Dockalfar

by Nunn, PL

  It creaked and swayed under their weight. But held. The ogre followed with his own outsized mount. There was a mighty protest of wood and vine, but the bridge held fast, which relieved the mind of it ever falling if it could support that combined weight.

  Only Alex, Victoria, the spriggan and the sandstone colored form of the assassin were left. The spriggan urged them forward, taking Victoria’s arm and pulling her onto the bridge. Alex glanced back at the assassin, who, against the backdrop of sky and clearing was not difficult to discern. Dusk had paused and was staring across the gorge into the forest. There was no expression on what Alex could see of the face, but there was something in the body that tensed. Alex stopped, three steps out onto the bridge, following the assassin’s stare. He could see nothing but foliage and undergrowth. The horses milled quietly on the far side, the goblins were arguing again, or plotting amongst themselves.

  Victoria and the spriggan were almost across. There was a sudden, hard hand in his back and a level whispered.

  “Go.” The first word the assassin had actually spoken to him.

  He turned questioningly. “What?”

  “Go.” More urgent. Something hit the wood at his feet. Something fletched in green feathers. An arrow. Then suddenly there were a shower of them and he was flinging himself down in reflex, being half way across a bridge with no hope of cover. There were screams from the other side, and when he looked up a sudden swarm of black bodies erupted from the wood, wielding axes and daggers. The ogre bellowed and rushed forward. He had arrows in his leathery hide. He ignored them.

  Alex searched for Victoria. Found her pale form between the horses. He started to go to his knees, but Dusk was scrambling over him, light and graceful, no doubt discomforted that the bridge offered him little in the way of camouflage.

  The bridge shuddered. There were gnomes at the far end. Evil, grinning mouths and small heads on misshapen bodies. The canines in those gaping mouths were sharp and no doubt used to tearing flesh. The bridge shuddered again, more violently, and cables that were attached to stone supports let loose, almost as if they had been designed to be released easily and upon need.

  Alex might have kept his hold, half lying down as he was, but the jar of the bridge slamming against the far wall of the ravine and the impact of the assassin who had not been holding on, tore him free and sent him spinning past featureless rock towards a too narrow span of river.

  He hit water, barely missing a rocky outcropping. He went under with too much violence and lost what breath he had. He gasped water and struggled hysterically when it filled his lungs.

  Drowning. Drowning. He drowned in his nightmares, in an ocean that was no less turbulent that this unearthly river. He spasmed and kicked for the surface, hit a rock and scraped flesh raw on it, but clung to it and pulled himself up. Gasping air, spitting out fluid, he had barely found relief when he was ripped away from his buoy and cast into the rapids. He fought to keep the surface. He was a good swimmer, even though he had developed somewhat of a phobia for water. But this river was meant for nothing so much as a means of breaking and reducing debris that dared its realm into meaningless matter.

  Alex went under again. He clawed frantically and found softness and fabric.

  He pulled it up with him, heavy, lifeless and limp. Recognizable as nothing but dark, soaked layers of material. But he knew what was under it. He contemplated releasing it back to the arms of the river.

  Maybe the sacrifice would be enough to win his own freedom if lady river was feeling kind. He thought about working to end a jealousy that had been building all day. He was not a stranger to killing, not unlike what he held afloat in his arms. He had deaths on his conscience in the name of war. And this one was probably already gone. Drowned or hit upon rocks Alex had barely avoided. One less foe for him to contend with in a friendless world.

  He could not let go. He held on and let the river carry him and his burden and finally came up hard against an outcropping of rock on the northern side.

  The breath left him again, and he hugged the rock in relief as it returned. Then hauled his battered body up onto a rocky, narrow shelf, pulled the assassin up after him and collapsed, tangled with cloth and limbs that were not his own. He breathed deep, eyes closed and finally sat up as it occurred to him to check and see if what he had fished out of the river was actually alive. He struggled to pull the assassin the rest of the way onto the shelf, turned him over and peeled wet cloth off of a face that was still and ashen. Skin color was not so far from his own, and great, long tendrils of hair that could have been any color, wet as it was, covered slack features. Drenched and unconscious, Dusk seemed to have little ability to camouflage himself. Alex leaned an ear close and listened for breath. There was none. There was a rivulet of blood that crept along one temple. It began at the hair line, deep red paling as it spread, diluted with water.

  “All right,” he murmured to himself, garnering courage and hefted Dusk over onto his stomach.

  Without the burden of wet clothes he might have been surprisingly light. Alex went about trying to force water from lungs, hard pushes that pumped a good deal of river from between the assassin’s lips. Satisfied with his efforts he flipped him back over and checked for breath, found none and with a great sigh for his own efforts to revive an enemy, proceeded to force some of his own breath into uncooperative lungs. That received better results. With a sputtering cough, Dusk threw out an arm, attempting weakly to push Alex off of him. Alex caught the wrist and after a bit of searching through folds of wet cloak imprisoned the other. The bones were narrow and the hands long and fine. He flung a leg over Dusk’s waist and straddled him, not inclined to give away what advantage he had over a half-drowned assassin. The eyes that blinked up at him were gray specked with green, wide and bewildered. That was fine, he hoped the knock on the head had totally addled the assassin’s wits.

  “I want some answers,” he ground out. “And I want them now. Understand?”

  The eyes continued to stare. The ragged breath became a little stronger.

  “What the hell is going on? Why did you bring us here?”

  Some color had returned to Dusk’s face, some reflexive attempt to blend with the stone under him. His body was placid under Alex. No resistance, just labored breaths that were becoming steadier and quieter. And no answer. Alex shook him in frustration.

  “God damn it, tell me!” He suddenly found himself off balance and flying into the jumble of rocks in front of him. He hit, cursed and awkwardly tried to regain his balance before the assassin could gain his.

  He need not have bothered. Dusk was doing nothing more than crouching in the spot where he had lain, eyeing Alex warily. His hair hung in tendrils over his face, falling almost to the ground in his kneeling position. He reminded Alex of a wild animal, of the damned gulun cub when it was roused. A cornered wild beast that was in no wise safe to trifle with. Alex rubbed his shoulder where he had hit the rock, glaring at Dusk.

  “Fine,” he spat. “Don’t tell me. See if I save your life again.”

  The assassin glanced back at the river, then once more returned his gaze to Alex. Slowly he lifted a hand to his head, brought it away stained with his blood.

  There was the whisper of a tremor in the slim fingers. The lids lowered, black lashes trembling on pale cheeks. If he passed out, Alex thought, he’d truss him hand and foot then see how sharp his claws were. But the eyes opened after a moment, and the body relaxed. The assassin sat down, with his arms resting on his knees. He stared at Alex disconcertingly, almost uneasily. Finally he said, in that low silk on silk voice of his, “I am in your debt.”

  Alex stared at him for a moment, then threw out one hand in exasperation.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I owe you my life.” Carefully spoken, like a man walking across glass.

  “What you choose to take in return is your choice.”

  “All right. I can deal with that. Answer my questions. “


  The assassin shook his head. “Those questions are not mine to answer. I cannot betray my master in repayment to you.”

  “Then I can’t think of a damn thing for you to do, since I’ve the feeling your master and me are at cross purposes.”

  The assassin nodded, looked up and around at the cliff wall towering over them. He ran his hand though his mane of wet hair which might have been golden, or red or umber. He gathered the mass of it and pulled it over one shoulder, again reminding Alex of an animal that was totally unaware of just how striking it was. It merely was.

  “I’ll tell you what you can do for me,” Alex said in a fit of petulance. “You can keep far away from Victoria.”

  Dusk turned his eyes, gray now with centers of brown, upon him with mild curiosity. He shrugged. “As you wish.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Part Three

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Ten razor sharp pins were impaling Victoria’s chest and shoulders, yet she hardly noticed the pain. The screams of combat, inhuman screams that pierced the air around her, held all of her attention.

  She huddled between the horses, clutching a hissing gulun cub, pressing her face against slick horse fur and slicker saddle leather.

  The screaming was too much. She had never heard its like. Never heard screams of pain, or seen contest of such bloody mayhem in all her sheltered life.

  None of the filtered stories she had watched of the war had ever seemed so horrible or so real. Nothing Alex had ever told her of his experiences had the shocking brutality of a battle ax cleaving through flesh. She wanted to cry, to huddle amongst the mulling, terrified horses and wish it all away. She wanted Alex with his arms around her, shielding her from the world, like he always did. But he was lost to her in the melee. So were the spriggan and the goblins, dubious sources of support at best. All she could see from her vantage was the ogre clearing the area about him with a war ax every bit as tall as she was.

  Limbs flew, blood coated the earth.

  Her virgin eyes wide and horrified at the carnage, yet she could not get away.

  Phoebe squirmed in her arms and fought for freedom. Victoria clamped her close like a shield.

  Then there were hands on her from behind, rough and hurtful. She screamed and twisted, kicking out, hair all but blinding her. A horrible, gnarled face thrust itself into her vision. The hands shook her. The twisted mouth was calling her names, yelling at her to shut up. In utmost shock, she realized she was in the clutches of the spriggan. Her screams reduced to whimpers.

  “Get up,” he snarled. He was bloody.

  His dagger had seen use. He urged her at the horse, hands on embarrassing places.

  One handed she pulled herself up, holding desperately to Phoebe. The spriggan hit the horse hard and it bolted. He was after her on the other, screeching at the top of his lungs. A goblin darted in her path. The horse trampled it, hardly pausing in its flight. The forest encompassed her. She bent low over her mount’s neck, not having the least bit of control over it.

  Things dropped out of the trees at her.

  Missing her miraculously, clawing at her as they passed. She closed her eyes. If only she could close her ears to the sounds and her body to the feel. Then she would be safe and content.

  But blessedly the screams and the solid sounds of blades breaking flesh and bone receded, lost to the thunder of horse’s hooves in soft earth, the whimpering mewing of the cub, and her own ragged breath. She was as thoughtless as the animal she rode, panic overwhelming rational. She was so new to this game of violence and flight. Hunter and prey. Victim and victimizer. She was the archetypal underdog, the helpless female who neither understood the iron fist of man and violence or how to deal with it. She had always been the sheltered one.

  Father, brother, Alex. There was no room in her for initiating her own defense.

  She let the horse have its head. There was no other choice.

  Her mount slowed. She crept up, hesitantly, terrified of what might meet her eyes. There was only forest. Green and dappled and dimming with the retreat of sun. The path was dark ahead, shadows more intense than they had been on other nights in this place. The heaving animals walked for some time. Silence. Even the cub had quit its complaining and lay quietly against her. Absently she stroked its fur. The spriggan rode in front of her, head constantly turning to glare at one forest noise or another. After a long while she gathered the courage to break the silence.

  “Alex? Where is he?”

  “How should I know?” the little man snapped. “Dead. Goblin dinner. We’ll be the same if you don’t shut up.”

  She shuddered, lowering her head to breath into gulun fur. There was the faint pounding of hooves from behind them.

  Heavy sound of labored horse breath.

  Bashru twisted in his saddle to watch down the path. The great tan form of the ogre’s mount came into view. The slumped mass that was the ogre itself astride. She looked behind him for more riders. None came. No goblins, no Alex.

  “Might be gnomes on the northern side,” the ogre snarled. “Damned Ciagenii assassin! Hope his hide’s used as a gnome footmat.”

  The ogre and the spriggan exchanged a long meaningful gaze.

  “Master’s going ta be vexed, for sure,” Bashru predicted. “Skin our hides maybe.”

  The ogre’s face creased into a network of valleys and crevices. The small, bovine eyes turned on Victoria.

  “Still have her.”

  “Pah! A female. Worthless. It was the male he wanted. She’s just a tasty snack.”

  Zakknr pondered this, as far as an ogre pondered anything, then shrugged. The leather of his harness creaked.

  “All we have. Man went down with the assassin. If Dusk is any use at all, maybe he’ll bring him back.”

  Victoria wanted very much to scream at them. To demand to know what they were talking about. To know who the ‘Master’ was and most importantly to know what had happened to Alex. The desire went no further than her mind. Her mouth refused to cooperate. All she could do was stare wordlessly.

  “What about the insects?” the spriggan inquired.

  “Gnome food,” Zakknr replied.

  Bashru chuckled. “Serves ‘em right.”

  She could not stand it. Could not deal with the horror. She blocked them out. Just ceased to hear their banter and stared at the forest, and melted with the rhythm of her mount. Cricket sounds and night birds and some things that her foreign mind could not identify. Those were her companions. The purrs of the cub sleeping in her lap. She stoked it gently. She watched the lights of fireflies blink off and on within the deepest shadow of the forest. Beautiful. There was a rainbow of colors in those brief and brilliant lights. A symphonic method to the madness, like a very quiet, but well thought out fireworks display. It was the most wonderful thing. It was a serenade of sorts for harassed nerves. It made her forget. The lights drifted closer, retaining their glow for longer, then winking out. She smiled to see it. At the size of the fireflies. One flared right beside her and she gasped, momentarily blinded. Then her eyes adjusted and she found herself staring bemusedly into the glow. The firefly waved at her. Only it was not a firefly. It was a miniature, sexless child, all smooth and limber and orange skinned. Its limbs were the thickness of toothpicks, its head the size of a pea. It was beautiful. It winked out suddenly and she almost cried in dismay, but another appeared over her head to the right, then another in front of her. They all smiled at her, waving gentle arms. She relaxed, returning the smile. She glanced back once to see if Bashru or Zakknr were as delighted with the sprites as she was, but their expressions were closed and brooding. Not even a flicker of attention to the hovering auroras.

  There was a snap and rustle of something heavy moving through the forest.

  The ogre growled and ordered the spriggan to see what it was. Bashru complained and grouched, but under threat of bodily harm veered his horse off the path to investigate. She rode on with the ogre. The lights were more intense. She
blinked at how many and how bright they were. How could Zakknr not be awed by them? When she turned to ask, he was swatting at something that buzzed incessantly around his face. Not one of the tiny sprites. He was paying her very little heed. The lights were moving away from her, into the wood at the right side of the path. She frowned, sad at the departure. A dozen tiny arms beckoned her to follow if she wished. It seemed the natural thing to do. To urge her mount off the path, after the glowing lights. Zakknr did not notice at all, so consumed with swatting the flying pests that plagued him was he. And soon the enfolding arms of the forest cut him off from sight of her.

  A path that was no game trail opened before her. It was as if trees had grown to one side and limbs and vines had allowed for her passage. The leaves and the branches were whispers on her skin.

  Caresses. Imperceptibly they closed behind her. She breathed in air laden with forest scents, pollen and dew. It was cool, a blessing that made her lids heavy. She drowsed.

  The strains of music awakened her. It was faint, and almost familiar. Lilting and exotic and melding so smoothly with the sounds of the wood as to be part of it. She blinked in wonderment, found herself softly humming along. So sweet it was. So heavenly in its purity. The lights were coalesced before her, swarming behind the veil of foliage. The music came from there. Strings that could have been reeds, and voices that might belong to angles themselves. No words. Just a melodic humming that surpassed all lyrical calling.

  The horse stopped, uncertain, its ears twitching nervously. She climbed down, sat Phoebe on the ground to fend for herself and walked towards the curtain of leaves and ferns that hid the forest orchestra.

  Her mind had no description for what she saw, but it embraced it all the same.

  Creatures cavorted in a clearing.

  Creatures of varying size, from the tiny sprites to slender limbed beings that stood her own height. They were lovely beyond description. Naked and almost androgynous in sex. Almost. They danced in a spinning, gyrating circle, singing, touching as they passed, laughing in high humor. Wild spirits, she thought, staring wide-eyed. Beautiful wild spirits, whose voices were like honey and whose movements like water over silken rocks.