by D. L. Boyles
Also, as she’d followed the young princess and this foolish prince, she discovered that The Hunter was not a title given solely to one man. The one she’d met as a child and more recently, that was all the same man, she was sure, but there had just been three hunters sitting in the tavern. The prince was now dressed as one of them, except that his hood had fallen back away from his head, revealing wavy brown tresses that brushed his shoulders. Part of her had hoped that The Hunter would have noticed her there in the tavern, but none of them had and now she wondered if he was even one of the three she’d spied on. Maybe there were even more?
None of them had noticed her, however, which disappointed her to some degree because there was no way that The Hunter she knew would have missed her presence. Then, the men began moving about the tavern and the town in confusing patterns that turned into random footslogs. Yesterday, when she had been watching, she was worried that she would trail the wrong hooded man—the wrong hunter—but had allowed that strange sensation, that inexplicable tug of her heart, to guide her to the correct one. Now, however, she knew she had found the prince and she was mostly convinced that he was also a hunter.
His eyes were closed and his chin was bobbing low to his chest, craning his neck uncomfortably. She winced then stretched her own neck to the side as though she could feel his crick forming.
Just a little bit further.
The horse stepped easily forward, not giving his rider much thought nor any heed to his surroundings, and that was when she pounced. Jumping from the tree branch where she’d been patiently waiting, she knocked the prince to the ground, catching him by surprise. They landed on the ground with a jarring thud and she scrambled over to where he was sprawled out gasping for air, his hand reaching blindly for the sword at his hip. Before his eyes had a chance to focus on her face, she slipped the damp cloth from her pocket and smothered any protests he may have had at this intrusion.
“Sweet dreams, foolish prince,” she told him, leaning back with a huff. She was straddling him, ready to strike should her calculations on the lavender shade not be enough to fully subdue him. Thankfully, either her estimation for his weight and the dose were correct, or he’d been too close to the edge from drink for whatever she’d given him to do the job. He reeked of alcohol and the sweet smoke of a ghonja pipe. “Yep. Foolish.”
The warmth of his body beneath her caused a sudden vibration of emotion to plummet through her. What was that about? Pressing her hand to his chest, she did her best to ignore the strange sensation that was overwhelming her senses and ensure he still had a heartbeat. It was there, steady against her hand.
Snow stared down at him, studying him closely. “That chin…” It couldn’t be. No, this was too easy, and she knew The Hunter was not such a clod as this. Not her hunter.
“My hunter?” she asked herself aloud. “Quit being a fool, Snow, and get on with it.”
She left him there and pursued his horse. The last thing she needed was for the horse to wander near one of the other hunters without its rider and alert the prince’s comrades of his demise. Not too far away, she spotted the large stallion, nickering softly to her tethered mare. “Foolish prince, foolish horse. One succumbed to alcohol and the other to a pretty lady.” She shook her head in disgust but smiled in amusement at her own cleverness.
The prince’s horse stepped sideways, keeping a wary eye on her. He snorted at her and stamped a hoof in protest. “I see,” she laughed. “You are right, handsome stallion. You both were bested by beautiful women. Thank you for the compliment.”
Rather than try to convince him she was harmless, she went to her mare and stroked her nose and scratched her cheek. Her horse whinnied and she laughed. “You think he’s handsome?” She glanced over at the dappled stallion, noting his black stockings. Were they the same as The Hunter’s horse had sported? It couldn’t be. Each of the three hunters had similar horses, but those markings seemed more pronounced than the others. “Been to Wessix often?” she asked the stallion. He waved his head wildly in response. “There is more I’d like to ask, but I am afraid of what you’d say.” He nickered softly then snorted. “Truly?” Turning to look at the form of the unconscious man, she laughed. “I’m not sure he’d want you to tell me such things.”
She pulled out an apple from her saddle bag and presented it to Buttercup. The stallion stepped towards her then retreated with a disgruntled snort. “I have one for you, too. Would you like it?”
Cautiously, he approached her, his eyes wary and observant. “I will not hurt you. I will not hurt him either.” He tossed his head, nickering and letting out a loud whinny. “If you help me, there is a safe place I’d like to take you.” The stallion looked unsure. “Buttercup will be going,” she told him, luring him closer still. Finally, he blew out an exasperated breath and closed the distance between them, gently taking the apple she held out before returning his attention to Buttercup.
“Okay, Samson,” she told him, “let’s get your master off the ground and get you and Buttercup to that safe place I mentioned, hmm?”
The Hunter Prince was still sleeping soundly. Standing over him, she looked down and admired his looks. There was a softness to his features despite the fact that he was a fierce predator. What little she knew about a hunter was unnerving.
She searched his body, finding not only twin swords but seven daggers of various sizes and styles, one of which was suspiciously similar to one she used to have. Taking that one, she put it into the empty sheath at her wrist, thankful to have it returned to her.
“So. You are The Hunter.” Samson whinnied, tossed his head, and stamped a foot. “I understand,” she told the horse. “Okay, then, let’s get on with it.”
It took some doing, but she managed to get him over his saddle and tied up, just in case. Thankfully, the stallion, Samson, was amenable to giving some assistance. Taking off at a canter, she rushed to where her friends promised to meet her. If she hurried, she might get there first and there was always a bit of heckling that came when she could best them at something.
Not far from the port city, she left The Hunter and the two horses near a trickle of a water hole where they would not be spotted easily by onlookers. She’d have to wait until dark—which meant another dose of lavender shade for The Hunter Prince—before she could risk bringing her cargo out to the ship.
There was nothing at the docks aside from a few small single and double-man fishers bobbing in the water. Just up from the city docks, a large barge was moored to the mining dock. That meant she’d beaten them. A small smile crept across her face as she entered the little town. Amaltin was a tiny fishing town filled with shanties and run-down businesses. It was once a prosperous place, filled to the brim with people and bustling with steamboats and other massive river boats that drifted up and down the river with nothing but a destination for pleasure. Some were venues for great parties hosted by wealthy merchants and others magical vessels drifting down from the northern fae lands, dazzling onlookers with their displays of twinkling lights and exotic music. Parties from the river’s occupants flowed easily from the river to the towns like Amaltin, giving life to fish markets and dance halls and restaurants and taverns. Fancy hotels sprang up, accompanied by restaurants with such decadent food that people began travelling far and wide to sample fares in every location they could reach from the river. Fae and humans mingled pleasantly here and ports along the river, brought together by the union that had also torn them apart.
She sighed, shaking her head and feeling a heaviness settle on her shoulders. Had she been successful thus far, this town would have been well on its way to restoration by now. Instead, its beautiful buildings sat in ruins along a river that saw very little in the way of boats, with the exception of the large vessels that trudged through the waters to retrieve the mined goods from the Candes Mountains. The mountains loomed above the town, an eerie ghost-like ring of clouds obscuring their true heights from view. The clouds, too, were a sign of what Amaltin had become.
She shook her head, saddened by the poor shape of the place. More than once, she had admired it as an anxious girl, standing at the helm with her mother’s men, listening as the captain called out orders and the helmsman steered them onto their private dock. It wasn’t even there any longer, having dilapidated until it sank into the water.
“Let’s go!” The shouting of men from the mining dock caught her attention. Not so much their shouting as the loud crack of a whip and the responding bellows from an ox. It cried out with a mixture of rage and pain, its voice echoing amongst the ruins. Crack. “Get moving, you foul beast!”
Her feet were moving long before her mind, but it quickly caught up as the animal’s throaty protests and heavy breathing called to her. Moving as quietly as she could, she reached the three men who were surrounding the mountain ox and caught the wrist of the man wielding the whip.
“Hey! You’d better move on, woman! We’ve no time for bleeding-hearts who cannot stomach the necessary roughness of mining.”
The three men glowered at her, but she was not frightened in the least. Several dwarfs, who were delivering the aquamarine to the barge, looked on but did not take sides. She recognized at least one.
The man with the whip pulled his wrist away from her and with an easy side-step, moved to launch his assault once more. He quickly found himself shoved backwards, however, and she twisted the whip from his hands. The man’s comrades hurried in her direction. With a snap of her own wrist, she flung the whip in their direction, slashing one man across the chest. The owner of the whip tried to scramble to his feet, but she kicked him back to the ground and whirled to meet the fist of the third. His fist met its mark, sending her back a few steps.
For some reason, men always believed that when they drew blood from a woman, she would yield. It was a foolish mistake on their parts and this man was no different. He stood back, a smug look on his face as he helped his friend to his feet. “That miserable beast deserves his beating, as do you, little woman.” Together, they advanced on her, their third fellow still wailing about the welt on his chest and trying to catch his breath.
“Gentlemen, it is not a fair fight.”
“You should have minded your business then,” the heftier of the two spat.
“Oh, I don’t mean the two of you and me. I meant the three of you against the ox.”
Both men laughed—and lunged. She ducked beneath the beefy man’s swing, popping up just in time to slam her own fist into the second one’s sternum as hard as she could then swung her fist upward into his chin, then angled her arm and brought her elbow around to smash across his nose. The gasping sound and dripping blood from his face was a good indicator that she’d met her marks well. While she had been meeting him head-on, however, the beefy one managed to regain his composure and grab hold of her hair. He yanked her backwards and kicked her feet out from beneath her, sending her crashing onto her tailbone. The thud of the ground radiated up her spine, but she made herself roll away from the oncoming boot.
Another thing she’d learned about men over the years was that if they ever knocked a woman down, they found it fully necessary to stand over her and give her another good kick—or ten. She wasn’t about to allow beefy-boy the opportunity to do so. Popping back onto her feet, she jumped at the man. He was so caught off-guard by her throwing herself onto him that he reached out his arms as though he meant to catch her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, taking advantage of his reaction, and slammed her fists directly into his ears. The man cried out and stumbled, dropping them both onto the ground in a rolling heap of flinging fists, elbows, and jabbing knees. For a moment, he had the advantage, his hefty weight pressed atop her, but she was too quick for him and stronger than he expected, which allowed her to shift her weight and plop him onto his back.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the first man—the one she’d whipped—reach down and grasp the handle of the offending weapon that started this whole thing. Just as quickly, she twisted the small dagger from inside her sleeve down into her hand and pressed it against the thick throat of the man she was currently sitting atop.
“Tell your friend to put the whip down,” she said.
“I hear you,” the man holding it said. The whip fell to the ground at the man’s feet, but she was not satisfied it was far enough away.
“That’s not quite good enough,” she told him, pressing the small dagger more firmly against the other man’s throat. All three men raised their palms in defeat. The two who were still mobile took several steps away from the whip before she stood and jumped out of reach of the third. Reaching into her inner shirt pocket, she pulled out five gold coins. “If you’d have asked nicely, I would have been willing to pay for him up front without any of the…entertainment.”
Two of the men scowled at her but the third was looking up to the sky in an effort to halt his bleeding nose.
“If you carry that kind of wealth on you, maybe we should renegotiate the terms.”
“It’s all I’ve got.” That was only partially true. She had more, just not with her. The rest was in her bag, which was with her horse.
“And you’d spend it on an ox?” The larger of the men eyed her skeptically.
It was the dwarf, Renfrau, who broke the moment of silence. “Snow has always had a penchant for animals,” he guffawed. With a few hurried steps, he stopped in front of her with the mountain ox’s lead in his hand, an amused smile on his scruffy face.
She took the lead rope from him. “Thank you, Ren.”
“You know this woman?” the bleeding man whined.
Renfrau shrugged his shoulders.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she bowed. “It was good doing business with you.” She despised such men. They were no more than slaves themselves, doing the bidding of their fae lords, who likely imprisoned these men’s families. Yet rather than have compassion on the mountain ox, who was pulling a cart overloaded with a burden triple what a creature his size should be able to haul, they were beating him. Another fact she’d learned about men long ago: if they are down-trodden, they will try to bring down everyone around them in order to try and elevate themselves. In this case, they took it out on the creature meant to help them.
Snow led the mountain ox away from the men and to the far side of the town, where it was more open, and she could see clearly should they try to launch an attack in retaliation.
“They put candied iron on you. You should have known better than to let that happen.” Candied iron had a way of sounding harmless, but it was rare iron, mined from the Candes Mountains by slaves and used to shackle those who were too strong to be held with typical iron, or to make weapons meant to kill those who could otherwise not be killed. With some effort and a few burns to her own hands, she managed to remove the iron halter that wrapped around the mountain ox’s neck and girth. He was even weighed down with a heavy iron breast plate and cuffs on each leg – those were used to secure him while on the barge so that he could not shift his weight and displace the balance of its cargo. “I’ll get some salve from Doc, don’t you worry, and we will get those burns healed in no time.” The mountain ox shook its body like a dog fresh from a bath. “It feels good to be free of your bindings, doesn’t it?” Snow smiled and scratched his chin. The ox leaned into it, twisting his neck in ecstasy. “Do not worry, no one will use iron on you ever again.”
Turning away, she began walking to the dock only to discover that the mountain ox was following her. “I will get the salve for you and then you can be on your way. I’ll not force you into coming with me.” Despite her speech, the mountain ox continued to linger close by.
The rarity of boats in Amaltin brought her attention to one headed in her direction. She smiled and waved to the men standing on deck. “Hi-ho!” she called.
“Hi-ho!” they returned.
At least this plan was going well thus far, even with the unexpected tussle with the mine bargers. All of her others had ended in utter failure—two of which were thwarted by The H
unter, potentially the man whom she now knew as Prince Philip. And despite a split lip and sore tailbone, Snow was well on her way to success.
∞∞∞
It was dark when Philip opened his eyes. The complete blackness caused him to panic at first and he tried to sit up but smacked his head into something. A very hard something surrounded him. Oh, cursed things, he was in a box! Someone had stuffed him into a box. He panicked now in all sincerity, slamming his fist into his enclosure. But it did no good, for his wrists were bound together and whatever he was in was well-made and secure…and small.
He took several deep breaths and squeezed his eyes shut. “I won’t die, I won’t die.” It was most likely that he would, however, if he didn’t get his breathing under control. If he was in a box, he’d have very little air to spare for exaggerated breaths.
As he calmed down, he noted first that there was a slight breeze. Angling his head slightly, he found that breathing holes had been drilled behind him. But there was something else—another box perhaps—sitting so close to his that it prevented light from filtering through. With this revelation he was able to calm himself enough to pick up the scents of things around him: water, fish, men, something stale, the wet fur of an animal, and…dirt? The next thing he noted was that he could hear voices. There were men speaking and the sound of…waves? That wasn’t right. But it was. Those were waves. He was rocking. The smell of fish and water, men speaking, waves, and rocking. He was on a ship. By all the cursed luck! But, the smell of dirt? Was that evergreen?
“Hello?” he shouted. There was no harm in alerting them to his presence, so he hollered once more then paused.
“I think your cargo is awake!” he heard a man’s voice call out. Then, footsteps—several pairs of feet—neared his location. A metallic click sounded and then the brightest light shone into his eyes, followed by the overwhelming scent of evergreen. He squinted and blinked wildly, sucking in fresh air as though he had been holding his breath for too long.