by Colt, K. J.
“I saw you dig this out of your secret hiding place,” he said smugly.
“Give me that,” I snapped, roughly attempting to wrench it back from him, but he withheld it from my reach. “That parcel holds the brooch from my mother, and it’s important to me. Return it or I’ll pound what little brains you have out your ears.”
Instead of complying, he tucked the parcel into his belt, as if he intended it to stay there permanently. “Tell me why it’s so important you get it back, important enough to risk returning to this place, and I’ll give it back to you.”
I glared. “I told you. I’m leaving the forest, and don’t know when I’ll be back. I didn’t want to leave behind anything of value.”
“Except your outlaw friends. And me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I growled.
He said, “Look, what’s the big secret? Why won’t you tell me where you’re going?”
I sighed and gave in. There was no need for secrecy other than to annoy him, and that strategy was coming back to bite me. “Walk with me as far as the Selbius Road and I’ll share a little of my plans,” I said. “But first, let’s put this place behind us. I don’t think Rideon was wrong when he warned about the possibility of Fists keeping an eye on the area.”
Terrac agreed, and together we abandoned the dark reaches of the cave for the bright outdoor sunlight.
We stepped into an ambush. The surrounding clearing was occupied by over a dozen armed men outfitted in the black and scarlet of the Praetor’s Fists. All stood waiting, weapons drawn.
Terrac and I froze. I had only seconds to take in our situation before a blurry object whizzed past my head, nearly nicking my ear. The Fist archer nocked a second arrow to his bowstring, and Terrac, framed in the mouth of the cave, tried to shove me back inside. Didn’t he realize we’d be trapped like mice in there? I planted my feet, resisting movement, as my mind raced to form a plan—any plan.
The archer was prevented from loosing the next arrow when a sudden command split the air.
“Hold! I want these mongrels taken alive for questioning.”
The order came from a broad-chested mountain of a man on horseback. Evidently the one in charge, he fixed a cold gaze on Terrac and me and commanded the others to take us up.
As the Fists closed in, I cast my fear aside. Sliding my knives free of their wrist-sheathes and pushing Terrac out of the way, I sent a blade flying to stick in the shoulder of the nearest Fist. Then I broke into a run, grabbing Terrac’s sleeve and hauling him along with me. Together we darted for the nearest trees.
Unfortunately, a handful of men stood between us and our escape. I dodged the first enemy, slipped a knife into the side of the second man moving to intercept me, but was less fortunate with the third, who caught my shoulder as I attempted to dart beneath his arm. Terrac came to my rescue, slamming into the Fist and sending him reeling backward. My friend didn’t stop there but regained his balance and ran on with me close behind.
Neither of us slowed on reaching the shelter of the trees. I ran as if my heels had wings, and Terrac was faster still. A hail of arrows arced through the air, thudding into the ground around us. But the density of the forest worked in our favor, the thick trees shielding us and forcing our mounted enemies to rein in their horses and search for clearer paths.
I had no idea where we were going. My breath soon came in ragged gasps, my heart thudding painfully against my ribs. The ground began to slope, lending momentum to my weary legs. I stumbled repeatedly as the incline grew steeper. A fallen log leapt in front of me, and hurdling it, I lost my footing, crashing and rolling downhill. Brambles and saplings whipped at me as I cartwheeled down before finally slamming into a thick tree trunk.
The force of the collision knocked the breath from me, and the treetops swayed dizzyingly overhead as I tried to find the strength to rise. I heard sounds of approaching men and horses and, looking upward, saw our pursuers not far behind. Ignoring the hammering in my skull and the burning of my lungs, I crawled to my knees and staggered on, letting gravity pull me down the incline. When I neared the bottom, a fresh storm of arrows whistled by, embedding themselves in the surrounding trees.
I skidded and stumbled on until the ground leveled out and a tall stand of shrubs blocked me momentarily from the view of my enemies. There, as if on signal, my legs gave way, and I collapsed to the ground, where I lay panting, cheek pressed into the cool earth. In that condition, it took me a moment to notice the limp arm stretched across my field of vision.
Terrac! He was stretched out, facedown and motionless. The rise and fall of his shoulders showed he was breathing, but an arrow protruded from his back, and his tunic was stained scarlet. I had time to take in no more than that as I became aware of the sound of many feet crashing through the underbrush above. Urgency lent me the strength to drag Terrac’s limp form into a tall stand of itch leaves and toadsbreath. My bow fell from my shoulder, clattering to the ground, and I dragged it out of sight also before collapsing beside Terrac and letting the waving greenery close over us.
I flattened myself to the ground, trying to quiet my noisy breathing as I heard the Fists’ arrival. They scattered to search for us, but I knew they wouldn’t have to look long. I glanced at Terrac beside me. His eyes were closed, his face smeared with blood and dirt. Twigs and leaves stuck out of his hair. With his sun-browned skin and ragged clothing, nothing marked him apart from a common woods thief. No one would mistake him for a young priest-in-training anymore. Remembering how his strange, violet eyes had captivated me at our first meeting, I felt the urge to save him now as I had then. But this time I was as helpless as he.
The crack of a stick underfoot betrayed an approaching Fist. This is it, I thought. Time to face death. But there was no question of giving up without a fight. My hand fumbled for my bow. I had no arrows, but it was my only weapon, so I gripped it tightly, wondering at the calm washing over me the moment my fingers closed around the lightwood.
A whisper of movement passed through the air overhead. Unthinkingly, I threw myself to one side, narrowly avoiding the descending blade aimed at my head. I scrambled upright, swinging my bow out to whack my attacker across the knees. The Fist only grinned at my ridiculous maneuver and swung his blade in what would have been a disemboweling sweep if I hadn’t managed to avoid it. The sharp tip of the steel only licked the skin across my stomach, but I immediately felt the sting of the shallow cut.
More enemies joined the first, fanning out around me. I backed away but was acutely aware every reluctant step carried me farther away from the injured Terrac. With my friend lying prone on the ground and me creeping backward like a cornered rabbit, the Fists evidently remembered that it was preferable to take me alive. They crowded in tighter, and I spun in a circle, impossibly attempting to keep my eyes on all of them, while brandishing my bow before me like a club.
Some of my opponents laughed, and I realized how pathetic I must look.
“Nice staff you have there, thief,” said one of the Fists, a short, bearded man with curly hair. “Now why don’t you just put it down and surrender?” His voice wasn’t unfriendly, and he appeared to take it for granted I would do as he asked.
When I didn’t immediately respond, he asked, “Got any more knives up your sleeves?” and took a measured step closer, as if testing my reaction.
“Come on, Bane,” one of his friends said. “If she had any more, she’d have used ‘em by now.”
Emboldened either by that observation or by my hesitation, the man called Bane moved nearer still. I darted a quick glance behind me, but there was nowhere left to run.
Bane seemed to read my thoughts. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Our archers would drop you before you go six paces. But we don’t want to do that—not unless you leave us no choice. You heard our captain. He wants you alive so he can ask a few questions.”
“I don’t doubt he does,” I said. “You caught several of my friends the other day, and I saw their
condition when you were done questioning them.”
Another Fist grinned. “So you found the bodies, did you?” he asked. “We hoped you would. Think of it as a little present from all of us. That’ll be the fate of every one of you thieving scum before we’re through. The Praetor has sworn to it.”
Bane waved him to silence and said to me, “If you saw what happened to your friends, you know some of my comrades can get overzealous in their work. You’d be wise to throw yourself on the mercy of our captain while you can. If you don’t, I’m afraid you won’t be all in one piece by the time he arrives.”
He nodded toward Terrac’s motionless form. “Anyway, look how far running got your friend. It doesn’t have to end the same way for you. The captain is a fair man, and he might let you off easily on account of your youth. So why don’t you lay down your weapons and come along with us? We’ll take you straight to him, and the two of you can talk things over.”
I hesitated. You could never trust a Fist, but what choice did I have? Even as this man spoke, he’d been sidling closer until he was only an arm’s length away. Suddenly, he was reaching for me.
In the same instant, my bow grew hot in my hands, startling me so badly I nearly dropped it as it flared to life, shedding a brilliant fiery light. Simultaneously, I felt its powerful presence awakening, not just in the bow itself, but somehow inside my mind.
I shook my head against the disorienting sensation, even as I saw the Fist grabbing for me, and darted out of his way. Another enemy took a swipe at me, and I narrowly evaded his sword. Bane shouted at the others to hold back, but he must have seen, as I did, that the game was over. He couldn’t control his companions, and I wasn’t about to stand there and let them kill me.
I feinted to one side, the nearest enemy moved to intercept me, and I dodged the other direction, diving through the opening he had left.
Free at last, I flew through the trees with renewed energy, hearing my enemies scrambling after me. They were mere steps behind—the nearest had only to stretch out a gauntleted hand to touch me. But Brig used to say I was the fastest runner he ever saw, and I tapped into some new source of strength now. I had no idea from where it came. I only knew that the distance between the Fists and me was widening. Remembering the archers, I ran in a zigzag pattern, putting as many trees between their bows and me as possible. My unnatural speed compensated for the lost ground, and the gap continued to grow.
As soon as I was out of view, I dropped into a cluster of weeds, allowing my pursuers to pass by. Then I ran on in the opposite direction, never slowing. The scrape across my belly burned where the Fist’s blade had scored my skin, but the pain drove me on. Returning to the outlaw camp was impossible, not when it could lead the enemy to our door. Instead I raced toward the setting sun, relieved when I began passing familiar landmarks. All of Dimming was home, but there were parts I knew better than others, and I was coming onto safer ground.
The sun had sunk behind the trees and the first stars were twinkling in the evening sky when I splashed into the shallow waters of Dancing Creek. I slogged downstream, following the pull of the swift current as it swirled and gamboled over stones and around fallen logs. The creek bed was slick with moss. Thousands of tiny pebbles shifted and skittered beneath my boots, and then the stream deepened and I found myself wading through pools of murky, green water up to my thighs.
A little distance farther and the creek shallowed at a section of rapids. The current was so strong here it pulled me off my feet more than once. Always I scrambled up and hurried on. I was exhausted by the time I reached a place where the creek split into two smaller streams. I took the least obvious one and pushed on until I was waist-deep in a pool of stagnant water. I could go no farther.
An immense tree grew along the bank, its spreading roots stretching out to skim the water. I ducked under the slimy surface, swam beneath the tangle of roots, and emerged within their embrace, pressing into the muddy bank to conceal myself. There was a sort of large animal den burrowing from the water’s edge up beneath the tree, and unslinging my bow, I shoved it into the tunnel and pulled myself up after. My feet were left dangling in the water. It was unnervingly dark, and I tried not to dwell on the possibility of the wild creature that lived in this den returning. Or worse, of the Fists finding me trapped and at their mercy.
But even these fears couldn’t hold my thoughts for long as, strength spent, I rested my cheek in the gritty mud and allowed my eyelids to droop. My last conscious action was to shove the unnerving bow as far from me as I could. It had stopped glowing, but I could still feel its presence in my head as I succumbed to sleep. Strange, soft murmurings of the thrill of battle and the sweetness of blood whispered through my dreams that night.
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AFTERWORD
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR C. Greenwood started writing stories shortly after learning her ABCs and hasn't put down her pen since. After falling in love with the fantasy genre more than a decade ago, she began writing sword and sorcery novels. The result was the birth of her best known works, the Legends of Dimmingwood series. In addition to her writing, Ms. Greenwood is a wife and mom and a graphic designer.
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C. GREENWOOD BOOKS
(LEGENDS OF DIMMINGWOOD SERIES)
MAGIC of Thieves ~ Book I
Betrayal of Thieves ~ Book II
Circle of Thieves ~ Book III
Redemption of Thieves ~ Book IV
Journey of Thieves ~ Book V
Rule of Thieves ~ Book VI
(Catalysts of Chaos Series)
Mistress of Masks ~ Book I
Betrayer of Blood ~ Book II
Summoner of Storms ~ Book III Coming soon
REQUIEM'S SONG
Dawn of Dragons, Book #1
by
Daniel Arenson
LAIRA
ON LAIRA’S TENTH BIRTHDAY, THE crone dragged her outside to see her mother burned at the stake.
Laira blinked in the weak morning sun. She had not seen daylight in so long. For five days they had kept her in her tent, alone in shadows, alone in fear, the sounds of the trial—shouting, pleading, weeping—rising outside. Now silence filled the camp. Now, finally in daylight, Laira only wanted to return to the darkness.
Other tents rose across the yellow grass, similar to hers, their animal-skin covers stretched across cedar poles. In the distance rolled a red forest, a place of berries and the whispers of secret men, and beyond the trees rose the faded blue mountains where the elk roamed. A murder of crows circled above, cawing, and Laira felt her head spin and she nearly fell. She clutched her doll, a wooden little thing she had named Mustardseed. The crone’s talon-like hand tightened around Laira’s arm, dragging her forward; Laira felt like a doll herself, helpless and small.
“Keep walking and don’t close your eyes,” said the crone, a shaman named Shedah. Her arms were knobby like old carob branches, and her fingers ended with sharp, yellow nails that nicked Laira’s flesh. Other fingers—torn off the hands of dead men—hung around Shedah’s neck in a lurid necklace of bone and dried flesh, charms to ward off evil spirits. The crone was ancient beyond measure—some claimed her two hundred winters old—and so wizened her eyes all but disappeared into nests of wrinkles. Her gums were toothless, her nose beaked, her body withered, and yet she was still so strong, strong enough that Laira thought the crone could snap her arm in two. All Laira could do was keep walking, guided by the old woman.
“I won’t close my eyes,” Laira whispered.
Shedah cackled. “If you do, I’ll rip off your eyelids and make you watch. So be a good little maggot.”
They kept moving through the camp. The tribe’s totem pole rose ahead—the great bole of an ancient cedar, carved with images of bison, eagles, and
leaping fish. Near its crest flared a gilded mammoth tusk, long as a boat, attached to the pole with rawhide thongs. The cross of wood and ivory towered above the tents—the god Ka’altei, a deity of meat and fire. Wherever they set down this pole marked their territory, a beacon for all other tribes to fear.
Around the pillar brooded its guardians—the rocs, fetid birds the size of mammoths. Oil dripped down their black feathers, and their long, naked necks turned as Laira approached. Their cruel beaks—large enough to swallow men—clacked open and shut, and their talons, which were longer than human arms, dug into the soil. Their eyes watched Laira, gleaming orbs like circles of bronze. Were they not tethered to the totem, Laira thought they’d leap toward her, tear out her entrails, and feast.
The tribesmen stood everywhere, dour, staring, clad in fur and leather and holding spears. Some stared at Laira balefully. One hunter, a burly man with a scraggly red beard, spat at her. Others gazed in pity. Clad in a robe of patches, a druid woman whispered ancient prayers, reaching toward Laira but daring not approach. In Laira’s old home across the sea, men now wove wool and cotton, built houses of stone, and shaved their beards, yet here in the north—in the Goldtusk tribe—lived an older, prouder, rougher people, warriors of fur and stone and hair. War paint covered their leathery skin, and tattoos of totem animals coiled around their arms.
The crone kept tugging her forward, and Laira wanted to use her curse—the secret disease of her family, the power that would let her escape this tribe, let her free her mother, let her kill them all. Yet she dared not. Mother had used the dark magic; now the woman would burn.
