Today had not been a good day for Rye. Magic training was a bust, she had to remember who she talked to about what in between time turning back whenever she died and to top it all off, she was now in control, in the middle of a field filled with undead trying to tear out her throat and steal her liver.
She didn’t know why Elia insisted they wanted her liver, brains or other internal organs, but she trusted her to use her axe arm to greater effect than she herself was able. It was already taking most of her brain power not to simply freeze up and let panic convince her to lie down accept death.
Speaking of freezing, she finally had a bolt conjured, filled with force ready to do work like a dog tearing at its leash. Her aim drifted from her companions to the preacher still chanting its gold-silver magic. He looked up; beady yellow eyes buried in his skull staring back at her.
Hands shaking, vision blurry, her breath came in short staccato bursts.
Alexander’s javelin tore him to the ground, unmoving. Her own magic plonked ineffectively into the mud. Another disappointment then, on top of all the horror. Why her? Why now? Why–
“–Rye! Let’s move!” Sextus clapped her on the back, nearly sending her sprawling.
He’s right y’know. We’re fish in a goddamn teacup out here.
She nodded, immediately regretting it as a forgotten dull pain throbbed to her head. They were moving quickly, perhaps quickly enough. Her feet felt heavy, every puddle filled with a viscous substance approaching black more than red. She’d rather not think about it, but that only left her to lift her gaze and face the situation head-on.
“[According to Plan]!”
Another arrow sung, this time nearly taking one of Alexander’ eyes. His head shrunk back into his green scarf like a turtle in the nick of time. He didn’t swear, his hands were full.
When she finally lifted her head a small circle of tents stood within a wooden palisade wall merely ten foot high and only fifty meters ahead.
Two arrows, hitting wood.
“We should’ve asked for safe passage! For parlay! For the mercy of Rhû!” Rye wheezed, blood and oily sweat clinging to every part of her face. “This is uncalled for!”
Judging by the frequency of attacks, there’s a single archer out there, hidden damn well too. Seems a bit too brainsy for just a dreg on sentry duty.
“A normal undead like us is trying to kill us?” That gained a chorus of affirmative grunts, Sextus standing a bit taller next to her as she realized her head was sticking out over the shield wall. “Do they even know if we’re friendly or not? They didn’t ask; don’t they care?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Counted more than twenty different banners. Real battlefield, this place.” He stepped over a corpse, only for it to get back up and grab his ankle. He tripped, immediately taking an arrow to his side.
“[According to Pla– ah farck, Soldier down!”
Her right arm tingled, struck out on its own as it stabbed the undead lying in wait through the wrist with her dagger. The undead then was shortly after skewered by two spears and a strong arm roughly pulled her back up.
You have gained: Soul x18
Did this count as her killing someone again? It felt just as wrong, just as horrid, but they were in the right. They were the ones being ambushed, right? Letting Elia stab them counted as perfectly legal self-defense, right? There was little enough time to play the moralist and she shoved those thoughts down her throat where they could stay.
“Thanks.” Rye muttered as she watched her own arm play with the dagger with increasingly dangerous flourishes.
“Yer not half bad with knife and axe!” He laughed, seemingly not yet feeling the full effects of the arrow.
It’s what I do best, big guy. Yoink!
Her arm seemed almost alive (to be fair, Elia rarely wasn’t) as she was yanked forward to stab a second ambusher through the chest.
You have gained: Soul x20
I was going for the neck, dammit. Shit, this is hard. And exhausting. Ugh, short break please.
A high-pitched keening noise like a boiling teapot escaped her lips as she pulled the dagger back across what felt like bone. Horrible, horrible, terrible, ick!
“Rye-girl, get in formation!”
Elia could have tried to be a bit more delicate; the joints in her arm ached something fierce. But she couldn’t dwell on it, not when someone was yelling her name–
Rye’s head flung to the ground as a blue orb whizzed past her face, hitting the three legionnaires, and exploding like nothing she’d ever seen before, scattering them to the ground. A robed figure stood on a small hill twenty yards ahead.
Rye, work your fucking magic, now!
She did, despite it being double her comfortable range and despite not wanting to hit anyone at all, even now. She’d just aim for an arm, or a leg; a hand or a foot. Though being a hypocrite was better than being dead, fear still shook through her body making any attempt at aiming an impossibility.
Alright fuck it, this is gonna hurt a bit.
Her right arm – always the right one – tingled, pulled way back and lobbed her hatchet with such force she thought Elia had to have used more than just the one arm. The spinning axe curved to the end of its arc and the mage sagged to the ground in the distance.
H-headshot! F-fuck yeah… ugh, that’s definitely dislocated. I’ll hang on to it… concentrate on moving...
“Mage!” Sextus deep voice rumbled with fury as they tried to stand again, frost covering their sides like a stone half-covered in moss.
“A-already taken care of?” Elia yelled back.
He looked at her in mild astonishment and radiated a sort of approval that got her insides all fuzzy.
“That-a girl, go get ‘em– fark that stings.” He looked down, surprised at seeing another arrow sticking from his thigh. “Shite.”
Tertius nodded towards the largest soldier as the mute Alexander went through his collection of throwing axes, knives and hatchets in a blur. “We’re getting picked off. Rye-girl, you hafta tickle Sextus’ nose!”
What?
“What?”
“I– fark – I’ve got a boon!” Sextus stood, but with an unhealthy sway. “But works only when I sneeze!”
“[According to Plan]!” Tertius yelled, catching a follow-up projectile. “Dammit girl, make him sneeze!”
Yeah Rye, c’mon make the man sneeze.
She was so out of her depth that she didn’t bother to question it as she ran up next to him. He broke off the arrow shaft with a grunt as another two arrows impacted his shield.
“Back pocket. Should be a few feathers in there. No, no, to the left. Other left!”
“U-um, no feathers here?”
“What?” An arrow skimmed off the metal rim of his shield, prompting both to duck.
“It’s full of holes!” Rye pulled an arrow from it, gesturing wildly. “NO FEATHERS! WE’RE SCREWED!”
“THEN GO FIND SOME!”
Rye looked at the arrow in his hand. They shared an awkward stare, a short lull in the violence. She grabbed it, rubbed the tin-feathered end of the arrow under his nose, praying to Ruthe, Worga and a dozen other deities that this would be the sneeze to end all wars.
In a way, her wish came true if only for a brief moment. Sextus exploded in roar with the thunder of cleansed nostrils and a dark cloud of soot and ash covering the nearby area.
Holy shit, he’s a walking smokescreen!
“Stay together!” Tertius yelled even as Sextus expunged a second and a third puff. “We run on my mark. Two… three! [According to Plan]!”
They dashed, the light of day greeting their tearing eyes before another explosion of smoke robbed them of their sight once more. Stumbling, staggering and occasionally falling flat on the ground, their mad sprint was cut by ever more persistent shots that lessened in accuracy but tripled in number the closer they came to the safety of the fortification.
Death seemed a likely outcome. The next one was going to kill her.
A missile parted Tertius’ plume.
The next?
One snuck past a shield, cutting inches in front of her face.
Maybe this one–
They crossed the threshold, heavy wooden stakes enveloping them in a welcome embrace. Rye was half in a daze, but still possessed the presence of mind to pull the towering man stumbling on through.
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One arrow whizzed by, the last of what felt like hundreds but surely weren’t more than a couple dozen. Rye sagged to the muddy ground, panting madly and thankful that it was over.
“Yeh aren’t hurt… are yeh?” Sextus huffed, planting himself down next to her with soot-blackened face, having gathered yet another arrow in his side. “Got some wyckwax… back pocket… ah shite.”
You know what, I take back what I said about these guys. They’re half alright.
She grabbed his hand, leering at the bleeding wounds.
“W-we’re a-a-alive. All of us.”
“Good.” He swallowed a handful of fruit and herbs, shivering at the bitter-sweet taste. His pale pallor was lessened for a moment, but his wounds were still leaking too much blood. “It is our duty to protect the citizens of our empire. Perhaps, now that duty is done, a kiss… yes, I am dying…”
“Sextus you tart, stop being melodramatic, there’s a bowl right over there.” Tertius pointed to the bowl. Rye looked at it, then at Sextus, who was sheepishly avoiding her gaze.
Together, they dragged him over to the bowl, not bothering to take the projectiles out just yet. Those arrows were wickedly barbed, possibly poisoned. Rye’s opinion of the archer sunk even further.
“Blessed Ruthe, finally, peace.” Rye sighed as they draped him over the bowl. If she never had to do this again, she could live a happy life.
The soldiers nodded. “Blessed be.”
“Ugh, Alex’? Tert’?” Sextus muttered. “I think someone drank all th’ water.”
And then one of the large tents stood up, looming above the three like a vengeful spirit. Leather fastenings wiped around; torn canvas fluttered in the wind. A low gurgle escaped its… lips?
THE TENT’S A MIMIC!
The tent was in fact not a mimic, whatever that was. Misused as a blanket, it fell to reveal a hulking thing like a stunted giant, swollen at the limbs with fat and water, excessively prolonged neck crowned by a head like a catfish peeking out from its recent napping spot.
Two beady eyes, one hanging by its ocular nerve, looked down at the conveniently assembled meal. Nobody said a word.
The catfish ogre vomited, and a rain of sludgy ick hit Rye perfectly in the face.
“DON’T EAT ME!” She screamed, blind and in terror.
“Alexander, give ‘em hell!”
Sextus stirred despite his wounds. “Lemme at ‘em!” Sadly, he was still too busy succumbing to blood loss and/or poison to do much more.
“WE’RE GONNA DIE!” Rye screamed.
No, we’re not! Magic, Rye, magic!
She whipped the sticky substance from her eyes and grasped for her staff. With horror she watched the smallest soldier step in front of the lumbering hulk. He pulled down his green scarf, revealing scarred skin around a bird’s beak. And then he breathed fire.
He’s a dragon-person! No, wait, that’s a beak. He’s a bird person, a phoenix!
“Wuh?” was all Rye could manage.
In a single moment the creature’s worm-like head was engulfed in a sea of flame, licks of flame sizzling the fat beneath wrinkled pockmarked skin. Rye was inundated with a smell of cooked fish mixed with grug meat.
“We’re gonna live!” she yelled, nearly inaudible over the monster’s screams.
A flaming backhand swung forward, and the half-dragon man was immediately flung through the nearest tent, landing with a rattle, clatter, and final puff of fire.
“ALEXANDEEER!”
Soldier number three!
“WE’RE GONNA DI–“
Rye’s mangled arm slapped her in the face.
Owww, ow that hurts, ow – Rye, shut up, get to casting and shove that fish back in the ocean where it belongs, dammit!
Her aim was not great, debilitated by shaking arms, eyes nearly squinted closed and shivering with quiet whimpers. Her first bolt materialized and flew with all the grace of an obese rat. It chunked into the ogre’s side, actually hitting mostly because it was the size of a barn door. Its burning head immediately wrapped around to look directly at Rye, mouth snapping and swallowing fiery air like the suffocating fish it should be. Dozens, hundreds of tiny needle teeth ran across its gums, and it smelled worse than death. Rye was already screaming, already entirely in panic mode, already–
SHOOOOT!
The thick ice bolt thunked past the head and into its chest, breaking bone beneath thick yet brittle skin but doing little to stop its advance towards her. The fire left its front charred and blackened and though its eyes were stricken white by the heat it staggered unerringly towards her.
MAKE HIM FALL, RYE!
She was too slow, couldn’t conjure up the bolt fast enough. The ogre raised its arms for a hammerblow, but Tertius rammed into its side, burying his spear tip and a good part of its shaft into its torso. The ogre swung and missed but before she could thank the gods for her luck the rest of it fell on top of her.
Its fish-maw searched for one final meal and went for the larger morsel called Sextus next to her on the ground.
“H-hey f-fishface–”
The fish-ogre lunged in a sudden burst of winding movement – not towards Sextus but the origin of the sound. It swallowed Rye’s arms up to the elbow and she bit back a scream as its hooked teeth pierced her skin.
With a whimper, she released her bolt and the still burning head exploded.
For a long time, it was quiet. The world was so lacking in any sound that she would have thought herself dead were it not for the lack of any intrusive notification. Gingerly she opened an eye. Her face was cacked in gore and blood, viscera was the name of her newly acquired mascara.
You have gained: Soul x800
She looked to the left where Sextus lay as well. He gave her a thumbs up, even as a chunk of fishy brainmatter slowly oozed its way down his face.
That. Was. Awesome! Now do it again.
Rye managed a faint smile before it all turned too much and she fainted, pulled back into dreamland.
----------------------------------------
A small Rye stood in front of her parents, towering over her while she fidgeted in her seat. She was already fourteen – basically an adult – but she couldn’t keep herself from feeling like an intruder in Da’s study. Everything in here felt too tall, too alien. Even though it was the oldest part of her house, she was rarely allowed inside.
“Oh Rye, look at you.” Her mother cooed. “Your marks are blindingly positive. Look here dear, exceptional marks in math, astronomy, philosophy–“
“’Possessed of a great inner restlessness at all times. Possessed of possibly the worst writing posture possible. Disorderly organization of notes.” Her father looked over the scroll he was quoting and down at her. His face was a rock and her mother’s an owl. “I hear the Smither’s girl, Hannah, did not get such poor comments. And she is not even a prima.”
Hannah also only took four courses and even then, she barely squeaked by on math. But what Da’ said was right, always. She didn’t meet his eyes, choosing instead to follow the marbling of the desk separating them.
“But dearest, look at how much she has shown herself able to learn. And she is young.” Her mother leaned over for a hug, and it was good. She smelled of berries today.
“You’re coddling her. Again.” Da’s voice always had an uncomfortable hardness to it, the kind that made her heart jump and twist. He stayed sat where he was but fixated her with hard gray eyes. “And you. Don’t think that you deserve a reward simply for meeting expectations. You are our prima, our firstborn. You will one day carry responsibility over all your siblings, all the servant and all our lands. You must exceed, is that clear young woman?”
Here it was. The point where what she said either resulted in a dismissive nod or going to bed without dinner.
“I–I will not disappoint, sir.”
He inspected her for a few heavy moments. Why did she have to stutter? What else did she do wrong? Was he returning his attention to the scroll or was this just a false sense of security?
“You are dismissed, prima.”
She stood up, bowed and slowly walked out, careful not to trigger a landslide. The door closed with a heaviness, and she breathed for the first time in what felt like hours.
“How’d it go?”
She turned to her younger brothers. Marcus who always put frogs in her boots, Califer who was smart and adopted like so many of her siblings stood there like two puppies waiting for food. He was holding the youngest, currently, yet to be named as she hadn’t passed the age of two. Sam was here too, her well worn servant’s tunic a rough contrast to the smooth cloth of herself and the others.
Her sharp eyes instantly found a hint of sorrow Rye was too slow to hide.
“It went fine!” Rye lied, convincing no one. Cali and Marcus shared that look again. “No, s-seriously, Mum praised me lots. If I keep doing well, maybe I’ll get a private tutor even this far out.”
“Will you be studying magic?” Marcus asked “I heard the capital has a lyce–, lyc–, lyceum? An academy. You could sign up, become a priestess, a knight-scholar or, I don’t know, learn to shoot lightning from your fingers.”
Cali gave him a rough elbow to the ribs. “Magic doesn’t do lightning.”
“’Course it does. There’s conjuration, exultation, stone–calling, blood–calling, pyromancy–“
“Pyromancies’ illegal, Marc.” Cali shook his head. “Magic doesn’t do lightning. You would know if you read a book every once in a while. And Da’ wouldn’t pay tuition for something likely to get her sent to the legions. He wants her to become a bureaucrat.”
“Yeah. That.” Rye sighed, feeling empty now that the weight of her meeting was starting to fade. “I’m gonna lay down somewhere.”
“Alright, see ya.” Marcus left and after a moment of hesitation, Cali followed, leaving her alone with Sam.
The servant girl followed her through the estate, past pots boiling with the evening stew, past servants mending holes in bedsheets, past a window where the smell of the kitchen melded with that of the grug barn. She reached her room, slumped face-first into the bed and Sam was still there, standing at her side.
“What?” Rye said, failing to entirely keep the annoyance from creeping into her voice.
“… mistress, is there anything I can bring you?” She had that look again, that small uncertainty as to which role to play. Not long ago they had still played like sisters. Now, the hierarchy didn’t allow for much casual fun.
“… you of all people don’t have to call me mistress.”
The silence stretched much too long. She didn’t want to cry in front of everyone, but Sam could be trusted. With everything.
“Then from this day on I dub thee ‘Bean’.”
“…because I like beans?”
Her friend nodded, evidently satisfied with herself. “Yes. Now, bean, is there anything that would make you feel better? Milk and honey?”
“… Mhm.”
She leaned in close, close enough that Rye could smell grass mixed with lye and ash. She must have been on washing duty today.
“Anything else?” she whispered as if their friendship was a grand conspiracy.
“… a hug?”
Sam smiled. “A milk with honey and a hug. Of course, mistress.”
Rye threw a pillow at her in protest, but Sam caught it and tackled her to the bed, tickling the glumness out of her face until screams and giggles echoed through the hallways. Even though Sam was two years older than her, it felt like they had barely been born a day apart.
The raucous behavior got the both of them in trouble, decent behavior this and firstborn–servant relations that. But it helped. The joy of just letting loose tasted sweeter than any praise, better even than milk and honey.
“What do you want to be one day?” Sam asked while they peeled the purple skin off of tonight’s dinner potatoes. “And ‘I don’t know’ isn’t a fair answer.”
“I– hey, that’s not fair.” She pouted while wrestling with a frustratingly knobby tater. “Hey, this one kinda looks like Cali, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t deflect you – oh, hah, it does, doesn’t it?”
They peeled further in silence.
“I want to be a knight.”
Rye looked at her friend with an arched eyebrow. “A knight?”
“Yes, a knight. They are strong and their armor looks so COOL. They fight beasts, crime and see the world. And!” She put a foot on a bag of potatoes.“And they get to rescue princesses, maidens.”
Ah yes, maiden-rescuing. They’d played that much when they were younger, and even now at times. Rye didn’t have the heart to tell her that the stories she read told of the old kind of knights, the ones ruling land, fighting their little battles. She didn’t understand her friend’s aesthetic taste, but she could imagine her as a knight, peeling potatoes.
“You’d have to get noticed by a recruiter first.” She said, flicking a peel away. “Then you’d have to move out to a bigger city, Loften optimally. Not all knights are equal. Though they are all servants, you wouldn’t want to be a glorified bureaucrat. All the higher positions are just that, or ceremonial.” Rye shrugged, even as she noticed her friend wilt under her comments. “But you’d be too good for the common ranks. You’d climb above them in a jiffy.”
“A knight of pen and sword. A learned knight. A knight scholar.” When she looked up, there was a light in Sam’s eyes like nothing she’d ever seen before. It was weird. She looked away."You think I'd make a good one?"
“W-well, hard workers earn the hardest jobs, so yeah, I’d guess. You’re a busy bee, the busiest I know.” Besides maybe herself, but this wasn’t a time to be comparing swords.
They fell into silence once again. When they were almost done with their punitive chore, Sam turned and Rye felt annoyed again that she had to look up at her.
“And you? You haven’t told me what you want to be.”
“What I want to be?” She tried to think, but all she could conjure up was a blank. “I guess… I could be a knight too… maybe…?”
“You’d make a much better princess.” Sam smiled and pinched her cheek. “I have some other chores to do. No rush thinking, you can give me a real answer later, alright?”
“Alright.” Rye said but this time she drew up quite the opposite of a blank. Even as Sam left to do whatever the head servant told her, she remained standing where Sam’s blade had stung her long after.