Tristan’s horse could sense the tension in the air as he came up on the hill overlooking the Uphret river. The dryness and lingering dust heightened the feeling, making it hard to breathe for both rider and mount. He gently patted the grey gelding to calm it, its nervousness threatening to infect him as well. Despite his efforts, he could feel its shivering continue between his knees.
Uncomfortable as he was with horses, the quivering of his saddle did little to instill trust in his mount. Better to get off and let the beast relax on its own. A quick look to the ground showed no rocks that might upset his footing, so he swung a leg over the saddle and hopped off. Yet despite the precaution he misjudged his landing, the resulting twinge of pain in his ankle tearing through him like fire through kindling.
It never took much to set off the pain. He dared not show his weakness to those who followed him, however. He held on to his saddle in desperation, forcing his mouth shut to keep from screaming. In moments the agony passed, leaving only the ripples of memory and a sheen of sweat in its wake.
“Are you alright, my Lord?” asked Stevan, his second in command, as he came up besides him on his roan.
Tristan tested the ankle, but he knew it was fine. As his old weapon master once said, the pain always took away the hurt. Trust in it. It is your friend, not your enemy.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he said after a moment’s hesitation.
“Forgive my saying so, my Lord, but whoever taught you to ride was an awful instructor.” He gracefully swung off himself, his boot kicking up yet more dust as he landed on the dried earth.
“Unfortunately they didn’t have much to work with,” Tristan grudgingly admitted. Trying to turn the conversation away from his discomfort, he used his chin to point to the hill and stone buttresses of the fortress across the way, keeping his hands on his saddle to steady himself.
From their position, intermittent greenery of fir and maple swept down to a shallow river, across which fields of grain gave way to a hillside vineyard littered with copses of trees. Above it all were the walls and tower of a small stone fortress. Looking over the fields, Tristan would see that not all of the fields were planted and the vineyards were brown and desiccated. Not at all what he had remembered of his childhood home.
He tried not to think of those times, the struggles to please his father, or his failure to save him. There was an old saying that children of winter never found peace, undergoing trials as harsh as the season they were born under. So far nothing could be more true for him. In this case, life had brought him back to where his had begun. Previously he had been running from the invaders who killed his family. Now the small fortified stronghold across the way would have to defend itself from him.
"The river has changed course since I was here last, but most of it looks the same. The drought has pushed back the tree line from the walls, though. Archers could be a problem. I doubt they have much food stocked up. We could starve them out."
"The river changed course? And how long ago was that, my Lord?" Stevan asked, his voice showing the gruffness of forty hard winters. He was a veteran warrior, calm and assured in the saddle and off, but like anyone who had seen combat he disliked ambiguity. His question was simple, prodding to understand the problem before them. Unfortunately the answer was not. Tristan looked at him briefly, trying to measure his words. Some things were better left unsaid.
"When I was a child. I was born around here. Must have been flooding since then." He had known Stevan a long time, but was not in the habit of letting people know his true age. Compared to the graying warrior, Tristan looked little older than twenty five, but he said nothing to indicate how long it had actually been. It seemed better to leave it that way.
Stevan nodded, accepting the explanation. "We don’t have the supplies for a prolonged siege, my Lord. Isn’t there a village hereabout?"
"A town, yes. Lavignal, on the other side of the hill. The fortress is home to their Lord."
“He’s no Lord anymore,” Stevan remarked testily. He never had cared much for those who misused the privileges given to them. “High Lord Ulan will not stand for those who attack their neighbors. Nor will Emperor Orpheon.”
“We’re not far from the border to the empire’s heartland. It’s only a matter of time before word of the raids reach the Emperor. Best to take care of the problem before that happens,” Tristan agreed. He looked up and down the river, considering his options. "The river is too shallow for most boats, and it tends to flood in the rainy season. The current is fast, though, and the river is wide enough to make an extra southern wall for the fort."
Stevan nodded thoughtfully, looking over the land between themselves and the far hill. “I imagine the town is starving too. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were in on the raids. Stealing is quicker than doing your own work.”
"Stealing I could understand, but butchery is something else. The High Lord wants an accounting for the raids, and he’ll have it."
Recovered from his fumble, Tristan took a deep breath, put a foot into a stirrup, and climbed back into the saddle. On feeling his weight the horse made a short sidestep, forcing Tristan to hold on to keep his seat.
Stevan stifled a chuckle. Tristan felt a twinge of anger, but he held his tongue. Better to be thought a fool than reveal any more of himself. Forcing himself to attend to the task at hand, he took command of the reins and turned his horse about. Stevan followed suit, staying beside him as they went back down the hill from where they came.
Thankfully the open land around them helped to dispel Tristan’s displeasure. The air was pleasantly dry against his skin, and despite the dust it felt good to breathe in the scents of the countryside. The smell of scrub, trees, and earth overpowered those of sweating horses and even sweatier riders. This was home, for good or ill, and he could not help but enjoy the scent of it.
Tristan found the reasons for his homecoming rather ironic. It had been someone like himself, in service to a previous Emperor, who had killed Tristan’s family. That had been a painful time in his life. Now things were different. Everyone he had once known in these lands were long dead, and while the area still carried his family name, those in residence were no relations of his. The past was gone and better left forgotten.
He did wish he knew the name of the current Lord. At least then he would know who he would be executing. On the edges of any High Lord’s territory provincial Lords often came and went, raised or toppled by the locals as they saw fit. Here, between the Southland and the heartland of the Vorshan Empire, it was worse. There had been no established noble families for some time. The last had been Tristan’s own and that had not ended well. This one would be yet another Lord whose name would be forgotten.
"What is your plan, my Lord?" Stevan’s question broke through Tristan’s reverie. Caught between thoughts of the past and present, it took a moment for him to remember where they were. Something about being here left him feeling tired. The last winter had seemed like one too many among countless others.
"No need to belabor this. If we take the fortress the town will come along. We’ll be able to make a full investigation afterwards. The sooner the better, too. Let’s take ten men across the river. There’s a ford just upstream we can use. We’ll walk up to the front door and knock."
Steven’s brows rose in surprise. "Knock, my Lord? Only ten men? That’s not much to take a fortress.”
Tristan smiled confidently. "Any more men, Stevan, and nobody will answer the door. But we wouldn’t want to be caught unprepared, would we? Downstream there’s a shallow area. Not a ford, but at this time of year it should allow horsemen without trouble. The hills will provide a blind spot that can’t be seen from the tower. The rest of the men can go that way and come around back. We’ll wait awhile before heading out to be sure they’re in position in the tree line around the fortress. Let Brien take them. She’s the punctual type. As for us I want them to see us coming. Make sure the standard bearer is with us to announce ourselves. It’s time the Lord Defender played diplomat."
Stopping his horse, Stevan looked over at him in annoyance. ”Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you my Lord?"
Stevan always seemed disappointed whenever Tristan made decisions like this. He believed there should be rules to war. If there were, Tristan admitted to never following them. That and he knew himself better than his second ever could.
Still, his irritation at being questioned returned. ”What do you mean by that?"
Stevan stroked his beard a moment before answering. "When I was a lad the weapon master who trained me said that no matter how good you are, there is always someone out there who is better. Forgive me for saying this, my Lord, but I think you believe yourself invincible, and that is very dangerous, especially for the rest of us."
Tristan could not fault his logic. His own weapon master had told him much the same in his day. "That may be, but I am willing to risk it. I’d rather risk myself and ten men now than carry out a siege that will last for weeks and kill many more."
"Then perhaps, my Lord, you would like to go alone? It was nice of you to invite myself and ten of the men, but we both know what you intend to do. Shake hands with the Lord and say ‘hello, how are you?’ and stab them between the ribs before they can return the greeting. Hardly seems worth bringing us at all."
Tristan glared at Stevan, feeling too exhausted to reprimand the outburst but fearing the reason for it. He hoped he was wrong. "What is this, Stevan? Tell me what’s on your mind. I won’t think less of you for doing it.”
“Permission to speak frankly, sir?” He said it with the formality of a man who knew he was about to cross a line with his commander.
"Permission granted,” Tristan replied tersely.
Stevan lowered his eyes, unsure of his words. “Sir, I know you know your own business, but I think you have to understand that, well, the men and I don’t. Orders like that and people will question them.” He looked about as if making sure no one was about to overhear them. "I’ve been with you for over ten springs now, and you haven’t aged a day. The others haven’t been with you long enough to see it, but I do.”
He licked his lips, trying to work up his courage. “Look, I know you like playing the dandy, afraid of your own horse and fearing every splinter. But I’ve seen you fight and I know better. So I can’t help but wonder, what are you?”
Tristan tried not to show any emotion as Stevan spoke despite the roiling fear in his gut. Stevan went on. ”You give orders like that, sir, and I know something’s not right. I’d rather be on your side than not, but you’re not thinking like a warrior. You’re… you’re thinking like somebody who can’t lose. From anybody else an order like that would be suicide, but for you, I know it’s not. I’ve known you long enough to know you’re not out to kill yourself. So it makes me wonder. A normal man can’t do the things you do. Normal men are cautious because they want to grow old. You act like you won’t and never will.”
Tristan thought to reach out and reassure him, but the distance and stoney ground between their horses made him think better of it. He nodded to himself, knowing the time had come to make a decision. It seemed obvious now why he felt so tired. Leaning in, he spoke to Stevan as a friend rather than his superior. ”Stevan, I trust you. You are right that I am not like you, but I’m still a person and I’m not looking to get you killed. I…" He did not realize how hard this would be. He had only done this once before and had nearly forgotten what it was like.
"Stevan, when this is over I will be leaving. It’s time I go away. I’ll speak with the High Lord and let him know I’ve decided to retire. I’ll recommend you for Lord Defender as well, though that it is his decision to make. I know it doesn’t answer your question, but it’s the best I can do. Best for you and the men, at least."
Staring at Tristan for an awkward amount of time, he finally nodded, apparently having nothing left to say. Instead he spurred his horse onward to continue the way back to their encampment.
Tristan let him go ahead, watching as the man weaved his way between the sparse, dried brush. It was easy to see he needed time to himself. Tristan followed shortly after, using the distance to think and consider his own future.
Stevan’s question made it obvious that Tristan had become complacent. Time to move on before he was forced out, banished or hunted once more. If Stevan was wondering, then others were as well, and rumors should be feared. Especially with High Lord Ulan. In fact, they were so dangerous that Tristan suspected it may already be too late to formally retire. Best to disappear before the High Lord could question him and his motives.
By the time he reached camp himself, Stevan was already shouting orders to the two hundred others they had brought from the Southland. They were busy breaking down tents and gathering themselves for the work ahead. The morning sun was still low to the east, but it would take some time for everyone to get in position.
Brien, a large Elahner woman with a hawk’s beak of a nose and short cropped, curly brown hair, was shouting at those that would ride ahead with her to mount up. Tristan was pleased to see that they rushed to comply for her as quickly as they would for himself. She was a natural leader. Being a traditionally xenophobic people, not many Elahner served the Empire. He was fortunate to have her serving with him.
Once everyone was ready, she mounted her own saddle with an ease belaying her size and the heaviness of her mail armor. She turned her horse to salute him, and following his nod of acknowledgement, led her men off to the west toward the river. The line of them snaked into the hills until they disappeared with only a lingering trail of dust in their wake.
A smaller group stayed off to the side with Stevan, equipment already packed. Looking them over, he could see his second had chosen only the best for this little excursion, rightfully not placing all of his trust in the skill of his Lord.
Stevan saluted when he approached. "My Lord! The men are ready when you are." He stood rigidly as Tristan dismounted before him. It was unusually formal for him, making it obvious that Stevan was still upset. The men stood at attention as well, each on the right hand side of his mount in a single straight line, oblivious to the tension between their commanders.
Since there was nothing to be done about it, Tristan returned the salute. ”At ease. We’ll wait till midday before heading out."
The men relaxed, looking to their horses or over their weapons to pass the time. Stevan, still having trouble looking Tristan in the eye, joined them in their preparations.
With a sigh Tristan turned to his own needs. After attending to his own horse, he sat on a nearby rock, unsheathing his saber and taking a sharpening stone to it. He slid the stone down the blade edge over and over again, barely noticing the movement of his own hands. He contemplated his fate, trying to decide what to do once his work there was done, but there was too little time for answers.
As the sun approached midday, he pushed his thought away for later. With a word the group mounted, their standard hanging limply from the standard bearer’s harness as they rode out for the ford. The lack of wind left them to sweat with no relief.
Tristan was the only one among them who did not clink or thud their way along as they rode to the river. He jokingly liked to say it was from his fine horsemanship, but the simple truth was that armor was a nuisance to him. It hindered his movements too much to be of use in battle. Instead he wore loose muslin tunics dyed crimson with black pants, the hems edged in silver brocade, and a fine steel mesh belt at his waist. It was a field version of his silk court clothes, comfortable in the warmth of the Southland, though here the sweat made them sticky against his skin.
Everyone else in his company wore mail and hard boiled leather, the metal studs scraping together with the sway of their horses. Even the weapons hanging from each belt were different than his own. Unlike the traditional curved scimitar of the south, the blade hanging from his belt was a saber, a thinner, longer and more agile weapon. Just another way his differences made themselves plain to everyone in the company.
The crossing of the ford was uneventful, though the prickly feeling running down Tristan’s spine let him know they were being observed. He watched the scattered trees and bushes but glimpsed no one, not that he expected otherwise. Beyond the ford the path split three ways, with Tristan waving the men onward to take the road back toward the west and up to the hill. Dust followed them, the hot, dry air overly still for his liking.
With the sun firmly overhead, the group of men rode up to the gates of Lavignal fortress. Tristan thought it hardly merited the term fortress, though he admitted his travels had jaded him. What he had thought a true castle in his youth was not much more than a tower, a central hall with a few outlying buildings, and a wall. The wall was impressive, however, being ten arm-lengths high and butting up against steep downward slopes on three sides. The tower loomed over it all in cut and fitted granite three times higher than the wall. He recalled that from the highest room it was possible to view the entirety of the surrounding countryside, including the town to the north and the river for many leagues both east and west. Hills to the south blocked the way, but the river there afforded a clear view of anyone coming from that direction.
Here the path before the gate was barren, well packed earth. The trees to either side had been cut further back since his childhood, and the gate was currently closed and barred to visitors. In times past Tristan would have expected merchant stalls against the wall, a few tents or temporary buildings on either side with children running up to take money from anybody willing to buy sweets or a drink of water. Now there was nothing, only swirling dust. It made him feel alone and vulnerable before the large oaken double doors.
Tristan rode forward between Stevan and the standard bearer, motioning for the others in his party to remain behind them. Cadell, the standard bearer, looked very young in his mail, the banner pole reaching upwards from the harness at his back. The standard of the Lord Defender of the Southlands hung limply, its crimson calligraphy hidden beneath folds of black cloth. With a nod of his head, Tristan motioned to the young man. Cadell took out a horn, put his lips to the mouthpiece, and gave a single, sonorous blow to announce their arrival. They had knocked on the door. Now it was time to see if anyone would answer.
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The horn’s blast echoed across the hill. The sound faded to nothing, not even the chirp of birds filling the emptiness. Everyone went still as they waited. Even Tristan’s horse put aside its usual nervousness to stand quietly in place.
Though they expected it, everyone jumped when the gates began to creak. Tristan smiled with self-satisfaction as he motioned for Stevan and Cadell to dismount. He slid carefully off his mount and stretched his legs before stepping forward. His rear end was sore from days in the saddle. He knew he should have rested longer before setting out that morning. The days of travel from the Southland capital was taking its toll on his muscles and joints. Stevan swung off his horse and walked besides him without hesitation, more used to life on horseback. Cadell did a rather ginger dismount, managing to do so while keeping the pole of the standard upright over his shoulder. Coming up to stand besides his commanders, Tristan realized for the first time that Cadell was taller than himself, making the banner on his back stand out all the more as it loomed overhead.
The gates swung open, pushed by two burly men clad in sparse leather armor that only covered their chests and hips. The rest of them was brown from the sun and heavily muscled, one with a thick beard and sun bleached hair reaching over his shoulders, the other shaven and bald. Both men had the looks of professional killers. When the gates stood fully open they leered menacingly toward the group. It seemed a little over the top for Tristan’s taste. He could tell they were there for show and was not impressed.
The two men remained by the doors, standing aside for three others who strode through the gate to meet Tristan’s group. Two of them where warriors, though not what he would have expected. They were Elahners, dressed in traditional garbs of shortened, bleached robes tied closed with woven rope belts. Tristan could see from the stiffness of their movements that the loose cloth hid armor beneath. Their heads were covered in open faced steel helmets with a fringe of cloth hanging down to cover the backs of their necks. They were extremely tall, making them appear like the giants depicted in tapestries hanging in the Southland court. Those giants were shown as bumbling oafs, but these, with hands resting on hilts jutting from hanging scabbards, kept him from smiling. These were experienced fighters and not to be underestimated.
The third person, flanked by the towering guards, was an even greater surprise. A boy, appearing barely old enough to carry a training stick yet clearly in charge as his companions walked a pace behind. As they came closer, Tristan realized he was mistaken. Not a boy, but a woman. She was short, just shy of his own shoulder in height, with cropped blonde hair. She wore no armor and was so physically slight it was difficult to tell her gender beneath her ill-fitting but ornate tunic and pants. Her clothing was the once familiar Lavignal crimson and brown of Tristan’s own family with the hawk sigil at her breast, clearly sized for a larger person. Despite this, she carried herself like someone who considered herself worthy of wearing them. At her hip Tristan could see the scabbard and hilt of a simple short sword. Her hands swung at her sides as she came, unconcerned for her own safety, and her gate was straight and confident as she walked toward them.
When the woman and her escorts came within three paces of his group, Cadell announced their presence formally. "Greetings, in the shadow of Yu the Mother and Kurn the Defender. His Lord Tristan de’Dassir, Lord Defender of the Southlands, Steward of the High Lord Ulan of Surof, humble servant of Emperor Orpheon of the Vorshan Empire, requests the presence of your Lord and master. If it pleases, lead us so that we may take audience and guidance under his roof."
The woman and her entourage stopped when he spoke, but none of them made motion to bow or move aside to allow passage to the fortress. The woman just looked Tristan over, a lopsided smile on her lips. Despite her waifish appearance, her gaze was hard and brittle. She stared at Tristan, not wasting a look for Stevan or Cadell, though without his armor Tristan would have considered himself the least threatening among them. Her eyes were a clear blue. They reflected the sky above, making him want to look deeper. She seemed so contemptuous of his presence, however, that he forced himself to look away from the implied insult.
"Sorry, your Highness, the Lord not be wanting no audiences today." Her voice was lilting, her accent one he faintly recognized from the streets of the Empire’s capital city. It was the style of talk one heard in the backwater alleys where thieves and scoundrels were found. It labeled her as a commoner. What she was doing there in the presence of Elahner warriors he could not imagine. Most commoners of the capital were lucky to ever venture out through the city’s gates let alone past nearest farm. The mystery only deepened further, and he hated mysteries.
"Then perhaps," Tristan said, taking over the conversation, "you would be so kind as to convince your Lord to see us. I have urgent business that I must discuss." For some reason he found this woman’s smile irritating. He was starting to feel the urge to slap it from her mouth.
Her smile widened further. "Do you now? Well, the only Lord here is me, so I’m guessing you can talk to me right here if you’d like."
This woman was far too smug for her own good. Tristan looked at the two men on either side of her, trying to understand what could compel the normally harsh, brutal, and fiercely independent Elahn to follow a gutter rat. In particular a woman. Elahner women were fierce warriors in their own right, but their men never included them in battle and generally did not allow them to speak in the presence of other men. At least, this was what Brien had told him. Those were among her many reasons for leaving her people.
The man to her right, strands of kinky black hair poking out from beneath his helmet, had a grim, determined look. He was all business, yet seemed unperturbed by his mistress’s behavior. The one on the left, a scar trailing from the edge of his mouth and across one cheek, looked amused, his laugh lines crinkling around his eyes.
Confused, all Tristan could think to do was play along. "Forgive me then, my Lady. If I may ask your name so that I can address you correctly?"
"You can call me Neila, if it please you. Lady Neila." Her smile broke then as she barked out in laughter. Neither of her men moved or looked at her as she nearly doubled over from some private joke he could not decipher.
His own patience was coming to an end with this bizarre display of insanity. "Then you’re the one raiding the trade lines around here. Find it funny butchering innocents for your own amusement then?" Both Stevan and Cadell shifted slightly to either side of him. They could tell where the conversation was going, as could the seven men behind him as he heard the sound of scraping armor and nickering horses. It was looking like Stevan was right. His second might see that stab between the ribs after all.
She stopped laughing as abruptly as she had started, straightening again with her smile dropping from her face like the last skip of a stone thrown across a lake. "Come for that, then, have you?”
"Yes, I have. I’m here as your judge, jury, and executioner, Lady Neila." Tristan sneered out her clearly self-aggrandizing title. He found it impossible to considered this woman a lady under any circumstance. "It’s been made quite clear by the High Lord that it is unimportant whether you live or die. I’m here to put a stop to the raids and punish you and your accomplices in these heinous crimes."
The voracity of his words surprised even him. The woman was undoubtedly out of her mind, but what upset him more was this woman’s statement of lordship over his former home. How dare she wear his family’s colors. No matter that he had been driven from them long ago, or that he never intended to reclaim his birthright. She did not deserve to have them, had no right to claim the land or the fortress for herself.
"Well then, my friends," she said to her companions. "I guess this is it then. Was good while it lasted, I think." She looked him over once more, this time like a prime cut of beef hanging at market. She drew her sword, holding it haphazardly. Neither Tristan or the two besides him reacted at the move, not seeing much threat. ”Time we moved on, I suppose. First, let’s take care of this problem, shall we? Kill them.”
The order was casually given, but the swords of both Elahners slid quickly from their hilts. The sliding of steel came unanimously from all around as both groups drew weapons. Tristan’s saber leapt to his hand as he pulled it from the scabbard, nearly three feet of forged steel made by the finest weapon smith in Surof. The ring of it sang to him as he pulled it free.
It was for this that Tristan never wore armor. He struck first, his target chosen. He went for the nearest Elahner, protecting Cadell as the young man rid himself of the standard. Though he could not see the armor beneath the flowing cloth, it was easy to guess where he needed to go. His sword slipped through cloth to enter between the plates around the man’s arm pit as the warrior raised his weapon. Tristan thought he felt the last beat of the man’s heart through the wire wrapped hilt.
Sliding his sword free as the man’s body fell to the ground, he prepared to go for the other Elahner as well, but he could feel more imminent danger coming his way like an ice cold blade against his stomach. Where the pain made him mistrust the day to day bumps and bruises of life, against a living enemy intent on killing him it had become a trusted guide. The fear of it spoke to him, warning him, his muscles tightening where the blow was about to come, a tingle like jumping into a frozen stream in the middle of summer. He let the feeling turn him before his conscious mind could respond, his hip moving out of the way as a short sword thrust by, missing his midriff by the width of two fingers.
Tristan realized he had discounted Neila out of hand, a mistake he would not repeat. She appeared reasonably capable with a weapon, though undisciplined and imprecise. Regardless she was no match for him. The blade of his saber was not in a position to strike, but the hilt was. Before she could change the direction of her weapon he struck her in the face, hitting full force with the butt of his hilt against her cheek. He could hear bone crack before she fell over backwards from the force. He was not in the habit of striking women but thought himself justified to make an exception in this case.
From the corner of his eye he could see Stevan dealing with the other Elahner. Horses pounded around them as Tristan’s men went for the gates and the two guards holding it. What he saw before him, however, held his attention fully. Neila rose from the ground and caressed her cheek where he had hit her, a smile wide across her face. It was not just a smile, though. It was pleasure. Pure and simple joy. Beneath her misshapen her cheek he saw movement, like water flowing beneath the skin. Tristan blinked to be sure the dust had not gotten into his eyes. Looking again, there was nothing at all. No movement, and no injury. Though blushed, her face was fine, perfect and unbruised.
Before Tristan could do anything further, Cadell, his harness now free of the standard, went for her, scimitar darting forward. She laughed, eyes sparkling with mischief as he came. She did not bother to dodge his blow. He skewered her, blade angling cleanly through her chest. She continued to stand there and laugh soundlessly as the weapon kept her from drawing air. Cadell’s shock quickly turned to terror as he looked downward to find her own sword embedded in his stomach.
She appeared to drink in his pain and terror. Tristan was frozen by what he was witnessing. Neila leaned into the young man, the end of his blade now jutting out her back between ribs, forcing her own deeper into his abdomen. She came up against him, and with her free arm hugged the young man to her, bringing his face to hers. Then she licked his lips as he spit blood, gazing almost lovingly into his eyes as he died. When Cadell’s body went limp, Neila sighed with ecstasy. She let his body slide away, the blade in her chest dropping with it. Then she looked over at Tristan, wild eyes glittering madly.
Another chill flashed through him to warn of imminent danger, waking him from his confused stupor. He had to move if he was to avoid the pain which he could feel coming like an avalanche. Yet he dared not turn his back on her and run. He had to face his fear if he had any hope to control it, despite the knowledge that his sense of control relied on being able to end the threat. Against a woman who could not be killed, he did not know if control was possible. Regardless, he had no other recourse but to try.
As she came to him he parried her blows while trying to strike his own. He nicked at her, cut after tiny cut, even as she negligently slashed in return. None of the cuts fazed her. Back and forth they went, Neila smiling all the while as Tristan lost ground.
His old weapon master had always said fear was a useful tool but giving into it was death. For the first time in many seasons Tristan felt the fear take control of him, turning him away from acting toward reacting. Neila had no concern for herself, no sense of caution or need to hold back. Like Tristan she was fast, matching his every move. Like him she had no use for armor. Why when she could not be hurt? Unlike him, however, she relished the pain. She used every cut she received as an opportunity to strike, putting herself in the way of harm to keep his weapon busy as she lashed out in turn.
One more dodge and Tristan found myself falling backwards, his feet taken out from under him as he tripped. He knew what was coming, could feel the coldness along his back, but there was nothing he could do. He turned his head to see where he fell, glimpsing Cadell’s dead eyes staring upwards where the boy lay on the ground beneath his heels. He realized he had been dancing in circles, Neila controlling his every movement as they fought.
He braced himself, but knew it would not help. This is what he always dreaded, what he always worked so hard to avoid. It was why he tried to be careful, why he learned to fight, why his father had thought him weak. Tristan did not know what was worse, the slice of a blade or the impact of a solid, blunt blow. Most would take a bruise over a cut, yet bruises always seemed worse for him, the pain lingering where a cut passed quickly. When he hit the ground, his back erupted in fire and agony. The world turned a startling haze of white before his eyes, and if he had been able to breathe he would have screamed. It had been so long since anyone had bested him in combat that he had forgotten how deep the pain went. It made him wish for death though he knew it would never come for him.
Then it was over. It felt like forever, though it must have been mere moments. His eyes cleared to reveal Neila standing over him, a look of wonder on her face. She knelt on top of him, straddling his chest to examine him with cold eyes. She rested the tip of her short sword casually against his chest. The blade seemed to soak in the afternoon sun, flecks of light glinting from between streaks of drying blood.
"By Kurn, that felt good. You always be feeling that? You’re a quick one with a sword, almost thought I’d lose to you. Didn’t think I’d get to feel it from you, but you sure be delivering, don’t you." Her breathing was shallow and quick as she talked, pushing her words through excited panting.
Tristan had lost his sword. He lay in the dirt, hands outstretched and feet propped up by Cadell’s body. He could hear the sounds of fighting all around him, though from his view there was nothing but open sky and Neila’s ecstatic face. She was oddly beautiful then, her cheeks flushed and radiant. It was a look he remembered from long ago when he and his wife would spend time outside in a remote glen making love in the open air. The pleasure, the softness, the sound of their hearts beating heavily. He could see all of that in Neila’s face, everything but any semblance of caring.
"Don’t worry, my sweet. I be taking care of your men." She caressed his face with her free hand, touching him like a lover in the aftermath of sex. "I had three hundred of my own out in the woods waiting.”
That’s when Tristan realized there were more than a couple handfuls of voices out there, grunting, screaming, dying. Only now did he think of the men he had sent ahead to await them in the forest. Stevan was right. He had become careless, and now his men were paying for it. He had knocked on the door of an empty fortress, leading his men into a trap. The cost of his arrogance were the gurgling screams echoing across the hilltop.
Tristan tried to shift to see what was happening around him, but stopped when Neila dug the tip of her blade into his sternum. The pain rushed through him again, passing only when she pulled the weapon back. She sighed as if she could feel his agony as a rush of pleasure through her body.
She looked down to where the blade had cut him, marveling at what she saw. Tristan could readily imagine the view. The bubbling of his blood as it boiled from beneath, rapidly cauterizing and filling the wound until it evaporated away to reveal seamless skin. The acrid odor of burning flesh often accompanied it, leaving Tristan nauseated. Neila, on the other hand, drank the scent in hungrily, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled.
"You be something like me, aren’t you? Not a mark. Just heals right over. But the pain, that’s something else." She caressed his chest, poking a finger through the hole she just made in his clothing. From where he lay he could see the damage he had dealt to her in turn. Her own tunic was in tatters, stomach bare and one nipple peeking through a neat cut in the cloth. Beneath it all, though, she was unmarred, her small, slender body flawless.
Nearby came a sudden rush of feet, metal ringing as the fight drove closer to them. Neila looked up, noticing the scuffle and scowling. "I’m afraid, my sweet, I’m going to be having to see to that." A moment of thought brought a broad smile to her face. "But I’m not done with you. So be a good boy and stay, won’t you?" and with that she pressed forward to drive her sword through his chest and pin him to the ground.
He could not see anymore. The world turned bright and the colors swirled in his vision like the sun through high clouds overhead. There was nothing in Tristan’s world but the pain. His heart tried to beat, but the blade hampered it, splitting it in two, sending his life flowing into the ground beneath. He could feel the burning spread through him, touch every part of his being, leaving his soul hollow like a spent log in a blazing bonfire. Yet it was never over, the log always burning, the fire scorching through him, ebbing and flowing as his body tried to heal around the sword.
He tried to find himself in all that, to remember how his old weapon master used to say that he could never be hurt. The old man had known his secret, had seen the enormous pain Tristan felt with every injury and the healing that came with it, and did his best to help his protege embrace it as a gift. Tristan tried to find the peace in knowing that despite the suffering he was still very much alive.
With those memories he tried to move, but his limbs refused to obey. His hands felt far away as if they belonged to someone else, lost and alone. Still he kept trying, and failing, and trying again to make them submit to his will.
In the end he could not make them move, but remembered the feeling of them when they did. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled that moving was supposed to be effortless, not a chore to be willed into being. When he chose to move, his body should respond. It should be simple. It was not an act of will and force, but of harmony and cooperation. No thought, no feeling. Wish it, and it is done. So he wished it, sending all his hopes and desires to his distant limbs.
Through the haze he could feel a change. He grasped for it, begging his body to remove the sword from his chest.
At first the pain flared, rising higher, threatening to take away Tristan’s sanity as well as his soul, but then abruptly ended. He was on the ground, the short sword resting in his hand at his side. The blade smoked, his blood evaporating like steam along its length, leaving blackened pockmarks in its wake. The clash of fighters still rang around him. A ring of men, Tristan’s by the colors they wore, surrounded him, fending off the tide of armor and weapons beyond.
With a deep breath to reclaim his strength, he rose up with Neila’s sword in hand. She was nowhere to be seen, so he could only hope her attention was elsewhere. It meant a chance to lead his men to safety. Looking about for an escape route, he could see the fortress tower rising off to one side. With that as a guide, he headed in the opposite direction, pushing between two of his men in hopes of clearing a way forward.
He was immediately assailed by a man in ragtag armor, a half-dozen noble crests displayed across the leather and metal plates. As he came, and Tristan could feel the coldness in his stomach. Spinning, he allowing the other’s sword to pass by while swing his own meager weapon around. The blade found the warrior’s neck and the man’s head was sent sailing away above the horde before him.
Tristan though he could hear someone cheer him on from behind, but he ignored them, plowing ahead into the fray. Feeling the chill coming once more from the side, he spun again, this time taking off a man’s hand, then directing the blade downward to slice into a thigh. Changing course, he pulled the blade upward out of the meat of the leg to take another man under the chin, then downward again and back to catch yet another from behind.
Often, after a battle when he had chance to think, he would wonder how he did what he did. Like the feeling of an oncoming blow, how and where to strike came from an instinctive need to do what must be done. Anything to prevent the pain. Fear protected him, making him lash out to permanently end whatever may threaten him.
He used those instincts now, turning his body when needed, using his blade to redirect his opponent’s, and finding openings in their defense. One after another his attackers fell, providing new openings in their wake.
After a time, Tristan realized he was not where he wanted to be. He must have been turned around in the confusion of battle, finding himself backed against the wall of the fortress rather than toward the road leading away. He was also alone. In front of him were a sea of men and not one of them his own. Those before him used the wall to their advantage, keeping themselves just beyond sword distance while hemming him in with a line steel and shields.
To his left was the wall leading to the gates and Neila. To the right was the hillside sloping steeply down toward the river, brush and rocks all the way down. The men before him held back, wary of his sword but leaving no way forward. Tristan hated the pain, but he had few alternatives. Just as he saw Neila’s face as she forced her way through the crowd of men, he took a single deep breath and leapt for the hill’s edge.
He remembered nothing of the fall. There was only the pain which came, eased, and came again with each jarring bounce. He could feel his bones shifting, his body forcing itself back into place after each strike, like a smith hammering metal into shape. Then it was over.
Tristan blinked tears from his eyes to see a crowd of faces looking down at him from the top of the hill. Examining himself, his clothing was in tatters, much like Neila's were after their battle, and her sword had been lost in the fall. He was otherwise intact and unharmed, as expected. Only the memory of the fall remained to haunt him.
In his imagination he could see Neila tumbling down the hill after him, laughing as she plummeted to the bottom. That prompted him to move despite his disorientation. He struggled up from the bed of bushes in which he landed and ripped away the remains of his clothing to keep them from catching in the brambles. Then he ran through the brush, down and up a short ravine, and onwards until he hit the river.
Daring to glance behind, he could see trails of dust near the top of the hill spreading eastward and down, the telltale sign of riders using the road to give chase. Then he heard a yell as a small figure bounded off the hilltop, bouncing along the same path he had taken. His imaginative predication was proving to be all too accurate.
Turning again to the river he looked out across the water, unsure if he had the strength to cross. His wounds may have healed, but he was still gasping for air from the fall and subsequent run. All his muscles quivered from abuse. Yet he could not stay where he was and had nowhere else to go. So with a deep breath Tristan waded in, going as far as he could until his feet no longer touched bottom. Then he turned onto his back and let go, allowing the current to carry him away.