eight people were chosen for the scouting party. With Erlandur came Nox, who was Targun’s son, and five other werewolves, all from the Fractured Spine clan – Arlen, Mordyn, Loras, Bal and Nethen.
All seemed like burly, strapping young men, and all of them eyed her with apprehension.
“They don’t like knowing you can beat them in physical combat,” Erlandur said, after having argued extensively with Nox to have Faith with the party. All of them wanted to be able to stay in werewolf form, and having Faith automatically meant a slower pace – but Erlandur did not want to waste the opportunity in her.
“People rarely do,” Faith replied dryly. She was tired of it, really. Tired of their Shadow cursed stares, their dislike. People didn’t respect her for who she was. They just saw someone dangerous, threatening the natural order of things. It was perfectly fine to have witches shooting bolts and spewing fire. But to be untouched in combat? To dance around skilled and trained warriors as if they were infants, floundering around with wooden swords?
No one liked it.
It wasn’t as if she could just turn off the magic, either. It boiled in her blood, entwined in her neural pathways. It didn’t give her headaches, but it did weigh down her body when running in combat for too long.
You have a wonderful gift, Faith. The words of her father, though she saw the pain in his eyes, too. Wonderful, but misunderstood. Expect the whole world to be against you. But never falter. Always use them to fight the good fight. Be the hero your grandmother was.
She nodded.
She didn’t plan to let her family down.
The next day, in the first glimmers of daylight in the otherwise long night, Faith strode alongside the six werewolves and Erlandur. She wore thick wolf robes, the Tear of the Warrior around her neck, and wolf tooth bracelets that Raine had enchanted for her. Erlandur rode one undead wolf, Faith mounted up on the other, ignoring her initial shudders of revulsion.
The undead did not tire like the living. Still, to have the matted, shaggy gr
ay fur underneath her, the eerie blue eyes staring ahead, and the lack of breath in their bodies, the non-existent heartbeat – it made it difficult to not just throw herself off the wolf, to wash her hands in the snows.
Her twin swords trailed in their sheaths on either side.
With Targun and the other leaders watching them, including Balthus of Ghost Lake, powerful beta to their clan leader. The other werewolves in their natural forms gave Erlandur a wide berth as usual.
He seems so lonely, she thought, observing how he always quietly accepted his position, never sought company, never forced anyone to endure the unnatural taint of his magic any more than necessary.
The scenery rolled out before them as they exited through the fortress portcullis, bounding out to the nearby mountain slop, steep and treacherous, where no one could live without the beasts of the wild or the Shadows of the nearby City devouring them. It took them a few hours, and day had already started shifting into night, when they experienced their first screaming wind slipstream, howling down the sheer face of the mountain and blasting them in a torrent of cold.
“Only the steepest, highest mountains generate these winds,” Erlandur shouted above the wind, as she clung onto the matted furs of her undead steed, trying not to get blasted off into space. “But we need to navigate them so we can reach the Fractured City. There is no easy path.”
She considered the black tower that they saw from their vantage point. How high must that thing be, to be visible from such a distance away? How thick? How strong the supports, to last so long without anything sentient or worthwhile minding the City? When she pictured the Fractured City in her mind, she imagined a derelict ruin of buildings, of cobblestones unpeeling, of skeletons in the streets, and Shadows endlessly roaming, seeking to slaughter anything living within reach. A mad journey for mad people, for the brave and the foolish to try their luck with tackling the threat directly within its rotten heart.