A/N: Hello all! Here's chapter 13! Only one more to go! This one isn't quite as long as chapter twelve, but the next one will probably be quite long. Oh, and there's going to be an epilogue, but only a brief one. Just FYI.
I'll try to have Chapter 14 up by Monday; if not, Tuesday. The epilogue should be up at that time too. Then I'll start working on the other fics that are burning in my head, including a one-shot that keeps popping up and driving me nuts. The only reason I haven't written it, just to get it out of the way is because it's a long one, and I wouldn't get Lingering Ghosts done for Christmas. Don't worry, though; I promise this one will be done for Xmas, and that I'll have some new stuff up by New Years!
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Thanx!
Lingering Ghosts
Himura Seraphina
Chapter 13. Wounds
A red squirrel perched on one of the lower branches of a blue spruce. Well concealed by shadow and dense greenery, no one noticed the creature, or the unnatural way it sat, still and attentive, seemingly focused on the odd collection of two-leggers that sprawled out near its tree. Nor could anyone see the way a small barn owl would occasionally take the squirrel's place, tilting and turning its head to catch stray conversation and chatter, which occurred rarely among these two-leggers, who snored and slept off a night of excess and late-night boasting over campfires and ill-gotten meads.
No one would guess that in the sharp and impenetrable needles of the spruce, a young woman barely past eighteen waited, hoping for more of the information she had gained throughout the night, broken only by twice-nightly visits to a hunting blind several leagues away where she had retreated to eat, relieve herself, and make a report with the Riders who waited their for her. They would never know that, several times during the early morning hours while the camp was silent but for male snoring, her mind had drifted back to the morning before, when her lover had made up for two nights of abstinence with a sweet, passionate wake-up call in the dawn hours.
None of those who were observed could see that, within green-blue boughs, patient and powerful ears had learned the placement of their sentries, the numbers of their men, and the secrets they could hardly remember revealing in their inebriated states. Or that the eyes and ears within would be followed by bow and blade with the next rising of the dawn.
Her formal report in the command tent in the late morning was brief and involved her personal observations rather than specific military details. Those had already been brought back to camp thanks to the reports she'd made to the Riders who'd acted as her support at the watch post on the trail between the bandit camp and Snowsdale. As a result, large-scale diagrams of the camp were already waiting on the tent, along with lists on the sentries, numbers, weapons, and supplies.
"Anything else, Daine?" Buri asked her.
She was nearly swaying with weariness. Over seventeen candlemarks of tracking, traveling, spying, and shapeshifting from wolf to bat to owl to squirrel—and back again—left her feeling exhausted. Again.
"Not really, except that I think at least a few of the leaders must have been in the army. The sentries are always out, and change on a strict schedule, no matter how drunk everyone else is. And even the tents make me think it—they're in perfect, symmetrical rows, just like this camp. Under the sloth and drink, and the ragged appearance of most of the bandits, there's an efficiency and basic orderliness to everything."
Raoul stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "That theory explains a few things—like how large and well organized this band is. If their leaders are former soldiers—maybe even low-ranking officers—they'd be well able to organize and command men, even raiders."
"When do we move?"
Buri tapped the diagrams. "We'll look at these some more. If standard maneuvers are possible, then tomorrow at dawn. If wee need something different, no sooner than the day after. We've time yet, and I won't risk lives be rushing."
"If tomorrow is a possibility, the Daine needs to sleep now," Numair spoke up from where he'd remained silent in the corner.
"I should—" she began.
"Get some rest as you're useless in this state," he finished briskly, standing and drawing her towards the flap of the tent.
"You don't have to drag me along—I'm not a child," Daine grumbled, hearing Buri chuckle as they left the tent.
"No, but you are as obstinate as one when you're tired." He ignored her scowl as he entwined their fingers firmly and started for the inn—leaving her to either follow or be dragged.
Her brief bought of ill temper had faded by the time they reached the inn. The only reason for her irritation was being tired in any case. Numair took her straight up to her room, where Kitten looked up only briefly from her jacks—long enough to trill a greeting—before returning to her game.
Deftly, the laces of her shirt fell open under his clever fingers. Once again, Daine told him, "I'm not a child; I can manage."
He arched a brow at her, a sly smile touching his lips. "But I enjoy undressing you so."
Suddenly, she felt a great deal more energetic. "By all means—continue."
With a sigh, he released her. "Not now, sweet; you're too tired."
She leaned up on her toes, wrapping her arms about his neck and drawing his face to hers for a long, passionate kiss. After a moment, she released him, smirking. "Does that seem 'too tired' to you?"
He grinned at her, a boyish expression that held an endless amount of playfulness, mischief, and, somehow at the same time, experience. When he gathered her close and returned the kiss, neither noticed Kitten turn a pale orange—the equivalent of a dragon's blush—gather up her toys and leave the room until a sharp croak had the door swinging closed firmly behind her. Daine drew back, looking at the door with a giggle.
"We embarrassed her," she laughed.
"It's not the first time," he murmured, far more interested in the crook of her neck and the tender flesh there. "She'll get over it."
"I s'ppose," she sighed, no longer aware of the conversation, drifting into the world of sensation that they built together.
It was slow and sweet, with clothes falling away almost unnoticed under the lazy exploration of hands and lips. Daine barely felt the bed beneath her when they lowered themselves down on to it, unaware of everything but Numair. In the sunlight, they shut out the world and everything in it except for each other.
She said his name, more of a sigh than words, as they came together. He spoke of his love with hands instead of voice, his fingers finding hers and twining them together. There were more sighs, and then moans, the only sounds in the sunlit room besides the whisper of the sheets and sound of flesh on flesh. At the end, he pressed his face into her neck, breathing in her scent as he lost himself in her, while she turned her face into his thick dark hair, letting herself go with him.
Numair pressed a soft kiss to her forehead as he raised his head, already knowing she'd drifted into sleep. He drew the covers up over her cooling frame and stroked her tangled locks, settling beside her. She needed sleep, and he needed to return to the camp, but for now, he would stay with her, stealing a few more minutes and watching her as she dreamed. Just for a while.
The sentries, all eight, went down swiftly and silently in the false dawn, two candlemarks before the next shift change occurred. Like ghosts, Riders slipped up behind all eight and had them unconscious, bound and gagged in mere moments. Soon after, Riders and the Own drifted through the rocky terrain and greenery, taking positions at both entrances of the flat-bottomed valley that the raiders had chosen for their camp. Once there, they waited, still in the shadows of the pre-dawn, even their mounts tensed and ready for the coming battle.
If there had been a way to slip into the camp silently and capture each bandit in their tents sleeping, they would have seized it—not for the bandit's sake, but their own. In the early morning mists, each man and woman had already accepted that today, like any other day they rode under the banner of Tortall and their monarchs, they might die. It was a truth they accepted along with mount and bow and sword—to bear the name of a Queen's Rider or one of the King's Own was to know that the blood shed on any day might well be your own.
Despite it, or perhaps because of it, they sat, silent and proud in the saddle, waiting for the command.
When it came, in a brilliant flare of red above the trees where they hid, they rode hard, passing between the rocky cliffs that framed the valley on either side, the two narrow entrances the only way in and, on any other night, guarded well by sentries. By the time they reached the grassy floor of the valley, their targets had scrambled out of tents and away from dying fires. Despite drinking and eating to excess through the night, these were men used such things, and who slept with weapons in hand. They stood ready for a troop of a Lord's Guard, or perhaps a militia of local men.
They were met with armed riders who cut through the camp from both sides, slicing through the middle and firing a rain of arrows into their meager ranks of twenty-one. The bandits fled from the arrows—only to find themselves facing their own fortifications, the shale cliffs of the valley. From either side of them, armored men on battle steeds blocked escape. Captured between Riders and cliffs on two fronts, and the Own on the last two, the bandits did the only thing they could; they turned on their attackers with the madness and desperation of wounded jackals, fighting not to win, or even to escape, but to do as much damage to their aggressors as possible before falling to them.
Daine rode with the Riders who kept the bandits pinned with arrows, just beyond the first rank of fighters. The raiders fought with vicious savagery, but she had seen it before. They went for horses and legs, which was also typical. And they refused to stay down, slicing at the hamstrings of horses even when they lay on the ground, seriously or mortally injured. More than once, she fired a bolt into a dieing man to save one of her comrades from having their horse killed beneath them. Two raiders went down from heavy blows with the Own's shields, unconscious but not dead; they would be within a day, executed almost as soon as they were turned over to the local magistrate. She blocked out the screams and shouts, the clash of steel, and the dying scream of more than one man and horse.
There! Daine! Cloud's voice in her mind drew her attention a heartbeat before the pony turned, making for the scene she'd witnessed. One of the Riders had had his horse taken down from under him, and now faced two armed bandits, one of whom had managed to grab a mount before the fighting started in earnest.
She had no blade, only her bow, but didn't think on it, only ordered Cloud to strike at the bandit closest to the Falhar to give her room to draw the man onto the pony's back.
Tend yourself and don't try to teach me what needs to be done! was the tart reply even as Cloud slashed out with wicked hooves, crushing the man's skull. Daine offered Falhar her arm, swinging him behind her with unnatural strength. She barely felt the second bandit's blade slice across her upper arm, nor noticed the blood that welled and slid down her arm even as Cloud spun on her heels and treated her assailant to the same as the first.
In the end, there were nineteen dead—all bandits, thank the gods. Including the eight sentries, they had taken eleven prisoners. Every other man in the camp had fought so fiercely that the Tortallans had been forced to strike killing blows to protect themselves and their friends. Eleven out of a total of fifty-nine bandits; two separate bloody dawns, and three battlefields. The waste of it was horrifying and sickening and at the same time wearying.
They would not bury the dead of clean up this mess as they had two days before; that was a task that Lord Brenen's men would undertake, as well as gathering all of the bandit's goods. The lord would get a percentage of them, and the rest would be divided among the villages that had been raided. Now, the only task for Daine and her fellows was to tend to the prisoners and their own, getting the wounded to Quint, who waited with Numair and Nonia and the Gallan knights, protecting the backs of the others and staying far enough out of range that the precious healers were out of danger—but close enough to save the lives of those badly wounded.
Daine helped Evin bandage a deep, bleeding knife wound on his left leg, sending him back to Quint for proper treatment, only to have him point out her own wound. As soon as she became aware of it, the slice began to burn. She ignored it, allowing Evin to wrap a scarf tightly around her arm before turning away, back to the wounded.
Quint and Nonia would see to the wounded, using their Gift to heal those in immediate danger right away, stitching and bandaging anyone who could last until the village and proper space and supplies were available. Daine's concern was the horses, who had fought as hard as their two-legged partners, and among whom were serious injuries and casualties.
As she checked each mount, healing sword wounds and, in more minor wounds, merely stopping the bleeding for now, much to the thanks of every one of the Riders and the Own, she blocked out the death all around her; the fallen animals, many of who she had trained along with their riders, and the bandits who, despite being part of a group she despised and fought with conviction and passion, were still human and bled red the same as her friends. Instead she focused on the good; her human friends had all survived, and they had been successful in their duty, and also in their task as envoys of Tortall.
She paused to smile at the sight of Lena and Rahim, the latter of which had been injured by a glancing sword across his unarmored shoulder and lower leg when he protected a fallen Rider. She cursed him, steadily and with imagination as she tore off her shirt sleeves and bandaged the freely-bleeding cuts. He spoke in a low, courteous tone as he always did, staying behind the shield of his Bazhir detachment. Lena scowled and cursed him again, then sighed, resigned. To Rahim's considerable surprise, she then leaned in and kissed him firmly before stepping back to speak again. Even from a distance, Daine could see that she was telling him to be more careful, since she wasn't fond of heroes; she also saw a mild blush, from her very public and intimate action. Rahim stared at her for a long moment, causing her to scowl at him again. His response was to drop his detachment, taking the Rider commander's hand in his own—a very telling and intimate act for a Bazhir man—and reply that that must be difficult, seeing as she was a hero.
It was slow going back to Snowsdale: the uninjured escorted the captured bandits while those who weren't seriously injured aided those who were. There was little conversation except for the occasional lightening of the mood or attempts to bolster those in pain. Daine rode at the tail of the ranks of the injured while Evin and Rahim led it; Numair rode with her.
"I'm very put out with you, magelet."
"Whyever for?"
"You've managed to damage yourself; I'm very fond of your body, and I'd rather it stays in one piece, preferably as it is now."
"I didn't damage myself—that damned bandit damaged me."
"Did you return the favor?"
"No, but I think Cloud did."
"Well, that's something, at least."
The playful humor, so typical of their relationship, eased her lingering tension and helped chase the scent of death from her nostrils far better than anything else in the world.
They were met at the edge of the camp by Marcus and Cedwin, several of the villagefolk, and Lord Brenen and his men.
Over the flurry of questions, Rahim's cool tenor flowed smoothly, silencing the crowd. "Lord Brenen, our fellows are following closely behind us with several prisoners."
Brenen, a tall rawboned man with hawk-like features and blonde hair that was as much grey as not, nodded. "Well, then, we'll leave you to care for your wounded, and give you're comrades a hand." With brisk efficiency, he and his men headed the way that Daine and the others had just come, leaving far less bodies and confusion behind.
It became quickly apparent why Rahim headed a Company, and was considered to be one of Raoul's right hands in the Own. Without raising his voice or using a single word more that necessary, he had the entire party organized in bare minutes. The seriously wounded were placed in the three tents that had been arranged for just that purpose earlier, with Quint beginning the more exacting Healing that being in the field had prevented. Nonia began work stitching and bandaging properly those who didn't need Healing, sparing Quint and his Gift. Daine followed their example by checking over each horse as it was stripped of tack and groomed by volunteers from the village while the horse's Riders were being seen to. She was forced to use more mundane poultices and tisanes on minor cuts and welts as her own Wild Magic was once again flickering, thanks to the more serious healing that had been required by some of the wounded animals. She'd saved them, even from potentially crippling injuries, but at cost to herself.
Just as she was giving a last pat to one of the Own's great battle steeds, Rahim approached her. She saw no flicker of pain in his black gaze, even though his wounds had been stitched only, rather than Healed. She doubted if he would have shown a reaction if he'd been bleeding from an amputated leg.
"You have done your share of today's work, and more, Mistress Sarrasri," he said, absently patting the mount as well. Even if she hadn't already liked him for himself and for Lena's sake, that simple gesture would have insured it.
She smiled, not inclined to argue with him. She was feeling her aches and injuries. "I've just finished with the horses—the only ones we lost are the ones that fell on the battle field."
A tiny smile touched his mouth, a telling gesture on that expressionless face. "Then we all must thank you. Losing a mount is much as losing a member of a Company or Group. Now, though, you should rest. We have done a good day's work."
"Seems like. I'm for a bath before sleep though—I'm dirt and grime head to toe. Oh, Rahim, you can call be Daine—'Mistress Sarrasri' is a fair mouthful, and I figure anyone who's courting one of my friends should be allowed some familiarity."
He blinked at her once, and even against his dark skin she could see a faint blush. "I did not know anyone—Lena has only just noticed herself my intentions."
"You've too much respect for those about you—including horses—to give so much attention to a woman without honest intentions. If you were after a flirtation, you'd've steered far clear of Lena."
"She is not a woman to be trifled with," he agreed, another smile touching his lips, "but one of great spirit and heart."
More than pleased with his assessment of her friend, she smiled at him again. "Absolutely. I'll see you later; right now I'm for a bath."
Having gained each other's measure, both walked away well satisfied. Daine paused only long enough to make sure that Cloud had gotten a portion of hot mash, and to give her several sugar cubes in thanks for her work today, and then headed back to the inn and its bathhouse, hoping to have it to herself before the others returned from camp.
The placement of Snowsdale village was well planned. It had not been built here because of a river as most of the villages in Galla had been, nor as a strategic point of defense, as Border's Keep was. The mountains between Scanra and Galla contained numerous mineral hot springs, most inaccessible or too sulfurous to be any use. In this area, however, the heated water came close enough to the surface to appear in numerous pools and wells, and also joined with the creeks and streams that flowed from the mountains down into the low lands. As a result, even in deep winter the water sources never froze, and the residents of the village had access to warm, sweet water fro bathing, cooking, and washing. During the time the Daine had lived here, a large bathhouse had existed at the edge of the town, a wooden structure built to enclose a large natural pool, divided into two separate rooms for the different genders. She had always preferred to use an unknown pool nearer to Ma's house rather than have to deal with the villagers without the barrier of clothes.
Now, however, while the old bathhouse was still there, the inn also had one—a well built house that brought hot mineral water inside through a series of pipes. While normally Daine would take a natural, rocky pool to a bathtub, today she knew that it would be a miracle if she could make it from the inn's bathhouse to her bed after a hot soak, much less from the edge of town. The way she felt now, it was very likely that she'd fall asleep in the tub.
The bathhouse was a pleasant affair, and she found herself surprised. It was linked to the back of the inn by a wooden walkway, so one didn't have to cross the stableyard after a bath. The floor of the house was also made of smooth wood, as were the walls. The air inside was heavy with humidity, and the oil lamps contained scented oil rather than smoky fish oil. The tub was huge, made of copper and sunken into the floor. Fresh hot water came in via a copper spout, which poured a steady stream of clean water even as the dirty drained away at the other side of the tub. She'd seen such affairs before, in Corus and Port Caynn, and the bathing rooms at the Palace were equipped with something similar—though the water wasn't from springs, and had to be turned on and off. This room, more than anything else, made Snowsdale's growing prosperity obvious.
As the heat of the room sank into her bones, she sighed with pleasure. Stripping as quickly as her tired muscles allowed her, she left her stained clothes in a heap next to the clean towels she'd brought and sank into the water. As she submerged, a low moan escaped her. There was nothing, nothing, like hot water on aching muscles.
He saw her go into the bathhouse; he knew she was alone, unarmed, naked. Baring herself, flaunting herself like all women. She thought she was better than the others, the damned villagers, because she was on speaking terms with those with noble blood, because she had an important lover when really, she was just like all the others; pathetic commoners, with their small, unimportant lives.
Nobles protect and serve those who live within their lands, and in turn are protected by their king. It is the way of things. Commoners work the land for noble; in turn they receive protection. He remembered the long-ago lessons that he was taught; remembered and laughed. Commoners served their betters because they couldn't take care of themselves. They lived on the sufferance of their lords, just as women depended on the same from men.
Apparently no one had taught that Riders bitch the truth, that she was nothing but a whore who served the pleasure of men. She should have been grateful for his attentions, to have a lord between her legs instead of the commoners she was used to. Women were good only for one thing, especially common ones. Hadn't he proven it, time and again? The village whores opened their legs easily enough for him, and if they hesitated, a backhand reminded them that he was a lord—their lord, and master. They cried and sniveled like the pathetic wretched they were, but what else did women know how to do.
That damned Rider hadn't whimpered, he remembered. When he'd struck her, he'd been sure that her stillness meant she had been dominated—and then she'd come at him. The memory stirred his rage, making his vision haze with fury. The bitch! Some of the others might struggle and scratch when he took them, but they'd never done more than claw at him, and they'd been reminded of their place for it. But that black-haired Rider—she'd drawn a blade on him! She'd resisted his sword with it, and marked him in the process!
He would have subdued her, he knew. She might have been lucky, but soon enough he would have disarmed her. Then she would have learned her place; he'd have taught her a lesson she'd never forget before finally taking her. But then her heathen lover had shown up, the damned desert-dwelling bastard, defending the 'honor' of his whore. Neither one knew their place. His hands shook with the need to show it to them. How dare either one of them threaten him? Mark him? Treat him like that? He was Vanel of Border's Keep! One day he would rule these lands, and they had treated him like some criminal. These were his lands. The word of the lord, and the lord's son, was law.
His hands trembled again, this time with a fear he struggled to hide from himself. Raoul of Goldenlake and Malories' Peak. He was a powerful noble, a knight and lord. And he'd seemed deadly. He could never have beaten the man in a fight, and the knowledge burned in him like acid.
The mix of fear and anger only fueled the insult of it, something he felt like a festering wound. Raoul was a noble—he should have stood with him, not against him! But the man had sided with the Rider bitch and her lover and, worse, threatened Vanel on behalf of all the commoners here—even the ones who served him!
He hadn't been able to teach the Rider bitch her place, or her desert-dwelling lover. The knight had put the word of a common whore above one of a fellow noble. It could not be borne.
Vanel glared at the bathhouse into which Daine had disappeared, unaware that his eyes held a madness visible to all who saw him. It was not insanity, but a willful rage that could not understand or condone any view of the world but his own twisted one. It was a far more terrifying madness.
He gripped his sword hilt, waiting until the last of the stable hands disappeared from the yard, leaving to go to the camp or home. He had waited until his father had left the keep; no one else there would dare to object to his leaving, even if his father had confined him to the keep proper. The insult of that nearly outweighed all the others, but fear of his father dampened it. Instead, he focused on his vengeance.
He couldn't get to the Rider bitch and wouldn't even if he could; under the certainty that he would have bested her lay the subconscious whisper that she had beaten him, and he would not put himself in such a position again. Hence, his choice in this girl.
The girl, Daine, was a villager even if she was under the command of Sir Raoul. The villagers here knew their place, and she would certainly remember it after a few blows—he was looking forward to giving them. He could get to one of the knight's people, and another Rider, to punish the first bitch. This one was only an archer, and wouldn't be able to fight back; her lover was nothing but a mage—he'd seen right away that she was spreading her legs for him. He'd seen them, on the way into Snowsdale, touching each other when they had a moment alone together. He might be big, but he knew nothing of weapons, only books. No, this girl was perfect; a method of revenge, and a way to satisfy the rage, insult, and lust inside him.
With an expression that could only be described as cruel, he stalked across the yard, and towards the bathhouse.
She didn't hear the door open, or close behind her. She didn't hear the latch slide shut. Between the dazed relaxation she felt as her muscles unwound, and the drowsiness that her combined exhaustion and the hot water brought, her normally intent awareness of her surroundings was nonexistent.
She did hear the cold, cruel voice that spoke behind her. "Well, well—what do we have here?"
She spun, moving into a half-crouch as she did so, despite being in steaming, waist-high water, with limbs like kelp. When she saw who had spoken, in a tone that was slimy enough to oil cart axels, all relaxation fled from her muscles and she felt a nearly-painful awareness—an awareness that became more intense as Vanel's gaze dropped to her exposed breasts, lingering with a purposeful crudeness. She felt and instinctive shudder at his gaze, a feminine reaction to being leered at. When he lifted his eyes back to her own, however, she saw something in their depths that made his leer inconsequential.
There was lust, yes, but more there was violence—the need for it, to commit it. She knew that there were men who gained satisfaction through violence—men for whom release came not from sex, but from inflicting pain. She had never understood how that could be, but now she knew that she'd come face-to-face with it.
Even as Vanel took another, leisurely look at her bare form—an action meant to intimidate and terrify her, but which only irritated her—she cursed herself steadily. Because her bow was useless in hand-to-hand situations, she'd taken to carrying a long dagger—which she'd left with her bow and saddle at the camp. Worse, far worse, she knew he magic was almost entirely drained, thanks to the healing of so many horses. Like Lena, she found herself facing a twisted rapist who needed to dominate and hurt women. Unlike Lena, she was naked, utterly unarmed, and in a small, enclosed space that limited movement.
Hand on his sword hilt, Vanel sneered at her. "What an interesting thing to see."
"All I see is a dog who slipped his leash," she responded coolly—and saw an answering flash of rage in his eyes. More importantly, she saw his gaze cloud, and his hands tremble. Inwardly, she smiled at having found Vanel's weakness—his anger. This was not a man who kept his head, or his sanity, when upset. If she goaded him into losing control, she could overcome him.
If she didn't get herself killed in the process.
She did know one thing: being raped was not an option. Not only did her skin crawl with Vanel's gaze, much less the thought of being touched by him, Daine would not allow herself to be dominated by this pathetic excuse for a noble's lust. No man dominated her, except for the one whom she allowed to do so. But she also didn't plan on dying, either, so her only option was to get way, by any means possible.
As an enraged Vanel drew his sword, her first thought was: if only it were that easy.
"Bitch," he sneered, his face twisting unattractively. "You might have a smart mouth, but you'll learn your place."
"Beneath you? I think not." She edged back to the far side of the tub. She had to get out of here and on the floor—she was at too much of an disadvantage.
"Your place is to do what you are told—just like all the other common peasants here. I am a noble, a lord—you are a low-born bitch. You obey me."
"I obey no one," she snarled back, gripping the edge of the tub, "except those that I give my allegiance to—and even then, I follow no one blindly. You certainly don't command me."
"You might claim to be of Tortall, but you were born here. You know that I command you."
"The folks of Snowsdale might have no choice in following you, but I never fit in here when I did live here—and I'm certainly not going to crawl on my belly for you just because the other folk are too scared to stand up to you!" She shoved herself up onto the floor, rolling as she did to gain an extra few feet, and rising into a crouch, facing her opponent. He looked even angrier, and some of him cruel confidence had faded, either under the loss of his temper, or on finding her on more equal ground with him. She'd have drawn blood for a shirt to cover herself with, and she knew she'd have to be careful of the damp floor, but she felt her own confidence grow.
"You're nothing but a tramp and a bitch," he snarled. "You spread your legs easily enough, just like the rest. You just need encouragement." Now he smiled, and it was one that made her hair stand on end. "I'll enjoy showing you your place, teaching you to obey your betters."
Even as she found his rhetoric, and his constant repetition of the same insults and ideas of 'place' and 'betters', she tracked his movement as he stepped away from the door and towards her. The tub was large, but there was a reasonable amount of space around it; enough to have a bit of room to maneuver in. She estimated the amount of room she'd need, and took another prick at his temper; hoping that between it and the element of surprise, she'd get enough time.
"I don't see any betters here, Vanel. Men aren't above women—didn't Lena teach you that the difference in size between us is meaningless?" Yes, she thought, seeing the flare of rage. "And nobles aren't superior to low-born folks—we're all human. You bleed the same color as I do."
As he snarled, and took a step forward, placing his sword arm at the wall, she judged the distance and leapt, reaching for the flicking light of her magic at the same time. She had enough, enough to take a form so familiar to her—
—but the weakness of her magic made the shift slower, not by much, but just enough. Even as she embraced the wolf-shape, Vanel, fueled by unnatural rage, spun more quickly then she'd dared think, lashing out with his blade. The bite of steel in flesh, the bloom of pain that followed, shattered her grip on the animal's form. She cried out with pain, and a sound that was half wolf cry, half human scream left her as she hit the ground, bleeding and dazed and human, too far from the door—and far to close to Vanel.
Oh, Goddess, I'm so evil! I really didn't intend for it to be a cliffhanger; it just worked out that way! Sorry, don't kill me! Next chapter up soon, I swear!