~ by ArgoForg ~
Discussion, Ambush, and First Blood. ~ The darkness was alive, beyond the dim circle of light cast by the campfire. The spell of daylight the woman named Mera had cast eventually had snuffed itself, leaving their surroundings dark once again. Calendra had not complained; the darkness had clouded her eyes, but she could still see through it with her mind’s eye. She could see all that needed to be seen out there, in other words. Out there somewhere was her tribe, her village. Out there was the human who had left her home trapped in solid stone. Those things were all that truly mattered to her. “You don’t trust us.” The statement was made with such quiet confidence that Calendra was hard-pressed not to agree right off. She looked from the blackness of night to the face of Mera, who returned a smile that most probably took as well-meaning. She had politely asked and then seated herself near the Col’quet woman, and had stayed nearby, sometimes trying to draw her into conversation. Of the humans, she had thus far been the most outspoken and openly cordial to Calendra. But she was still a human, in the end. That alone kept Calendra’s tone quiet and edged. “No more than you trust me.” She glanced pointedly at the two women sitting watch. The humans had come full circle during the night, everyone except the girl Jessamine taking turns staying up for short periods, and now, as night hovered on the edge of the first dawn of light, the same guards— for that was what they were, Calendra knew— that had started the night were awake again. Mera glanced at the other woman, Rochelle, seated across the fire. The lady-warrior with the thin blade and the short dark hair didn’t even spare them more than a glance. She just kept honing her blade with a dark stone in long, even strokes. Wssssk. Wssssk. Mera watched four such strokes and then shrugged slightly, her light-colored robes raising at the shoulders. “Can you honestly blame us?” She asked. “If we were in your place, wouldn’t you do the same?” “I can say that, as well.” Calendra said, keeping her annoyance carefully in check. “How would you like to be paraded around stiffly, talked about as though you are not there, stared at? We do not trust each other; we have no reason to. I have accepted your hospitality, in honor. That is enough. I can accept that. Can you?” Mera lapsed into silence for a long moment. As she did, Calendra glanced away. It was the most words she had uttered at any one time this night. She did not feel like talking. She felt like brooding. She felt like hating: both them and herself. She should have been stronger, like the Ash’ani. She should have had the courage to remain in the village and face her death proudly, not run away— only to wander here, to the lands of the humans, where she was even more of an outsider than she was in her village. There, at least, she had the advantageof belonging to the same culture. By chance her eyes found the bedroll of the man that had stared at her so hard. And yet again he was facing her; lying on his side, pillowing his head with his arm. In his dreams he was probably still gawking at her, biting down a surge of annoyance. Tyler’s eyes were closed peacefully in sleep now, an innocent look for one who smelled of steel and blood. How innocent they can look in rest, she thought, for being the people who destroyed mine… locked them in stone. They are the chessel-sha’han, the chameleon-lizard, the wild dog that changes its spots— which makes them all the more dangerous. She gazed at him for a short time, her mood souring further, and let her eyes drift back to the firelight. There was a distasteful smell to it; she could not place it—perhaps they were burning some sort of unsavory wood or animal droppings. Calendra wrinkled her nose. No, it was not coming from the fire, was it? It did not smell burned— “I’ve heard a story about your people,” Mera said quietly, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. The human was not looking at her, but rather, gazing across the fire into the darkness, as if she could see some sort of vision through the smoke. “What story?” Calendra said, bristling. Her voice was like barbed arrows: quick, curt, and biting. Yet she could not help it— she could imagine what sort of stories humans would make up about her people. “One that says we eat our young? Or one that says we gird ourselves in the skins of the humans we kill?” Mera glanced at her; the human’s deep blue eyes glittered, as though she wasn’t the slightest bit wounded by the accusing tone— indeed, she even looked somewhat bemused by it. “No. One that says that the Aeris are so beautiful that a man may become enraptured by them at first sight and fall in love instantly.” Calendra felt her cheeksburn with humiliation, and she immediately found somewhere else to focus her eyes. “I have not heard that story.” She muttered. “Well, I’m not surprised.” Mera smiled impishly at her. “You’re likely busy prancing around in the skins of slain humans.” “The Col’quetido not prance.” Calendra bristled, although she heard the gentle sound of humor in the blonde woman’s voice. “And if the humans do become enraptured, then it their own foolish judgment.” What was she trying to say? That the human man, Tyler— who apparently could not stop looking at her— was captivated by her? Enraptured by her? The very idea was daft, outlandish, laughable. And even if it were true, he was a human. He was the very same sort of man that silenced the songs of her oath-sister and turned her village into a dead clearing of rock and stone! She turned from the blonde woman, letting silence overtake her. What idiocy, even giving thought to a myth that the very view of a person could make them lose all sense. Explaining away Tyler’s staring with such an outlandish story. She looked at the man again. Brown eyes and hair aside, he was no Col’queti. Nor would he ever be; his jaw was far too blocky, his cheekbones too low in his face, his limbs far too thick. He was a human, in short; every bit as human as the twisted dark-man she saw every night in her dreams. Her nose wrinkled again, and she grimaced. And what was that horrid smell? It was like iron and blood and dung, rolled into one despicable scent. Did humans always smell like this around their campfires? Sickened, she tried to pin down its source. It didn’t come from the two women; it came from behind her. It was apparently not Tyler, then— one point, perhaps, in his favor. Calendra made a face. Perhaps the female magus or the large hairy man, she thought, shaking her head. And then that very thought made her stop suddenly. The female magus lay off to Tyler’s side, in front of her. The large man was further off, but also in front of her. And next to him was the tow-haired woman that had made comments about her. And that left no one at all. She whirled around, picking up her bow and quiver. The sudden movement startled Mera, but apparently not the dark-haired warrior-woman, Rochelle. She calmly stood and lifted her newly-sharpened sword. “What are you doing?” She asked coldly. “I smell— ” Calendra started, and then saw the dark-haired woman’s eyes raise andgaze beyond her, above her, picking out something beyond the circle of light cast by the campfire. Calendra turned, clutching her bow and fitting an arrow to the string. Dark shapes had gathered, darker even than the night at first glance. As her eyes slowly adjusted, more details about them became apparent, however. They were tall— very tall, they each towered over her by three heads or more— and thick-bodied, although they were humanoid shaped. Blunt, misshapen yellow teeth seemed to reflect the firelight, several sets of them, along with several sets of eyes that were almost as bone-colored. Rochelle was the first one to pick them out of the darkness. Calendra could hear her yelling, rousing the others with cries of “Ambush!” But Calendra could not pry her eyes from the shadowy things, which began to close the distance so that the firelight made their details more apparent. As they stepped forward— how had they gotten so close without notice, she wondered; they were on a flat plain with hardly a tree to hide behind!— she could make out a count, finally. Easily two dozen mottled olive and grey-skinned humanoids, each wearing rotted furs that their long tangled hair mingledwith, and leather loincloths that did nothing to conceal their tree-trunk thick legs. Each creature’s arms were covered with coarse-looking hair, and so thick with muscles that it was doubtful even the stout human named Steingard could wield the heavy stone-headed cudgel the leading creature easily carried in one hand. That leader himself was an even more fearsome sight. A jagged line of scar tissue ran from his cheek, through his right eye, all the way up into his greasy hairline. The eye had apparently had been burned in the socket rather than leaving the milky white of a dead orb, and blackened flesh had closed over the empty hollow. The other was yellow, like his fellows, although the iris was orange and reminded Calendra of a forest fire. His protruding chin allowed his sharpened yellow canines to jut from above his lower lip without even curling it back. Below his chin was another long straggle of dark, greasy hair, knotted three times with thin strips of leather. He advanced into the firelight, unafraid, and at the notice of the Aeris-woman, he sent a rush of low, guttural language to his cohorts, pointing. The voice was like the sound of boiling mud; Calendra could not understand the words or the meaning behind them. But the others seemed to understand and a few grinned yellowed smiles in a manner that made Calendra’s blood run cold. They followed him, almost as one, holding cudgels, handmade axes, clubs, and one or two with bulging sacks, possibly filled with rocks. “What are they?” The Aeris-woman asked, feeling her voice waver slightly. She nocked an arrow, drew back the bowstring and felt her arm tremble as she took a step backward. She cursed herself savagely, but did not listen to herself enough to hold her ground. “Ogrecs,” Mera said in a composed voice. Her book had been thrust aside; now a long-handled maul was snug in her hand. But like Calendra, she had backed up a step. “I’ve never seen one, but I’ve read of them. They don’t venture this far south, do they?” “You’re asking me?” Calendra asked, incredulity thick in her words. “I’ve never even heard of them!” “No. She’s asking me. And they don’t, usually.” Rochelle supplied, and then, along with a growl of “Steingard!” there was the soft thud of her boot into the big man’s side and the muttered grumble of the large warrior rousing. “Ambush, you big lummox! For the love of the gods, get up! Mera, how did they get past the circle of wards?” “I don’t know!” Mera said, her brow furrowing as she set herself in a defensive posture. “They should not have. The Goddess protects us— ” “Twaddle.” Rochelle interrupted curtly. “Perhaps the wards faded when the Aeris passed them. Perhaps they have a charm to make them immune to spells of detection. We’ll hash it out later.” Calendra chanced a glance behind them, to see that the others had not been so hard to awaken. Tyler was already up and alert, the firelight glinting off his naked sword and making his wide eyes seem even wider. The woman in the robes, Jessamine, was already studying the ogrecs with a cool detachedness that made Calendra wonder if there was the hint of Ash’ani to her. The tow-haired slender woman, Nina, was rubbing the sleep from her eyes, behind Tyler. Rochelle’s blade and dagger were poised already; her tunic billowed about her arms. “The how is unimportant,” she continued, in that hard human tone. “We’ll make them sorry they chanced upon us, however they did.” “The magical light,” Mera murmured, next to Calendra. “They must have seen it, and they were drawn to it or something.” “If they like magic, I’ll give it to them.” It was Jessamine’s voice Calendra heard, gaining strength, rising like a river in flood season. “Ignus maledictum nessar-et! ” One of the advancing horde grinned and licked its massive chops at the young spellcaster, and gripped its club a bit tighter. And then, a scant twelve feet in front of it, a spark of bright flame ripped into existence and streaked through its head, flash-burning it to ash in an instant. The creature stumbled forward, its body not realizing its life was over until it collapsed to the ground and the blackened mass of its skull shattered into chunks of cinder. That single blow cowed a pair of ogrecs to either side of the corpse. They looked down at the sudden corpse, their eyes growing wide. The leader snarled, however, and the two glanced to him as he gestured forward, unafraid, and they drew heart from his words, beginning to yell as one as they rushed forward. That yell was matched by the others, growing into a war-cry that bit through to Calendra’s soul as their first wave surged into the camp. And with that first blood, with that first war-cry, the battle was joined in earnest. He tried to remember what he’d been told of ogrecs by Steingard. Cousins to the ogres, he’d said, they were perhaps a hair or two more intelligent on the average, yet slightly smaller of build and far slower to react. But the stories Steingard told made them sound little tougher than goblynkin, and thesecreatures were mammoth horrors, easily strong enough to tear him limb from limb. The one that was rushing toward him was a horror. Its grey-green face was twisted into a malicious grin— a yellow smile where the teeth had not yet rotted black— and the nostrils of its wide, flat nose were flared. Below red-on-yellow eyes were the dun brown stains of dried blood, trailing down its cheeks in designs that could have only been painted by thick fingers. The ogrec screamed a shrill war-cry as it raised its meaty hands and swung its stone-headed axe at him. All that ran through Tyler’s mind in an instant. In the next, he raised his sword hastily as an ogrec axe threatened— quite literally— to be the next thing going through his mind. He clenched his teeth as his blade nicked the hardwood handle and knocked it aside; he felt the sting of the impact all the way up his arm. But as the axe-handle bounced free of the sword, Tyler saw the truth of Steingard’s words. The creature had attacked clumsily, over-extending its reach in its lust for blood. Tyler made a cry of his own, more like a roar than he thought possible, as he brought the pommel of his sword into the ogrec’s gut. The ogrec doubled further, giving Tyler time to reverse his sword, slashing through the thick fur hides covering the creature’s chest. In the firelight, the dark furs darkened further, staining with blood. Tyler nearly gagged at the stench, and backed up a half step. The ogrec also backed up a step, one thick hand clutching at the wound while the other held the haft of its axe. It didn’t fall. But as it backed up and opened it’s mouth to howl, its smile was gone. And then a shaft of incandescent light buried itself in its open mouth and exploded, and so was its face. Shards of bone and thick dollops of dark blood cascaded over Tyler as the suddenly headless ogrec toppled backward, a fountain spurting from the stump of its neck. Tyler glanced around quickly, his stomachlurching at the sight and smell and feel of blood on him. Jessamine’s fingers were still contorted in the same manner he’d often seen when she cast. “Don’t gawk, Tyler,” she exclaimed, although her face already looking weary and slightly pallid in the firelight. She’d told him once that casting spells in quick succession took a lot out of a magus, and it was starting to show. “There’s a lot more where he came from!” He could see, out of the corner of his eye, Mera’s flail strike home; dark blood sprayed from the creature’s mouth as its head whipped around from the blow of the young priestess. Beside her, Calendra loosed another arrow, the shaft burying itself almost to the fletchings of an advancing ogrec’s thigh. Far off to Tyler’s side, Rochelle’s blade punched through another ogrec’s stomach. Next to her Steingard’s ancient blade flashed and another ogrec fell, headless. The Circle— plus one— was holding its own, only giving up ground slowly. But the ogrecs weren’t all attacking at once, either, so far as Tyler could tell. A few were holding back, however, around the edge of camp, with the single-eyed brute that seemed to be their leader. Tyler couldn’t understand why— surely the ogrecs could overwhelm them with sheer force of numbers alone, couldn’t they? Another creature with arms like cordwood and a club half again as thick charged at him, yanking his mind from further speculation No time to think on that now! Tyler launched himself at the creature, his slash missing by nearly a foot, and then ducked under the ogrec’s wild swing. It was a near thing, though; he felt the air whistle through his loose hair— he’d not even had time to bind it— and smelled the creature’s stench. Fortunately, Tyler— clumsy though he may have been compared to the practiced warriors in the Circle— was still far quicker than the ogrec. He wheeled and slashed again before the ogrec could reverse its stroke. The blade bit deep, cutting a jagged score in the creature’s stomach. The creature’s pinprick eyes widened, stunned, and it released the club to clutch at the wound. Tyler could see an oily mess of blood wet beneath the creature’s hands. It staggered a step back, and Tyler pressed, reversing the sword and ramming the pommel of his sword into its throat. The creature fell in a heap, coughing and groaning as it held its insides in. Tyler wheeled to find no more opponents bearing down on him. The leader and a cluster of six ogrecs had shuffled back a step, just to the edge of the circle of light cast by the fire. Why are they holding back? What are they waiting for? He glanced around. Nina had sprung from the shadows, her long dagger piercing through the back of an ogrec that had tried to get behind Steingard’s guard. Rochelle was holding her own, her weaving blade keeping the brutes at bay, even though her parrying dagger was next to useless against such large weapons— already two had fallen to her expert thrusts and cuts. Behind him, Jessamine was already calling another spell to mind. Before him, Mera was falling back, a prayer to the Goddess mending a nasty cut in her arm as another ogrec lay twitching on the ground near her, its head lolling against its shoulder. And Calendra— His eyes widened. The Aeris-woman was on the ground, trying to draw her bowstring back. Above her stood an ogrec whose hideous face was twisted with glee as murder shone in its eyes. Its club was raised, and it was howling in triumph, ready to smash her head like an eggshell. Yet this was not totally unexpected. This land was stranger than the comforting home the clan knew. They had already taken losses; at one chance meeting with three humans they had lost three of the clan— one of which because Moss-Head foolishly tried to pick up their gift and put it back in the sack. The fact that they were taking more losses here was itself not surprising: these humans had the smell of steel to them, steel and magic. But he was not so stupidas to try to disagree with the orders he’d been given. Fat Hand had, after all; and now Fat Hand was no more. His clan had disappeared, too. No one knew to where. The clan elder-female said they’d been burned alive in a fire that came from the sky. He didn’t believe that, but he wasn’t stupid enough to court fate. He turned to the clan-brothers that he’d held back, each holding their thick sacks. And he looked at the battle. The humans and the elf-thing— it was an elf-thing, he could smell her, and the smell made his mouth water like nothing he’d ever eaten— were paying attention to their attackers. He made a soft, grumbling sound, telling the other clan-brothers what to do. And as they emptied their sacks, as they’d been told to, they all began to back up and be swallowed by the darkness of the night. And just below the sound of the blooded screams and clash of steel came the soft scritch of small feet scratching at the thick spring grass. They were not too strong or too hardy; her arrows felled two of them in the same vital spots they would have felled a man. They were not too many; for reasons Calendra could not fathom, they were entering the camp in small groups, rather than overrunning them with their full force. But even in those small groups, they were closing the distance with each wave, and Calendra was in the exact wrong place for a person with a bow to be, in the front. She’d remedied that somewhat, but only by catching her foot on one of the hulking bodies of the ogrecs that had fallen. That had sent her twomore stumbling steps backward, and she spilled to the ground, losing both her aim and her grip on the arrow. The bowstring made the sick twang of a dry fire, skidding painfully over the skin of her bow arm. She winced and tried to nock the arrow again, futilely. The ogrec that had advancing on her leered and raised its club, howling in triumph. Its roar was frightening, its stench was terrible, the bloodlust in its eyes was clear, and caused her to fumble the usually sure-fingered grip on the fletchings. She saw everything, felt everything with painful clarity. The dewy grass reflecting the firelight. The individual clumps of hair on the creature’s fur hides. The red-orange iris flaring brightly from within a field of yellow in the beast’s eyes. The clash of steel on stone, the cries of the wounded ogrecs, the low, hoarse bellow of one of the human’s battle cries. Everythingwas so clear that she knew death was upon her. A thought came to Calendra then, a thought so strident that for a moment, she was sure it was going to be her last before entering the life beyond life. And worse still, the thought was nothing profound or even plaintive: An Ash’ani would nevertrip during battle, simple child. And then, there was a blur of motion above her, and a simple steel sword slashed through the hide armor, through the creature’s side, and blood welled thick in the dark furs. It wasn’t a killing blow, however; just enough to cause the ogrec to hold its killing blow on the elfwoman in indecision. A reprieve of a couple moments, at most. That was all the time Calendra needed. The bowstring sang when she released this time, the satisfying bass thrum and whine of it launching a shaft. She had barely aimed; there was no need. Blood fell onto her in thick clumps, dripping from the fletchings of her arrow, which had embedded into the softer skin beneath the ogrec’s jaw, settling itself more thanhalfway through its head. And then, knowing who it was that caused the momentary indecision that saved her life, she forced herself to say the words that felt like ashes tumbling from her tongue. “Thank you, Tyler.” Calendra said, quietly. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said, pulling her to her feet. And for once, his eyes weren’t latched onto hers. He was looking at his fellow humans, beating back the creatures. She looked as well: Steingard beat back an ogrec who was attempting to close on Rochelle; a quick underhand stab of Nina’s dagger left the ogrec who’d attacked Mera open to a vicious swing from the priestess herself. And then she followed his gaze again. He was now looking at the line of ogrecs just beyond the light of the campfire. “We’re not out of the woods yet.” “These are plains.” Calendra remarked as she stood and plucked another arrow from her quiver, shaking off the fact that he had actually touched her. “We were never in the woods.” “They’re backing off!” She heard a voice trumpet, and recognized it as Rochelle’s. She punctuated her joy with a fierce punch of her slender sword into the gut of one of her foes, her glistening, hard face became alight with joy as she avoided the next swing with a neat sidestep. “They’reretreating!” Calendra looked to the leader of the ogrecs and saw that it was true. At least, those ogrecs that had been left in reserve were starting to retreat into the night, leaving their comrades to continue the fight. The leader at last melted into the blackness, his yellow-toothed smile the last thing Calendra saw. Jessamine stepped toward the two, a couple steps, watching the suddenly retreating ogrecs, and then shifted her eyes to Calendra and Tyler furtively, as though she expected the ogrecs to suddenly change their tactics and rush them all over again. “Are you two all right?” “Fine,” Tyler said, breathing heavily. He, too, kept his weapon ready. “That attack made no sense. Maybe not the attack itself, but the way they were attacking. Even goblyn-kin usually try to smother their opponents with numbers.” Jessamine nodded, brushed a few strands of brown hair from her face. Her hazel eyes were downturned, thoughtful. “I know. And that makes me worry all the— ” “Oh, no!” Nina’s voice interrupted them, as her barely-concealed laughter rang out over the clash of steel from the two warriors. “The ogrecs are running and leaving their killer chickens to deal with us! Whatever will we do?” Calendra looked at the thief, then at the movement in the grass, her eyebrows raising incredulously. It appeared she was right— six fowls were scratching in the grass, eyeing the humans and remaining ogrecs alike. Each had a bright red comb, a stark contrast to the dun brown and green of theirfeathers. She was about to ask if the creatures had lost their mind when she heard Jessamine’s sharp intake of breath. “Chickens!” She said, her hazel eyes growing wide. “Those aren’t— Goddess, Nina! Don’t let them touch you!” “What do you mean?” The thief asked, backing up a step at the sudden alarm in the magus’ voice. Calendra glanced at her as well, confused. But the brown-haired girl was already chanting something, sweat starting to bead on her brow. “Fulminis aethir auscul tae! ” She intoned, stepping forward, stabbing out her finger at the nearest creature scuttling in the grass. The air seemed to get very thick around Calendra; she felt a crackle in her ears, and as she winced, a bright, forked bolt of lightning leapt from the young woman’s finger, lancing through one of the fowls, who shuddered and quite literally exploded, sending blackened feathers and sizzling chunks of flesh back into the blackness of the night. A horrible burned odor assailed Calendra’s nose as the creature flopped to the ground, still spasming even though half its body was gone. Likewise, two of the creatures near it let loose stuttered squawks as small, blue-white arcs of energy trickled through the dewy grass around them and ran up their talons. Calendra saw the writhing thrash of a tail— and it was not the feathery plumes of a fowl, but reptilian, oily-looking and scaled in the firelight, like the tail of a snake. “I don’t understand,” Tyler said blankly, gripping his sword and placing himself— Calendranoticed, after the fact— between the creatures and both the Aeri’Colquet and the magus. “Cockatrice. Rooster-like creatures whose touch is fatal, according to legend.” Jessamine said, inhaling breaths through clenched teeth. Her face was more pale than Calendra had ever seen a face look before; she was reminded of an elder-mother who’d caught a sickness and could keep nothing in her stomach. “But the books I’d read said they were native to warmer climes. Faenwir. The Myr Isles.” “Maybe they migrate.” Tyler suggested, backing up a half-step, warily. “They don’t fly, Tyler.” Jessamine hissed back. “Do roosters migrate?” “If its touch is fatal, then do not let them touch you.” Calendra sighed inwardly as she drew back her bowstring, an arrow already fitted. Did humans always bicker when their lives were in danger, she wondered. But it was a momentary thought, and then her mind was clear, and she released fluidly; another cockatrice dropped, an arrow cleanly splitting its breast. “An easy outlook from someone with a bow.” Tyler said wryly. Calendra made no response to that, merely scowled and fitted another arrow. But now the cockatrice were beginning to react to their assailants, squawking and fluttering their wings as they scrambled toward them. A couple of the ogrecs noticed the new arrivals, and the bloodlust in their eyes began to give way to something else— dread fear. One ogrec near Mera turned to flee from the new arrivals, and left itself wide open in its haste to escape. A solid swing of the priestess’ flail crushed its skull. Another was not so lucky to see the sudden change of fortune in the battle. Calendra glanced up and saw it raise a club at Rochelle— who was parrying the blow of another ogrec. As the Aeris fitted a third arrow to help the human, the ogrec glanced down at the small flailing annoyance by its footand swung at it, instead— Calendra’s eyes narrowed. She would not give it a chance for a second swing. — The swing missed by a good measure; the fowl fanned its wings, its body puffed up like a proud warrior, and it darted at the ogrec, scraping its beak across the creature’s arm— Calendra drew the arrow back, aiming for the ogrec’s throat. — The ogrec lifted its club again, but the movement was slow, sluggish, and the look on its face was no longer one of anger or disgust, but one of outright shock and surprise. The mottled color began to drain from its arm, as though a wave of dull grey was seeping from the scratch the creature had inflicted, rather than blood. The creature moved no more, the textureof his hides and his mottled skin becoming one and the same, grey and stony, pebbled and crisscrossed by minute fractures— And Calendra’s forest-colored eyes grew wide as she realized she had seen that look, that grayish color, that startled expression becoming locked in stone on a face. She had seen it all before, seen the cold caress of stone steal the life and warmth from a person. —and just as suddenly, it was all over, and the creature was a ogrec no more, but a statue of granite-like stone, its eyes wide and unseeing as its frozen expression told that it had only dimly begun to understand what was happening to it— Tanille! The arrow dropped from Calendra’s nerveless fingers and she could only stare at the ogrec in dread and remembered horror. The statue wasn’t an ogrec in her mind’s eye, it was a Col’quet maiden, her oath-sister, her mouth still caught in that last plaintive scream. Run, Calli! Run! “Calendra!” A voice cried, on the edge of her hearing, as if it were coming through water. But even through water, it drew her focus, just for a moment. Her eyes lost the cloudiness of memory. And she saw Tyler, yelling at her, next to the slain body of another of the cockatrice. His eyes were wide as he looked at her. Had the creature touched him as well? Did he fear for his life? Why did he call to her? She wondered all that at once, and then she heard the flutter of wings, and she saw the movement in the grass near her, and another dun-and-green fowl was charging her in its ungainly manner, flapping its wings. Its body was far too big for its wings to lift into the skies, but it leapt anyway, and Calendra saw that the wings were powerful enough to lift it almost to her waist. And all at once she realized that she had no way to defend herself, and that he was not worried for his own life— he was worried for hers. The few ogrecs that were remaining were starting to scramble away from the campsite, looking back at their petrified comrades with the same wide-eyed glance that Rochelle herself was. She’d fought many battles before— beside the Circle of the Dagger, beside Steingard, and on her own— and yet none of them were quite like this. She backed up into a defensive posture, and then, in one fluid movement, reversed herself: her slender blade flashed out and skewered the cockatrice that had turned her assailant to stone. But there were still a good half-dozen more, just that she could see. She wiped droplets of sweat from her brow and glanced back at the bigger warrior. “If we get through this, Steingard, I’m retiring.” She said with a smirk. “I thought— ” he grunted, his heavy sword cleaving through the neck of one of the squawking creatures. No subtlety in his sword-wielding. Steingard was one of those types that didn’t mind if you knew hewas armed to the teeth. “I thought you enjoyed a challenge, girl.” Girl. Shades and ash. If I’m a girl, you haven’t passed forty yet, Steingard. She managed a tight grin and lifted her sword again— another cockatrice was closing on her. “A challenge, he says. A challenge is finding an inn for less than six pieces of silver that serves warmed brandy. Or a fight with a thief in a back alley. This just reeks.” “I’ll agree to that much.” He grumbled. He backed up another step, bumped her slightly; she hadn’t realized how close his back was to hers. Rochelle knew why— it was the same reason she herself had backed up: when they fluttered, the cockatrice were almost as difficult to pin down with his large unwieldy slashes as they were for her thrusts. The creatures were far more easy prey to Jessamine and Mera’s magic. The cockatrice launched itself at her, and with an easy turn of her rapier, Rochelle batted it aside. But it was a close thing. And a second one was rushing at her and the grizzled warrior. “And it just got worse. How’s your side?” “Clear.” He turned, moving to her side. It was one of their many verbal cues, born from countless months fighting beside one another. Alone, a good warrior possibly could have bested Steingard. Alone, a canny swordsman possibly could have bested her. But together, they both felt they could handle just about anything short of a phalanx of troops. His eyebrow raised as he met the charge of the second Cockatrice, forcing it to turn aside or risk decapitation. “You always attract the nicest foes, Rochelle.” She could not bring herself to laugh, just stabbed at her own assailant. The thrust missed, and the steel rang off the side of the stone ogrec. Rochelle gritted her teeth and deflected the creature’s beak with her parrying dagger. And then her eyes widened. Because it deflected too near the hilt of the dagger. “Oh,” she said, too stunned to say anything else. She could see the pinkish scratch on her bare hand, just below her knuckle; she could see the cockatrice scuttle backward, as if knowing its task was complete. It had all of a moment to back up and cluck its prowess before a bright blue arrow of incandescent light ripped through it, shredding its life into nonexistence:Jessamine’s Light Arrow spell. By then, Rochelle knew, it was too late. She could feel the sluggishness in her dagger-arm, feel the pins and needles feeling of her hand, as though it had fallen asleep. She heard the telltale sound of steel meeting flesh, the muffled squawk of the cockatrice’s cohort falling. Then Steingard’s rough voice. “’Oh?’ No response other than ’Oh?’ Are you slipp— ” The humor dropped from his voice immediately when he turned to her. “Rochelle?” It was moving into her chest, now; she could see the grey cast creeping through her hand. She looked at him, surprised at how difficult even that movement had become. She could feel tears well in her eyes, but they wouldn’t fall to her cheeks. Bested by a rooster. She’d never live it down. She almost laughed without humor at the thought. Steingard was touching her arm now. His voice was hoarse with dread. “Rochelle?” “Steingard…” Talking was becoming difficult now, too. She swallowed; her dagger arm could no longer move. She tried to flex the fingers of her swordhand, moved them just enough for the rapier to clatter to the ground. Her voice dropped; she couldn’t let herself choke up. face death bravely! She told herself. “Steingard… I… I have to go now…” Steingard’s face seemed to age all the more. He paled. “Rochelle, no…” Her legs were planted awkwardly, recovering from her last thrust. But she could no longer feel them. Her swordarm hung limply to her side, the fingers nervelessly dangling in the position of dropping her sword; her dagger-hand was before her, the parrying dagger and her hand were both no longer her own— they were dull grey stone, traced with minute cracks, the fabric of her puff-sleeved tunic pebbled and pocked. A sound like the logs crackling in the fire filled her ears. But she managed a small smile, an upturn of her lips, even through the feeling of her body turning to stone. “You… old war-dog… you actually… care…” And then she couldn’t breathe any longer— she tried to inhale and nothing would move, no air would come— and her eyes glazed, her mouth still set in that slight gasp, and she felt everything and nothing all at once. And for the swordswoman Rochelle, time suddenly stood still, as she became a statue of grey stone, a perfect monument of herself to mark her own passing. †‡†
|
