Eleanor

by S. F. Burgess

  She eventually found a small crop of the purple flowers and got down on her hands and knees to dig out the roots. She was so intent on her work that she failed to hear the approaching footsteps until the figure stood in front of her, blocking the sun. She smelt smoke, blood, alcohol and unkempt bodies. Fear raced through her as she stood, the plants she had collected dropping from trembling fingers.

  Duncan

  The man standing in front of her was tall and thin, almost gaunt. He had a pleasant smile on a face that could have done with a wash and a shave. Hard, black eyes spoke of sly intelligence as his gaze slowly undressed her. Rusty sword drawn, he raised the tip to sit snuggly against her breast bone as she stood. His clothing was an eclectic mix of rough-sewn peasant garb with pieces of ill-fitting richer clothing here and there.

  “Well, you are a wonderful sight this fine afternoon. Did you escape Nethrus, too? We are going to have some fun with you,” he said, grinning rakishly at her. At the mention of Nethrus, images of bodies began flicking through Eleanor’s mind like an out of control slide projector, and with a sickening twist of her stomach she realised where this man had got his mismatched outfit from – he had stolen clothing from the dead. Her fear became terror. There were five, equally strangely dressed, half-starved wretches behind him, who sniggered and grinned, one of them licking his cracked lips as he stared at her. The man threatening her pulled his sword back and used the point to force her chin up. Eleanor took a step back, coming up against a tree trunk.

  “Nowhere to run, darling, but do not worry, we will be gentle,” the rogue said, closing the gap between them. He forced his mouth against hers and pushed his tongue inside while hands roamed across her body. Eleanor froze. Tasting alcohol and corruption on his breath, she wanted to fight back, wanted to stop him, but her mind refused to assist. All she could see were the faces of those she had killed. In desperation she bit down hard on his tongue, her mouth filling with blood as the man howled and wrenched himself free. He glared at Eleanor for a moment before punching her violently to the ground, pain pulsing flashing lights behind her eyes and leaving her momentarily blinded.

  “Leave her alone, Nic, this is not right,” a trembling voice spoke up.

  As Eleanor’s vision cleared, she watched the other four men step away from the one who appeared to have spoken, physically distancing themselves from his comment.

  Her attacker looked over his shoulder. “You pathetic excuse for a man,” he snarled.

  Hoping to take advantage of the distraction, Eleanor attempted to stand, but Nic turned back to her and delivered a hefty kick to her ribs.

  “Stay there, girl, I will deal with you in a moment,” Nic snapped. Eleanor curled into the sharp pain that spread through her left side, gasping for breath.

  He turned back to the dissident member of his group. “You came to me and asked me to take you in, so you do as I say,” Nic said, a dangerously threatening growl piercing through the Dwarfish.

  “Thieves, that is what you said we were. I had no issue with that, but this is wrong. She is little more than a child, and I will not be part of this.”

  Without warning, Nic sprang forward, punching the man in the face with his sword hilt. He staggered back and Nic stabbed him forcefully in the gut with his sword. As he pulled the weapon free, the man dropped to his knees, eyes wide, and then toppled over, making a few agonised sobs before he lay silent and still. A cold, vicious smile on his face, Nic turned back to look at Eleanor.

  “I think I prefer to play rough,” he growled, spitting blood at her.

  His weight dropped on top of her and she struggled violently. He struck her across the face again and Eleanor felt his knees digging painfully into her thighs as he forced her legs apart. She twisted her body to the side, pushing the man off balance. Getting a leg free she drove it up between his legs, once, twice, and at the third blow the man let her go, rolling onto his back, gasping and clutching at himself. Eleanor scrambled away, trying to get to her feet. She was knocked back down by one of the other men who had moved behind her. Nic pulled himself up.

  “You are going to regret that,” he hissed.

  “Leave me alone or I will kill you,” Eleanor replied as calmly as she could manage. The men laughed. Eleanor felt her pain and fear evaporate as anger pounded through her brain and she welcomed it, its fiery heat removing the faces of those she had killed. The anger also brought a strange calm as she stared at the men, thinking of all the ways she could reduce them to gibbering wrecks. I want to kill them; I want to cause as much damage as possible. Shocked by her own bloodlust, Eleanor took a few deep breaths and felt the anger turning to rage, her body shaking as she tried to calm it down. She was allowed back to her feet as Nic moved towards her menacingly, his weapon pointing at her eyes. Feeling her control snap and recognising an opening, Eleanor grabbed his sword hand, snapping his wrist back with such force she heard the bones break. Then stepping forward she slammed her elbow up into his chin and cut off his agonised scream. She wrenched the sword from his hand, stepped round him and gave him a vicious side-kick to the knee, smiling as she heard bones crack there, too. He collapsed in a whimpering, sobbing heap.

  “I think I prefer it rough, too,” she growled at him as she thrust the blade between his ribs, through his heart and yanked it swiftly free. She weighted the sword in her hand; it was well made and would once have been a fine weapon. She swung it in lazy figures of eight around her body. Its two-handed grip was smooth and bound in supple red leather; it was worn, but fitted her fingers comfortably. It was well-balanced and offered a gentle flex down its length. The blade, however, had been neglected through sheer laziness; its once carefully honed edge was rough, pitted and rusty. No slashing then, just thrusting stabs. This suited her perfectly. The other men were looking at her apprehensively. One behind her drew his sword carefully, considering his options, while the others just seemed content to watch. Idiots, you’d have more of a chance if you came at me together. He raised his sword in a clumsy overhead attack. Why is he moving so slowly? Eleanor twisted lightly, the sword dropping down behind her back, the stranger falling forward. Spinning, she repositioned the blade as she moved, bringing the point down hard into the back of his neck and pushing through the spine. The weight of his dead body falling released the sword’s red glistening length and Eleanor turned round to face the remaining men. Finally catching on that they should stick together, the two on the right rushed her. One aimed at her skull, the other her stomach. She deflected the blade inches from her abdomen and dropped low as the other sword whistled over her head. From this angle she was able to sweep one man’s legs out from under him, kicking him in the face as he met the ground and breaking his nose. As she rose she jammed her sword’s point into the other man’s groin, watching his face distort into a soundless scream and not feeling the slightest flicker of remorse. As he doubled over she used her foot on his shoulder to pull the blade free with a slurping, squishy sound. He collapsed, twitching weakly, blood quickly pooling between his legs, and then ceased moving altogether. Must have hit an artery. The thought was detached, her observations clinical, and the only emotion she felt was her pulsing rage. She thrust her sword, without looking, through the neck of the man still clutching his broken nose. He let loose a gurgling gasp that dropped to a sort of whimpering, then silence. Stepping over his dead body she faced the last man standing. She casually flicked the sword down its length, creating a fine spray of blood on the forest detritus at her feet. As she was not intending to use the blade to slash, it would make no improvement to the weapon’s efficiency, but she was well aware of the impact the cold, precise movement would have on her final enemy. His eyes grew wide in his already frightened face, and shrieking he dropped his weapon and ran. Eleanor briefly contemplated throwing her sword through his back, but Conlan’s mantra – ‘Never willingly let go of your weapon’ – ran though her head. These six might not be the only refugees from Nethrus roaming the woods. So she watched him run.


  It was a moment before the roar of battle left her and a movement on the edge of her vision told her she was being watched. She turned and found Conlan staring at her with his usual unreadable expression. Bet he’s thinking of all the mistakes I made. She felt guilt simmering beneath the surface at the carnage she had caused, but she swallowed it down. It was like drinking acid. I’m not going to apologise to him any more for being what he has created. Keeping her face as hard and as calm as possible, she moved towards him, stooping to pick up the flowers she had collected. As she walked past, she looked him in the eye.

  “Still think I need protecting?” she hissed. The look of shock, distress and disappointment on his face gave her such a strong feeling of satisfaction it was almost worth all the guilt she was going to feel for killing a bunch of incompetent, disorganised, half-starved morons. She stepped round him and walked back to the camp. Conlan did not follow and Eleanor tried hard to hold on to the feeling that she did not care. Will, Freddie and Amelia were halfway through building a large three-sided shelter when she arrived; they looked surprised that she had come back alone.

  “Did Conlan find you?” Freddie asked. “He wasn’t impressed you’d wandered off by yourself.”

  “Yes, Conlan found me,” Eleanor said, noticing Amelia eyeing the bloody sword in horror.

  Will looked with alarm at the sword and the crimson streaks that covered her hands and arms. “You didn’t kill him, did you?” he asked, not entirely in jest. Eleanor felt the ghost of a smile drift across her face at the joke and handed the plants over to Will.

  “Chew the roots; it will help with the headache,” she said quietly. Will looked down in surprise.

  “You found lepdrac? How did you know about this?”

  Eleanor shrugged. “Conlan told me,” she said flatly.

  “What happened?” Freddie asked, his gaze travelling from the sword to her bruised face and then to her eyes.

  Eleanor shook her head and walked away, heading towards the stream. She felt numb, as if someone had shoved a sword through her, and she was just waiting for the agony. The stream ran past lazily, and she dropped to her knees at its edge. Rubbing the gore off her hands she cupped them and sipping the clear, cold water she washing the taste of blood out of her mouth. The incriminating red stains continued up her sleeves and she wanted it off. Leaning forward she plunged her arms into the water’s icy depths, watching as the steady flow dragged the blood away with it, spreading dark clouds through the water for a moment before it cleared. The cold water was numbing her hands and arms to match the rest of her – and it felt right. She had killed them, just like she had killed the people of Nethrus; killed another four men, just because she could. The rage had made her want to kill them. She wanted the world to see how she felt inside, to have someone else experience her pain. Her anger had made her powerful and able to deal with looking at Conlan; her anger was a wall which had kept him out. She remembered the distress and disappointment she had seen in his eyes. He gave you a gift, the ability to protect yourself and to defend others, and you betrayed him. She shied away from that thought, pushing it deep inside her along with her guilt and all the other emotions that threatened to drop her into sobbing hysteria. He would not see her weeping and full of remorse. I am stronger than this. She smiled as the thought made her feel stronger; anger was a way to deal with her hurt. She heard movement behind her and grabbed her sword. She spun round into a crouch, flexed and ready to pounce, if necessary. Freddie stared at her, fear on his face.

  “What happened?” he asked again.

  Eleanor allowed herself to relax ever so slightly as she stood and calmly returned his gaze.

  “I met a few would-be rapists and killed them.”

  Freddie’s eyes grew wider. “How many?”

  “Six attackers, I left four dead.” Eleanor felt the guilt crash against her as she recited her crime, but the wall she had created held; she would not have to deal with the guilt just yet. Freddie stared at her but said nothing. She pushed past him, heading back to the camp, but she stopped short as the trees opened into the clearing. Conlan was walking into the camp from the other side, the body of one of her attackers, the one who had spoken out, resting over his shoulders. What’s he brought the body here for? He knelt down and gently lowered his burden to the ground in front of the shelter. As he did so, the man moaned and clutched at the wound in his stomach. He’s still alive. Her anger came surging back and removed all her guilt. She welcomed the feeling, he would pay for attacking her. Coming up behind her, Freddie gasped.

  “Make that four dead and one soon to be dead,” Eleanor murmured, marching forward.

  “Who’s that?” Will was asking Conlan.

  “A survivor. I’m going to need your help burying the other bodies,” Conlan muttered.

  “Bodies? A survivor of what?” Will asked, confused.

  “Me,” Eleanor said.

  Conlan turned to stare at her and she glared back, feeling the anger fill her with strength.

  “You left him for dead,” Conlan said.

  “My mistake,” Eleanor sneered. “But one I can fix.”

  She matched towards the injured man, raising her sword. He was conscious and saw her coming. Holding out a blood-stained hand in a pitiful attempt to defend himself, he whimpered, tears carving rivers into his dirty face. She brought the sword down, aiming at his head. It was not a subtle blow. She had not wanted it to be, as she did not want the man’s death added to her list of crimes, but to keep herself in one piece she must keep the anger going, must fuel it. If she was slow and clumsy in her attack, perhaps one of the others would stop her. As her blade sliced through the air, another weapon came up to meet it, stopping it an inch short of the trembling man’s head with the resounding clamour of striking metal. Eleanor recognised the blade and turned slowly to face Conlan, green eyes iridescent with fury. Silently she stepped back into the open, away from the injured man and the fire, giving herself room to manoeuvre. She raised her sword, waiting.

  “I don’t want to fight you, Eleanor,” Conlan said, although his twitching sword hand indicated otherwise.

  Eleanor narrowed her eyes.

  “Afraid I might beat you?”

  He did not rise to the taunt but just stared back at her passively. This pushed Eleanor’s anger up another notch. It felt good to be this strong, not a pathetic wailing woman weeping over a broken heart. She moved back threateningly towards the injured man. Conlan stepped between them, raising his sword.

  “You’ll regret this,” he cautioned quietly.

  She smiled grimly. “I’m not really in the regretting mood.”

  She sprang towards him, feigning a thrust to his face. The point of her weapon heading for his eyes, Conlan was forced to react by blocking the blade. As he did, Eleanor pushed her arms out, slapping his sword to the side. If her blade had been sharp she would have pulled back and sliced into his neck. A killing blow if she had the aim right, but with the blade’s dull, rusty edge she was forced to swing it back as a blunt instrument. Using her hand on the hilt as a fulcrum she flicked the pommel of the sword away from her, the see-saw motion snapping the blade back towards Conlan. A hammer blow to the side of his head. She felt the impact vibrate along the blade’s length. He staggered back, dropping to one knee, his body slumping and stopping himself collapsing completely with his outstretched sword hand. His body trembled as he pushed the palm of his other hand into his scalp. He looked shocked when it came away streaked in blood. Eleanor felt cold, hard victory course through her body as she held her sword comfortably in a relaxed two-handed grip and stared at Conlan. There was no pity, no mercy, no guilt. All those cumbersome, painful emotions were buried deep inside. His sword hand was supporting his body. He was kneeling, vulnerable. She moved cautiously towards him and placed the tip of her blade against his throat. He stared up at her, his eyes unfocused. Slowly he stood, leaving his weapon at her feet; she let him up but kept the blade tip resting against his skin.

&nb
sp; “You want me dead? Do it,” he said, his voice empty and the hard, unreadable expression back on his face.

  “You really shouldn’t tempt me,” Eleanor said, surprised by the menace she could hear in her voice. Who am I? What am I doing? She saw movement in her peripheral vision. It’s a distraction. She quickly took several steps away from Conlan, swinging her weapon to the right as Will came towards her, his open hands held out to the sides in a universal sign of surrender. However, Conlan had not surrendered, and as Eleanor turned to face Will, her sword raised, he charged her. Eleanor caught his movement, and as he launched himself she dropped her sword, grabbed both his arms and rolled back onto the ground, pulling him down with her. She curled her legs into her chest and planted her feet firmly into his stomach, and as he came up over her head she pushed out hard with her legs, releasing her grip on him. He sailed over her, crashing into and through a group of saplings ten feet across the clearing. She continued her movement, rolling over her shoulder and back onto her feet into a crouch, grabbing her sword again as she did. She brought the point back to face Will, who had frozen, staring at her in utter amazement.

  “Eleanor? It’s OK, calm down,” Will said quietly.

  “I’m perfectly calm, thank you!” she snapped, jumping to her feet. There was a groan from the trees into which Eleanor had flung Conlan, and both she and Will turned to look. The trees trembled and rustled as Conlan hauled himself up, using a snapped tree trunk for support.