by Bo Burnette
Philip knelt beside her. “Who is he?”
Arliss turned, tears forming in her eyes. “He is the one who was lost. He is the reason it is forbidden to cross the river.” She clenched her fists on the edge of the bed. “All these years, you have been here, and my father’s foolish laws have prevented us from saving you. Curse him!”
“Arliss!” Ilayda rebuked.
“No, princess!” Áedán grasped her hand. “Your father is right not to come here. There is nothing in this forest but death and decay. I tell you, there is no time, you mustn’t stay here a moment more! Leave!”
A sudden fit of coughing seized him, and his body writhed as he spat blood upon his pillow. His grasp on her hand weakened.
“No, Áedán, please,” she begged tenderly.
“There is no more life in me, my lady,” he managed. “Nor for the land of Reinhold. A dark fire is coming and has already come, and it will eat away at your people until there are none left. Do not ignore the evil of lust—the lust for power, for possession. It has destroyed the heart of the master.”
“Who is this master you speak of?”
Áedán’s voice had so weakened, she needed to lean toward him to hear. “Thane! Thane has come!”
Arliss had no time to take in his words. Window glass shattered. A javelin slit through the air just by her right ear, embedding in the wall above Áedán’s bed. Ilayda shrieked. Erik snatched at his quiver.
Philip tackled Arliss to the floor as another javelin flew through the place her head had been moments before.
She leapt to her feet just as two shadowy soldiers burst into the hut, trampling splinters of the wooden door beneath their feet. Each held a massive, ugly sword. They had sinewy arms with blue paint smeared on their forearms. Their clothing was dark fabric and aged leather, with little metal armor. In the dark forest, they must have been invisible.
Arliss nocked an arrow in an instant, but that wasn’t quick enough. The first warrior closed the distance between them and arced his sword in a wide semicircle, as if trying to swipe off all four of their heads at once.
Erik and Ilayda ducked down, and Arliss backed just out of sword’s length.
Philip stood his ground and brought his sword to bear against the grim warrior’s.
He slowed the course of the blade’s arc, but the momentum and power behind the sword were too great. The glowering soldier swept his sword clean, and Philip barely held onto his own. The second man began approaching the fight.
Arliss’s heart pounded as the first enemy’s weapon cut down at Philip. Philip blocked the blow with stunning skill. He parried and sent a thrust which nearly pierced the warrior’s left breast. He sidestepped at the last moment, and Philip’s sword caught his shoulder. The warrior snarled in pain.
“Who are you, you who dare to enter the dominion of the master?” The warrior’s voice rasped, rough and chilling, as if his words were filled with pebbles.
Arliss found her tongue before Philip did. “Who are you, who dare to enter the dominion of the crown of Reinhold? I am…” She stopped, realizing how foolish it would be to reveal her full identity.
The warrior roared and swept his sword as he and his comrade advanced towards them.
Arliss glanced towards Áedán’s dead body on the bed, and her face contorted in anguish. These men and their master had killed a man of Reinhold. They would pay. Justice had to be done. She had three arrows left—so she couldn’t miss more than once. She wouldn’t miss even that one.
The four travelers edged to the back corner of the shack, nearing the window which had been smashed by javelins. Smirking, the warriors retrieved the javelins from the wall, then turned to face Arliss and her company. Death was in their eyes. One blocked the door, the other blocked Áedán’s body. Arliss’s company could neither escape nor protect the corpse.
Erik slammed the point of his bow into the already shattered window. The rest of the glass crushed and fell to the ground outside. Gripping Ilayda’s hand, he half led, half lifted her to the window. She leapt outside, rolling away from the glass shards. Erik followed.
Arliss and Philip were still trapped. With a nod to each other, the warriors separated. The first rushed from the building as the second readied to finish Philip and Arliss off. He stood barely taller than Philip.
“You shall die this very hour,” the warrior snarled as he raised his sword.
“All men die,” Philip responded, raising his sword like a beam of light, “but we shall not die today.”
The swords clanged like lightning, scintillating in the vague sunlight which fought through the dense trees and into the cottage’s window. Arliss dropped to the floor, rolling over to the doorway. She stood, gripping the unsteady doorframe.
Outside, Erik was engaging the first warrior while Ilayda gazed into the woods behind the cottage, fear painted on her face. She gripped the long knife. Arliss followed her line of sight to the three other warriors who emerged from the eastern treeline. These were armed like the first two, and two of them had blue paint not only in lines on their forearms but also on their faces.
Arliss’s eyes narrowed. She was about to die, largely due to her own foolishness, but she determined to die fighting for herself and her companions. Perhaps some of them would live. Her mother needed to be warned.
“Ilayda!” she shouted. Ilayda ran to her. “Stay beside Erik, no matter what happens!”
“That’s a cruel order, silly princess.”
“Obey.” Arliss spoke more with the love of a sister, and not the demand of a ruler. Ilayda complied.
Erik had downed his man—Arliss had not seen the moment of his victory—and now he stood, readying for the three new combatants.
Behind Arliss, the shaky wall which once held a lone window collapsed to the ground, the warrior falling atop it. Philip came running through the doorway just as the entire structure collapsed outwards. Neither he nor his opponent were carrying swords. Now the warrior stood, blinking as Philip rushed at him and landed a fist in his face.
Arliss drew back her first arrow, aiming it at one of the three reinforcements who came ever closer. Just as she released the string, the arrow transformed from a tool of practice into something darker: a weapon of war. The realization of it pierced her, and she could see every moment of the arrow’s flight as it sped towards the foremost of the blue-streaked warriors.
The arrowhead found its mark quickly. The warrior dropped to the ground, and the princess of Reinhold became a warrior herself in that moment. It was her first kill. Never before had her bow been used on anything but tree targets and flying fowl. Never again would she be the same. Even in all the adventures she had afterwards, she found that moment was among the most difficult she ever experienced.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE QUEST IS OVER
Ilayda’s fingers trembled about the handle of the knife as she tried to hold it steady, pointing it warily toward the approaching warriors. She edged closer to Erik, who was just nocking another arrow on his string. His eyes shone with the fierce fire of battle—and Ilayda hated it.
“We have to leave!” She gripped his shoulder. “There are too many.”
“There are only three—rather, two.” Erik didn’t even look at her.
Four fresh warriors burst through the thick treeline almost as he spoke the words.
Not sure whether to smirk or to scream, she yanked on his shoulder again. “All right, now we really have to run for it!”
Glowering at her, he lowered his bow and searched the clearing. Ilayda followed his gaze and saw that Arliss had moved and was now helping Philip to engage his foe. The warrior—somewhat smaller than the others—raged against the two, his flesh streaming with sweat and his left arm streaked with blood.
Arliss ducked to the side and fumbled in her bag for something. Whatever she was doing, there couldn’t have been any use of it now. They needed to flee—Ilayda was certain of that.
“Arliss!” Erik shouted. “We have to get out of this
place, now!”
The first drop of rain struck Arliss’s cheek just as she turned to answer Erik. “We cannot abandon the quest!”
“The quest is over!” he shouted.
She shook her head and gripped her bow. The quest could not be over.
The six other warriors charged toward them. With just two arrows left, that would leave four against their two swords and one knife. If only she had brought one of her father’s swords!
Rain began falling in sheets. It drenched the entire clearing, and within moments Arliss could barely see Philip near her, much less Erik and Ilayda in the distance.
Philip gripped her arm. “Erik is right, Arliss. We have to leave.”
“What about your man?”
“I do not think he has the strength to follow us now. We must go!”
She followed him as they pushed their way through the blinding rainstorm, grasping each other’s hands. Ilayda shouted her name from somewhere to the right. Swords were drawn, boots trampled the soggy ground. The other warriors were approaching.
“Erik, we’re over—”
A hand grabbed her throat from behind and she fell, rolling out of her assailant’s grasp. She lost her grip on Philip’s hand.
The rain lightened up and she got a clearer view of the man: Philip’s opponent, heaving for breath and glaring death at them.
Philip stepped in front of her and tilted his sword in front of his body. “Get Erik and Ilayda out of here,” he ordered.
It was too late. The reinforcements had arrived.
A blue-armed warrior with an iron-tight grip clamped Arliss's arm and tore the bow from her grasp. She twisted and kicked and tried to claw the ugly sneer from his disgusting face. But he caught her other arm and forced them both behind her back, sending shards of heat darting up to her shoulders. She howled against the pain and rage permeating her body. She lashed out with her foot, but landed on the rock hard muscle of his thigh. He was too strong for her. She couldn’t wriggle free.
“Erik! Ilayda!” she shouted, her voice finding new power from her anger and fear. “Get out of here! Go to my mother! Tell her everything!”
One of the men slapped his hand across her mouth, and she could say no more.
Almost as quickly as it had arrived, the rain departed, leaving the clearing drenched but quiet. Arliss had only a moment to take in her soaked surroundings—the seven dark-armored warriors, one struggling to stand, surrounding her and Philip—before she was dragged away to the left of the collapsed cottage, into the darkest part of the forest. The last sight she saw before they reached the trees was Áedán’s body, lying upon the bed in the middle of the glade.
Adrenaline coursed through Ilayda’s veins as her heart pounded like a drum. It couldn’t end this way. She couldn’t lose Arliss. Somehow or another, she would have to rescue the princess.
She took two steps towards Arliss’s kerfuffle with the warriors, but Erik yanked her three steps back. She tore her arm from his grasp and whirled on him. “Stop! Just stop! We have to help them—or are you just going to let them be dragged away?”
“We don’t have the strength or arms to overpower them alone. They would simply add two more to their captives.” Erik rubbed his shoulder as he leaned against a nearby tree.
Tears dribbled down Ilayda’s cheeks, but she lifted her chin. “I will not forsake them. This whole time, I’ve followed and done as I’ve been told. Now I cannot anymore.”
“Ilayda,” Erik said, his eyes softening.
Then his look changed. He reached for her arm and wrapped his around hers, slamming her into the ground. An arrow thunked into the tree trunk right where she had been standing. He rolled into the forest, tugging on her arm.
“Quick!” he whispered. “We have to run!”
He leapt up, and Ilayda stumbled to her feet, darting forward to match his swift pace. A throaty roar erupted several paces behind them. One of the warriors must have been sent to finish them off.
Another arrow whistled past their heads. Ilayda dashed through the forest, trying to suck air into her burning lungs. Beside her, Erik was placing an arrow on the shaking bowstring even as he ran.
He stopped running.
The warrior stood just twenty paces off, his bow put away, his sword now raised, his blue-painted face wild.
“Get behind me!” Erik shouted at Ilayda.
She slid behind his tall, slender form, then immediately stepped out to the right. She had to see, no matter what he said.
He drew back his longbow, fingering the string for a split second. The warrior saw his doom, but it was too late. Erik’s fingers relaxed their grip. The arrow flew spiraling toward its mark. Ilayda turned her head at the last moment.
They stood a moment, panting amidst the trees.
She spoke first. “We have to go back, don’t we?”
“Back to the village? Yes. That’s exactly what Arliss told us to do.”
“I know it is, but still…I’ve grown a little bit wary of what Arliss tells us to do.”
“You are not alone in that regard.”
She let out a sigh of frustration. “How can we get back? We can’t retrace our steps—the snakes, the river!”
“We’ll have to.”
“Could we try rafting the river?”
Erik shook his head. “It doesn’t flow the right way for that. The river we crossed—I am certain it’s the same one that flows by our village, the one that feeds the moat. It flows down out of the mountains in the north, curves by the village, and then curves again through the forest. I assume it feeds into the sea farther south.”
She curved an eyebrow. “And why is this helpful information?”
“It means we cannot raft back to the village.” He rolled his eyes. “However, it means you could ride a raft from the village straight into the forest.”
“Why didn’t we try that?”
How much had Arliss really considered the practical aspects of her plan? For such a level-headed person, she had acted quite hastily, probably because her emotions were moving independently of her reason.
Ilayda shrugged. “I guess there’s nothing for it but to go back the way we came.” Then she smirked up at Erik. “Wait a moment. I have a new plan. For now, I’m going to be in charge.”
Erik folded his arms. “And what does this plan of yours involve?”
Ilayda’s smirk turned into a smile. “Lasairbláth.”
Arliss could see nothing, but her other senses were tingling. The air smelled thick and sweet from the rainshower, and the leaves beneath her feet had lost their brittle crunch. Instead, they slid beneath her wet, worn boots. She thought she could distinguish Philip’s clear, careful footfalls just in front of her, but she couldn’t be sure. How long had they been marching? Was it twenty, or thirty minutes?
The woolen blindfold itched her nose. The itch was maddening; the fact that she couldn’t scratch it made it even more infuriating. She tried to ignore it, as she had no other choice. Eventually it subsided into a vague tickle.
One of the warriors—it sounded like Philip’s opponent—gripped her wrists behind her back.
Without warning, the marching came to a halt. Someone lifted her up and placed her on some sort of wooden seat. The seat wobbled uncertainly. A boat? It couldn’t be. Yet the wood beneath her feet couldn’t be doing anything but floating. She hadn’t ridden in a boat since their escape from the isle twelve years ago, but she still recalled the sensation.
“Here, Cahal,” a gruff voice ordered. “Help me with the boy. Not quite as dainty as the girl, it seems.”
Arliss stiffened at the mention of dainty, but at least he released her arms. For the moment she was free. She fingered the rectangular bulge in the pocket of her underdress and tore the pocket open wider. Smart thinking to have held on to this—the old book. It might come in handy later.
She heard grunts and low curses, and her seat teetered side-to-side. When the man called Cahal did not return to take hold of her ar
ms, she tore off the blindfold.
They would blind her again as soon as possible, so she took it all in: the long rowboat with the curved prow, the seven burly warriors preparing to embark, Philip’s opponent—who seemed to be the one called Cahal—bruised and bloodied from the fight, and Philip being hoisted into the boat.
She leapt to her feet, not considering the implications of being on a floating piece of wood. The boat trembled beneath her, and she nearly fell over the low stern.
Cahal and another man had almost dragged Philip all the way into the boat, despite his resistance. The second man now saw her, standing and unblindfolded, and he dropped Philip onto the wooden beam. The boat rocked again. Water splashed up into her face and washed over the side of the vessel.
She grabbed an oar which lay nestled in its hook on the back right side of the boat, and strained it up in front of her. The makeshift weapon was heavy in hand, but she didn’t care. She glared at the warriors—Cahal in the boat, the other six on shore.
“Release us!” she demanded.
“What authority do you have?” The man who had helped lift Philip stuck out his goateed chin at her. His eyes flickered as if he knew he was goading her to reveal her identity.
She glowered at him. “What authority do you seven have?”
The man laughed, his snicker almost a cough. “We seven? You think we are seven? We are a multitude. We are a legion. I am asking again, what authority do you have?”
She invoked a name that would not reveal herself. “I have the authority of the one, true God.”
Apparently they didn’t think much of her answer. With a careless flip of his wrist, the leader coughed and spoke to his men. “Tie her hands, and tie his hands as well. Do it quickly.”
She gripped the thick oar and swung it toward the shore. It slammed into one of the warrior’s shins, knocking him to the ground. Gravity yanked it out of her hands, and it toppled downward, spanning the gap between boat and bank. She scrambled across the thin bridge no wider than one of her feet.
Two of the hulking warriors grabbed an arm each, jerking them behind her back. She glared at the coughing fellow, then at Cahal, then at the rest. She could kick one of them in the groin…but no, that would do nothing. She was too heavily outnumbered. Better to leave that trick for later use than to have it expected.