About a half a mile south of the castle I found it: a circle of toadstools. What do you know; an honest-to-goodness fairy circle. It appealed to my sardonic sense of humor and I couldn’t suppress my smirk as I inspected it. I circled the ring once before grounding myself and closing my eyes. As I exhaled slowly, I pushed my will through the invisible barrier that clung like sticky and twanging elastic before stepping through into the next world.
And with one foot, I stepped straight into a noisy, clashing maelstrom of clanging swords, squealing horses, shrieking men and flying arrows. Shit. Suddenly, I understood how that piece of dropped bacon felt about the fire and frying pan. Leaping from a war in planning right into a very bloody war at its height was only a matter of analogy, but just as dangerous.
Muttering, I started to weave through the chaos. Both sides apparently took umbrage at this and more than one swing came in my direction. The pain in my shoulder was forgotten as adrenaline kicked in. Right, right, left, duck; I blocked enemy with enemy, leaping from one skirmish towards another. The man, who looked like a normal human save for the grayish skin which might have been passed off as battlefield grime and the colossal build of a heavy duty weightlifter, let out a shriek as the sword intended for me flashed down. The spurts of blood looked very human as I took the unexpected route of changed direction to leap over the downed man and fly past the understandably startled swordsman. I guess he didn’t expect an unarmed, unarmored woman to jump towards him, screaming like a banshee.
Real battle is nothing like the study of strategy. Dad used to line up objects to imitate formations and demonstrate maneuvers. He would show us how to take advantage of the gaps in a line and when to order this defensive block or that calculated retreat. It all seemed so logical and rational with those straight lines set up for our edification. The nightmare I had glimmered into bore the same resemblance to Dad’s models as a snarling jaguar does to an eight-week old puppy. Clinically, the structures might be similar: four legs, two ears, two eyes, tails, carnivorous teeth; but when you find yourself in front of one or the other, it’s a considerable distinction. They’re fundamentally two different creatures.
Breathing heavily, I dropped behind the corpse of a horse porcupined with a garnish of arrows. Jackpot! Staring beyond me into nothing was a very grey, very dead man. He had been shot through the throat and looked to have died painfully and recently. More importantly, his armor was more or less intact. His sword had been discarded nearby. I could put both to better use than they’d see lying there with his cooling flesh.
I’m not inherently unethical and I wasn’t free from a sense of guilt as I stripped the gear from the stiff and heavy limbs of a man who had died in the name of some cause or other. Looting his corpse might not be kind, but my clothing would disappear at any minute and I wanted to survive this mess. I considered trying to move a blanket from the horse to cover the dead man’s soon-to-be nudity, but I wasn’t about to take the time to search until I was safely ensconced in protection.
I settled the breastplate over my shoulders with a grunt just as an arrow narrowly missed my ear. Shit. I stumbled, a vicious pain spreading across my shoulder. Damn damn damn! The breastplate was iron and I hadn’t taken the time to remove all of the dead man’s padding. And I had apparently reopened the gift my would-be assassin had left me. Cursing only partially under my breath, I tore the padding from the soldier, ripping it from him in a massive ragged strip. Wadding up the dirty, sweat-stained cloth, I shoved it under the breastplate to cushion the armor and prevent it from adding to my weakened state.
I ducked down to reach for the corpse’s helmet, just as another arrow whistled over my head. I wondered how the hell I was going to track down a Michael the anything in this mess, not to mention survive. Muttering imprecations and expletives, I clapped the iron cap over my now thoroughly matted and tangled curls. Staying down, I reached out and grabbed up the sword.
And not a moment too soon; one of the wild-eyed, grey-skinned warriors came flying over the dead horse. He landed with a thump, but rolled right back up to his feet and came at me. A dagger whipped from his waist so quickly that it was almost as if it had appeared by magic. I couldn’t help but admire the almost preternatural ability and speed of this race. They really seemed excellent fighters. The man looked me over and his mouth split into a ghastly grin of crooked, yellow and brown teeth. Apparently excellence in fighting had no correlation to good oral hygiene.
In a French dialect which made his accent thick and difficult to understand, the brute chortled as he lunged at me; “Je serai gentil, putain. Vous ȇtes un morceau trop doux pour endommager votre bouche ou vos mains. Je voidrai que vous les employiez dans mon lit.”
Although his choice of insult gave me momentary mental pause and his threat of using my body in such a manner was sufficient to make me grimace, my instincts were sharp enough with the adrenaline fueling me that I parried his lunge with my newfound sword and tried to knock the dagger out of his hand, or at least chop off a few fingers. My angle was all wrong, however, and he was sufficiently skilled to evade that tack. No matter how disgusting the man was, I’d yet to find the man I couldn’t insult with false bravado and sufficient strength. In my Parisian accent, honed from more of Dad’s training, I replied as degradingly as I could, “Qu’est-ce que c’est? Vous plus ne winez et dinez une fille? Combien bas votre honneur doit ȇtre.” The only thing that irritates a man more than debasing his pride is diminishing the size of his manhood after sleeping with him.
The massive titan’s heavy black brows shot up towards his scalp, hiding underneath the metal helm encasing his massive skull. His dark eyes glittered from the deep hollows of his eyesockets. He seemed pleased at the challenge of having to fight me. “Et gaspillez un bon repas?” he countered, snarling, the odd French dialect barely comprehensible. He spat out the words as if the very taste of them was a potent and pungent form of waste. But I wasted no more time on his face or those foul teeth and instead watched his torso, awaiting his attack. Sure enough, he came at me again in a quick and curving motion, designed to protect his wielding hand.
Instead of swinging the sword, I let it drop and simultaneously stepped in towards the giant man’s onslaught. Turning my body into his thrust, I grabbed his wrist and spun him around and down. My shoulder flashed white hot, but my center of gravity was far lower than his oversized form and with a loud thud and a completely startled expression, I got the thug down on the ground mostly through his own momentum. I didn’t waste an instant before leaping onto him, placing an arm across his neck with a threat of choking him and locking my knees to the ground so his legs were pinned.
The man’s surprise morphed seamlessly into rage as he struggled underneath me. I had the leverage, though and greater practice, so he wasn’t going anywhere. Fast as I could, I liberated his dagger and muttered, “Thanks, but I really don’t think you’re my type, anyhow.” I pulled back just enough for him to start to fling himself at me, but I was ready and pounded the back of his neck with the pommel of his own weapon.
He grunted on impact and then fell still. I leapt up, making sure the big grey giant hadn’t brought a buddy along, but for the moment, my refuge seemed secure. I tucked the dagger into my looted belt and glanced back down. Delicate though the brain may be, it’s a lot harder to kill someone by hitting them on the back of the head than you might think. To that end, the great lummox was still breathing. I had no real desire to kill, in spite of the ogre’s desire to make me a trophy and have me adorn his bed. His incapacitation suited me just fine.
Free from immediate threat, I finished suiting up. My movements were rendered far slower than normal. Now that the surge of adrenaline was winding down, the ache in my shoulder was strong enough to distract from the gnawing hunger tying my stomach into knots. Ignoring the hot flaring from my wound, I grabbed the sword, heaved a shield up over me and made a crouching run in the direction that seemed furthest from the continuing melee beyond the horse.
Arrows dropped like vicious birds of prey to land in the soft flesh of throats, faces, and even one belly as I charged through. More than once, the missiles thunked against my shield and an ambitious one hit my breastplate, but fortunately they did no more damage than some possible bruising. I was only approached by one big grey fellow on a charger, but evading him was a simple matter of sending a mental wash of pain and fear at his steed; emotions I had a heavy stash to draw upon at that point.
To give the goon his due, he was an excellent horseman. Although the massive bay screamed and rolled its eyes, rearing up, he managed to keep to the saddle. I rushed to find a pair in foot combat to try to lose the horseman. I ducked quickly around them, but paused as I caught sight of an odd gleam shining from the helm of one of the soldiers. The conical metal helm didn’t entirely hide his golden hair from view. Cold and calculating dark eyes locked onto me, sending a shiver down my spine.
With a growl, Goldilocks renewed his attack on the poor big grey guy he was matched up against. It didn’t take long. I had enough time to see the mighty swing that severed the unfortunate soldier’s head before my feet got the best of me and sped me away. Discretion is the better part of not getting decapitated.
My mind raced nearly as fast as my feet. What the hell was he doing here? The possibility that he was some sort of thrall of Eva’s and this had been some elaborate fabrication to execute me wormed through the more important considerations, such as running, escaping, and remaining intact. My body might be far from perfect, but I had grown rather attached to it.
I clanked and clanged my way off of the field and through a sparsely wooded area. I imagined hulking footsteps behind me, camouflaged by my own noisy retreat and although I was gasping for air and a stitch was forming in my side, I pushed on. Running has never been my strength, although I certainly seemed to be getting some practice at it these days. I resolved to set up an exercise regime once all of this was said and done. I tried not to think about the possibility of not surviving for want of that regime.
My feet thudded rhythmically into the twigs and leaves underfoot; the cracks and creaks harmonizing with the constant cacophony of my oversized armor crashing together with every jolt of my feet. My labored breath was a quiet wheeze in comparison and I was starting to get really hot under all this padding and metal.
That was when the dagger hit my back. The force nearly knocked me off my balance with the echoing PANG of metal against metal. I wondered if the backpiece had split. The dagger hit the ground, but a new dull pain blossomed across my back and I caught a second wind inspired by sheer terror. If I couldn’t get away, this psychopath really would kill me.
Drawing upon my fear, I spurred myself on, leaping over twigs and positive that Goldilocks was going to take me down at any second. My lungs strained and the agonized thump of my heart beat painfully against my back, so strongly that I could barely hear anything over the rushing sound of my own blood. My focus on forward momentum was so complete that I barely noticed the bolt that whizzed past my ear to land with a thump behind me.
With a gurgle, Goldilocks leapt upon me and his full weight came to bear on one of my legs, forcing it to buckle under me. I fell forward, limbs sprawling as I futilely tried to halt the inevitable faceplant into mud and leaves. I carefully spat out my mouthful of earth and without pausing, tried to flip over, my shoulder searing in agony at the motion. I tried to kick Goldilocks off of me at the same time that I tried to scramble back and away from him. I got in three really good heels to his nose before I was far enough back to realize that he was lying still on the ground and making no effort to escape my foot.
Struggling to suck air into my poor deprived lungs, I took quick inventory of my ailments: shoulder – excruciating, back – sore but intact, legs – functional. I rose quickly, giving the assassin a cursory once over. His last ditch effort to bring me down left me muddy but uninjured; however, it may have been one of the reasons for his lack of fight. Blood dribbled from a gash on his forehead where he had fallen upon a rock. Perhaps the primary reason for his lack of movement, though, was the bolt that had pierced his leather armor, run through his chest and was now sticking out of his back.
As I finally noticed the telltale tingling under my pain, I turned to flash a glance over my shoulder and called out, “Nice shot.”
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