Bishta the Black

by Jada Fisher

  “We gather here with somber, confused and hurting hearts.”

  Dorrick scoffed and rolled his eyes. Thankfully not loud enough to elicit a hit from the knight at his back. But what a load of dog crap. Vanter Vane didn’t have a heart, and he wasn’t confused in the least.

  “We lose comrades to the wilds all the time. It is always tragic, but not unexpected, and we as Knights of Al-Sevara and the Order of the Red Flame sign up for this. We know the risk. We put our lives on the line to defend our great city and her interests. At any moment out here, we can get cut down by the monsters that inhabit these wilds. We know this. We expect this.”

  He took a deep breath to feign his grief in struggling to say the next part. Dorrick hadn’t thought that his hatred for this man could get any deeper, but it did.

  “We are not, however, usually prepared for what has happened in these last few days. Our own brothers and sisters killed, not by a monster, not by savages or spirits, but by the blade of a comrade, a traitor to our cause and to humankind.”

  A normal mob would have started yelling, cursing, lobbing rotten fruit and trash at Dorrick, but there would be none of that with Vanter Vane present. Dorrick was almost upset over it. He would have preferred their open hatred, but this cold silence was somehow worse.

  His father paused and cast a glare back at him, his face full of abject disappointment. Dorrick kept his eyes forward, fixed on a random tree in the distance, but he felt the weight of the commander’s stare, of all their eyes, like a mountain upon his shoulders. He wouldn’t let his gaze fall on them. He kept his chin up and his tears at bay and his arms from trembling. His fingernails dug into his palms, drawing blood, as he worked to keep his composure.

  “Sir Dorrick Vane,” his father’s voice rang, and hearing his name on the man’s lips made him want to puke. “A knight of renown. Well loved by many. Myself included.”

  Oh, such callous and obvious lies!

  “By his own incompetence and decisions, he got his own comrades killed, and for that, he was banished.”

  Stay calm, Dorrick. Stay calm.

  “He let us all down, but none of us expected him to be seduced by wildling witches, to come and consort with the tree folk savages. In doing so, he has killed his former brothers and sisters, and he is a traitor to our order, our city, and our very species. Today, he will pay for his crimes with the noose, along with his witch lover.”

  Dorrick almost laughed at that last bit. If only his father knew how preposterous that statement was. He could feel Shandi’s eyes on him, but it was with pity and sorrow, and he didn’t want it. He looked at her and offered a smirk. The look of one friend to another. He was grateful for the training and mentorship she’d given him, for opening his eyes and leading him down a path that he was proud of.

  If he was to die, he was okay with dying side by side with her. He would keep his head held high and defiant along with her.

  “Today,” his father said, turning fully to him, but his voice still booming for all to hear. “Today I sentence you to death, as befits one so treacherous as yourself.”

  Dorrick finally allowed his gaze to fall, to see the man who he once called father. There was nothing in those eyes. Just a cold, lifeless gaze devoid of compassion, seemingly devoid of a soul.

  Vanter Vane raised his arm above his head. As he did, the knights behind Dorrick pulled down the nooses and slipped them around his and Shandi’s necks. He trembled slightly, despite his best efforts, his heart hammering against his chest.

  This was it.

  He looked at Shandi, and he was startled when he saw her eyes glistening with true fear. It hit him like a warhammer to the skull, seeing this mountain of a woman leveled low by the fear of death. Every person had their limit, and this was hers.

  So, Dorrick gulped. He just hoped that it would be quick. Maybe it would be for him. Maybe he was heavy enough that the rope would snap his neck immediately and put a quick end to him. Unfortunately, Shandi wouldn’t have that blessing.

  He took a deep breath.

  Vanter Vane’s eyes flicked to the headsman, who nodded in Dorrick’s peripherals.

  Dorrick’s heart stopped.

  The commander’s arm dropped. The young knight closed his eyes and readied himself for the inevitable end.

  That end didn’t come.

  A whoosh sounded over his head, followed by sickening thud and a loud cry from the headsman. Dorrick’s eyes shot open, and he looked over in time to see it. An arrow.

  An arrow.

  The shaft stuff out of the headsman’s neck in the brief space between his black hood and the start of his chest-plate. Blood bloomed from the wound, dark and horrible, flowing down his silvery armor in angry red torrents.

  Then he pitched forward, dead too fast.

  The entire crowd held its breath in shock. Even the indominable Vanter Vane, a man who prided himself in always being in control of a situation, stared with a shocked gaze, his eyes wide, wild, and full of something bubbling to the service: unbridled rage. But he didn’t let it out, not yet. He was too stunned. As was everyone else.

  It was only when the second arrow hit that people seemed to snap out of it. And the third arrow, the fourth, fifth, sixth.

  They fell one after another, dozens of them. Some fell harmlessly to the ground, while others pinged off armor or inflicted minor wounds. But most hit their marks, and knights started to drop.

  He looked south, to the direction of the arrows, but he saw nothing, just a tree line bathed in early morning shadows. But he knew the tree folk must have been in there.

  The knights snapped into action, drawing swords, axes, hammers, shields, and even bows. But it would make little difference. Running to the woods would have been foolhardy, and no human archer would be able to hit the hidden tree folk. Everyone ran for cover. Vanter Vane barked orders in a rage. Dorrick actually grinned. It was nice to see him so rattled.

  As the chaos ensued, Dorrick tried to wriggle free from the noose, but it was too tight around his neck. A quick glance to his right told him that Shandi had been unsuccessful as well. They just had to wait this out and hope that a stray arrow didn’t hit them. The tree folk were expert archers, but even they couldn’t stop the wind from carrying an arrow awry.

  After a minute of unbridled chaos, a good twenty to thirty knights lay dead, dying, or gravely wounded. The rest had either run to the safety of the camp or were hidden behind shields or the gallows. Vanter Vane held a massive shield that was almost as tall as he was, and his grimace could frighten a demon. Dorrick wanted to laugh at the sight.

  Finally, the arrows stopped falling, as there were no more targets. No easy ones anyway. The valley held its breath.

  Suddenly, a lone figure appeared out of the southern tree line. A girl, and not a tree folk one. She had golden skin that almost seemed to glimmer in the sunlight, and—to Dorrick’s shock—appeared to wear minimal clothing. What is with these wild women and an aversion to clothes?

  But there was one thing obvious about her that made him hold his breath with hope. In her right hand was a long, brightly-colored staff, the color of salmon. With a start, he realized who she had to be.

  The Sage of the Seas.

  And as if reading his thoughts, she clutched the staff to her chest for a moment before jamming the base of it into the ground. From that, a massive wave of water materialized out of the earth, brown water that looked as if she’d called for all the water within the ground. Maybe she had.

  The wave was too fast, too large, too strong to avoid. The knights began to run for the safety of the camp, but the wave knocked into them and swept them away to the north and west ends of the valley. Their screams echoed in the morning air.

  Dorrick’s heart raced, and he couldn’t help a smile. Maybe he would survive this after all.

  The wave also rocked the gallows, and for a second, he thought the hastily-built structure would crumble before the magical wave, but it held firm, though the swaying made hi
m trip and had the noose cutting into his throat before he managed to stand erect again.

  As the wave retreated, the battlefield was awash with blood and bodies and a few knights that staggered about, dazed and injured and coughing up water. Had they won? Was it that easy?

  But Dorrick knew it was too good to be true.

  Movement caught his eye coming up the opposite steps onto the gallows. His head turned, and he saw a furious and soaked Vanter Vane lumbering toward him. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead and a trail of blood ran down the middle of his face. He had a slight limp, perhaps from the wave throwing him around, but the commander didn’t let that deter him.

  His father looked at him, eyes wide with hatred, disgust, and virtually every other negative emotion a human could feel. It was so twisted, far beyond what any human should look like. Dorrick gasped.

  “You are no son of mine,” his father growled.

  Dorrick spat at him and threw a string of curses too. “No one would want to be.”

  But those words probably weren’t wise even if they were true, because Vanter gripped the lever that controlled the trapdoor, and his sneer was wide and triumphant.

  “Your savages and witches might win this day, but you will be a stain upon this world no more.”

  An arrow came out of nowhere, hitting the commander in the armpit—the space between his chest-plate and arm guards. It was enough to make him cry out and fall back, but his grip didn’t falter. His weight pulled the lever with him.

  The trapdoor opened. Dorrick fell. The noose cut into his throat.

  Dorrick had been choked before. They’d learned chokeholds and other fighting techniques long ago when they learned hand-to-hand combat. His instructors had come damn close to making him pass out, but they always let up. This was nothing like that. This was like a collar of molten iron being clasped around his throat.

  The burn was incredible, and he gasped as his throat and lungs desperately searched for air that would not come. He thrashed, but there was no helping his situation. So much for the quick and painless way out. No, his end would be an agonizing struggle. He noticed Shandi struggling in his peripherals, but he really couldn’t put too much thought into her, as much as he wanted to. His body and mind were focused fully on his own doom.

  Black spots began to swim in his vision. Beyond, he saw another tremendous wave of water wash over the bodies and what knights remained. It washed them all the way to the stables, where knights were doing their best to mount their horses. The wave tore through the tents, and it was clear that the order had lost this battle and lost it bad.

  At the end of the day, they were nothing next to a sage’s magic.

  It was unclear to Dorrick what happened to the commander. He hoped that arrow had killed him, or that the wave would drown him, but he doubted it. That man was stubborn beyond belief, and Dorrick was not lucky enough.

  It didn’t matter. The young Vane was at his end.

  This is it, he lamented as his vision faded and the blackness started to creep in. He remembered those general feeling from his training, but this time, he couldn’t tap out. There wasn’t an ally to help him.

  Somehow, he smiled. Sorry, everyone. They’d come so close to rescuing him—Ash, the tree folk, and the Sage of the Seas—but he couldn’t hold on any longer.

  As he faded completely into that cold embrace, he became vaguely aware of shouting, of someone saying his name. There was a sudden feeling of relief as the burning and choking of his throat ceased, and then he was falling for a second.

  Huh, someone must have rescued me after all. But it was still too late. He still felt his mind slipping into the darkness. He must have been dying, because when his body hit the ground, he didn’t feel a single thing. Everything went dark.

  Take care, everyone. Finish the mission.

  And then, he greeted the darkness.

  14

  Dorrick

  The young knight didn’t die. He thought he did, but as his senses slowly returned to him, and the pain with it, he deduced that there was still some life in him.

  He still couldn’t breathe, but he had the sense that someone was trying to help him with that.

  His senses came back to him slowly. the smell of wet soil, of blood, and of flowers. The sound of chatter. Exhausted words and laughter and worried crying and other whispers. The feeling of the intensely-humid air that on its own threatened to choke him. The taste of sweat, of the humidity. Of sap…

  That’s when he felt it: the brush of a soft mouth over his own, someone giving the breath of life to him, the sticky feel of their amber tears on his cheek and mouth. Finally, his eyes shot open as he coughed violently. His throat roared with relief and pain all at once, but he was alive.

  Ash’yali knelt over him, and when he awakened, sappy tears spilled down her rough, bark-like cheeks. He was never so happy to see someone in his life. His cheeks stretched to contain his smile.

  “Hey,” he said weakly. His voice was hoarse, and it hurt to speak. He hoped his throat wasn’t permanently damaged. The pain was immense and there was no way that he would ever forget this. The scars would be a permanent reminder.

  With a happy half-giggle/half-sob, Ash smiled, swiped at her tears, and threw her arms around him. It hurt more than it should have. His body was beyond sore, and he was on day who-knew of not having food or water. Despite this, when she wrapped her lichen-covered arms around him, he smiled, cried, and held her close.

  I’m alive!

  When she finally pulled back and leaned back on her heels, Dorrick finally got a look around him. He was surrounded by dozens of tree folk—the same group of warriors that he’d led into battle only a few days before. Half of them stood around the young knight and were relieved. Others rested or retrieved arrows.

  Dorrick turned to the camp. The gallows were the only thing still standing. The tents were either in ruins or gone, and there was no one left. Only bodies and a field soaked with water and blood remained.

  So, it was over. They’d won. Dorrick let out a sigh and fell back, arms out, his head resting against the wet grass. The sky was getting brighter with the morning, and the air was even more humid. His clothes stuck grossly to him like a second skin, and that was just from sweat. He hadn’t gotten wet from the magical wave.

  “Well, we made it,” he said. Speaking hurt, but it was getting better. When he sat up again, his eyes scanned the crowd around him and stopped when they settled on a familiar face.

  Tuni.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she looked shocked, tired, dirty, like she’d traveled years. She raced to his side, and she had a noticeable limp as she held a hand against her side, but he didn’t have time to ponder that as she tackled him. That probably didn’t feel good for either of them, but he didn’t care.

  Her fingers gripped his shirt tightly and her arms were surprisingly strong, far more so than he remembered. Or maybe he was just so weak. Yeah, that was probably it.

  Her beads and trinkets pressed against his chest, and some of them didn’t feel all too good, but he ignored that like the rest. This felt too good, to have his friend back again, alive and well. More or less.

  She pulled away but kept her hands gripped on his shoulders. Tears cut lines down her cheeks, and her teal eyes glistened and shimmered like gemstones.

  “You scared me, you idiot,” she said, her voice warbly.

  His cheeks heated. “Yeah, me too. I didn’t think I’d make it for a minute.” A tear came to his eye and a crazy laugh escaped him as his body came to terms with how close he’d actually been to death. Only a few seconds more and there may have been no saving him. His hand rose to his neck and felt the tender, ruined flesh there. It was painful and rough to the touch. He knew it would become a permanent reminder of the horrific day where the man he once called father tried to hang him, and the men and women he once called family had watched.

  But Dorrick didn’t want to forget, no matter how much it would haunt hi
m. This would be a lesson. Something he could draw on.

  With a sad smile, he gestured for them to help him to his feet. Tuni and Ash each took a hand and pulled him up, though both had to strain. Even sans his armor, Dorrick was thickly muscled and heavy, and Tuni and Ash were not exactly built for lifting things.

  Once he was on his feet, shaky as he may have been, he spotted someone lying on the ground nearby, and it took him no time at all to recognize their dark gold brown skin and long silky hair, the green runic symbols painted on their exposed limbs.

  Shandi.

  He raced to her side, ignoring the aches in his bones and all his discomforts. He practically slid to his knees and loomed over her. Tuni and Ash were right behind him, though he startled the tree folk woman that knelt on the other side of the unconscious sage’s assistant.

  Shandi laid on a stretcher of wood and straw that the tree folk must have cobbled together. Large circular leaves were plastered to her face, over her left eye, covering her whole forehead, another on her cheek, and small pieces covering her lips and nose. Some sort of clear gel seemed to hold it all in place.

  Dorrick almost cried looking at her. She was still covered in dried blood, and now her neck was a mess of shiny burnt skin and bruises, but she was breathing. She was alive.

  Tuni came to his side and slid her hand into his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “She was passed out, same as you. Asoka brought her back, but she’s too weak right now to use healing magic on you or Shandi. So for now, the tree folk used some Aca leaves and Valoie gel to soothe and heal her wounds.”

  “Will it work?” he asked. He didn’t take his eyes off that stubborn, beautiful, stoic witch. “She’ll be okay?”

  “I think she will, yeah. There’s lots of cuts and bruises, but nothing too serious. She has a broken nose, but I popped that back in place.”

  Dorrick cringed. “That sounds awful.”