by K. A. Lentz
Fury stamped across his face, Thistle’s captor interrupted the newcomer, “ENOUGH! You’re here to fight me, so FIGHT ME!”
As the storm-slave’s statement came to a close Thistle was forced to cover her ears against the thunderous boom erupting from his throat. If she hadn’t been sitting the roar’s powerful effect would have felled her to the ground. Swaying a bit on the spot, the fire-slave agreed with his opponent in a reserved tone laced with hints of mild affront, “Yes, well then, let us begin.”
Feeling exposed, Thistle hastily retreated into the shadows like a crab. Her back colliding with a tree stump, she watched on in fear and awe as the two prepared for their furious battle. Standing his ground as his foe paced the spot, Thistle’s captor began radiating a cool, crystalline light as the runes beneath his garb sparked to life. In response the fiery demon paused mid-stride to brazenly increase the intensity of his already, blazing symbols. The swordsman unhooked his cloak and reached for the pair of swords nestled between his shoulder-blades in one swift movement. His adversary flashed another dripping smile and in turn moved to unleash the set of weapons fastened upon each hip. Two whips made of the same metal as his armor were now secured around the fire-slave’s wrists by loose loops of white chain. Assuming a fighting stance, he fanned both weapons at his side while releasing a flood of liquid fire down their glistening lengths. Small imps of flame erupted from the flying droplets and slowly spread into a budding wildfire around the trio.
Thistle turned back to her escort in time to see him draw a deep breath and release another ear splitting roar louder than the first. Instinctively she covered her ears, yet it did little to dampen the effects. Swimming in a lake of pain, Thistle’s threshold threatened her with unconsciousness. Piercing through the torturous haze, she could hear clashes of melee. Just in front of her, scrapes of metal swung into metal mixed with sounds of projected flame punctuated by loud cracks of thunder. Thistle opened her eyes in time to witness her escort catch a fiery whip to one arm. The weapon’s barbed length quickly coiled around the storm-slave’s forearm, digging in like rows of shark teeth. Trickles of blood boiled off in an angry hiss as gushes of flame magically funneled up the whip and flowed over his arm. Not appearing to be in any pain, the swordsman grabbed his adversary’s offending weapon and, with a streak of lightening, yanked his opponent close. Electricity flowed over the fire-slave’s body as he lurched forward, destined for the eager blade of Thistle’s captor. Deflecting the offending sword, he knocked the weapon from harm’s way by using the pommel of his whip. Capitalizing on the momentum his adversary had given him, the fire-slave vaulted over his opponent and whirled around attempting to snare the storm-slave tightly around the neck. Ducking, the swordsman tore his arm loose while wrenching the captured whip from its owner’s grasp. With a powerful swing, he hurled the weapon into the distant forest.
Awkwardly finding herself behind their common enemy, Thistle’s eyes frantically searched for sanctuary. The small fires had roared into a much larger embrace, working hard to encircle the trio entirely. Thistle had two choices; retreat into a forest she didn’t know or skirt the perilous edge between melee and wildfire. The next turn of events forced her to make the choice and back to a safe distance in the woods.
With his newly freed hand and remaining whip, the fire-slave alternated between trying to disarm her escort and throwing balls of fire at him. The swordsman parried every attack, but after a few turns of this dance he decided to change tactics. Earthing one of his swords, Thistle’s captor swiftly reached down and grabbed the whip lashing at his leg. Counting on the fact that his enemy would hold firm to his last hope, the man sought to exploit his adversary’s weakness. In a mighty swing he again pulled his foe forward, only this time he didn’t switch momentum to strike a blow. Instead, the swordsman built upon the force he had gained and swung the fire-slave in a fast loop. With a crack of thunder and rage of fire his opponent was slammed hard onto the ground. Seizing this opportunity, the storm-slave grabbed his earthed sword and leapt upon his downed enemy. With exact precision he bloodlessly sank one blade into his adversary’s chest and the second into his forehead. The fire-slave went completely still; rivulets of flame still snaking from each hand forming into a pool around his lifeless body.
In one fluid movement Thistle’s escort cleaned and sheathed both weapons before he turned to collect his captive, but she wasn’t there. After a moment of panic he released a disgruntled growl and sniffed the air to find her. Silently she watched from her hiding place as he took a single inhale and easily honed in on her exact location. Realizing the futility of hiding any longer, Thistle popped into view with an awkward wave. Coming to his own quick conclusions the man simply strode up, threw her over one shoulder, and burst into a run without so much as a word of warning. The fire-slave, still lying in the dirt, was left to deal with the inferno he had started.
Hardly any time passed before they were cresting the valley’s opposite ridge. Watching the forest zoom past, Thistle was overcome by a dreadful sensation of vertigo. Satisfied the threat had been eliminated she tried urging her captor to slow their uncomfortable flight. She pounded on his back, yet he did not slow. She tried yelling stop, but that only seemed to instigate a faster pace. Unable to endure the speed any longer she passed out, head knocking limply against the storm-slave’s back. Realizing his charge had fainted; the man slowed to a gentle stop, carefully readjusted her into his arms, and then resumed his decided course.
Later that evening as the horizon began wrestling the sun behind it, he finally stopped for the day. Thistle had awoken an hour earlier to the odd sensation of her head resting against the warmth of someone’s shoulder. She promptly announced her wakefulness and asked to be carried differently. He had not obliged.
Still holding her as they stopped, Thistle’s captor didn’t release her as expected, instead he jumped onto the middle branch of a tall, nearby tree. Offering no explanation, he set her down upon the limb’s widest spot and promptly returned to the ground alone. Thistle was so taken aback by this strange action that the only reaction she could muster was to dumbly stare down without a single word to fire from her lips. In response, the swordsman gave a small chuckle and said, “I would ask that you remain up there, as you will be safe from predators roaming this forest. I need to make camp for the evening and quickly hunt for some supper. Please… remain there.”
Drawing in a breath of resigned understanding, she rolled her eyes and promised, “Don’t worry, I shall stay where you’ve put me, not that it looks as though I could really get down on my own… planned I’m sure.”
As her words fell upon an empty audience she realized he had not stayed to listen. She was finally alone. Strong waves of fear washed over Thistle as she started to take in the full complexities of her current reality. Where am I? She looked around at the thick forest and strained to hear any reassuring sound. Nothing; no bird calls, no small animals foraging about… just quiet. Everything seems wrong here… but where is here?
Panic shot through Thistle as she noticed the sun lost its struggle with the horizon and sunk behind its surface. The forest’s thick canopy crept like a spider across the woodland floor, crushing her into dark, evening shadows. Feeling the instinct to scream, Thistle’s courage was oddly bolstered by sounds of her captor nearby. A great flash of light in the distance was succeeded by a loud crack of thunder, heralding the dying scream of some unfortunate beast. The foreignness of the situation nagged Thistle with homesickness, causing a typhoon of anxiety to rush up from her stomach… again taunting her to scream. Reasoning that making a ruckus wouldn’t improve her lot, she tried to calm herself and focus on breathing easy.
Thistle was near to achieving her task when a fresh clamor assaulted her calm. Not far off were the unsettling sounds of someone engaging in an intense battle with a tree. From the audible cracks and snaps, it did not appear as though the poor plant was winning. Hoping the noise was coming from her captor—and not one of the preda
tors he had mentioned—Thistle thought it wise to plan possible escape routes in the last vestiges of light. She was deep in the process of gauging branch distance when the swordsman came walking back into camp, a large, hairy carcass draped over one shoulder and what looked to be a full cord of wood gracefully balanced on the other. Thistle’s jaw dropped at the sight.
Regaining her wits she blurted, “Strong one eh?” Feeling the sudden need to engage in conversation, she continued on without encouragement, “I’d guess the runes dotting your body are key to that? Or does it have something to do with those elf-like ears? Another option still… is it both?”
Thistle’s captor shot her a glare that stated he was in no mood to explain, and then proceeded to ignore her while setting up camp. Deciding that remaining up a tree was no longer an order she wished to obey, Thistle put her escape plan into action. The first attempt quickly taught her that the branch below didn’t offer an exit at all. Unable to dangle down onto it, she was forced to kick and mutter back up to her original perch.
Resolving to scrutinize her next course of action a bit more carefully, Thistle silently sat plotting. Running a maze of options in her head, she came to the unpleasant conclusion that it was futile; she was incapable of getting down on her own. Angry and homesick, Thistle simmered as she churned that fact around in her mind. Opening her mouth to sternly request a lift down, she elected not to bother at the last second… he likely wouldn’t do it until he was ready anyway. Trying to hold onto what dignity she had left, Thistle adjusted into a more prim posture and watched with horrid fascination as he gutted dinner to the light of his runes. She had never seen an animal gutted before and sincerely wished it were still the case. The poor beast appeared to have been a bear, yet… it also resembled a wolf. Though its body was the size and shape of an ursine creature, it had a long snout, pointed ears and the paws of a canine.
Her captor was trussing the animal up to skin when a patch of dirt to the left of his feet began mounding up from below. In a yell Thistle warned the swordsman of this new point of interest, but he merely glanced down and turned back to work with a slight… smile on his face? Anticipation mounting as the incoming intruder made its way to the surface, Thistle gasped as a stout, little man popped from the mound like a sprouting plant. Not much taller than her pug, the newcomer’s features were a mixture of common, ceramic garden-gnome and some type of burrowing rodent. The little man’s jaw was dotted with unruly patches of fluffy white beard and a thick matting of golden hair covered the landscape of his head. Nestled between these wild fields of fur were two mounds of rosy cheek framing his black, rodent nose and a pair of welcoming eyes sheltering beneath a tall mountain range of hairy brow. Speckled across his leafen pants and woven-bark jerkin were slops of mud emanating from his entirely coated feet. The newcomer circled her escort once saying, “Poor creature, tisk… tisk, poor creature indeed.” Bending back to look up at Thistle’s captor the little man exclaimed, “Get her from tree, I want to see! Besides news her ears wish to collect.”
Not sparing his friend the slightest glance, the swordsman simply stated, “She’s safer up there for now, Pyhe.”
Pyhe gave her captor a strange look and said in a confused tone, “Safer there against company of you and me, I don’t guess correct, but safe now, doubt none at all!” With a graceful, sweeping bow the little man added, “Her I’ll protect Tall-one, my word!”
Again the swordsman didn’t look down as he sighed aloud, “You are just as capable of getting her down as me. Why not do it yourself, I am busy here… if you cannot see, Sir.”
Pyhe shook his head, nestled his fists into each leafy hip, and said, “Sir? Sir… indeed. Wants help of you, she knows me not. Oh, you must… you must.”
Thistle’s escort glared down at the little man but said nothing beyond the sentiment his expression already conveyed. Pyhe wore another look of confusion before straightening his scruffy patches of beard and exclaiming, “Okay, do it for you! Protest your thinking.”
The incredulous gnome gave his friend a stern nod for good measure and then turned to advance on Thistle’s spot. Squirming in her seat, Thistle worried over how such a tiny… person… was going to get her down from where she couldn’t, yet Pyhe seemed to lack any such concerns. Marching up to the tree, he stopped at its base and simply waved at her. Feeling completely out of place she waved back. An eager smile lit the little man’s features as he inquired, “Ready to come down maiden?”
Fear and excitement coursed through Thistle as she replied in a shaky voice, “Umm… yes… at least… I, uh, think I am.”
With another bright, enthusiastic smile Pyhe said with a flourish, “Down you come!”
Whatever it was she had been expecting… something entirely different had happened. As the last syllable rolled off his tiny tongue her world reeled for a moment, yet in the next second she was abruptly standing beside him with no knowledge of the process. Had she been able to see herself turn into a Thistle-colored dust devil and make a rapid descent from the tree, the whole experience may have been a bit more awe inspiring, but to her it simply felt like getting a camera flashed in your face. Stumbling on the spot, she rubbed her eyes and searched around her feet for Pyhe. Feeling a bit rude, Thistle rushed out, “Oh thank you Sir for getting me down.” Blinking in the direction of her captor she declared, “It was beginning to get very uncomfortable.”
Turning back to Pyhe, Thistle smiled at the animated little man hopping from one little leg to the other before he burst aloud, “Eager to assist always, friends we are. News your ears long to hear. Big Amy sends her thoughts of wellness and concerns for journey’s trials. We keep safe, other and I.”
It took Thistle a moment to realize what he was saying. Of all the things he could have told her… that was not on the list. Shocked she blurted, “Amy, you have Amy? How did you get her? Where is she? Is she alright?!” Thistle paused as a meteor-storm of thoughts blazed like falling stars into her mind. Putting all the pieces together, she exclaimed, “Wait… that was you… at the store yesterday. The small muddy footprints and handprints all over the store… that was you! Oh gosh, what about the ones in the elevator, was that you too? It had to be!”
Again he excitedly hopped from one foot to the other while cheerily stating, “Oh followed you the day, even to the place of living!”
Watching the little man in awe, questions buzzed from her mouth like bees, “Who are you, or rather what are you? Sorry to be rude, but I’ve never seen your… kind… before. Do you know where I am?”
“No rudeness, none! Pyhe, gnome to eighth-realm my soul tied.” He gave a low formal bow and added educationally, “Not tradition to let beings of the fifth-realm see, done before rare.”
Utterly confused Thistle asked, “Eighth, fifth, what do you mean? No really… where am I?”
No time to answer her questions, he simply stated, “Oh… lots to tell lots to tell. Now, other calls. Be well!”
Gracing them both with a final bow, Pyhe dove into his pool of dirt as if it were made of water. Thistle stood awestruck. Looking over at her captor—whom appeared unimpressed—she glanced from him to the mound and back again. Unable to endure the silence a moment longer, she blurted, “Who the… what the… okay you must explain something to me!”
In a tone conveying his disinterest, the man replied, “He is what he said he is; a gnome from the eighth-realm. His kind creates traveling tunnels crisscrossing all planes of existence within… our planet.”
Thistle’s eyebrows shot up as she parroted, “Within our planet?” Narrowing her gaze, she moved a little closer and said, “You are being aloof for a reason I hope? None of this is making any sense. First I’m at work, then you come in, throwing my friend around, and then I’m here… where exactly am I? You have yet to sufficiently answer anything I’ve asked you!”
“You have no limit for questions do you?” He muttered plainly.
Offended by his answer, she hotly retorted, “Well after what I’ve
been through… it’s no surprise. Just be glad I’m not asking all the questions I have. Now, I beg you please answer this one, who are you and where are you taking me?”
His tone gained a note of comedy as he responded, “That would, in truth, be two questions which I will answer during supper. It will get very cold soon and all the more dangerous as night wears on. Do you know how to make a fire?”
Not expecting the sudden change in topic, Thistle took a moment to respond, “Yes, I do in fact know how to start a fire, given proper tools. I, however, lack any kind of device to actually make fire alone, but if you have one on hand I would be happy to do so… that is… under one condition; tell me your name.”
Surprised by the nature of her ultimatum, the man fumbled his boot-knife and paused before looking at her. Veiled grief hung on his face as he replied, “I haven’t had a name in a very long time.” He unexpectedly trailed off in thought as distant memories began their ghostly promenade across his hardened features. Responding in a voice devoid of emotion, he answered, “Before I died my people called me Miach. I think in your time you call my homeland Germany. My village was named Mader, inhabited by the noble tribe of Chatthi… among others. Today my name is slave, bound by the element of air and power of storms. As to where I’m escorting you, I’m taking you to my master. Now build the fire and when you’re finished I shall set it alight.”
Despite a rising tide of questions, Thistle quietly turned and began constructing their campfire. It didn’t take long to complete the appointed task with his heap of provided materials beside her, yet still she aimed for perfection and labored over the final stage. Declaring it done Miach strode over, crouched down while requesting she move away, and then cupped his hands over the construction. Being as curious as ever Thistle didn’t go far, hoping to see how this strange man was going to start a campfire. Three, short crackles of electricity struck the parched kindling creating wisps of smoke. Another two and there were hints of fire. Nearly faster than the eye could discern he leaned in and began gently blowing at the base of the budding flame.
