The Maiden of the Moon
The building beckoned Arn, familiar to him. He went straight towards the gate, and upon approach, he drew upon his rune to jump clear across the wall.
His landing was less graceful, and he rolled around in the dust of the courtyard, giving himself a nick in the leg from his own sword. Not the wisest thing he had done today, but between the battles, the exhaustion and his injuries, his skill in decision-making was hard pressed.
Several nuns screamed, seeing a man drop from the sky to land in their midst. Some of them ran while others grabbed their staves.
Dazed from blood loss and his exertions, Arn got back on his feet, gasping for breath. “Helena,” he croaked.
“Arn?” The voice cut through the haze, and he turned, his balance still unsteady.
He recognised her from the few times he had seen her without a veil; her features were etched into his memory. He managed a smile, but trying to speak, he ended up coughing instead. As for the other nuns, they began to circle him, holding their staves ready.
In that moment, a powerful force tore the gate open, leaving both halves twisted on the hinges. In strode Vasilia, followed by her servant. “Grab the spare, since we’re here anyway,” she commanded in Archean. “I’ll deal with our little fugitive.”
She smiled at Arn, who fumbled to draw his sword. To his horror, he saw the brute run straight for Helena. He realised that they knew about her magic, probably from watching him; he had placed her in the same danger that pursued him. Thinking quickly, he summoned the rune of repulsion in the air between him and Vasilia. He would blast her away and kill her servant first, giving Helena an opportunity to escape while he held the Archean witch back, buying her time.
His rune faded, accomplishing nothing. Vasilia smiled again and pulled out a small necklace with a lump of metal as a pendant. “That won’t work, darling. I cooked up this little enchantment quickly. Very crude, and I’m positively embarrassed to be seen in public with it, but it’ll do.” Her expression turned to a sneer as she unleashed soulfire on him.
Pain seared his being, and he struggled to remain standing. But he had his own powers he could bring to bear. Once more, the skáld used his galdr. A melody of misery he sang into sorrow, a lamentation to leave a trail of tears. He stared triumphantly at Vasilia, expecting to find her stunned; instead, her laughter resounded.
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She touched her ear. “Beeswax, darling. All it takes to defeat the famed power of the northern bards. I can’t hear a thing.” Her smile turned cruel, and once more, soulfire tore his essence apart, leaving him writhing on the ground.
Regaining some semblance of control, though tendrils of pain still moved through him, Arn picked up his sword and got back on his feet. Calling upon his wrath, he engulfed the blade in flames.
“Darling, please just surrender. I don’t want you to be too damaged.”
Arn leapt forward and struck, but despite his speed, she reacted with the same swiftness, activating defensive spells that held his sword back from hurting her.
The green blade made of pure magic appeared in her hand again. “Well, if you can handle one phantom wound, you can handle another, I reckon.” She licked her teeth and lashed out, forcing him to defend.
Parrying her attacks, Arn raised his empty hand to summon a rune in the air between them again.
“Darling, you already tried that. It won’t work.”
With a smile, Arn muttered the activating word. Vasilia was partly right; the rune of attraction did nothing to her. Instead, it exerted its power on the broken gate behind her, tearing one half from the hinges to fly through the air and hit her in the back. Taken by surprise, she did not have time to activate her defences as it pushed her into Arn’s awaiting blade, impaling her heart.
She opened her mouth, but no words came. Dumbfounded, she died.
Arn caught the gate piece as it fell forward, shielding himself and pushing it away. Placing a ragged sandal on Vasilia’s corpse, he pulled out his sword and turned towards her servant, only to see a horde of nuns battering him with staves. The final blow struck his chin, sending him to the ground.
Immediately, all of them but one turned their weapons towards Arn. “Hold!” he called out, planting his sword in the ground to raise empty hands.
“You’re alive!” Helena exclaimed, throwing her staff aside to run at him. She caught him just as he fell forward.
“For now,” he mumbled, pulling up his shirt to reveal the wound received at the Arcane Tower, still refusing to heal. He had taxed his magic so much, his rune of recovery no longer could keep up replenishing the blood loss.
Letting him gently fall, Helena positioned him on the ground and placed one hand on the oozing wound. A glow came, and as her sisters watched in confusion, she healed him.
“You saved me,” he mumbled hoarsely. “Is that three times now? I’ve lost count.”
“Your voice,” she spoke with misty eyes. “It’s beautiful.”
The skáld smiled, knowing he sounded like a rusty wheel. His elation lasted a moment until he recalled the current circumstances. “We’re escaping. The docks.” He pushed himself back up to stand and reached down, giving her a hand to help her up as well. “I came to get you – if that’s what you want. But we must leave Aquila this very moment.”
She stared at him for a lingering moment before she reached down and tore the hem of her dress up to her knees. She looked at him with half a smile as she straightened her back. “You can’t run in this thing.”
Arn felt his heart swell, but now was not the time to indulge emotions. “Get your staff. Danger’s not over yet.”
Helena cast a look at her sisters and the convent that had been her home for most of her life. The nuns all stood speechless. Her decision made, she followed the Tyrian out of the courtyard.