Slayer: An Enchanted Story

by D. L. Snow

  “Your name, slayer. What is your name?”

  “Brea,” she spat. “Princess Breanna of Morainia.”

  “He’s a she?”

  “A princess?”

  “Not likely!”

  The last thing Brea saw was the huge man’s face. He squinted up at her through the rain, and Brea was startled by the way his pupils glinted like the polished tips of a matching set of daggers. Then the world turned in upon itself, and Brea’s eyes rolled up into her skull. Her frozen body grew limp, and she slid off her horse into the open arms of the stunned captain.

  “Impossible!”

  Cahill could hear the queen’s cries from down the hall. He’d heard the news himself, the moment he’d been roused, as his valet was bursting with information about the late-night visitor.

  “Morainia was decimated years ago. There were no survivors. She’s nothing but an imposter!” came his stepmother’s irate voice.

  Cahill grinned and then wiped the smile from his face before pounding on the door to the queen’s chambers. When the door finally opened, the queen stood before him with a grim look upon her flushed face, and Cahill struggled to keep a victorious smile from his lips.

  It was quite possible his struggle was unsuccessful.

  “Cahill.” She scowled. “I imagine you’ve heard we have an unexpected guest. I suggest we go and greet this new arrival immediately.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Stepmother.”

  Cahill followed the queen down the hallway, surprised when she turned into the western wing. It was the oldest part of the castle, run down and never used for quartering guests. Until now. A guard standing outside a closed door was the only indication that any of these rooms were inhabited. But, as Cahill drew nearer, a rotten odor hung heavy in the damp air. It was a stench he was well familiar with.

  “Och!” The queen held her nose. “What is that?”

  “Dragon,” Cahill informed her.

  She turned to a member of her ladies-in-waiting and ordered the lass to do something about the reek. “I will not abide such putridity in my castle.”

  Cahill cast an examining glance at his stepmother. Her castle, was it? Well, he would see about that. Without further ado, he pushed open the door to the chamber, only to be struck in the face with an even more concentrated aroma of dragon. By the door lay a pile of rags that must have once served as the occupant’s clothes. Another guard sat in a chair by the hearth, a greenish tinge to his pallor, his weapon lying carelessly on the floor by his feet.

  “You, man,” Cahill called, “whose sword is that?”

  The man scrambled to his feet and executed a wobbly bow. “Why, Your Highness,” the man stammered. “The broadsword belongs to him, er…that…I mean…her.” He pointed to the lump thrashing beneath the bedclothes.

  Cahill stooped to retrieve the sword, turning it this way and that in the dim light. He tested its heft by swinging it in an arc. It reminded him greatly of the first sword his father gave him when he was only a lad. He sheathed the weapon and propped it against the wall, then turned with interest to the enigma still abed. “A female slayer,” he muttered to himself. “Extraordinary.”

  His stepmother stood beside the bedstead, gingerly prodding the covered lump with a closed fist while she held a sleeve up to her face. “You there,” she demanded in a muffled voice that sounded less than regal. “Wake up and explain yourself.”

  A low moan was the lump’s only reply.

  Cahill strode across the room to the other side of the bed and drew back the quilts. He was surprised by the slight size of the occupant. He was more surprised by the flushed skin, the fever-matted hair and the perceivable heat the slender body emitted. Then the sour, metallic scent of blood caught his attention, and he yanked the covers all the way down. Crimson stained the bedclothes and the rough shift worn by the girl.

  “Guard,” Cahill called. “Call the surgeon. Our guest is injured.”

  The surgeon confirmed that the injury was the result of an entanglement with a dragon. The claws of the beast seeped venom that charred flesh like acid. For Cahill’s benefit, the surgeon pointed out the mottled flesh high on the girl’s thigh. The queen noticeably wavered at this sight before her ladies hurried her out the door. But Cahill observed the wound with a detached interest. It must have been incredibly painful. How long had the woman ridden before finding herself at the door to the castle?

  Whether she was a princess or not, the female was most certainly a slayer, and her unusual choice of occupation automatically qualified her for a higher degree of regard than what she’d so far been afforded. Once the surgeon attended to her wound, Cahill ordered the slayer moved to the guest quarters in the east wing.

  For a fortnight, the woman fought fevers and sweats caused by the ugly wound on her thigh. During that time, Cahill prayed for her recovery, for though he had no special regard for her as a woman, her situation intrigued him. In addition, he was determined to take on a wife. Cahill had long understood that affection rarely played a role in a royal union, and this mysterious woman could be his final chance to step into his birthright and take his rightful position as king.

  “So,” the queen said during one of their rare meals taken together, “you’re intent on marrying that…” She waved her hand around in disgust, “…that thing.”

  “Her name is Breanna.”

  “So she says.”

  “She is a princess.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “You will not sabotage this.”

  The queen had no opportunity to reply as at that precise moment a footman burst into the room, trembling with excitement. “Your Highnesses, the…er…guest. He…she is awake.”

  Cahill stood from the table, but the queen was quicker. She strode so rapidly after the footman, Cahill almost had to jog to catch up. With her back straight, her head held high, her long nose pointed in a downward direction, the queen pushed through into Breanna’s chamber clearly prepared for battle. But the queen could only stop and stare, as Cahill was certain she was as shocked by what she found in the chamber as he was.

  A person of slight stature sat up in bed, greedily devouring a goose leg. This person’s hair was tangled and matted and stuck up at strange angles. The nightdress sat askew across her slim frame, revealing a very bare shoulder and more—though the individual seemed not to care in the least about the indiscretion. All angles and sinew, this individual was supposed to be female, but Cahill saw nothing in the least bit feminine about her. Except for, perhaps, her eyes. Large and grey, they were framed by long lashes and still glowed from what was likely residual fever.

  “Merciful Joseph, this is good,” the girl said with her mouth full and a large hunk of meat hanging on the wrong side of her lips. She swiped her face with the back of her hand and then wiped the grease unceremoniously down the front of her nightshirt. After tossing the gnawed drumstick back onto the platter across her knees, she grabbed a flagon of ale and downed it in one go. Once finished, she let out the most reprehensible belch and followed that with another backhand across her mouth.

  Normally, the queen would have been visibly shaken by such a display, but instead she turned to Cahill with an arched brow and a look of unrepressed glee on her face. He knew exactly what she was thinking, and suddenly Cahill felt quite ill. A smelly, unkempt, belching, dragon-slaying wife? Was he out of his mind?

  “My dear,” Eleanor began, her voice sweeter than honey. “I can’t tell you how pleased we are to see you feeling so much better. I hope that we are not disturbing you?”

  The girl shrugged and picked up the bone to give its marrow another good suck. Cahill could only stare—like watching an execution, the sight was horrible but, inexplicably, difficult to turn away from.

  “May I introduce my son Prince Cahill.” Eleanor waved him forward, and Cahill did his best imitation of a bow. “And I am Eleanor, Queen of Lorentia.”

  The girl flicked her gaze briefly over Cahill, bared her teeth i
n what might have been a smile, then looked away just as quickly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” The sound of her cultured speech was in complete contrast to her appearance, and Cahill could not reconcile the two. “I am Breanna, Princess of Morainia. But, please, call me Brea.”

  “Morainia?” Eleanor stepped closer. “That’s strange. I understood that the entire royal family was wiped out with their land and their subjects during the hordes of ’73. ‘Burned to a crisp’ were the reports we received. The dragons left nothing, no castle, no villages, no forests, no farmland. Just pools of sulfur and charred ruins.”

  The girl stopped eating and pushed the tray away, staring at Eleanor with an empty-eyed gaze. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “There is nothing left.” She blinked those large grey eyes and then shrugged and absently picked up a meat pie. “Except for me.”

  “You? You are the sole survivor? How is that possible?”

  The girl took an enormous bite of the pie and, while her mouth was still full, said, “I wasn’t there when the dragons attacked.” After another couple of bites, she set the pie down. “Here,” she said as she twisted a ring from her thumb and tossed it toward the queen. “If you don’t believe me.”

  With a swift grab, Cahill snatched the gravy-smeared missile out of the air before it struck his stepmother in the eye. It was a signet ring with the royal crest of the Morai family. He passed the ring to Eleanor who held it with disgust between the tip of her thumb and index finger. She studied it briefly then set it on the table by the bed. “This proves nothing. If you are heir to Morainia, where have you been these last five years and why does no one know you are alive?”

  “Heir to Morainia?” The girl’s laugh sounded scornful. “Heir to nothing is what you mean.” She rolled her shoulders then raised her hands above her head and arched her back in a very feline-like stretch. The movement suddenly made her appear much more female as Cahill couldn’t help but notice the gentle swells tipped with tiny budding nipples pressing against her nightshirt as she stretched.

  “Stepmother, I think it’s rather obvious where Princess Breanna has been for the last five years.” Cahill answered for her. He pointed to the sheathed sword that now hung from a hook on the wall. “She’s spent that time hunting the bloody beasts that murdered her family.”

  Chapter Four

  Breanna breathed a huge sigh of relief once her hosts left the chamber. The queen sucked the energy right out of the room with her cynicism and calculated conversation. But that didn’t bother her nearly as much as the prince. He’d watched her with something quite different but even more disturbing. She’d seen that look before. He was assessing her, measuring her, as if she were a piece of property or a beast of burden he meant to buy. It was the very same look every suitor who had ever passed through the gates of her father’s house had used to appraise her and her sisters.

  Well, she would have none of it. She had no desire to ever belong to anyone. Never had, never would. Fleeing her arranged betrothal five years ago had saved her life. If that wasn’t a sign Brea should never marry, she didn’t know what was. Now that her fever had broken, it was time to move on before the young prince became any more proprietary.

  “Hello?” she called as she eased her legs out of bed.

  Two young maids bustled into the room looking nervous and shaking with what could only be described as fear.

  “Don’t worry,” Brea growled, “I don’t bite…” She gnashed her teeth, “…very hard.”

  The taller girl jumped behind the other, using the plumper girl’s body as a shield. Brea laughed. “Blessed gods in heaven! Relax, would you? I’m only teasing.”

  The girls looked from one to the other, and the squat girl in front curtseyed in apology, fear or both.

  “Where are my clothes?” Brea asked.

  “Oh!” The girl swung to look at her friend. “We, er…burned them.”

  “You burned my clothes!” The girls jumped, and Brea almost laughed until she thought of the scale she’d tucked into her tunic. She didn’t collect them only as trophies, but as a source of income. Royal families paid bags of gold for dragon scales. Had it been burned too, or had she lost it during her fight with the mother of all dragons? Brea couldn’t remember. “So now what am I supposed to wear?”

  The taller girl stepped out from behind her friend and, as if she didn’t want to turn her back on Brea, sided-stepped to a wardrobe on the adjacent wall. She pulled out some garment that seemed to be constructed of silk and satin, lace and crinolines—enough material to form a small mountain.

  “Oh no.” Brea shook her head. “I’m not wearing that.”

  The girls looked between one another again with that wide-eyed fearful look, and Brea rolled her eyes. Bother. She’d endured worse than wearing a dress. Although by the look of this monstrosity, Brea would rather endure a pile of dragon shit than have to wear anything so frivolous.

  She sighed. But, until she found something more appropriate, she’d just have to make do. “Would it be too much trouble to ask for a tub and hot water? I’d do anything to scrub this dragon stink out of my hair.”

  The girls both sprinted for the door in order to do her bidding, and probably to get out of her sight, and smell. Once they were gone, Brea pushed herself out of bed and tested her leg. The pain nearly dropped her to the ground. She pulled up the edge of the nightdress to look at the wound. It was still red and hot to touch, but looked better than she’d imagined. The surgeon had done a fine job of pulling the flaps of skin together and using horsefly maggots to eat away the rotten flesh. She’d have a fine scar when all was said and done, a scar to be proud of.

  A flurry of soldiers approached Breanna as she limped awkwardly across the forecourt, her weight leaning heavily upon a crutch. She turned away as they passed, but thankfully none of the men seemed to notice her or how ridiculous she looked. Brea had forgotten just how silly and impractical gowns were. Squeezing in here, pushing up there, with far too much material around the legs and barely enough around her torso. For not the first time, Brea wished she’d learned to sew. But her father had indulged her and allowed her to learn the art of swordsmanship and archery instead, probably because Brea was the closest thing to a son he and her mother were able to produce. Suddenly Brea stopped as she turned into the covered walkway leading to the stables. She leaned against the arcade wall, certain that it was the insistent throbbing in her thigh that had abruptly brought moisture to her eyes.

  But Brea had no time to contemplate the tear that meandered down her cheek. The firm sound of boot against stone and a masculine stride brought her back to herself. Pushing away from the wall, Brea tried to continue on through the covered walkway, but her limbs decided against cooperation.

  “Excuse me, Miss. Are you in need of assistance?”

  “No, I’m fine.” But her involuntary groan contradicted her words.

  “Here, let me.” He grabbed her elbow.

  “I said I’m fine!” She pulled her arm away with force and made the mistake of glaring up into the man’s face. Dragon’s breath and brimstone! Cahill!

  He reached out as if to finger a curl from her freshly laundered hair. Then he gasped and took two steps back, with dark eyes gone wide in incredulity. “Breanna?” he whispered. He looked her up and down, then swept his gaze over her once more, this time more leisurely. “Unbelievable.”

  Brea rolled her eyes and sighed with exasperation. The maids had spent two hours on her, insisting on unsnarling every tangle in her hair and pinning it up in a silly feminine style. Her scalp still throbbed from it. “Stop looking at me in that stupid manner.”

  Apparently he didn’t hear her. So she stared back and scrutinized him—his size, the breadth of his shoulders, his inherent strength. Though it appalled her to do it, to ask for help, Brea considered her options. The quicker she got to the stable, the quicker she could leave. With reluctance, she held out her elbow. “Now that you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.
Help me walk.”

  He shook himself out of whatever trance had stilled him and said, “But of course.” Then he took her elbow in his right hand and wrapped his left arm about her waist. “Lean into me.”

  Brea blew air out through her lips because there was no way she was going to allow his large body to come any closer to hers. But after only the first few steps, she found she couldn’t help herself. If it weren’t for Cahill’s arms—his strong arms—she would not be standing. Brea shook her head. Thank the heavens she’d soon be gone and never see him again.

  “Where are we going?” Cahill asked.

  “To the stable.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  Cahill stopped, forcing Brea to stop mid-step. Causing her to fall against his chest. “You’re not leaving.”

  “But I am.”

  “You’re not well enough.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Really?” Cahill said with that insufferable degree of cockiness that males his size too often exhibited. He let go of her and stepped around to face her. “Then go.”

  But Brea’s wounded leg gave out and she crumpled to the ground. With what seemed too little effort, Cahill stooped down and lifted her into his arms.

  “Put me down, you swine!”

  “Stop squirming,” he said, turning back in the direction of the castle and walking briskly as if she weighed nothing at all.

  “I said put me down,” Brea said through clenched teeth, pulling her dagger out of her bodice and shoving the tip under Cahill’s chin.

  Cahill stopped walking, but did not put her down. “What are you going to do? Slit my throat and then crawl away? Your neck is much too lovely for the hangman’s noose. It would be such a waste.”

  Brea dug the tip of her dagger into the soft flesh beneath his jaw, drawing blood.