There came a sound of material ripped in sporadic wrenches. “Wrap it tight.” Rhycious spoke through clenched teeth, blowing out his breath. “Tie a knot above the arm band—just like that.” He grunted. “Perfect.”
Alek wondered fleetingly about the girl, but time had run out. Scrub jays and quail twittered in fright as they flapped out of the brush, taking to the sky, sounding an alarm. Less than two heartbeats later, three true form Centaurs in civy dress stormed the meadow and into the melee.
Knees and hocks bent, Aleksander kept a fast pivot to his advantage.
Though he wore a brutal mask of fury, Khristos spared Alek a glance. He assessed Rhycious and the girl, then turned to address the helmed soldier who’d backed away, waiting for reinforcements. Blood trickled from the priest’s hip wound, leg lifted in pain. The open gash gleamed raw against an ebony backdrop.
Admiration for the Templar’s bravery grew to replace the contempt he had carried for the man. Unable to bear full weight on his injury, Khristos held the decorative sword out in front of him. Half the length of Alek’s own weapon, he readied his stance the best he could manage on three legs.
Aleksander managed a wry smile. Templar Khristos, arrogant and cocky until the bitter end.
One renegade down.
One dead.
Four more to fight.
He took stock of his companions: two injured loyalist Centaurs standing and prepared to fight. One whimpering female, whom Rhycious demanded repeatedly to shimmer away.
Wood Nymph. Who the hell was she?
Aleksander rolled his shoulders in an attempt to keep them loose. He stepped forward until his hooves were even with those of Khristos. They aimed their battle swords at the advancing agitators—points out, tips up.
Intent on murder, the rebel extremists fanned out to surround them in a shrinking semi-circle.
Alek moved to place his equine body in front of the priest. “Khristos, your Gladius is best suited on your hip, and Rhycious can barely raise his sword arm.” He reworked his grip on the weapon and eyed the advancing rebels, calculating which one to take out first. “Take Rhy’s sword and do your best to hold off the ones that slip through. I’ll do what I can.”
Khristos hesitated, and Alek thought he’d refuse. Then with a curse, the priest took a step to the rear.
“Bacchus and Pan protect us all.” Khristos limped backward and accepted the sword a sagging Rhycious reluctantly offered. Aggravated, the Templar growled out, “Would you leave us, young lady, if I said pretty please?”
Aleksander missed Plain Jane’s answer. From opposite sides, first one, and then another Centaur came at him, weapons swinging wildly.
* * *
Despite his situation, Rhycious sucked a deep breath of clean forest air, grateful for another five minutes of life. Gods what he wouldn’t do for a pistol.
“Waverly! You have to concentrate. Get the hell out of here.” Chilled to the core, Rhy shivered.
“I . . . .” Her hyperventilating lungs pumped air in and out. Damn quaking aspen. Can’t she hold it together long enough to shimmer, something she’s done all her life?
Khristos attempted a valiant effort to guard them. “The crust of the ground is breaking. Rhycious, watch out for yourself and the Nymph.”
Facing the tree, protecting Waverly, Rhy twisted to stare over his shoulder. Lush carpeting of grass and tiny wildflowers separated them from the new arrivals crossing the meadow. He eyed the surrounding forest like an extreme cage fighter. Except—this was no sporting event.
Creaking sounds of splintering wood tore into the air. Dirt threw about the field and billowed in a brown smoke. Gigantic moles tunneled beneath the surface while the ground swelled and moved. Mounds of earth rose in irregular patterns of engraved wakes.
For an instant, Rhycious held his breath. Reality or fantasy? He prayed his eyes weren’t lying. Waverly tapped his chest and he spun to face her.
“They’re here.” Relief relaxed her facial features and she offered a small wobbly smile.
Khristos tracked the underground movement with the sword’s tip, trusting only what his eyes fed him. Like himself, the priest had lived through the Great War. “How do we know they won’t kill us all?”
In Waverly’s steady gaze, Rhycious discovered his answer. “Because for the first time, we fight on the same side.”
Pain shrieked through his shoulder as he turned around. Unable to tear his eyes away, he witnessed the mythic attack on rogue Centaurs by Wood Nymphs in true form.
Younger Centaurs, recruited by the hype, came to a skidding stop, rearing their forelegs high. Their eyes grew wide, not understanding what they saw. Seasoned warriors, those who had served during the Great War, recognized the danger immediately. They wheeled on back hooves, seeking to flee, and were blocked by a gridded hedge of interlocking branches.
The helmed guardsman who’d fought Khristos used his sword to hack at the knitted branches, trying desperately to free his imprisoned comrades.
“Gods,” Rhy whispered under his breath. His heartbeat kicked-up and the air hitched in his chest. “Nightmares come to life.”
Tree branches manifested themselves into gnarled arm-like appendages. Those that tried to escape found their weapons trapped in wooden webs that pulled swords from their clenched fists. Whites of terrified eyes rolled when the situation intensified. The rebels found themselves surrounded by a thicket of soldiers in their true form.
“Alek.” Rhycious lurched forward, bumping Khristos in his haste. “Don’t let the Nymphs kill them.”
“I doubt they can.” Alek stared in horrified fascination. “Not in their current form.” He pointed toward the action with his sword. “Interesting to be standing on this side of it all, isn’t it?”
Roots raised up, tripping hooves and catching legs. As a weaker race, Wood Nymphs couldn’t physically attack a Centaur in equine form and hope to overpower them. Nymphs relied on their stealth and cunning to outwit their enemies.
Today’s skirmish was no different from those one-hundred and thirty years ago. The Nymphs wasted no time in adapting to overcome.
Eyes of the dissident fighter blazed through the slotted holes of his helm. He stopped his futile attempts to chop his friends free. Shoulders heaving, he stepped clear of the twining roots and grasping branch fingers. Facing Aleksander, he paused a moment, as if weighing the odds of a great gamble.
Decision made, sword raised in double-fisted attack mode, the renegade soldier gave a great shout and screamed as he galloped their way.
“Get back!” Alek shoved Rhy’s good shoulder with his sword arm, pushing him out of harm’s way.
“Aleksander, no!” Khristos cried out. “Save him if you can. Don’t spill more blood.”
“Then give me your short sword.” Alek stabbed his sword into the ground. He never took his eyes off the crazed, misled youth who jumped roots and brambles that suddenly erupted in his path.
“Here.” Khristos thrust his sword over, hilt first.
Aleksander gave the Gladius a few bounces, acquainting himself with the unfamiliar size and lighter weight. “If I’m killed, promise me you won’t let anyone know I used this filly sword. Put the head-lopper in my hand, will you?” Jewels sparkled below the crossguard, defiant in Alek’s upraised arm. “Long live Queen Savella.”
He galloped out in confident strides to challenge the bay Centaur. The ill-fitting headdress jostled as the rebel loped toward him. When the two were nearly abreast of each other, Aleksander struck the other weapon away with a clang, vibrating the grip out of his opponent’s hand. Their sliding stops seemed choreographed, each of their back hooves digging deeply into the soil.
The Centaur reached to retrieve his displaced sword and Alek swung the Gladius, hitting the smaller Centaur in his gut with the flat of the blade. Air whooshed out, and the jeweled hilt twinkled in approval.
Roots surged up from beneath the churned soil and the traitor went down on his front knees. True form Wood Nymphs wrapped t
heir coppery coils around his body and legs. Their prisoner caught tight, the trees drove their lifelines down into the ground, pulling the slack with them, holding fast to their prize.
Aleksander lowered his weapon, breathing hard. Bent at the waist, his hands rested on his forelegs and he watched the thrashing Centaur from the corner of his eye.
Rendered helpless, the captured soldier spilled profanity out in growls. A knot of roots held him firmly from the neck down.
Rhycious came forward. “Will you do the honors, Alek? My arm hurts too much to lean over.”
“Gladly.”
Aleksander gripped one of the spires at the top of the helmet and tore the mask away. A swirling mass of auburn hair spilled out to curl in the dirt. Brown eyes flashed with angry fire as the female struggled in her bonds.
“Myrina.” Rhy’s mind spun at the unveiling before him. He’d helped deliver her as a foal not twenty-seven years earlier. “Why?”
“Kiss my ass, Remedy Maker.”
Aleksander stepped back, away from the girl’s foul mouth, and returned the Sword of Office to Templar Khristos. “I need to call in reinforcements and have our prisoners moved to the palace.”
“What will happen to me?” Myrina’s eyes grew round, and fear crept into her voice.
Now she’s worried, a little late for that.
“After interrogation,” Aleksander answered, “you’ll be tried for your crimes against the crown and Centaur herds.”
* * *
Rhy held his bandaged arm as he walked with Alek across the uneven meadow. Plow lines from the Nymphs furrowed the earth, releasing the rich scent of life. His bleeding had nearly stopped, thanks to Waverly’s field dressing, downgrading his pain to a throb.
“Do you know them?” Rhy asked, tilting his head toward the caged prisoners.
“I’ve seen the two on the left. The female sells vegetables at the farmer’s market. The other was the palace landscaper. Remember Ralphie?”
“Gamóto.” Rhycious remembered him far too well. Only a few days ago he’d commented to Sergeant Dryas on the atrium’s ankle high grass. “The older man I recognize. He teaches our young ones in the middle academy.”
The elder instructor’s age-spotted hand pulled on the strong network of branches that caged him. An educator in their society—Rhy shook his head. Why would the man voluntarily risk a much-respected position? Brought up to honor those who selflessly gave of their knowledge and time, Rhy had no answers for his disappointment. The betrayal cut deeper than his wound.
Khristos must have thought along those same lines for he limped over to the senior held by the Nymphs. “I am disgusted by you, Daskalos. How far you’ve fallen today.”
“You should be repulsed by your own self.” Strands of silver hair quivered atop his head. The teacher in his flea-bitten gray hide lunged against the coils wrapping his body. “You and I have drunk ales together. We’ve discussed our hatred for the lower species. You’re a hypocrite, priest.”
Khristos merely looked at Daskalos, taking in his torn clothing and messy hair. Roots and branches slithered in constant motion, alternating their hold and squeeze pressures, resembling wooden snakes. He shook his head. “Despite how harshly you judge my views, I strive for harmony between all living things. I’ll forever work toward that goal.” Eyes glaring, Khristos snarled at the professor. “Acting with violence upon your feelings is a sin.”
Daskalos answered by spitting in the Templar’s face.
Seemingly unaffected by the professor’s crude behavior, Khristos produced a pristine handkerchief and wiped the spittle away with calm efficiency as it dripped down his black and white speckled beard. “You’re an educator who hasn’t learned. This act of aggression against the Royal Spirit Guide will cost you dearly.”
The dark priest strode past Aleksander, making his way toward Waverly—his shoulders thrown back, head held high. His halting gait only added to the black tempest surrounding the man.
Aleksander reassured them he’d return with reinforcements, then left in a cloud of dust on a fast gallop. Rhycious knew Alek’s transition was coming on soon, so the four legs of his true body would make haste to the palace. With two feet, it would take twice as long.
Help couldn’t come any quicker for Rhycious. Pacifist Samuel, who didn’t own a gun, was in charge of keeping Patience safe. What was I thinking? A deep seeded need to charge out, grab Patience, and tuck her away drove him insane. For now, he needed to unclench his jaw and trust Sam.
Rhycious walked back to his sword and pulled the tip out of the ground. A short distance away, he spied Dryas, who remained face down in the dirt. Unconscious from Aleksander’s earlier blow, the sergeant’s sorrel sides rose and fell evenly. Somewhat relieved the male lived, he cursed nonetheless for having to be in the midst of the battle in the first place.
Khristos stood at the base of the mammoth sycamore with his back curved, examining a small scrape on Waverly’s cheek with tender fingers. Her dark brown eyes peered back steadily, full of trust.
Why she didn’t fear that black, monolithic warhorse? First her quivering in fear act, and now she had undying faith in the priest.
Females.
Still reeling over the day’s emotional turnstile, Rhy choked on an indrawn breath.
Shades of turquoise and blue glimmered near the tree Waverly leaned on. Distorted air popped seconds before a man dressed in casual clothing appeared. He looked dapper in his tan slacks and a cream-colored shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
The middle-aged male smiled at Khristos and nodded. “This is a day to rejoice. I’m—”
“Dendron.” Waverly’s voice filled with happiness.
Warm eyes and a peaceful demeanor radiated within the Nymph male. Gray hair flecked at his temples, the color twining with the dark brown shades. Dendron clucked his tongue, chastising Waverly, continuing as if he’d not been interrupted. “—the evoker of the spirit, or what you’d call a physical advisor.”
“A priest, then?” Rhycious warily moved closer with his sword in his hand, though he read no malice in the serene face before him. Unused to the snap, crackle, pop comings and goings of the Wood Nymphs, he understood why Khristos wore a suspicious frown.
“Of a sort.” Dendron moved to stand next to Waverly. He addressed the scowling Templar. “Thank you, sir, for guarding this young lady with your life. I am forever in your debt.” He held out his hand to shake, to which Khristos complied, but only after a glance to the beaming girl first. “Waverly, I believe it’s past time for you to be going. Your mother was near frantic when I left.”
Before Waverly turned to leave, Khristos slid his finger along her jaw. His voice rumbled deep and rough, their gazes locked together. “There’s no need to thank me, Dendron.” Slowly swishing back and forth, his tail brushed the injured leg. “Will you be all right now, Waverly?”
She nodded and smiled into the priest’s concerned eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly. Waverly reached up and pulled Khristos’s face down to hers. His bearded cheek met her lips as the quaking aspen kissed the priest soundly.
Rhycious glanced at Dendron, gauging the male’s reaction to the couple’s public display of affection. The elder Nymph’s blue eyes twinkled, crinkling at the corners when he smiled. This male was another nonjudgmental mythological, though he had most certainly lived through the war and lost loved ones along the way. The peace emanating from Dendron gave Rhy hope for his people’s future like never before.
Dendron reached out to grasp Waverly’s hand, and gave a slight bow toward Khristos. The Wood Nymph advisor smiled tenderly at the girl and helped her shimmer into the nearest tree. Passage complete, he turned to Rhy.
“Remedy Maker. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Waverly’s told me a little about you. How is Patience feeling?” Dendron asked.
“She’s better these last two days.” As Rhy answered the abrupt question, he didn’t let the surprise of their carefully guarded relationship show in his face
. “I brewed a healing tea that seems to help, though I’m not sure what’s causing her weakness. She’s hale and hearty one day, pale and weak the next.
Stallion protectiveness reared up and a flash of jealousy hit. He was Patience’s healer. Not this man, though the older male probably knew her the day she was germinated.
He took a few deep breaths to calm his pulse.
Dendron lowered his brows and stroked his chin along the jawbone. “Hmm. I know Patience well. The chit’s a whirlwind. Is she eating regularly?”
He and Patience had both eaten well, except when they weren’t being poisoned or going at each other. “Her appetite is light. I wish she’d consume more calories.”
“Um-hm. How does her taproot tree appear?” Dendron asked. “It’s spring, so it should be a leafy green right now.”
Rhy dropped his gaze to the ground, kicked a few leaves, and wished he could kick himself instead. “I’m sorry to say I’m not knowledgeable in the dendrology side of Patience. I’ve been reading to educate myself when I have the chance, but nothing that would help her right now.”
When heat infused his face, he inhaled through his nose, trying to pass it off as a sigh to counterbalance his teetering response.
The Wood Nymph spirit guide reached out and patted Rhy’s hand. “The world is a constantly changing place, my friend. More so in recent times than ever before. With pollution on the rise, there are some illnesses we just don’t have cures for.” His gaze wandered the perimeter of the meadow, falling on the prisoners awaiting Aleksander. “I admire Patience very much and worry about her. I’ll think about her health problems further. There must be something we’ve overlooked.”
“I would appreciate that. I’ve come to care a great deal for her.” That was as close to an admission of love as he’d say to anyone. “If there’s anything I can do, you must believe me, sir. I’d be doing it.”
Dendron regarded the view over Rhy’s shoulder with unfocused eyes, wheels turning inside his head. After a moment, he dropped the hand stroking his chin and sharpened his gaze on Rhycious. “There is a way, but only to be used as a last resort. The outcome in previous cases was a crapshoot. No rhyme or reason why some Wood Nymphs survive, and others die.”
Remedy Maker Page 30
