Scanning the forest, his eyes eventually locked onto them. He chuckled then, shook his head, and yawned. Dismounting, he pulled clear his deceased comrade and gently laid him upon the ground before unsaddling the horse and rubbing it down with a soft cloth.
“Time to rest, my lad,” the officer’s words drifted to them perched upon the branch above.
Best we return to our body.
Casting one more glance at the warrior about to stretch out upon the ground in preparation of sleep’s embrace, they flew away. They travelled back towards their starting point, re-negotiating over the Huronian Army in all its silent might, past the small King’s Own unit. As the moon descended towards the horizon, they landed in the boughs of a tree overlooking their campfire. Only glowing coals remained alive in the guts of what had once been a blaze. The Kalote woman lay on her side, legs drawn up to her chest, one hand beneath her head. Nearby slept Henry. The royal lay on his back, hands behind his head.
Vyder realised the prince was not asleep. A glint of dull moonlight glimmered in his eyes. The young man sat up without speed and stared at them. On the far side of the remnants of the fire sat Vyder’s inanimate body.
It is strange seeing my body from the outside. I look…dead.
Gorgoroth’s laugh boomed in his mind, but the nature spirit chose not to reply.
Stretching, they burst into the air, wings beating, lifting them higher. It took the better part of an hour for Gorgoroth to ensure the owl had enjoyed its fill of food and water.
If we were to leave it without ensuring it is sustained, the bird would be too exhausted to hunt or drink. It would be a slow, painful death for her. When we leave her, she will return to her home, a hollow in a log or trunk somewhere nearby, to sleep the day away.
Makes sense, Vyder agreed.
I may allow you to take control of one of my children one day, brother. You must not forget this. Ensure the animal is adequately fed and watered before you leave them. Do you understand?
Of course, and if I don’t, you’ll be there to nag me. I mean remind me.
Laughter echoed through Vyder’s mind.
* * *
A flurry of sound brought Henry awake with a lurch. His chest expanded and cool air rushed into his lungs. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, the sound which woke him from slumber still pervading his memory. His sleep addled brain analysed the noise, and he finally realised it was the flapping wings of a bird.
It’s close, as well! It was right above me.
Henry relaxed and stared up at the pitch forest above him. Patches of night sky, riddled with tiny stars were visible through small gaps of the forest canopy. But his focus was drawn to something to his left and much closer than the distant canopy. The hairs on the back of his neck rose of their own volition, fear, cold as melting ice, trickled down his spine. His mouth dropped open, and he sat up slowly. It was an owl, perched on a branch not much higher than his standing height. The bird was staring at him. But it wasn’t its stare which caused him fear, it was the eyes. One of them was a bright, glowing blue.
And it pierced his soul.
II
It had been a long day. They’d been riding hard for most of it, starting before the bright orb of Yanahee’s Fire rose over the horizon to drive away the cool night air. Their horses maintained a brisk walk, interspersed with bouts of trotting where the path and the stamina of the animals allowed. But now they were sat on the banks of the river, relaxing. Ahitika leaned back on her elbows and looking out upon the mighty river, the current drifting by with a soft burble. Close to the bank, small eddies danced in the water, twirling and moving in random patterns. Further out, a log bobbed, carried along by the powerhouse that was the Stream of Taraxon.
The Therondale River, she corrected herself. Henry and the people of Wendurlund knew it as such, and she thought it sounded more powerful and demanding of respect than a simple stream.
Henry sat beside her. “There’s a good current here.”
She frowned, unsure of his meaning. Ahitika was improving with her understanding of the Wendurlund language, but Henry sometimes still spoke words she found difficult to understand.
He pointed, his finger following the direction in which the water moved. “Strong water,” he said.
Her frown disappeared, and she smiled. She’d spent all her life learning about Huron that she’d never stopped to consider the mighty empire of Wendurlund to the west. Huron had, at one time, at least, been home to her people, after all. The people of Kalote had been driven north across the Shadolian Sea by the Huronian settlers, hundreds of generations before.
She clenched her teeth, jaw bulging, and lips narrowing into a tight line. Her ancestors had fought, and fought hard, to protect their land, their homes, and their hunting grounds. But they’d been outnumbered, and soon, the Huronian Army had waded into the fray, destroying entire tribes.
Flee and survive to fight, or live on as slaves or worse, disappear from the world forever. She scratched the skin of her cheek, her thoughts focused upon her ancestors and the decision they would eventually make to ensure the survival of their people. She touched the long, thin beads of her breastplate, created from animal bone and imbued with the power of the Great Spirit by medicine men. In the end, it was a simple choice. Live on your knees, or die on your feet. She flicked her head, a long strand of dark hair flying out of her vision. But the land known as Huron still sang to the people of Kalote, beckoning them home.
She dropped a hand and touched the scalps attached to her belt, soft hair tickling her skin. All Huronian scalps, cut from warriors who’d offered her a strong fight. Another three scalps and my initiation is at an end. I will be a Kalote warrior. She leaned back on her elbow, ignoring the skin of her hand that demanded to be scratched. But only Huronian scalps.
As far as she was aware, there were more than forty other Kalote initiates strewn throughout Huron eager for the same right. In any given year, more than one hundred Kalote initiates would travel into Huronian lands to prove their right to become a warrior. Three more scalps. She returned her attention to the log, carried by the river, making its slow journey into Wendurlund, until it disappeared behind a thick stand of trees.
A splash of water drew her attention. Henry waded into the river, and when he was chest deep, he undressed, casting sodden clothes upon the bank before ducking below the surface. When he reappeared, spluttering, long hair clinging to his face, she cupped her hands around her mouth.
“You frighten I see you with no clothes?”
He held out his hands and grinned. “I’m a gentleman, Ahitika.”
She pointed at the bundle of wet clothes sitting upon the pebbles near the water. “You still need to leave river. You walk out naked.” She smiled and tapped the skin under one eye, “I see you then.”
He chuckled, shrugged, and ducked below the surface again. When he appeared, he washed the dirt from his skin. The bones of his rib cage, shoulders, and arms were clear beneath a thin layer of skin and muscle. He turned away from her and scrubbed his hair.
He was definitely a powerful man at one time. She brushed a lock of hair behind an ear, acutely aware of the naked man stood in the river before her. Bony as he was, the muscles of his shoulders and back suggested he’d been well built prior to being starved near to death.
Henry ducked his head below the surface, reappeared, and washed under his arms. Ahitika stood and lifted the breastplate over her head and placed it upon the pebbles with care. Her shirt followed and, within moments, she stepped out of her trousers. The cool air felt good upon her naked frame. She walked to the river, the water refreshing against her legs. Henry turned toward her and paused, watching her. His mouth dropped open.
Ahitika grinned and dove beneath the surface, the water’s chill invigorating. She swam beneath the river, strands of weed reaching up from the bottom to tickle her legs. A small school of fish, startled by her proximity to them, broke rank and darted away in all directions. Her shadow passe
d over a crab wandering along the bottom. The creature scuttled to a large rock and disappeared beneath it. Then the form of Henry appeared, becoming clearer the closer she swam.
Well endowed, too. Air bubbles exploded from her mouth as she laughed. She rose towards the blurry orb of Yanahee’s Fire above her. Ahitika broke the river’s surface and drew in a breath of fresh air. Flicking her head, strands of long dark hair flew from her face to slap against her back. She bounced along the slippery river bed, returning Henry’s stare, coming to a halt when she was mere inches from him, her breasts pushing against the skin of his chest.
“I not gentleman,” she whispered through a smirk.
The lump in his throat rose, then fell and his cheeks flushed. “I can see that.”
She clamped a firm grip of his hips and squeezed, her smirk widening into a grin. When she felt his erection pressing against her belly, she pushed away from him and ducked below the surface again. Swimming away, Ahitika dove to the river bed, fresh air clutched within her lungs. The smooth stones slid against her skin, weeds tickling her, and a brush of movement against her leg suggested a fish, misjudging her proximity, had darted away to safety. She angled upward and erupted clear of the water.
* * *
Henry watched her depart. For too long, he’d been starved, frightened, angry, filled with self-loathing, terror, and fury that he’d forgotten what it was to be human, to be a man. Passion, heat, and lust swept his weak, slim, bony body. It was then, as he watched the dangerous, violent, but beautiful woman swim away from him, that he knew he wanted to live.
Ahitika’s head broke the surface, she pushed hair away from her face, tucking the soaking locks behind her ears and stood. She walked towards the river’s bank, glistening beads of water sliding down her flanks and dripping from her breasts. She looked at him, held his stare and smiled.
Gods above. His knees felt weak, more so than if he’d been locked away in a Huronian prison for months on end. That’s not true. At least he could walk more than a few steps now without losing his breath. He watched her progress with keen interest until her full, naked form was clear of the river. She glanced over her shoulder at him and smirked. He shuddered. He watched her dress, oblivious to a clump of free-floating weeds gliding against his arm, ignoring the tapping on his legs as fish swam between his calves. When she was dressed, she finally lifted the Kalote breastplate over her head and dropped it in place. Only then did he exhale. She touched the breastplate. She closed her eyes, and her lips moved, although he couldn’t hear her words.
Henry’s purpose returned to him, and he finished washing himself, scrubbing clean his dirty skin and hair. Although he owned no soap or clean smelling liquid the aristocracy liked to spray upon themselves, he was content that he smelled less foul than he did before he waded out into the might of the Therondale River.
“Are you coming?” her voice reached him.
He spluttered and blinked water from his eyes, sweeping dank hair away from his vision. Focus returned, and the beautiful Kalote warrior stood upon the river’s bank, a hand on her hip.
“Uh,” he sniffed and coughed, “give me a minute.” He felt his cheeks flush again.
She chuckled, turned from him, and walked away.
When the memory of her naked form no longer encouraged his body, he walked towards the bank. Although he still thought of her soft breasts and hard nipples pressing against his chest.
He knelt in the shallows and washed his clothes, scrubbing the filth from them. He rinsed them one by one, rung them by hand, and then beat them against a dry rock to exude as much water from them as possible. Then he dressed, the damp fabric cool against his skin. Buckling on his belt, the weight of the blade at his side tugged at his hips. He grasped the hilt to avoid the sword entangling in his legs as he walked and headed away from the river. Already, the smell of wood smoke was drifting through the forest.
Pushing through the waist-high undergrowth, he caught the orange flicker between trunks and headed towards it. Advancing into the clearing, he paused to watch Vyder kneeling before the fledgling fire, his eyes squinted against the smoke. He used a stick to encourage life into the small flames.
The crunch and crack of movement through the forest in the distance foretold Ahitika was in search of more firewood. He stopped beside the fire, stepping to one side as the soft wind changed direction, sending the thin plume of smoke drifting toward him.
“Have you finished your strength exercises?” Vyder didn’t look up.
“Not yet.”
The assassin jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get to it, young prince.”
Henry spotted a thick, horizontal branch jutting from a tree at a perfect height. He approached the branch, reached up, and curled his fingers around the branch. He wasn’t yet strong enough to lift his chest to touch the wood. But Vyder had shown him how to strengthen the large muscles of his upper back. He jumped up so his chest touched the branch and held himself in position for a moment, before lowering himself slowly to the ground under control. When his boots touched the forest floor, he leapt up a second time and repeated the exercise. He repeated the exercise, each repetition becoming more difficult than the last.
His back was on fire, muscles protesting against the assault under which they found themselves. Henry dropped back to the ground and released his grip upon the branch, sucking in great gulps of fresh air, beads of sweat sliding down his cheeks.
Probably should have done this before I went to wash.
He planted hands on his hips and waited until the rhythm of his chest slowed. He wiped his brow, and when the burn retreated from the muscles of his back, he dropped to the ground. He stretched himself out so that the only points of his body in direct contact with the forest floor were his palms and balls of his feet, then he lowered himself down, maintaining a straight back until his chest touched the leaf litter. Pushing himself up into his original position, he repeated the process. He grunted as the muscles at the back of his upper arm and across his chest began to burn. On the fifth repetition, he collapsed. Leaves crunched under boots as someone approached. There was a whisper of movement and a crack of a knee joint. He opened his eyes. Vyder was knelt over him.
The highlander tapped him on the arm. “Get up.”
Henry pushed himself to his feet and drew in a deep breath. Vyder rose beside him and pointed at the nearby horizontal branch. “Again.”
“But I’ve done that one. I’m–”
“Do it again.”
* * *
Rone steered the destrier north away from the road. Being the same path down which the might of the Huronian Army had recently passed, it was not worth the risk to follow in their footsteps. Any professional army worth their salt would have a guard watching and protecting its rear. It’d be a long, slow slog, but to the north, there was another path through the Likane Forest towards Wendurlund.
Failing that, I’ll cut my own way through the forest. He nudged the war horse forward through giant clumps of grass, pushing past tall, thick bushes, and negotiating around massive trees, the trunks of which dwarfed both horse and rider. Rone looked at the canopy high above him, which seemed to become denser with each passing moment. The sky faded until it was almost completely hidden from view by a mash of greens and browns. Daylight was defeated by the forest’s density. Afternoon light became more like that of dusk and night, no doubt, would provide no visibility whatsoever.
The further he travelled north, the less likely it seemed human kind had come this way in decades. Perhaps even generations. The steed picked his way through the forest, down into small, dry creek beds, up moderate inclines and around obstacles. Through seldom gaps in the canopy, Rone was able to spot slivers of the sun, ensuring he was maintaining a northerly direction. By mid-morning the next day, he’d be on the path leading towards Wendurlund if it lay where he expected it to be. He’d been shown the path on his first scouting mission into Huron almost ten years ago.
Someone shouted in fro
nt of him, followed immediately by the laughter of several voices. Rone pulled on the reins and remained frozen in the saddle, his eyes raking the forest. The destrier’s ears flicked forward with keen interest. There! A group of ten Huronian soldiers were wading through chest-high grass in the direction of Wendurlund. Possibly a wayward section of the Huronian Army’s rear guard, or deserters, or just a group who’d become separated from their unit for some reason. Either way, if he sat atop the horse for any longer, one of them was bound to spot him.
Rone dismounted, ensuring he remained silent when his boots touched the ground. He untied the corpse of his comrade and pulled the body from the warhorse. He gritted his teeth, his face becoming a silent snarl, muscles burning under the weight. He laid the dead soldier upon the ground as noiseless as possible. He backed the destrier several paces and tugged down on the reins. The powerful animal ignored him. He tugged on the reins again, clicking his tongue against the soft pallet of his mouth in a gentle sound. The horse knelt, dropped to the ground, and then lay on its side with a soft snort.
Grasping the butt stock of the musket, he drew the weapon from its holster and knelt down behind the warhorse, laying the cold barrel upon the animal’s flank. Pulling the butt into his shoulder, his cheek touched the cool wood of the stock, and his master eye stared down the metal sight at the group of enemies in the near distance.
Laughter peeled amongst the forest once more, several of them chatting in their foreign tongue. A tall man stopped, turned towards Rone, untied his breeches, and pissed amongst the grass. He shouted something over his shoulder, more laughter answering his words. Rone lined the sights up with the centre of the man’s chest and remained silent, his index finger teasing the musket’s trigger.
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