Naya ran her hands through her hair and cursed her elders for the thousandth time.
“We have. No. Time,” she hissed through the feywild stone. “We need warriors. Now. Or a portal to the godpaths. I cannot request formally because my people are all about to be trapped and killed!”
“You will not raise your voice at us, daughter of Anshan,” warbled the disjointed voice of the Elder Magus. Whether it was intended or not, the title hurt. “That your inexperience and your father’s foolishness have risked your tribe is your house’s fault, not ours. We will not be emotionally blackmailed.”
“I know that.” Naya fought the tears with every fiber of her being. Was it also her fault her father had died in the marshes? That her eldest brother had died beside him? No. But now she was alone. And not even the elders would help her.
She heard them talking like her tribe wasn’t being flanked even now, harried like rabbits until they starved or fled across open ground, pursued by beasts that would murder and enslave them.
“I have no time for this,” she said, maybe to them, maybe to herself. After the horrific battle with the marsh trolls, she had five good warriors left—scouts and archers who had survived their dangerous profession for a hundred years. She closed the feystone, knowing the elders would be furious to be signaled then dismissed.
But they were all useless, just as they had been for the entirety of her life, and probably her father’s life. And their anger made no difference if she was dead.
“Warriors,” she said, and the eyes of the young scouts no older than her turned and hardened. They were brave and loyal, and they had brought her people this far seeking the holy lands to fulfill the prophecy when her father called. Even when those at home had whispered they were all mad.
“Thank you,” she said, holding back the tears. “For..” Her voice cracked and she cleared it. “We need to lead the centaur away. Distract them, so our people can cross the plains and reach the forest. But the risk…”
“We would all die for the prophecy,” said Telio, the most veteran, his face stone. “Tell us what you need.”
“We spread out,” she said, lifting her own bow, knowing she wasn’t strong enough to wield her father’s. The scouts’ eyes followed it, but they said nothing. “Let them see you. Stick to the high grass and run for the rocky ground to the north east. Kill as many as you can. But lead them away, then survive, and join us in the trees.”
The scouts saluted, then left her make-shift command tent and ran ahead.
There were too few of them now. Too few of the faithful willing to explore the world as their ancestors had, searching for the sacred places. The remaining elves wished only to live in the last city, hovering between fey and reality, unchanging, unending, frozen like arctic ice.
Her confidence in her gods and the ancient ways was failing. But nor did she see any hope except to fulfill the oldest legends of renewal for her race. There had not been an elf child born in a hundred years.
“I will not fail you, father,” she whispered, covering herself with the ancestral silks and leathers of her house. She gripped her bow, which was really her brother’s bow, far easier to draw than her father’s but still hard enough to strain her.
She took a pack of supplies, then walked from her tent through the traveling camp, meeting the eyes of some the brave pioneers who had followed her family on their sojourn.
“For the ancestors,” she said to those close enough to listen, than raised her voice. “Run to the forest when we are gone. Run for your lives. We will meet you there soon. Or see you in the hereafter.”
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Some wept, but none spoke. Half were starving, all were exhausted. Naya walked out from the protection of the marsh into the open plain filled with danger, and prepared to sell her life bitterly for her people.
* * *
Mason was really starting to enjoy himself. These centaur warriors were either so stupid or angry he just led them around the open land like sheep. Er horses. Whatever.
And they couldn’t seem to accept that their arrows wouldn’t kill him. Though they’d certainly tried.
At some point he’d started counting the hits, but he got a bit lost around sixty. Some of them hurt, he gave them that. An early hit in the back of the knee was the worst, but he felt he’d lost the most dignity when one stuck in an ass cheek.
Transformation had taken care of all that now.
Mason’s skin looked like scales. He couldn’t feel the wind, and he couldn’t feel the arrows that bounced off his body. He heard the centaurs as they finally slowed and stopped, staring at him and whispering amongst themselves. With his ridiculous senses, Mason could hear them.
“He is not a man at all, Hagamash. Look at him! Nothing could withstand so many arrows. It must be a…creature of the Wyrd.”
At this many of the centaur made some religious gesture as if to ward off evil spirits. Mason grinned, hanging his bow from his neck as he slowly walked towards them.
“Yes,” said the centaur leader, obviously pleased to have some way out of the situation. “It must be. We did not mean to offend you, Wyrdling! We will go in peace,” he called to Mason, then winced as if uncomfortable. “But…other tribes still hunt the elves. Will you stop them as well?”
“Where,” Mason answered, his voice still the growling rasp of his half-wolf form.
“To the east,” called the centaur. “A handful of the elves fled that way.” With that the centaur clicked its tongue, and the remaining creatures circled away, leaving their few dead on the ground from Mason’s arrows as if without interest.
Mason was slightly disappointed, if he was honest. But he knew the result was a good one. Whatever these centaur were they didn’t seem corrupted or inherently evil like some of the things he’d faced. They were more like men—capable of both good and terrible things, depending on the man. And possibly the day.
He turned and ran east, flying through the tall grass with his pulse and the influence of the wolf pounding in his ears. He wanted to hunt. To eat. To howl his claim over these lands so everything and everyone knew to run or hide in terror.
Damn you Cerebus, he thought, entirely without conviction.
He smelled the centaur before he saw them. Then others—a human, a goblin, and maybe an elf, and a hundred different things he tried to ignore, all blowing downwind. The power of his scent as a half-wolf was unbelievable and intoxicating. Not to mention extremely useful.
Then he heard hooves and the increasingly familiar whoops and cheers of the centaurs as they chased their prey. He lowered himself and moved through the grass, wanting to see his enemy and the situation before he decided.
But it didn't take long. He found one elf lying dead in the grass, a javelin sticking through the corpse's chest, the body trampled. He saw half a dozen centaurs chasing another almost leisurely, loosing their arrows but not striking. He knew from having fought them their aim was incredible, and he had the healed over wounds to prove it.
They were toying with their enemy.
The lone elf had a bow and loosed arrows, but the centaur were not only incredibly good at deflecting them, they also had some kind of power that seemed to toss the arrows away. As Mason watched he decided with some surprise the elf was female, her accuracy very good, but the draw relatively weak. She was clearly afraid, and not a seasoned warrior. She was, in other words, doomed.
For some reason this toying made Mason angrier than the fact the centaur had been chasing and killing them. Maybe because killing Mason understood—for food, to protect yourself, to survive. He felt a slight pang of guilt for what one might possibly call toying with the centaur. But in the end he hadn’t really wanted to kill them. Mostly.
There were things in nature that toyed with their prey. He knew that. But he didn't like it. He didn't care what 'druids' or 'rangers' or synthetic gods said through his other fake divine creations about the natural world. Or what people said, either.
Men had complex thought. They had their own moral codes, and good ones didn't tolerate torturing weaker things. He knew that, even if he’d maybe failed that test once or twice.
Mason didn't see the goblin or human he'd smelled, but it didn't matter. If they attacked him or the elf, they'd die, too.
In the end, Mason wasn't the type to justify his morality with philosophy. These things behaved in a way that offended him, so he was going to stop them.