Remedy Maker

by Sheri Fredricks

  Alek laughed, his goatee stretching to accommodate the wide smile that won him many female hearts. “You’ve been hanging out with Patience too long. Now you sound like her.”

  Movement in the brush off to their left had them both suddenly crouch, each pulling a weapon. The familiar leather wrapped handle of his heavy Bowie rested in a loose grip. Alek fondled two deadly stars.

  Aleksander held up one finger, and then used it to point at the slow moving, barely discernible cracking bushes and crunching leaves. Next, he pointed to himself, then to a brush-framed recessed area in the hillside farther away.

  Rhy kept his gaze focused in the direction where crackling movement alighted. A frightened grouse took to wing, chirping as it flew away, but their visitor remained anonymous.

  He shot a glance toward Aleksander, who’d made it into position without a sound. As huge as the Kempor stood on four legs, he certainly kept light on his hooves.

  Had it been a deer, the blond summer coat would have peeked through the intermittent brush and scattered rocks. A squirrel or rabbit didn’t have the weight to break twigs. And judging by the fading sounds, the operative moved further away.

  Spies, lookouts, those who were sent to track and report—all of it went through his mental wash cycle, variables tumbling around. If the person out there were friendly, he’d have made himself known.

  Knowing he’d piss Aleksander off, he took a chance.

  Rhycious stood tall and glimpsed the fluttering ends of a beige robe. Aleksander’s curse rang out and the Centaur jumped over his cover of brush. Hooves shaking the ground on impact, Alek glared at him when he raced past to overtake whoever tailed them.

  Rhy hurried to catch up, dodging obstacles in his path, trying not to jostle the precious cargo in his remedy bag. Just short of a clearing, he came abreast of Alek, who stood repacking the shurikens in his vest and watching the hillside before them.

  On the other side of the clear-cut, a short statured creature with highly polished horns scampered with lightening speed through the underbrush. Goat-like climbing skills propelled the male up the steep embankment, clamoring over rocks and jumping sheer outcroppings. The short robe may have hidden his upper body, but the stiff, uplifted tail and those gleaming dual horns belonged to one person only.

  Albion Yerdank, Protectorate of Domains.

  Aleksander squinted when the slight figure topped the steep rise and scurried out of sight. “What in the hell do you suppose he’s up to?”

  “Hell if I know. You don’t think the little shit returned to the scene of a crime, do you?” Rhy sheathed his knife and cast a glance around, judging the simplest path back to the trailhead. Scrub oak and Manzanita twisted leg-breaking branches everywhere.

  Aleksander turned his long equine body on the narrow patch of clear ground, his butt nearly knocking Rhy into a thorn bush. He gave an apologetic smile. “If that’s the case, Albion has something to do with what happened at the cave. It’d also explain why I found his pin of office laying in the dirt.” He scrubbed at the lines of tension between his brows. “Slavery? Murder?”

  “I hardly know the man. What little I’ve seen, I can’t stand.” Rhycious turned down a switchback, routing them back on the trail to the auditorium.

  “He’s power hungry, and I wouldn’t put anything past him. Savella appointed him to the position hoping to gain the trust and backing of the Satyr tribes. It’s worked to a degree.”

  “If Albion’s guilty . . . .” Rhy paused in thought, the meaning obvious. “Then Nubbs is in the clear.” His boot slid in the loose top soil on a short decline.

  Alek put out a steadying hand. “I can’t say I’d put it past Nubbs to—”

  Crumbles of fist-sized rocks tumbled down the hill, raining on them with stinging force. In unison, they slammed themselves flat against the embankment. Debris continued to fall, striking them about the head and shoulders. Aleksander in his true form took more hits on his wide back than Rhy. Their armor deflected the worst of it, but every pelt gouged with torturous pain.

  Keeping his voice low, Rhy asked, “You see anyone up there?”

  “No. Not enough time.” Alek attempted to gain an upward visual, ducking back before falling debris smashed his face. Using his arm for head protection, he nodded toward the trail ahead of them. “It widens up ahead. It may just be Albion.” He shook some of the loose dirt out of his eyes. “Let me go first, then wait for my signal.”

  Rhy gave him the thumbs up. More loose rock trickled down and he wondered if it were a natural occurrence or if someone was up there, walking the edge, watching for them. Damn it.

  Aleksander blew a hard breath, then leaped out from the safety of the hillside. His tail streamed out as he galloped fast to the fore. An arrow whizzed overhead, aimed for his back. Rhy sucked air and held it, tracing the flight pattern, and breathed easier when it failed to pierce its mark.

  Who the fuck was up there?

  Equally spaced pops rang out. Bullets crisscrossed overhead, cutting through vegetation, ricocheting off nearby rocks. The repercussions were absorbed by foliage and steep terrain. Within seconds, the peaceful atmosphere of the Boronda Forest changed. Wildlife within earshot ran or flew for their lives. Everything else became immobile, fear a common denominator.

  Bits of dirt and puffs of dust ripped the ground in a succession of mini explosions alongside Aleksander’s galloping hooves. Thank the gods the shooter had terrible aim.

  Weapon fire ceased when Alek dashed under a canopy of trees. Low dipping boughs provided a thick screen from whoever was shooting above on the ridge.

  Rhycious kept his eyes trained on Aleksander, who held up two fingers and pointed above them. Next, he held one finger up, and directed two fingers down. He fluttered them back and forth.

  Two hostiles above. One coming down.

  The thing about being a mythological creature in the throes of an aggressive take-over, Rhy mused, is one never knows who their enemies are.

  Both shoulder straps of his backpack were damp when he slipped them off and dropped it soundlessly to the ground. The seedling packed carefully inside must be kept safe at all costs. But if something should happen to him, who would know to deliver the tree to Dendron?

  Another avalanche of rocks tumbled down in prelude to a Centaur’s appearance, his bow drawn and at the ready. Rhy pressed further into the hill and peered through the dry twigs of a dead bush, barely breathing, not moving.

  The reddish hide and regency guard uniform gave away the newcomer’s identity. Sergeant Dryas moved like the mole he was, glancing back once, then stalked steadily toward Aleksander. In his arms, he held the latest in technology, one of the new crossbows with a sleek modern design. Detachable scope. Pinpoint accuracy.

  Nice toy.

  Definitely not the weapon of choice in close-range combat.

  However, the way the sun glinted off the flesh tearing, three-blade titanium arrow tip, the circumstances wouldn’t make the crossbow any less deadly. Set to release at a feather’s touch, spring action pulled back and loaded, he wouldn’t argue with its owner.

  If Dryas had Aleksander in the bad end of the crosshairs, Rhycious didn’t know. But knives, throwing stars, and a sword were all the weapons they had to defend themselves with.

  Gods. Nothing like bringing a knife to a crossbow fight.

  Sweat trickled an itchy path down the back of Rhy’s neck. He worked to control his breathing, to get a handle on the surge of adrenaline pumping through his body with the power of a steam geyser.

  Frustration tore through him. While he sat cooling his heels, thinking about what weapons they didn’t have, a military trained Centaur in true form birddogged closer to his prey.

  Now would be a good time for a PTSD attack.

  Dryas moved the crossbow in a sweeping motion, keeping the point forward and level. He was now less than four Centaur lengths away from Aleksander. Rhycious couldn’t see whether Alek had moved from his position, and he wasn’t willing to wai
t and find out.

  Rhy took a deep breath. He stuck his head out to glimpse down the trail the way they’d come, saw the coast was clear, then focused on Dryas and took off—arms pumping, legs pounding.

  By the time Dryas sensed his presence, it was too late. Before the soldier could react defensively, Rhycious leaped up on his sorrel back and twisted his arms around the other man’s shoulders, placing him in a full Nelson.

  He wrapped his legs around Dryas’s thick torso as the traitor struggled with the heavy load on his back. A compression packed arrow shot out with a quiet release and flew harmlessly into trees limbs on the ridge above.

  “Motherfucker. I’ll kill you,” Dryas yelled. “I’ll gut you with pleasure.”

  The Sergeant flailed his arms uselessly, making it easy for Rhycious to knock the crossbow out of Dryas’s grip with a kick of his foot. He grunted with satisfaction at the sound of the composite stock crunching under the Centaur’s weighty hooves.

  Dryas threw himself to the left, and Rhy was unprepared for the impact of sharp granite jutting from the hillside. Rocks scraped skin off his shoulder, shooting ripples of pain across his torso, and ripping his favorite Raiders t-shirt.

  No way in hell would he let go now.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rhy glimpsed Aleksander’s black and brown hide dart from under the tree cover. Sword drawn, he rushed to help bring the Centaur insurgent down.

  Loud pops of gunfire reverberated from nearby, interspersed with Rhy’s grunts and Dryas’s shouts. Twangs of ricocheting bullets hung in the air, a musical note of deadly consequence.

  “I swear I won’t miss next time.” Sweat glistened on the balding head of the human climbing down the steep embankment. The rifle’s butt held firm against his shoulder, head bent with his aim.

  Fat waddled under Tom’s chin, reminding Rhycious of a quaking aspen. The human took short, uneven steps as he approached the melee, dirt clods and loose stones tumbling behind him. His furtive glances darted between Rhy and Dryas. The rifle leveled in a shaky grip, aimed at the center of Aleksander’s back.

  Rhycious eyed the hunter, anger building every second that ticked slowly by. “I should have hunted you down and killed you.” He tightened his hold on Dryas’s neck. “I’d hoped you’d grown smarter since then.”

  “That little girl was sweet, all right,” Tom snorted, and his voice cracked. “Worth havin’ those morons killed over. I just regret not stickin’ it to her when I had the chance.” He motioned with his rifle. “Get off him.”

  Rhycious loosened his hold on Dryas. At this close range, Tom would have to be an idiot to miss. He shifted his hips off center to slip to the ground. Dryas took advantage of his off balance state and heaved to the side, pounding him against the rocks. Rhy’s head cracked against a solid wall of dirt covered granite and pain exploded behind his eyes.

  “I should just break your legs and let the crows have you,” Dryas snarled.

  Instead of fighting gravity, Rhycious followed the pull of it and slid off the guard’s wide back to a heap on the ground. Sharp hooves with fifteen hundred pounds of vertical pressure stomped the ground near his head in a macabre dance of death. Each violent trample scarcely missed as he rolled free to his feet.

  Rhy came up with his Bowie drawn. “Be thankful you didn’t get that far, human. I’d have made you choke on yourself if you had.” he said with a bite, staring at the disgusting male. “I’ve never wanted to kill someone as badly as I want to kill you.”

  Disembowel and decapitate. He gripped the knife’s handle and visualized the slice and dice.

  In the forest surrounding them, the woods picked up a light breeze and set the leaves to toss. Rhy blinked several times. The knock to his head hadn’t been hard enough to cause him hallucinations. A visible shudder travelled through the trees in a whisper of movement, as if an invisible hand had run its fingers across them like the strings of a harp.

  Movement flurried from one tree trunk to another, Nymph warriors moving in. One fighter stood in Rhycious’s line of vision, slowly shaking his head. A small spot of blue light, a burst no louder than a bubblegum pop, and he was gone.

  The Nymphs were in position, retaining both human and tree forms, but would offer no assistance. Rhy understood. They were ready to help, and eager, but there was no way to do so. Not without breaking the fragile nature of the Cessation of Enmity, signed by Queen Savella and the Wood Nymph king.

  Fucking politics.

  Aleksander flicked a glance above him, abruptly aware of reaching branches that stopped short of grasping their enemy in claw-like boughs. Understanding set his mouth in a hard, straight line.

  Pointing at Tom with the tip of his sword, Alek growled, “Sergeant, you had a stellar career and you threw it away for this piece of shit. Are you kidding me?”

  Dryas said nothing, only returned the glare to the man he had served with in the Royal Centaur Forces.

  Aleksander took a step back, adjusting his position to suit. “As your Commanding Officer, I am responsible for your actions. I’m also in charge of your disciplinary punishment. Lay down your weapons, remove that of your human’s, and surrender with an absence of hostility.”

  Tom laughed, revealing his blackened teeth and gums in an open-mouthed guffaw. “Nice speech, Mr. Ed. But I ain’t lettin’ go of ol’ Betsy here.” He gathered his hunting rifle closer. One hand wrapped the wooden forestock, the other rested near the trigger.

  “Alek, watch out!”

  Five points, silver and shiny, flew toward Aleksander—all razor sharp. Dryas unleashed them in a blur of motion. One shuriken hit Alek’s body armor, embedding itself a hair’s breadth from his throat.

  Rhycious had a knife—a fucking knife. The human had a rifle.

  Dryas reached in the slot of his vest for another stainless steel shuriken. Before he released the deadly star, Alek gathered the power in his hind quarters and leaped forward in a rush. Their equine bodies crashed together in a thud of heavy muscle and whipping tails.

  Tom raised the rifle to his cheek, getting a bead on the Centaur with a dark goatee who gained the upper hand in a fight to the death.

  When you bring a knife to a gunfight . . .

  Rhycious didn’t think twice. Dryas threw Alek down to grapple in the dirt, and Rhy let his blade fly the friendly skies.

  All the training he'd cursed, the hours of practice he'd hated, and he had never been more grateful to his academy drill instructors than he had this past week. First year cadets were drilled mercilessly in the art of knife throwing.

  His aim sailed true. Knowledge of the body’s physiology worked to his advantage. The Bowie hit and sunk to the hilt. Carotid artery severed.

  Tom dropped his rifle. It clattered useless on the broken rocks, bouncing just out of reach. Clutching both hands to his neck, his reddened eyes widened in shock, and his mouth opened in a soundless scream. The human staggered weakly, his back hitting the base of a large tree. And then his legs crumpled. He fell forward, knees striking the ground.

  The second Tom’s face hit terra firma, root burst forth from out of the soil, spraying dirt and dust into the air. Unbreakable bands coiled themselves around the man, steadily pulling him and his rifle underground. Tom clawed at the dirt, his mouth moving but unable to make a sound, not with the knife cutting off his voice.

  In the end, the human hunter’s eyes were fixed and staring as the Wood Nymph soldiers carried him beneath the Earth’s crust.

  Rhycious watched the last of Tom disappear. Nymphs settled themselves into the root systems and arranged the soil as if nothing had been disturbed. Satisfaction on Patience’s behalf flooded him. Justice served.

  A loud curse and the pounding of flesh brought Rhy’s head around. Aleksander clearly dominated, his short knife held to Dryas’s throat. The Sergeant gripped Alek’s thick wrist in both hands, his knuckles turning white as he held the blade off his neck.

  Aleksander hardly needed his help, but Rhycious figured he’d better
drag his ass over there and see what he could do. The grunting pair lay in the dirt, kicking their hairy legs and cussing each other out.

  Dryas breathed hard, his sides heaving. “Savella will never win. You’ll never stop the Protectorates.” Sweat ran down his face and arms, and he stilled his thrashing body.

  Ice-cold alarm replaced every ounce of anger in Rhy’s veins. His inner voice divined the future, even before the sergeant continued through his clenched teeth.

  “There’s more of us out there,” Dryas spat. “Multi-national rebels only too anxious to step into my place.”

  Multi-national? Rhycious moved around the prone bodies to face the downed sergeant. “What you say makes no sense. Why would the other mythics want any part of your uprising? What’s in it for them?”

  Great mythical gods . . . who the hell were they fighting?

  “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.” Dark promise encompassed the smile crossing Dryas’s face. His words ground out bitter. “It’s too late to try and stop us. Infiltration into Savella’s leadership ranks is nearly complete. The outcome is inevitable. If I die today, I die a martyr for my people. Death to Savella.”

  Aleksander’s face became a blank mask, his voice lost all expression. “We are your people, asshole. When you die—” Aleksander leaned back, applying more pressure to his knife. “You die a traitor.”

  Kempor Aleksander, Head Centaur Palace Guard, charged with security of the Boronda Forest, did his duty. Without malice or personal inflection, he stabbed the razor edge of his Daggart 2, ComboEdge SOG military blade deep into Sergeant Dryas’s exposed throat and drew it cleanly through.

  Dryas sputtered, his eyes widening. Frothy red foam dripped from his mouth. As his blood pressure lowered and lack of oxygenated fluid flowed to his brain, the betrayer slid unconscious to the ground.

  Rhycious stared at Dryas’s dead body and blinked hard. He'd gone to bed drunk, woken up to a hangover and banging good sex, and watched another Centaur die. Alek’s logic was unassailable, and the Kempor hadn’t hesitated to slit a throat. But when Rhycious sat witness in the jury box to Dryas’s execution, it opened up a door he hadn’t known existed in the hallway of his mind. Regrettable satisfaction.