Time to change the direction of his luck.
“Lead the way, Sergeant.”
Dryas led them north for an hour, but it wasn’t until they turned east, away from the palace, that Rhycious questioned the location of his meeting with Khristos.
“The Templar requested privacy; he feels the walls have ears. One can never be sure of who’s an insurgent spy these days.”
Rhycious nodded, feeling much the same way. After the poisoning attempt, it was difficult not to be paranoid as he and Patience left the palace. So caught up in his private world of espionage, he never realized Alek had brought Sergeant Dryas into the fray.
On that updated note of bafflement, the last time he and Khristos parted company wasn’t exactly all backslaps either. The man had an axe to grind, and animosity thrown to a Nymph-lover like him could be the ideal burying spot for said cleaver.
Rhycious realized his rebellion extermination team had just grown smaller by one member. If he couldn’t count on someone to have his back, he didn’t want them in his squad.
They crossed a small sparkling creek and entered a copse of new growth sycamore trees. Scaly bark plates, like the camo fatigues he wore, checkered their thick healthy trunks and mimicked the dapple of filtered sunlight.
His internal suspicion meter shot the needle past the red mark.
Waiting within the shadows, attired in his customary flowing black robe, stood all eighteen hands of Khristos. His jeweled medallion of office winked in the sunlight as rays caught the pendant through undulating branches above. Arms crossed, his brows lowered over narrowed eyes, the fire of anger burned deep within them.
The priest stepped from the shade, his heavy hooves pounding the ground. “What is this emergency that could not be dealt with at the palace?”
Rhy swiveled his head toward Dryas, who backed away staring at them. Then he glanced back to the priest. “I understood it was you who requested this meeting.”
“Nay, I did not.” His black eyes scanned Rhy’s full combat armor. “Why do you appear before me dressed for battle?”
Niggles of suspicion took a hammer to the back of his neck. In his periphery, Dryas moved to position himself behind Rhy’s right shoulder. When Khristos reached beneath his robe for the jewel encrusted short sword, the buzzing hummed low in Rhycious’s ears.
Stationed in a triangular format, the three Centaurs faced off, attempting to sense whom would make the first move. Tension hung thick. Rhycious swiveled his body to keep both men in his sights and stepped back, out of the reach of their weapons.
In a smooth, practiced move, Rhy pulled his sword clear and held it at a vertical angle. Against their true equine forms, he was in an immediate disadvantage.
Rhycious dipped his sword’s tip toward Templar Khristos. “What is this about? Why are you attacking me?”
Khristos snorted, his tail slicing the air behind him. “It wasn’t I who drew forth the first weapon. Nor was it I who brought a Wood Nymph into the palace.” His fore-hoof tore into the soft ground before him. “Didn’t two hundred and forty years of war teach you anything?”
Pale green luminescence, the color of sunlight pressed through teardrop aspen leaves, gleamed against the tree’s patchwork patterned bark. Pressurized air discharged with a light explosion and Dryas’s gaze reactively pulled to the bright flash. He slowly drew forth his sword.
Waverly’s large, liquid eyes peered through strands of hickory hair blowing across her pixie face. Her dress, the fresh color of the shimmer, fell to a prudish knee length. Dryas raised his sword arm, and her cheeks drained of color.
Shocked the irritating aspen had appeared at the wrong time, wrong place, Rhycious growled at her. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of here.”
Frightened, her eyes whipped over to his and her voice shook as she pointed a trembling finger at Dryas. “He set the two of you up, and more are coming.”
Before Rhycious could question the sergeant, Dryas drove his sword at him, tip first.
Rhy raised his weapon, parallel to the ground. With a loud clash of steel, he knocked the blade away, and returned with a battering strike of his own.
Dryas staggered backward from the force of the blow.
Rhy had but a moment to see Khristos reach across his black clad body for the weapon resting in its scabbard. Steel ringing with dramatic flair, the priest pulled forth his short sword, the jeweled gladius. Faucets of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds caught at the ribbons of sunlight, creating an effect of spectacular divinity.
Balanced on the balls of his feet, Rhy crouched, the stance open with both legs planted wide. He eyed the players in the latest tournament of war. Odds were not in his favor, and he nearly laughed. Were they ever?
Khristos moved to place the Wood Nymph protectively at his back. His black hindquarters swayed loose on their hocks, ready for action—guarding Waverly? The priest faced away from Rhy, looking toward the edge of the not-so-distant ring of trees.
Confused, Rhy shot a glance to measure Dryas, and found the double-crosser sneering with disgust.
The palace mole. The betrayer.
Dark bay with three white socks, a Centaur trotted out from the shadows. A full leather helm covered the man’s face and armor covered his body. The sword he pointed at Khristos appeared longer than the priest’s arm. Duped and deceived, he and the priest were fighting on the same side after all.
“Waverly—” Rhy fielded another thrust from Dryas and shoved him back with a bullish yell. “Shimmer out of here. Now.”
Waverly’s slim body shook, her dress vibrating from the tremors. Distracted, and in the direct line of decapitating sharp objects, the Nymph’s saucer-sized eyes appeared frantic. She pressed further back against the tree in which she’d taken temporary shelter.
“Young lady,” Khristos said over his shoulder, his deep voice rumbling. “If you are able to do so, I suggest you leave us immediately.” He unhooked the frog-latch at his throat one handed and threw his black cape to the ground.
“I’m . . . trying.” Waverly’s voice trembled as if someone had taken hold of her throat and shook her violently. “Too scared. Can’t concentrate.”
The Templar priest positioned his large equine body in front of the Nymph species he so bitterly despised. Disguised by the helm, his newest adversary advanced. Still, Khristos protected Waverly, willing to pit his skill and short sword against the longer Greek makhaira of his brother Centaur.
“You would protect the very maggots that caused the war?” Dryas spat the words at Khristos and Rhy, slashing and cutting the air in front of him. “You’re a fucking disgrace to our kind.”
Rhy parried double-handed, confident of his blocks and strikes. “The war was over before you were born, dumb shit. And—” He lunged forward, driving with his leading leg. “It was King Nickolaus who started that bloody rotten war!” The last three words punctuated with hammering blows from his weapon.
The crash of swords rang out. Waverly’s thin scream filled his ears. Dryas stepped back in preparation for his next onslaught, and Rhycious chanced a glimpse at her.
She clung to the tree at her back, her face masked in terror. Khristos fought the Centaur who reared up on thick hind legs. Sharp fore-hooves with fitted fetlock blades struck out, aiming for the Templar’s skull.
Later, when the skirmish ended and if he remained upright, Rhy would have to reevaluate his impression of Khristos. The priest’s actions, fighting for Waverly, surprised the hell out of him.
Rhy’s gaze swung back to his opponent and blocked a jugular strike. He followed with a downward swing to cut Dryas’s legs out from under him.
The younger Centaur reacted quickly, using Rhy’s lowered sword and rusty skills to his advantage. A horizontal cut, aimed at Rhy’s left shoulder, hit its intended mark.
Pain exploded in a shower of fireworks, taking his breath away. The deep slice burned hot into his deltoid muscle, causing his fingers to tingle. Crimson liquid tinted the steel of Dryas�
�s sword, a sick reminder of centuries past.
“I’m going to kill you, asshole.” Dryas swore at him as he slashed and parried. Bloodlust and anger his new impetus. “When Khristos and Savella are dead, the Centaurian people will have a new ruler!”
“Praise Pan it isn’t my sword arm you nicked.” Warm blood ran down Rhy’s arm as he held it close to his body. Driven on the defense rather than offense, he fought his way backward toward a cowering Waverley and battling Khristos. “I’ll not die today, and certainly not by you.”
Anger crashed on a wave and surged over Rhy. Uncertainty eddied in, pushing anger out. Chaotic, tumbling reactions scattered his thoughts.
Rhycious struggled to concentrate, as he struggled to battle one-armed.
With Her Royal Majesty and the Templar priest out of the way, the dynasty would weaken, disintegrating like a dandelion flower blown of its seeds.
“You will not destroy Savella’s hard won negotiations.” Rhy clenched his teeth as another bone-jarring hit slammed through his sword arm. “You would ruin the efforts of a century? Snuff it all out and throw us back to archaic times?”
A crash through the underbrush and the sound of tree limbs snapping caught Rhy’s attention. Another armed rebel stampeded into the clearing, wild red hair standing on end. He carried a classic head chopper axe with deadly intent.
Other than occasional mews of distress, Waverly had clamped both hands over her mouth, trying to keep silent so he and Khristos could fight their enemy without distraction.
Occupied with dismembering objects of his own, the priest dueled at a disadvantage with his shorter gladius sword. Flecks of blood about his opponent’s arms and thigh proved the man of religion held his ground well.
Rhycious’s sword arm grew increasingly heavy, the loss of blood weakening him. With the new insurgent headed their way, Rhy’s future dimmed. In the midst of a sinking heart, he fought for his life against Sergeant Dryas.
“Gardimar,” Dryas shouted, cleaving his double-sided sword at Rhy. “Run them through. Let’s finish the job and leave here.”
Eyes as cold and dark as death gazed upon Rhy and pierced the shambles of his soul. Dryas hammered his upraised sword, and drove him down to a knee.
Above the din, the Templar’s voice boomed, shaking the earth beneath his feet. “Fight, damn you, Rhycious. Get back on your feet and fight, soldier!”
Rhycious continued to deflect Dryas’s pounding blows. Between knockbacks, he risked another furtive glance toward Waverly.
Khristos gained the upper hand with his superior height, strength, and fighting skills, driving his opponent away from the cringing Wood Nymph. However, the stark terror on her face wasn’t directed at her champion in black. Nor was it focused on Rhycious.
The bearded mountain-of-a-Centaur bore down on the chit. He grinned with manic pleasure, swinging his wide-headed axe in an eggbeater rotation. Taking his time, he edged closer to her.
Rhy had seen such malicious attacks first hand; he had committed a few of them himself.
But that was before Patience changed the way he saw the Wood Nymph people. Even goddamn Waverly. He now considered them his people, too, and as long as Queen Savella lived, the mending of cultures would continue.
And peace shall reign. Patience would live a long, full life. He staked his life on it, right here and now.
Backed by the roar of a hundred ghostly Centaurs who terrorized him in an alternate reality, Rhycious heaved to his feet. With a determination that was truly the dead coming back to life, his sword cut diagonally, catching Dryas by surprise. The honed edge of his trusty weapon sliced the traitorous soldier’s thigh wide open.
Blood spurted and Dryas cried out, stumbling away. Inertia carried Rhy’s blade along its path of destruction, and then rocketed down. His single-handed grip on the sword’s leather-bound handle tightened, slicing a clean line deep across his enemy’s cheek.
Stretched to their limit, the ligaments in his shoulder burned as he cleaved the hefty sword. Additional ground became confiscated in his favor with two powerful forward lunges. Spinning on the ball of his foot, he streaked for the screaming Nymph.
Rhy shouted at her. “Waverly, shimmer!”
Anchored where she stood, the girl could only stare at the monster approaching, shaking her head in utter denial.
Gardimar’s axe blade swung upward, the pendulum arc within striking distance of Waverly. Anger inside Rhycious boiled toward the cowardly Centaur. There was no honor in attacking an unarmed opponent, especially a female. He’d have no part in the deaths of Nymphs any longer.
Knowing what he did would forever seal his fate, Rhy silently said good-bye to Patience. Their future had been bleak at best, and impossible in the end. His heart cracked, splintered apart, weeping from within. The love she had shown him these past few days was a fair trade of his life for a Nymph’s. He only hoped his actions here would live on past this moment in her memories. The memories of Patience and their time together would warm him through his afterlife in Elysium.
Two hundred mythological years of warring against the Wood Nymph people—ironic he would die trying to save one of them in battle. He wished he’d told Patience that he loved her in a language she understood. Coward.
Resolved to destiny’s decision, and strangely comforted by the verdict, Rhycious kept a firm mental picture of Patience and threw himself over Waverly’s thin body, shielding her from the fatal blow of Gardimar’s axe.
Twenty-Nine
Heart pounding and legs pumping, Aleksander’s hooves tore into the soft loam, kicking out dirt in his haste. With a huge head start, Dryas had vanished moments after entering the forest. Alek lost considerable time backtracking, trying to pick up the sonofabitch’s trail. He ground his molars until his jaw hurt.
Behind him, a crash came barreling through the brush full speed, sending grouse flying up in panic. The first patch of cover Aleksander found barely hid his equine body. He ducked behind a boulder and red berry thorn bush as far as he could without folding his legs completely beneath him.
None the wiser to Alek’s presence, the burly musician streaked past.
The gods must have smiled down; the racing man would lead to where he needed to be.
Aleksander ran between trees and jumped logs, exiting at the edge of a meadow. Cramped of space, the clearing quickly filled with fighting men. Additional revolutionary civilians filed in from the far side, reminding him of a firing squad.
What was the world coming to when Centaur fought Centaur? Heavy betrayal filled his heart, and he shoved it aside.
The human’s Civil War had affected the United States with a ripple effect, shifting perspectives that led to lives forever changed. Whereas the war of 1861 had moved the Americans onward toward a new century of progressive thinking, the conflict escalating before Alek would not.
Trade and prosperity flourished since the end of the Great War. Could the Centaur supremacists not see that? A new surge of anger raced through him, his hooves slamming the ground hard.
Aleksander swung his narrowed gaze across the clearing, never breaking stride, taking in the whole scene at once. To the right, Dryas struggled to regain his hooves. Blood ran freely from a wound to his upper front leg.
Straight ahead, the musician stalked toward a terrified girl plastered against a tree. What the fuck and who the hell? Deadly axe in hand, the hypnotizing blade rocked from side to side. In the cruelest manner possible, the warhorse taunted the cowering female.
Aleksander pushed to lengthen his stride, galloping full out toward Rhy and the heat of the fight. He lifted his sword when he neared Dryas, who staggered up from the ground on shaky legs. Hard as the steel that forged it, the flat of his blade clocked the sergeant in the head with a satisfying smack, tumbling Dryas into the dirt.
That would put the kid out of commission for a while.
Rhycious heaved to his feet, and lunged to throw himself between the female and the guitarist who played a mean Les Paul. L
ines of determination etched Rhy’s face, his two human legs spread in wide stance. The approaching Centaur’s steel axe head flashed in the sun, glinting fireballs of immaculate evil. Its oak stalk held in both hands only magnified his ominous approach.
Blood covered Rhy’s left shoulder. Though he held the sword with his good hand, he struggled to maintain a defensive posture. He was weak without the use of both arms.
“Gardimar—behind you!”
In the midst of his charging gallop, Aleksander flipped his grip on the sword’s hilt. Counter balancing weight by raising his other arm straight forward, he drew back his arm. In a practiced move perfected by centuries of war and training, he threw the heavy weapon like a javelin.
A warning shout from an advancing rebel brought Gardimar’s body around. There was no time to think about what Alek had to do. Sharp enough to shave the whiskers on a Minotaur, the sword’s tip plunged into the attacker’s chest without error.
The guitarist with the wild red hair, who strummed like a Spanish virtuoso, dropped harder than a granite boulder. His legs folded under his immense body, axe head imbedded in the dirt. Only inches from where Rhy stood sheltering the Nymph, Gardimar bought the farm. And he’s still out of uniform.
A bittersweet victory.
“Rhycious.” Alek strained to catch his breath, hurriedly working his weapon out of the Centaur’s dead body. The crimson tip slid out with a gush of blood that created a stream to the ground, turning the soil dark brown.
Alek tried not to think about the life he’d taken, or the fact that brother Centaurs were fighting each other. Mourning would have to wait.
Alerted by the angry approaching voices, Aleksander spun around, double fisting the sword hilt. Just like old times, he’d have Rhy’s back.
Alek spoke over his shoulder. “How badly are you injured?”
“I took a slice to the shoulder, it needs to be bound,” Rhycious said. “Nothing life threatening.”
“And the female?”
“Uninjured.”
Remedy Maker Page 29