Chapter Eight
A Request
I wanted to give another thanks to all my readers and reviewers. I great appreciate the support and input I'm receiving as I spin this tale. It means a lot. I especially want to thank D-Ro2593 for his Beta-reading services.
Don't forget that I've begun a gallery of the characters in this story. Keturah and Dara have been completed and Ben, Walter, Crevan, and Kalin remain as sketches. The link to the gallery is here: [DOT]com/albums/cc490/FooFoo_Cuddly_Bottoms/The%20Albion%20Hero%20and%20the%20Auroran%20Legend/ .
Remember to replace the [DOT] with a period. The album is also password protected…just enter 'Keturah' at the prompt.
Thanks again! I hope you enjoy the latest installment!
Dara stood on the gates leading out of the Crawler's cavern, the fine hair all along his spine prickling with discomfort. He felt a thousand eyes on him, knew the malicious intent behind each and every one of them. The Veil pushed at the edge of his vision, promising chaos, calamity, and catastrophe. The streets of Albion and Aurora would run black with darkness and spilled blood. The queen would fail. Aurora would be lost. The Apocalypse would come and disintegrate the world as it was known, chasing humanity into the very corners of the globe, cowering in the light while the Darkness pillaged the land.
Their gaze assaulted him. They were growing stronger and ever more powerful. The day of the coming was drawing closer and closer. The Albionian Hero could not arrive in Aurora fast enough; he did not know when and he did not know how, but she would arrive. All he knew was that there were certain events that would be set in motion to either bring her to the coasts of the forgotten city of Aurora or doom her to die in the sands. But he did not dare scry to find the answers. Not again. Not with the Darkness so close. It manifested itself in his fears and his doubts and there was little he could do to school such thoughts when the Veil existed before him. For now he could pretend that he did not have fear. He could pretend that he was brave. The Darkness knew his fears, though it was frustrated at the difficulty of manipulating them. Things which struck most into a frozen, muted horror only made Dara's nose twitch in displeasure. The voices in his mind assailed him with images of death, corpses, the dark, the shadows, mercenaries, bandits, monsters, Sand Furies, blood, rot, decay… The Darkness had only scratched the surface of the true terror in his heart. For now, he refused to acknowledge their existence. Not here. Not with the Crawler's home so close. There was too much danger.
"You wished to speak to me?" he inquired, seeing a woman approach him from the right, her garments billowing in the wind, her face and eyes protected from the whirling sands by goggles and a mask.
"Yes," she replied, her voice beautiful and strange at the same time, like sand running through an hour glass. "On two accounts."
He nodded, face hidden and hood drawn, "I will see what I can do, Neygine."
She knew that he hated this place, knew how the Darkness called to him and plagued him. She had called the meeting to mock him, to laugh at him anew. Neygine enjoyed seeing his discomfort with the Crawler and its children so close, took great pleasure in seeing his pain and torture. He knew she could see the fine hairs on end, see the gooseflesh that rippled on the exposed skin on the back of his hands, see his markings glow as the magic within him awoke at the threat, see the vessels at his neck and wrists grow thick with rushed blood flow. He knew she was smiling beneath that mask. She tolerated him simply because it was necessary and beneficial for her and her clan; he tolerated her for a like reason. Theirs was a business relationship and little more…one that would quickly disintegrate once the chaos had stilled and the world had tired of peace once more.
"A number of us are peak for ritual. We will need sacrifices."
Dara grimaced. He knew what these rituals entailed. "How many?"
Neygine let out a series of insect-like clicks, similar to curses in her tongue. They frequented her speech when dealing with Dara. "Four, perhaps five."
"No." He said plainly, lips pressed into a thin line.
"You will have us make do with one? Surely even you are not so stupid as to believe the desired results can be obtained with so petty of a number," Neygine pressed mockingly, one hand on her hip.
"You may have them, but they will not be killed," Dara stated firmly, folding his arms over his chest, meeting her mocking gesture with an authoritative one.
She hissed angrily. "You spit in the face of our customs!"
"Times are hard and pickings are slim," he retorted. He tapped his fingers on his elbow testily. "Make it look like an accident and ensure that their lives remain intact."
Neygine bristled visibly. But she knew the implications of going about taking her sacrifices any other way than was offered. The city had a defense in place. Though it was weakened, it was still present. Hers was a clan seeking alternative means of life and surviving because of their tenacity and willing to become more flexible. Dara was the liaison and the peace-keeper to make sure that discussion did not disintegrate. Neygine did not like him one bit and had tried to usurp his authority among the Aurorans. The results had been disastrous for her, resulting in heavy casualties for her tribe. She would accept his terms, but she would not relish the agreement.
"Your very existence is a slap in the face of our customs," she seethed. "I wonder why I do not draw my blade and slit your throat."
"Because I provide what you need," Dara hissed in return. "And I am working for both of our interests. Your culture be damned if it is so backward as to demand attention to superfluous detail over the lives of its people."
"I care not for you or your people," Neygine snarled. "And you care not for mine! A creature such as yourself hardly deserves to live, much less assume he is a selfless protector."
"I care not for you or yours," Dara stated simply, confirming her accusation. He assumed nothing. He knew full well he was not selfless. In the past, he'd often turned to dark comforts: wine, women, murder. Those had been curbed a great deal, but still very much existed. He was more prone to enacting vengeance rather than showing mercy. Theresa, the blind Seeress and his sporadic mentor, had done well to discipline him. He still dabbled in those forbidden pleasures every now and again. Perhaps when the Darkness was not so terrible of a threat he'd return to his wicked ways. Living as a monk among the Wraiths had certainly chilled whatever fire had burned in his loins.
"Now, to return to the discussion. You may have four. No deaths. Make the event appear accidental."
"Disgusting creature," she muttered with a few clicks. "So difficult to stomach. So difficult to negotiate with. So stupid as to think he knows what is best. So foolish as to think he belongs among the Aurorans."
Dara's jaw tightened. The blow had been a little too close to the mark. "I have my place and that is enough."
Neygine scoffed, rolling her shoulders to try and relax the tension borne from anger. Her gloved hand hovered over the hilt of her sword. Dara remained stoic. He was just as quick as she was if not quicker. Anything she could launch at him, he could counter.
"I accept your offer," she spat before adding, "There is another matter, however."
He nodded in acknowledgement.
"A man from Albion, Reaver, has captured much of the tribe."
Dara laughed. "How did that happen? Thought it would be jolly good fun to burst from the sands and poke at him with those rusty swords? Is that why you require 'sacrifices' as you call them?"
Neygine let out a series of clicks, informing him of the validity of his words. She then retorted, "The last time such an event transpired it ended with a curse upon me and mine."
Dara grinned devilishly, though she could not see the emotion from under his cowl. "And that's the worst that's happened to you? I'm honored."
"Do as I ask: retrieve my tribe, or what's left of them, and in return we will hold the Darkness at bay for a fortnight."
His eyes narrowed. "You would risk such a thing?" He understood the gravity of such a promise.
Neygine regarded him levelly. "I care for my people as you should yours. There is risk to us in performing the action. But I want my people returned safely." As an afterthought, she added, "Many of mine see you in the desert and curb their instinct to act. You are a disgusting wretch fit to burn. Your death would be welcome, as I'm sure you know. Let it be clear, Seer, that I do not make this agreement out of adoration of you."
"It is perfectly clear." He stated his upper lip curling. "And I do apologize," he replied with a snarl. "But I've a purposeful niche yet. I'm sure I will fill the desired post of 'corpse' for your clan all in due time."
"It cannot be soon enough," hissed Neygine. "We will come tonight. Try and provide an ample enough distraction. If you can manage that much, incompetent, ugly thing that you are."
"Oh, I'm sure I'll do just fine," grinned Dara. "You sure you don't want a tumble? You seem rather repressed."
Neygine clicked. "Not if you were the last man on earth."
"I take it you're up for the ritual, then?" He sneered with a wicked chuckle. "What are you? Two and thirty? You're well past the required age, as I recall. Times truly are desperate," Dara jabbed at her.
Her shoulders tightened anew and her fingers twitched at the hilt of her sword. "Be gone, foul creature - before I'm tempted to cut out your tongue."
Dara bowed sarcastically and sauntered back toward Aurora. "As you wish, your majesty!"
He slipped along the dunes, Tantalize unsheathed and at his side. Neygine's tribe had a truce with the Aurorans. They subtly worked against others of their kind, trying to prevent the Darkness's coming, understanding the grave mistake it was to have such a vile god. Most of her kind worshiped the Darkness and reveled in its coming. It was they who were likely to pick off folk at random, particularly a lone man walking through the desert returning to Aurora. Everyone in the city knew to travel in groups.
Neygine's story of Reaver discomforted him significantly. After the vision of the Hero being violated for the sake of his ritual, Dara hadn't the best attitude toward the man. Indeed, everything surrounding the deviant lodged the weight of unease in Dara's stomach. These things could not be coincidence. Reaver was tied to both the old Hero King of Albion as well as the man's daughter. But the connections did not end there. Unfortunate paths of fate had lead Dara to be associated with the filthy wretch as well. Now Neygine's folk were caught in the terror the man brought wherever he went. Dara could only hope that that was where the associations ended.
Dara returned to the city, sheathing his blade and passing through the streets as a shadow. Folk noticed him, surely, but few paid him much mind. A few of the stall vendors and merchants waved to him to buy their wares, though he stepped past quickly and slipped up the stairs toward the temple and Kalin. His sister was waiting for news, greeting him with her customary nod before ushering him away from the chanting priests and into their private chambers so that they could speak more openly without the threat of prying ears.
"What did she want?" Kalin inquired, not bothering with pretense.
"A favor," he half-lied. "A man in Albion has visited the desert and collected a few souvenirs that were unjustly acquired. She politely requested that I repossess them."
Kalin grimaced. "And why is that our concern? What does this man have to do with our people? We've our own problems with the Darkness and the Children. We do not need to be dedicating resources to helping people who'd sooner kill us than helps us."
"She promised to hold off the darkness for a fortnight if I can recover the remnants of her tribe," Dara added.
"A fortnight," Kalin spat. "A fortnight, Dara? That is nothing! It is enough time to wish our neighbors goodbye and huddle in our homes while the city and the land is pillaged and torn asunder by the Crawler and its spawn! A fortnight is nothing! A year, even a month would be more help!"
"A fortnight is extra time that we hadn't before," Dara reasoned. "It gives me another few weeks to maneuver into Albion, help the Hero get a seat on the throne, and hope she sees it fit to aid in our plight."
"The Hero will become the ruler of Albion?" Kalin inquired. "And you hope she sees it fit to help?" The calm reserve had slipped and the scathing note in her voice felt akin to lashes of a whip against his skin.
Dara opened his mouth to speak, but a raised hand and flustered sigh from Kalin hushed him.
"I know,"she breathed, pinching her brows between her fingers, offering him a glimpse of emotion reserved for so few. "'Nothing is certain'. You say that far too often, Dara." She lifted her head from her hand. "She will be queen? Your Sight has shown you this for certain?"
He swallowed and nodded.
"Then will she help us?"
"That, I cannot promise," Dara lamented. "Many obstacles lay in her path. She needs help to accomplish the task, strong allies and friends. She will need to be on the throne of Albion if we are to receive any aid against the Darkness."
Kalin breathed out heavily, schooling her emotion as her father had taught her so well. Her walls only ever weakened around Dara. They were each other's confidantes, sharing in the other's weakness and providing support. It was inhuman to have such restrained emotion. Kalin radiated calmness in the face of utter chaos and cried publicly with families over their losses to the Darkness. Never was she angry, frustrated, or hopeless. At least not before the others.
For his own part, Kalin knew what he was and accepted him regardless. She could look at him with his horns unfiled, his body unbound, his strangeness exposed and not cringe. He was certain others would do just that if given the opportunity. He hid his true nature as best he could: filed the horns, wrote off the strange markings that glowed with Will as tattoos, kept to himself as much as possible. But there was something unseen about him that set people on edge. He knew full well why and did not begrudge them a bit. Most were rational enough to realize that he'd done them no wrong and their feeling of unease was unjustified. None of them had a reason to do so, to believe him harmless. None but Kalin.
But he was a creature of the Darkness. Its voice was in his mind, it's tendrils twined around his neck, its claws around his heart. His past actions were a credit to that. He did not fear death. He did not fear pain. What terrified him more than anything was a future the Veil constantly dangled in front of him: Kalin, the Aurorans, the Wraiths…dead, vanquished by the Crawler and the Children…or the other vision, in which peace had returned: merchants sold their wares, couples meandered hand-in-hand down toward he docks or up to the lookout of Aurora, the priests did their rituals with the flowers collected from the desert, and perimeter patrols were set up for any of the desert riff-raff which might enter. In each vision, Dara saw himself jailed by shadows, either of regret and remorse, or ostracism…he would be alone, spared because of his blood and his powers. Or he would be alone because he did not truly belong to the Darkness or the Light. He would be alone. All alone.
"Sister," he pleaded as he removed the hood and the cowl. "Please. I must go to Albion and I will bring the Hero. The Veil whispers of misfortune that she cannot comprehend. If we are to protect Aurora, I must keep this girl safe."
Kalin's eyes were glassy as she looked to him. She reached up and touched his face, her thumb brushing against the markings beneath his eyes. "Your horns are showing again," she said, concern furrowing her brow. "What is it you are not telling me, Dara?"
Damn her and her insight. His horns were like fingernails. It took a good month or so before they were visable past his hair…under normal circumstances. He'd been close to the Crawler and the Darkness, felt the Children's voices under his skin and in his skull, Join us. We welcome back the prodigal son. Those were hardly standard conditions for Dara and they provoked the revelation of his true nature. He was only glad the Will had stopped humming through his body.
"Please trust me and know I mean no harm," he murmured. "I leave tomorrow for Albion. Stay off the streets for tonight's feast. The less you are exposed to, the better."
"The less I am exposed?" She demanded, anger flaring. "I tire of your riddles, Dara!" Kalin shouted.
His mouth tightened and jaw became firm.
"I wish you would speak straightly with me and tell me your plans! If I can understand –"
"Then you will worry," he interrupted her. "And you've enough to contend with in the safekeeping of the city. I will bring you the Hero. Continue to pray to the Light. We will need every bit of strength and aid we can gather.
He turned on his heel and retreated, silencing any further interrogation.
Dara would have gladly taken Neygine's ritual over the boat journey and now being trapped once more in Albion. The ship had deposited him in the Driftwood camp, leaving him to travel through a portion of the Silverpines, Millfields, and then onto Mourningwood. Everything was so green. Even the light that filtered through the trees was tinged with the ill coloration of the forest. It looked weak and sickly compared to the bright, amber rays that warmed the sands of Aurora.
One of the Wraiths, Niyol, had awaited him and given him updates of the Hero's location and movements, explaining that she'd remained in Brightwall for a time before making plans to travel with an older man by the name of Sir Walter Beck to Mourningwood Fort. Niyol also explained that the pair sought to recruit the help of the soldiers stationed there and that an informant had been planted.
"That Sight of yours is mighty useful," mused Niyol, grinning and showing a mouthful of half-rotted teeth. "I'd fancy borrowing it for a day or so. It helped us get Crevan there in time. I'd imagine it probably helps you plan what sorts of charms to lie on a woman."
Dara laughed to hide the grimace at his words. "Even the Sight won't help you in figuring out women," he explained, patting the informant on the back as they parted ways at the edge of the forest surrounding Millfields. "They're far too loony for any sane man to comprehend."
Niyol cackled at the statement. "Light help us all if even the Seer is kept in the dark about the fairer sex!"
He hadn't known, then, that his own jests of his inability to predict women was terribly true.
He went to great lengths to arrive to Mourningwood Fort in a timely manner. His progress was slowed in the final moments as he approached the actual structure, however. He had to travel by tree tops and branches to ensure that he remained mostly hidden. He had a vague idea of what resources the king's soldiers possessed: tired, disillusioned men full of doubt and sorrow and sickness. He sincerely doubted they'd have scouts with their limited numbers. Not that one needed to scout for Hollowmen. They were as predictable as the poor souls that wandered the earth each Samnhain night.
It was a surprise, then, that when there was approximately half an acre of forest separating him from the structure he spotted movement among the forest floor and pressed himself against the tree trunk of the branch he'd been balancing on, hissing at the inconvenience. Shifting himself such that he could easily view the approaching person, he tracked the movement of the brush and the soft fall of footsteps, unmoving and observant. The human eye was attracted to movement by instinct and years of training had taught him to bypass normal human functioning. He became hauntingly still; even his chest seemed to still as he watched and waited for the individual to cross his field of vision, straining his ears to triangulate the person's movements and guess where they were beneath the canopy of trees.
A man wearing the trappings of the Wraiths stepped lightly along, his hood drawn and his gaze watchful and keen on the ground beneath his feet, searching intently.
Dara allowed a breathy laugh before he lowered himself to a crouch and skipped nimbly down the levels of the tree branches before plopping silently behind Crevan. "Good to see you're still intact, despite the ordeals of Mourningwood."
The healer made a sharp intake of breath and spun quickly, his hand at his hip to draw a knife. "Crawler's tits, Dara!" Crevan exclaimed, removing his hand from the dagger. "Is it really necessary for you to creep about as you do?"
"You seem a bit miffed," mused Dara. "You must have known where I was."
"Gobshite," rumbled Crevan with a laugh, gripping Dara by the forearm in the customary greeting. "Take it Niyol gave you the news, did he?"
Dara nodded. "Filled me in on quite a bit. How are you faring out here?"
Crevan shrugged. "Wave after wave of Hollowmen. I feel bad for the poor lads Logan's stationed here. Sends them all out to do dangerous flaff like this…I don't understand it. What news have you?"
"Niyol reported that the Princess and an escort are heading toward the fort."
Crevan scoffed. "I could have told you that, you blinkin' berk!" He nodded over his shoulder toward the fort. "The girl was cocking up some Hobbes earlier. It won't be long now before they're at the gates."
"Best go greet them, then," Dara stated. His cheeky grin was hidden behind the cowl.
Crevan seemed to understand his intent nonetheless. "Yes, yes. I'm ever the social one. What do you know of the Hero?"
Dara shrugged. "Scrying hasn't been clear. I only know what I've observed of her in the Mercenary Camp. She's a deadly shot with a rifle, decent with her magic and I sincerely doubt she properly knows how to wield a blade."
"And you expect her to do battle with Hollowmen?" Crevan inquired skeptically.
"I'm sure she'll do perfectly well, provided she has enough ammunition to pepper them to death and isn't stupid enough to let one too close." Dara defended self-assuredly.
The healer chuckled. At the next question, however, his tone became serious. "What of her character? After the tales from the ruddy sods in the fort about the King…" He trailed off. The tales of the King and the empty promise he'd made to the people of Aurora were heavy in all of the people's minds. It was particularly so for Crevan, one of the men who had saved the ungrateful brat that was Logan from the Darkness's maw.
"I don't want to be bringing another Logan to Aurora. Kalin's heart would break."
Dara nodded solemnly. "The Hero is merciful as well as kind-hearted. It is almost to the point of being naïve."
Crevan nodded. "Sternness can be taught. Kindness cannot." He scratched his jaw lightly from above the cowl, still regarding Dara levelly. "Well, it's good to have your watchful eyes on me again, Seer."
Dara nodded. "I'll be close."
And close he was. He could not have timed the event more perfectly had he tried: the Princess had just arrived in the fort with a man he could only assume was Sir Walter Beck. He'd left Crevan to his herb collecting while he sat, crouched, above the arching stone of the fort's main gate, keeping to the shadows and the swirling mist. He'd witnessed her before, but he was eager to examine her once again after his more recent and frightening touches with the Veil. Her hair had grown significantly and, if it was at all possible, she appeared even taller than she had before. The top of her head was nearly equal with the blond soldier who began showing her about the fort. The softest glowing could be seen at her temple and the corner of her jaw, where her Will use was beginning to become apparent. Her face remained as open and curious as ever. Guards existed behind the kind gaze, but they were not defenses born of Reaver's assault. That horrid event had thankfully not yet transpired and hopefully never would.
He remained ever vigilant throughout the day, ever watchful and ever careful of his steps. He remained silent and unseen…until the giant Hollowman formerly known as Lieutenant Simmons was resurrected from the dead. Only then did he move closer, prancing about on the mezzanine, struggling over indecision of aiding the Hero or maintaining silent observation. She was doing relatively well. That was until she waited too long after launching a fireball at the brute to try and roll out of the way.
Dara had never moved so quickly in all his life as he did then. Thoughts blurred and instinct was a stern master. He leapt from the balcony and across to the Hero, gripping her arm and tugging her from the path of the stampeding Holloman. In his rush, he'd forgotten about the changing terrain and the shock that would come from suddenly being grabbed and shoved in an unexpected direction. He and the Princess collapsed onto the floor, though he did his best to shield her from the blow of scuffing along the ground.
He saw her glance to him, her lips in a rounded 'o' of shock, before her attention was drawn away as Simmons collided with the mezzanine. The fiend rounded its gaping, rotting gaze toward the two of them and Dara shifted the Hero's weight enough that he could tug Desert Fury from the holster at his hip. He aimed and fired, causing the Lieutenant to stumble backward marginally.
To his surprise, he felt a sudden surge of warmth from the Hero through his armor and looked to see the Will marks on her glow molten orange with the concentration of energy through her body. And then, just as quickly as the plant-like tracings had begun their glow, they vanished and she hurtled the flames toward Simmons, toppling the unstable mezzanine atop of the animated corpse.
"Nice shot, Princess," he said, deeply impressed. "I do think that's the last of him."
She stiffened against him. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting, but it was hardly a scream and a blow to the face. Or the strike that followed the initial attack.
Seer's inability to predict women indeed.
Dara had had misfortunes, in the past, where a careless misplacement of a foot or comment had earned him a blow to the groin. But every single one of those experiences paled in comparison to having one's family jewels assailed by a Hero. It were as though he were sent down a line of ten horses and each had an opportunity to strike his nethers with a buck. He heard himself yelp as the pain coiled in his pit of his stomach, causing him to reflexively curl in on himself and lay still until the throbbing ache and the light nausea dissipated. He made himself take deep steadying breaths, knowing that she was standing over him and that he had to leave, least she do something rash.
"Murderer," she hissed.
His temper got the better of him. "That's a fine form of thanks," he spat. "I pull you out of the way of a stampeding brute and you go and assault my manhood and then call me names." The long-winded retort made his stomach convulse in pain once more and he moaned and cringed against it. He lay still a few moments, allowing the pain to dissipate. Then slowly, carefully, he began to uncurl himself. "If this be the behavior of Albion royalty, I daresay the kingdom is doomed."
"Stay down," she snarled at him when he tried to stand.
Just as well. His knees were watery anyways. So he sat cross-legged before her, lifting his jaw and offering his throat nonchalantly as she pressed the tip of her blade to his neck. He was not afraid of her. Had she been willing to kill him, she'd have done so.
She did not speak for a long while. She simply stared at him, her dark brows knitting into a frown as she peered down the length of her blade at him, scrutinizing. He could nearly hear her thoughts they blazed so brightly from her eyes. He almost felt guilty for being privy to such an intimate part of her, but did not dare look away. To do so would imply fear. He was hardly frightened. And, more than that, he was genuinely curious about the skinny little creature that was to be their savior.
"You really need to work on your manners, Princess," he stated gruffly. Kalin had described him, once, as being like a child in at a traveling circus poking sticks through lions' cages to get a rise out of the ferocious beasts. Well, the princess did not appear like any lion he'd seen. But that did not prevent him from jabbing at her…save he was unequipped with a stick. He did have a rather gifted tongue, however.
"You're one to talk," she retorted, her voice high strung and her words sharp.
He took the time to observe her once more, now that he had the opportunity to do so when she was not far away nor clad in a surprisingly convincing mercenary disguise. She was not pretty in the conventional sense with heavy eyelids, long lashes, large bust, wide hips, and narrow waist. She was a thin, pallid creature, to be sure, and her lips were bloody from being worried between her teeth. While the few curves she did possess were well-disguised in the soldier's uniform, she did have hips on her. They were proportionate to her shoulders and there was precious little, if any, difference in the circumference of her hips and waist. Her breasts, sadly, appeared little different than his own. Shame, too. He rather liked ample-breasted women. Hell, he rather liked feminine-looking women, with long hair, wide hips, and soft flesh. This Hero appeared quite sinewy with cuts, scrapes, bumps and bruises all along her body. The only feature that was distinctly feminine about her was her lips: full and of the softest shade of pink.
Her blade pressed harder against his throat and he hissed in discomfort. The marginal pain was a welcome distraction to the dark path his thoughts were beginning to travel.
"Who are you?" she pressed.
He laughed. "I'm quite sad you don't remember me, Princess." He cocked his head to the side. "Or is it Jimmy?" It was terrible of him to mock her, he knew. His temper was not in the best sorts after the blow to the groin and he needed to buy time until someone…anyone provided an ample distraction to allow him to escape.
She cuffed him on the head, the hilt of her sword banging against the hard growth of his horn and causing vibrations to echo through his skull.
"Ouch!" He snapped, his vision half-blurred by the blow. "Why do you women insist on striking me?"
"Answer my question," she demanded, her voice half-quivering with uncertainty. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"
Oh, now this was just too much. "That's one more question than before, Princess," Dara stated, grinning snidely behind his cowl. "I'm not entirely sure my attention span is long enough-"
Another blow from the princess silenced his glibness. Then, with a surprising amount of force for such a scrawny-looking woman, she hauled him to his knees, tugging his cowl down and forcing his face toward hers. He'd been wrong when he said that her lips were the only feminine thing about her: her lashes were some of the thickest he'd ever seen.
"Answer me!" She seethed, her warm breath brushing against his face.
His response was a laugh. "Or else what?"
"Or else-" The anger that had so boldly embodied her eyes ebbed a bit and doubt began to settle in. He saw a small war being fought in her mind, a decision she was making on an answer. The woman had a temper, that was certain, but it was not enough to cloud the basest of her faculties of judgments and reasoning. Did she have a breaking point?
The wait for her to come to conclusion drew out uncomfortably.
He felt unbearably naked with his nose exposed. She didn't recognize him. That much he knew for certain. But if she were to draw the cowl far enough down or fling the hood from his head, he would lose precious footing in her fate. "You'll kill me?" He propositioned, taunting her. "I think we both know how untrue that is, Princess. If you had wanted to kill me, you'd have run me through when I was helpless on the ground before you."
The war in her eyes stopped and the anger returned. Ah-ha…now she became stupid.
He was ready the instant she threw her sword at the ground. Before the metal clanged, he'd ducked beneath her grasp and taken a firm grip of her wrist, tugging her roughly and forming binds of her own limbs against her breasts. He pinned her against his chest, half tickled and half annoyed at her continued struggle. She was a strong little thing, that was for certain. He had to extend a bit of effort to keep her under control, even when she was given the lower hand.
He hastily stepped out of the way when she tried to stomp on his bare foot. "Little spitfire, aren't you?" he inquired, one part amused, two parts impressed.
She snarled and threw her head back, landing a hard, harmless blow to the jerkin over his collarbone. She grunted, continuing to struggle and writhe in his grasp. "What do you want with me?" She demanded, desperation tearing through the haughty reserve.
Dara's tone took on a more even timbre. It lost the mocking lilt, his temper released the firm hold it had had on his actions. Now was the time for truth. He doubted she'd believe him or understand, but he could not play with shadows and tricks forever. Best begin to earn her trust now. He'd need it not far down the road. "I want you to stay safe and alive," he stated simply, his voice firm and not unlike the one he used when issuing his men orders.
She tensed and ceased her struggling at his reply. She can be shocked into compliance?
"There, not so terrible to act civilly, is it, Princess?" he said, releasing his hold on her wrist and stepping away from his position behind her.
She turned, her lips parted in mute awe as he replaced the cowl over his nose. "Who are you?" It was still a demand, but her tone was softer, less pompous.
He chuckled at the change in character. She would not make so terrible a leader after all. "I am no one to be trifled with," he replied.
"Keturah!"
Her name being shouted by one of the soldiers drew her attention away long enough for him to bolt from his place and leap out of the fort through the holes created by the mezzanine's tumble. He hastened to a nearby tree, taking up a scout's position so that he might watch and listen to the occurrences that transpired. His heart was in his throat and it was a struggle to force his breathing to remain quiet while he watched, thoroughly impressed once more with his experience with the princess-Hero. This was what Albion and Aurora needed. She would aid them when no one else could.
Crevan was late this night, which was unusual for him. Dara had been out scouting the surroundings for the past two days and had only returned to the Mourningwood camp at sunset. The aging healer was Dara's strategist, of sorts. He managed to take the convoluted images that assaulted the Seer and force them into a sensible compilation of facts, fiction, and possibilities. Crevan had asked about what was occurring outside of Mourningwood, where he was trapped keeping watch over the Princess and other wounded soldiers.
He arrived quietly, wading through the waist-high pool of shadow and fog. "What news?" the older man asked, wasting no time in getting down to business. He removed his cowl and hood. Dara knew the healer found the things restraining and uncomfortable and wore them out of a sense of duty rather than practicality.
"Tensions are rising at the palace with the loss of the Princess…" Dara began:
"I went to the castle last night, just to pay a little visit to Logan to see how he was doing on that promise he made to my sister almost a decade ago. The guards he had in place are ruthless bastards, to be sure, but they haven't the wit to look up for an enemy. Pity, that. The old guard was much more resourceful. Regardless, I was able to observe a meeting between he and Reaver in the War Room."
'Any news of my sister?' Logan inquired, pacing around the table and glowering down at the map table as though it would suddenly spill forth the answers he sought.
'None yet, your majesty,' Reaver replied smoothly, brushing a long wisp of hair to the side. The brightness of the fire in his eyes did nothing to alleviate the darkness in their depths as he regarded the king. 'There are rumors that she was seen by the Swift Brigade during a routine stop to Brightwall. Perhaps she sought to read your father's history?'
'My father has no history,' Logan spat. 'He may have been born a Hero, but he did not die one. He was a wretch, a cur. He could not see past his own selfish desires.' The sinews in Logan's hand budged beneath his skin as he gripped the edge of the table.
'Yes. Leaving you the throne at such a young age. It was a cruel blow for a father to deal his son. And now you are all that stands between your Kingdom and impending doom.' Reaver mused, stepping close to the king and placing a hand on the man's shoulders. 'There there, your Majesty. You are doing all you can. A pox on the people if they do not see all that you sacrifice for the good of their safe-keeping.' Reaver's hand slipped down from the King's shoulder and traced a delicate line along his spine. 'Your sister has betrayed you, just as Swift and others have.'
'I do not know that!' The retort almost sounded pleading.
'No need to have such a temper, Your Majesty,' Reaver countered easily, turning and reaching for the cups of wine that had been brought to them earlier that evening. 'Here, Majesty. Drink. It will soothe your nerves.'
Logan did as Reaver suggested, downing the cup in a single, grimaced swallow and returning the cup to his financial advisor. 'She will be returned to the palace. I will not have her starting a foolish revolution. She had no power. Even if she were to bed every guard I have, a woman's influence can only go so far. As for Watler…well…he's just an old soldier.'
He moved around the map, circling it like a vulture. 'What news is there of the factories?'
'There is unrest, Majesty,' Reaver said frankly. 'But nothing I cannot handle.'
The King's response was a grunt. 'See to it they work. The kingdom needs revenue. I do not care if they are exhausted, overworked, underpaid, or underappreciated. At least they will be alive. One day, they will thank me.'
'Indeed, Sire,' Reaver nodded.
"They exchanged a few more pleasantries…talk about the weather and all that. Logan was kind enough to ask after Reaver's health. He seemed out of sorts, however. More so than usual.
I followed Reaver to his mansion that night. Neygine had inquired as to the fate of her tribe members. I was able to discover a few of the dungeons which stored a variety of creatures…Hobbes, Sand Furies, a few Balvarines, and some humans. They were there. From what I could gather of the guard's talk, they're to be the main entertainment of some party Reaver is to be hosting sometime in the near future."
"So we've a Princess to fuss over and Neygine's whims to be concerned with?" Crevan inquired. "Bloody marvelous, Dara. There are few of us as it is."
He grimaced. "I know."
"I don't like the sound of Reaver with Logan," murmured Crevan. "Logan is his father's child…surely the lad cannot be so misguided." He looked up to Dara inquisitively. "Does the Sight say anything to the effect?"
Dara shook his head. He understood the king's strange behavior: he had felt him. Those who had been touched by the Darkness could often fell one another's presence. "All the Veil has revealed is that the Princess must be kept away from Reaver."
"Bollocks, Dara, I could have told you that!" Crevan shouted, throwing his hands into the air. "I've seen Reaver in action. I wouldn't want to be near him for too long for fear of losing some part of my dignity."
Dara heard the softest squish in the mud followed by rather large snapping of a branch. "Keep your voice down!" He admonished the healer. "I thought I heard something."
The both of them remained quiet, each studying the surrounding darkness and listening for any sounds that indicated something was awry. No more came, so they continued their conversation.
"Walter has plans on sending Major Swift to the palace to gain insight on where the Princess might get more allies for the revolution," Crevan informed him, his gaze uncomfortable.
Dara laughed. "He'll find allies in Aurora."
Crevan nodded. "Perhaps you ought to pass on that bit of information to him? Before he runs into Logan and Reaver. I doubt the ending will be pleasant for him otherwise." Crevan pushed a hand through his mohawk, tugging the stray strands from his face. "I worry for the princess. Her burden is so heavy and she's much to learn."
"She will do well," Dara stated confidently.
"And you're here to make certain of that?" Crevan pressed. "She's much to learn. She still carries the deeds of a past life with her. In order to continue down this new path, she'll need to discard them."
"I know we all have much to learn," Dara stated with a nod. "The Veil had allowed me to see that much. But what transpires between now and then, I cannot be sure. Nothing ever is."
"But if you're not, why are you here? Surely there's something-" Crevan began to argue.
Dara cut him off, cursing violently as he caught a glimpse of metal flickering in the moonlight. He followed the glowing and met the doe-like eyes of the princess. Anger roared within their depths, echoed in the sudden surge in the glow of her Will marks. In the split moment of contact, she rushed forward, all blind fury. He held his ground, waiting for her to clumsily make a mistake, look away, or do something utterly stupid to allow him the chance to slip away.
It came when she looked down to grasp her sword. "Good luck to you," he murmured to Crevan as he stepped behind the nearest tree and threaded his way haphazardly through the fog.
"Thanks," spat Crevan before Dara disappeared into the night.