If only she would see that she fought in vain, for the benefit of others who cared not for her at all. For all they knew, she was drowned. And having been dragged upon these strange, foreign shores she could have let the past sink with the ship. She could have washed up in the sand a new being, a free being.
But she was still young and foolish. Her passions carried her away. I remember being young. In time she would see clearly. In time.
We travelled north at a fast pace, mule in tow. The sun was climbing up to our left, shining down upon the rolling meadows. Ahead loomed a stand of steep hills. Their sharp flanks were covered in thickets of brambles and scrawny elm trees.
We stopped to rest briefly by an abandoned barn. Little more than the stone foundations remained, and it was the last structure on the horizon before the shadowy hills.
Daz took her water-skin from the mule and drank deeply. I did the same. Our pace was unrelenting and the summer morning was warm.
After a moment of rest Daz bent over and touched something in the long grass. Then with both hands she gave it a tug, tearing it out from the overgrowth.
She tossed it down before me as I scanned the horizon. I looked down. It was a threshing tool; a long, thick stave with an adjoining length of wood, connected by a rusted iron link.
“Take this,” Daz said. “Better than no weapon.”
I pondered the old farm implement for a moment. I picked it up out of the grass. It was a good length, a good weight – if I intended to beat wheat from the chaff. Hardly a weapon of war.
“I have my hands,” I said.
I was not terribly compelled by this threshing pole, the beating head hanging limply from its rusted joint.
“Take it. I know who is there. I know who is with the mark,” Daz said. “Better than nothing.”
“How many soldiers?” I asked.
“No soldiers. One has a sword, the other has a dagger. I think guards,” she replied.
I kept the threshing tool and lashed it to the mule, if only to please Daz.
Soon after we took back up the trail. The way toward the hills was trackless; we ran through the old farm fields until we reached a place that had never been tilled. Gorse ran wild and thick. We stopped briefly for Daz to use the infernal tablet once again. I looked away as she did.
By early afternoon we made it to the base of the southernmost hill. Abruptly the slopes rose out of the ground, so abrupt it was almost a shock. They were very out of place amid the otherwise gentle meadows.
We slowed our pace as the ground grew rough. We descended into a deep ravine, choked in the shadow cast by the surrounding hills. Their flanks loomed over us like cliff faces, their sides cloaked in a tangle of mottled vines and weeds.
“Careful here,” Daz said from ahead of me. “Faeries. Stay close; my jewel protects.”
I did not know what she meant, but I kept close anyway.
We picked our way through the twisting vale as it dropped deeper and deeper into the ground. I glanced back at the way we came and saw the light of day fading far above and far behind. Deeper, deeper into the chasm we plunged.
Soon even the sky above was blotted out by a roof of thorny vines. Their muscular roots were, in some places, the thickness of trees. They strangled the scrawny elms.
Passing through the brush one such vine caught on my arm. It raked across my bare flesh and I recoiled from the sudden pain. I looked down to the resultant wound; blood seeped crimson from the long cuts.
I balled my hand into a fist and grit my teeth. The wounds burned; I feared toxin.
Suddenly, up ahead, Daz lost her footing. She landed heavily against the muddy ground and cursed in her native tongue.
I helped her up. She noticed I was bleeding and I saw in her eyes that she was going to ask.
“It is nothing. Just thorns,” I explained.
We continued on. The going on foot was rough; the mule fared little better. At some points he simply refused to carry on; his eyes were wild and rimmed with white. Something frightened him from the surrounding weed. But every time, with great care, I managed to coax him onward.
The wound on my forearm kept bleeding. I was growing worried; it was very unusual. The blood seeped down, running a course from my forearm to my hand. Perhaps it was the nature of the noxious weed that had cut me…
With no other choice, I ignored it.
At last we came to a place where the ravine leveled out. It seemed an estuary of gullies; every vale formed by the feet of the hills emptied here. The light was dim.
Before us was a field of stone pillars. I knew for certain the mule would have to be left behind. I did not know where we were going, only why; our destination not a place, but a being. And what that being was doing here, in this unfriendly realm of shadow and noxious weeds, I did not know.
I tied the mule to an elm tree. Then a smell caught my nose; a distinct smell, caught amongst the myriad stinks of flowering plant and rotting mud. I sniffed the air.
It was the smell of horses.
“Horses nearby,” I said aloud, straining my ears to hear.
“They came on horseback. No surprise,” Daz replied.
We walked to the edge of the stone pillars. Some were very high, others short. Grey slats of stacked stone, covered in lichen and moss. Daz looked dead ahead, determination flickering like flame in her blue eyes.
“This way,” she said.
I took a moment to grab the threshing tool. I hefted it over my shoulder, letting the hinged flail dangle behind me. I did not want to have to use it – in fact, I did not want to do this at all. But it was for Daz – and once I was done helping her, she would help me. Our deal would be settled and I would go home.
Without another word we entered the maze of pillars.
Daz stalked like a cat; she got low, moving with fluid, measured steps. I did the same, prowling just as I would if I were hunting big game.
In some places I had to squeeze through sideways. One section was so narrow we both climbed up and over a wide, flat pillar to get to the other side.
As we did we stopped; it was a good vantage point. We knelt in the semi-darkness and surveyed the way ahead.
The maze of stone was really a ring of stone pillars. In the centre of the ring lay a sizeable clearing of dark earth and low foliage. And in the middle of the clearing stood a great, blanched tree. It was contorted and dead, merely a husk of a once mighty oak.
“There,” whispered Daz, pointing to the tree.
I looked. Beneath the sickly tree were two figures in fine clothing. One wore a farmer’s hat, the other a polished breastplate. Thin voices carried through the damp air.
“Close now… only two. Easy,” Daz said in a low voice.
She leapt stealthily from the pillar. I followed after, landing far less gracefully as I was burdened with the farm implement. She raced through the labyrinth, a huntress now finally within view of her prey. I followed close behind.
Daz stopped suddenly before the last bend; she peeked around the corner.
“She is not there… but the Soul Slab showed this tree…” she muttered under her breath.
She looked around, scanning the way ahead. I waited.
“No point to waiting. They will know where she is,” she said in a hushed voice, gesturing to the two folk.
Then she turned to me.
“Ready?” she asked, unhooking her small palm-shield from her belt.
I gripped the threshing tool in both hands and flexed my shoulders. My forearm was still bleeding. But there were only two guards – it would not be hard.
“Yes,” I replied.
Daz leaned back against a stone pillar and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and slowly exhaled, putting a hand to the jet crystal that hung about her neck from a leather thong.
Then she snapped her eyes back open.
“Let’s go.”
I propped the thresher against my shoulder. Thi
s was the price of going home – and I was willing to pay it. Even if I had to break both their legs with this damned wheat thresher, then turn that tree to firewood; if I had to knock down every pillar of stone and fill in these ravines, cast down the hills and tear the thistles up by the roots with my bare hands – I would do it.
If this was the price to pay for home, I would pay it.
I ran a hand over the raised scars that criss-crossed upon my shoulders. I had already paid so much. But I was ready to pay more if I must.
Without a moment more we turned the corner and stepped into the clearing.
45
Herace
“Well, so much for that stupid fae. Can’t ever trust them, Ortham,” I said, spitting to the ground.
Ortham was about to agree when something caught his attention. His eyes widened. He looked off behind me and his jaw slackened.
I turned around to see.
And I was struck by lightning.
Not real lightning; not that one can see or hear. But I felt it all the same. Like a bolt of heavenly fire I was lanced clean through; my breath left me.
There, emerging from the stone pillars, walking through the veil of brambles, came two deadly figures.
One I only glanced at; an uyrguk far larger than any I’d ever seen. One hand was dripping blood as it gripped a thresher’s flail; his shoulders were broad and his neck thick with muscle.
But of course I only glanced. For my eyes were immediately torn away to the other figure – and a figure indeed it was.
As if emerging from an exotic dream, a warrior maiden strode toward me, bare from the waist up but for a band of silk. Each moment lasted a century – nay, two centuries – and yet it still was not enough. Her skin was gilded ivory, as beautiful and smooth as a finely carved marble statue; her body panther-like, lithe and dynamic yet intoxicatingly feminine.
Maker above, had I ever seen a being so wondrous, so wholly beautiful?
Her head was shaved bare and her eyes burned a vivid blue, as brilliant as lapis lazuli. I couldn’t take my eyes from her. I blinked hard – what fever dream was this? What strange fae magick could possibly produce such a vision of marvellous splendor?
She opened her mouth to speak; I saw the sharp teeth of her kind flash in the light from behind full, rosy lips.
“Where is the princess?” she asked with a voice smooth as velvet, in an accent that made my knees weak.
I tried to speak but choked. My heart was melted like spring snow on a summer day.
The titanic uyrguk beside her lifted the thresher’s flail off his shoulder to hold it in both hands. He walked around the warrior-goddess to stand at her side. His eyes, face, and pretty much everything else about him was hard and grim. I think he wanted to eat us.
But I wasn’t afraid. In fact, I was emboldened – curiously charged by the sight of the statuesque maiden, while all at once plunged into a weird despair that I could neither describe nor comprehend.
Ortham drew his degen beside me.
“You’ll never find the princess,” he firmly replied. “You’ll never take her.”
“Th-that’s right,” I said, clearing my throat and finding my voice. “Never.”
The beautiful, stunning warrior-goddess-maiden that was clearly sent from the Maker Himself frowned. Then she looked up to the uyrguk, said something in a foreign tongue, and shrugged.
“One of you will tell,” she then said, turning back to us.
The pair split apart; the uyrguk stepped toward Ortham, closing the gap with steady strides. The warrior-maiden approached me, buckler in one hand as she drew a long, thin sword with the other. I noticed its forward curve as it cleared the lip of its sheath; she held the foreign weapon low to the ground.
Ortham and I shared a quick look of panic – he had no magick. He was drained.
“Seeya!” he said with a tilt of his head – then bolted off.
The uyrguk charged after him. Ortham fled into the surrounding stone pillars.
The ravishing sword-mistress advanced on me. Even her walk was a mixture of menacing and titillating.
But as she neared I noticed something horrifying; she was taller than me.
The world fell out from under me. She was… taller than me? How was that even possible?
Yet despite my initial horror I actually didn’t mind it.
I drew my sabre and took up a defensive posture; she raised her whip-like sword and her polished buckler. It shone in the dim light, reflecting a warped image of me. I really didn’t want to have to fight her – but I had no choice.
I tried to think of something clever and endearing to say; something to start our duel off with. But I never even had a chance.
The warrior-maiden lashed out with her blade; it sung through the air before clashing against my own. She struck again and again and again with a speed and precision that left me on the backfoot.
I managed a riposte as she overextended, but her buckler was already there, deflecting my blow. I tried another; she moved aside with ease.
We broke off the engagement, blades still up and ready. She glared at me with piercing blue eyes.
“What even are you?” I huffed, catching my breath. “A Disciple?”
She curled her lip. My, what a smolder.
“What even are you?” she replied in her sensual accent.
If my heart kept fluttering, I was going to die before she even landed a blow.
“What am I? Who am I, you mean,” I said, stepping back and out of range.
I spread my arms and dropped my cloak from my shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. She relaxed her posture somewhat, clearly unfamiliar with the Laws of Conduct and the way a real duellist conducts a match.
“My name is Herace the Redeemed,” I said aloud, sweeping the air with my sabre.
She watched me with cautious curiosity, one eyebrow slightly raised.
“Prince of Plin Oèn, Guardian of the Amber Bower…” - I levelled the point of my blade at the warrior-maiden – “… and protector of Princess Dawn, heiress apparent to the throne of Céin Urthia. And I will defend her to the death.”
It was a bold statement, but it felt amazing. It wasn’t very often that one could say something so glorious without even a trace of irony.
The warrior-maiden just sort of stared at me. Then she raised her blade again and advanced.
I backed up. She really didn’t know the rules, clearly.
“Wait, aren’t you going to introduce yourself? You know, state why you’re here, who you are, all that?” I asked in a slight panic, raising my sabre defensively.
“It does not matter why I am here,” she said dangerously. “Only that I am here!”
And with that she struck again.
This time her assault was relentless. She was no longer feeling out my defenses; she was aiming strong and true. I was at a disadvantage; she had a shield, I had none. I was weighed down by my cuirass while she was free to move with incredible speed.
I parried an overhead slash when she lunged in with the buckler. With barely a hairs-breadth between she missed my jaw. She changed from using her off-hand defensively to using that half-sphere buckler as a weapon, catching me totally off-guard.
I retreated back, giving myself time to breathe, time to think. Whatever method of swordplay this was, I had never seen it before. In fact, I had never even seen such a sword before.
Sweat trickled down my temples. I was breathing hard. But so was she; her chest heaved, her skin slick with a sheen of perspiration.
“Where is she?” she demanded.
“I’ll never tell,” I replied defiantly. “Cut it out of my gurgling throat!”
That’s what women like. Insane bravery; courage in the face of danger.
Clearly this Disciple didn’t care much for that sort of thing. She cried out and swung savagely at me.
I brought my sabre up and deflected the slash of her blade; but
I was too slow to dodge the swing of her buckler.
It crashed into my cuirass with a force that nearly knocked me off my feet. I stumbled backward, almost falling down as I endured another onslaught of cuts.
For someone so beautiful, she was certainly dangerous.
We circled around the tree as we fought; I was pushed further and further back. I was sweating profusely. She seemed unfazed; sweat beaded on her skin but still she kept coming, kept fighting.
Then suddenly she recoiled. I did the same.
I felt dizzy, like I was going to throw up. I let my sword dip to the earth. I was trembling from the effort. Mercifully she did not take advantage of my clear weakness. Sweat pricked my eyes. I wiped my face with a hand and smiled, desperately trying to show that I, too, was unfazed, being the hot-blooded knight that I was.
The warrior-maiden still stood tall and proud. Her face betrayed no fatigue; it was an alabaster mask of carven elegance. But her strong shoulders were slightly slouched and her posture ever-so subtly more defensive than before.
I hoped she was more tired than she looked. Because I was nearing exhaustion.
I blew a wet string of hair away from my face. I was sweating like a sow in heat, cooking in my cuirass. Maybe I should have stripped down to the bare essentials like this warrior-maiden.
The warrior-maiden tried to circle around to get my back against the tree. I evaded her wide arc, slipping past.
I still couldn’t get over the fact that she was taller than me.
Not by a lot. But she was definitely taller; maybe half a hand or so. And she was no waif; she was a panther, her limbs slender but powerful, feminine features like those of a goddess.
I shook my head. I had to stay alert; one mistake and it could be over. It was a miracle that neither of us had drawn blood yet. The only blow left unguarded so far was the one she landed with her buckler on my cuirass. I was getting tired, though; eventually I would slip up. It was inevitable.
But this was perfect; it was a morbid thought, but it would be very honourable to die on behalf of Princess Dawn. Especially at the hands of this warrior-maiden.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 38