Nimulot Encounters: Bait
CH2: Seeing Red
The Weeping Monk wiped his blade again. The pain from his most recent lashing didn't bother him at all; the reminder of his failures sharpened his focus. The girl—the little boy had called her Nimue—she was young, but she was brave. She'd infiltrated Yvoire Abbey. The Monk remembered her last words to the boy she called Squirrel—her mother, the High Priestess of Dewdenn, had charged her with a dangerous task—but venturing into enemy territory alone required nerves of steel and no small amount of cunning. What had been her objective? She'd finished off Brother Odo, but the fey-killing Monk knew she was no hunter; she would not have placed herself in such danger to kill a single foe. She'd burned several maps and scrolls of information he'd collected for Father Carden, but it was surely a stroke of luck that she got her hands on them. She had reached the abbey ahead of them, so it was unlikely they featured in her plans at all. Why had she gone to Yvoire Abbey? The Monk had no answers, but he did have a new lead. She was not in the caravan he'd stopped, but her scent had been all over the occupants. The little Snake Clan girl he'd spared had embraced the witch, he could tell. Perhaps that was the key to catching her? The Weeping Monk and the Wolf-Blood Witch went out of their way to protect children, not that anyone but the witch knew of the Monk's weakness, and as for the witch... The Monk shook his head. Protecting innocents did not make her innocent. She was scorned by her own kind, a particularly fearsome demon among demons. No amount of lashing would break his belief that fey children were innocent and pure, but this Nimue was no child; some years ago, she'd crossed an invisible but distinct line, succumbing to a dark power that favored her among others. He would find the young witch, and by steel or by fire she would fall.
A clanging broke the Monk from his reverie. He'd foolishly let his mind wander while watching the Snake Clan girl fleeing into the trees. Turning, he saw a wagon approaching. "The Lord smiles on us today!" The red-robed men at the reins greeted him jubilantly. A third paladin leaned out of the wagon as it slowed without stopping. His face was bruised and bloody, but he smiled at the Monk as well, revealing a chipped tooth.
"You fight with honor, brother," the bloodied paladin addressed him, "but a reprobate thief had better luck with the witch."
Though it was delivered in good humor, the Monk bristled at the slight. He had been duly punished for his mistakes and he would redeem himself. As the wagon passed, a strange whispering filled his ears... no... it wasn't truly audible... It reminded him of the voices of the Hidden, voices he had forced from his mind until they were well and truly exiled from his being. Turning to run after the wagon, he easily caught up, and there he saw it between the paladins at the reins. "The Devil's Tooth." Was the fey sword somehow calling him? He would never forget the moment the witch had drawn the sword on her own kind—the inscriptions had glowed in the night and the very air around her had recoiled, but it had been silent.
"We'll deliver it to Father Carden before nightfall." His red brothers clearly heard nothing; they stared at him, surprised by his behavior. He tore his eyes from the blade, schooling his features into his usual mask of impassivity.
"Share your news with our brothers up ahead," he said. "And tell Father Carden I've found fey symbols in the wood, directions to a haven for survivors." His brothers cheered as they rode on, taking the whispering sword with them.
"Fool," the Monk whispered to himself as he turned and pressed his back against the broad trunk of a great oak. "Demon," he hissed as the rough bark scratched his raw wounds through his cloak and tunic. "It knows what you are. It calls for the witch and you respond without pause..." Thoughts of the whispering sword made him flinch. The whispers brought with them those faint memories of the Hidden. The Weeping Monk fought the urge to scream in rage. He had come so far. He would not be led astray. Clenching his fists, nails digging into his palms, he turned his marked face toward the heavens and prayed.
"Where's the little girl?!"
How had she slipped by him? He'd been lost in thought again and the witch had come within earshot. She'd found the smuggler's wagon. She was looking for the Snake Clan girl, but her search would bring her near the sword, and if it called to him it would surely scream her name. Nimue! Nimue! Nimue!
"Nimue!" A young man bellowed. Passing the empty wagons on the road, the Monk followed his voice. The young man's scent was human, but the complex, loamy scent of the fey girl clung to his quarry like a cloak. The thief? Her savior from Hawksbridge? The Monk drew his sword as he caught up with the young man. Hearing the screams of his brothers up ahead, he slashed at the young man's legs without breaking stride. With a startled yelp, the witch's ally dropped to the ground. Unarmed and wounded, he was more of a distraction than a threat.
Another scream, the clash of metal... the witch had found her sword. Arriving too late to save his red brothers, the Monk found all but one of them dead in the water. The witch was soaked from head to toe, slashing at the last paladin standing; she was clearly untrained, but she attacked with furious focus, the Devil's Tooth finding blood without finesse. The weeping warrior did not wait for the witch to notice him. Leaping into the bloody red water, he struck.
"Khodulai!" The Snake Clan girl, Cogaira, had watched her father die in shocked silence, but the Sky Folk warrior emboldened and inspired her. The little girl remembered the young woman's comforting smile, her silly faces, and here her blue-eyed friend had returned—she was avenging all the fallen fey, cutting down all the terrible red-robed killers. For reasons unknown to the little girl, the Weeping Monk had spared her, but she would not keep quiet for him. She would not let him hurt her brave new friend.
Hearing the little girl's cry of warning, Nimue turned just in time to block the Monk's blade, but seeing him in the daylight, meeting those piercing blue eyes framed by serpentine black markings, she thought herself a reckless fool. Enraged and reunited with the renowned sword in her hands, she had followed delusions of grandeur to a violent end. Unable to parry under the Monk's strength, Nimue moved backward, but there were too many bodies in the way; she lost her footing and she fell, swinging her sword frantically while she scrambled to her feet again.
"You have no idea what you're doing." The Monk only took a small step back to avoid her panicked hacking. "You were better off without the sword. You escaped Yvoire Abbey because you weren't foolish enough to try fighting your way out."
Nimue's clothes were stained red and they clung to her body, chafing and weighing her down, and she was afraid she would slip and fall again if she moved, but she held her sword high and fought to keep her face blank as the Monk spoke. She wanted to bite back, to taunt him for letting her escape, but he afforded her no such chance. Right, left, right again, the Monk's blade flashed like lightning, metal clashing like thunder as she blocked, parried, and soon lost her balance. The Monk's sword pierced her right shoulder and she nearly dropped her sword.
"Khodulai!" The little girl screamed.
"Nimue!" Arthur had reached them. His left sleeve was torn off, tied around what was clearly a deep cut below his right knee, but he rushed into the water without pause, grabbing a paladin sword and attacking.
With a rumble of frustration, the Weeping Monk drew his dagger and threw it at the young man. The dagger clipped his upper arm as it flew, missing his heart as he tried to evade the attack, but the new wound made him pause for a few seconds. Seizing his opportunity, the Monk rushed at the witch, taking her by surprise with a tackle. As he expected, the witch dropped her weapon when she found herself pinned underwater. She had not been trained to cling to her weapon under any condition. She was a witch, not a swordsman. She was a witch... a fact she and the man attempting to drown her remembered at about the same time.
Arthur had raised his sword to strike, but he stumbled backward when roots surged up from the ground, wrapping around the Monk's ankles and dragging him off Nimue, pulling him underwater as well until he cut the roots away. While he struggled, Nimue surged upward, gasping for breath and searching the red water for her sword. She could hear it whispering to her. When her fingers wrapped around the rough, detailed pommel, the whispering became sharper, as if the sword was scolding her. The Monk reached for her again and she swung her sword in his general direction, forcing him back while she got to her feet and rushed to dry land. Arthur followed her, ducking and rolling to the side when a tree in front of them bent like a strung bow, whipping forward to strike the Weeping Monk where he stood in the lake.
"Phuthu?" Little Cogaira was frightened, but she emerged from the tree line and moved closer to Nimue. Arthur moved to stop her, but she shook her head and pointed at Nimue, then at the tree bent over the Monk. The weeping warrior had chopped a few branches off the bewitched tree, but when more roots surged up to hold him in place, it became clear he was fighting a losing battle. Arthur gave the girl his full attention so Nimue could focus. Cogaira touched her cheeks and pointed at the green vines on Nimue's cheeks; she hadn't seen those before. "Phuthu?" Witch. She was asking if Nimue was a witch. Her eyes widened as the tree finally straightened, lifting the Weeping Monk out of the lake in a cage of sword-splintered limbs. She pointed at the tree, then at Nimue again.
"Yes, that's her doing. It's alright. We're safe now." Cogaira wasn't afraid of Nimue, but she noticed Arthur was trembling slightly. She'd only seen ten summers, but she knew the young man didn't like what he didn't understand. Humans attacked the fey because they were different. This human was kind and brave—he wasn't treating her differently because of her scales, or because she did not speak the way he did—but he was human. Nimue was breathing heavily and she was soaking wet, but Cogaira walked right up to her and hugged her, scaled Snake arms circling the waist of the Sky witch. All fey were brothers, sisters, and her sister had come looking for her.
"You don't harm children?" Nimue asked as she caught her breath, looking up at the caged Monk. He glared at her.
"And you can't seem to kill me." Nimue looked down at the girl beside her when the Monk spoke, trying to hide the blush that colored her cheeks. It's just his voice, she thought to herself. He was a horrible, heartless murderer. Nimue told herself it was only his voice she found attractive, but she clenched her fists in frustration when she met his eyes with hers—Gods and Hidden help her, she would never forget how those eyes looked up close. "Will your people laud you for sparing me twice?" His casually taunting voice snapped her back to attention. "You clearly have no qualms about killing my brothers—"
"You've slaughtered thousands of fey without pause!" Nimue bristled.
"And still you are content to walk away, leaving me temporarily caged!" The Monk's voice whipped. Arthur took a couple steps toward the tree, raising his stolen paladin sword. "Let the witch come to me! Stand down, thief, and let your lover claim her prize. Kill me, Nimue." His harsh voice abruptly softened, relaxing into an alluring, gravelly purr. Nimue started at his use of her name. The Monk noted her reaction and he shifted forward as much as he was able. His dagger was in the water, but his sword was an extension of his arm; if he could tempt or provoke the witch, if she came within striking range, he could still kill her.
"I tried to reach you last time," Nimue argued. "I want to kill you, but you end up caged." Nimue glanced at Arthur, at the girl beside her—she worried they might believe what the Monk claimed, that she spared him by choice.
"It's true," the Monk remembered their last encounter. "You wield your magic like you wield that sword. Like a child throwing stones, you miss your mark a dozen times and run away when you break something." Nimue gaped at the Monk for a moment, but then her features hardened in anger. When green vines reappeared on Nimue's face, Arthur backed away without thinking. The Weeping Monk's lips did not move, but he smiled, triumph glittering in his eyes. The tree began shifting and he braced himself. The Snake Clan girl recognized the renewed threat and shook her new friend's arm.
"Khodulai!" No. "Khodulai!" Stop.
Nimue looked down, and the fear in the little girl's eyes made her stop. The whispers of the Hidden faded. Even the whispers of the sword were brushed aside, the call for blood already sated. The girl did not fear her. She was pointing at the Monk. Looking up at him again, Nimue noticed the way he was poised to spring. He'd been taunting her, trying to provoke her so he could get free. On the ground, he had the advantage. Her body ached, a reminder of his strength. Bolts of sharp pain shot down her right arm from her wounded shoulder. He had stabbed her. He had nearly drowned her. She had no idea why her magic was only trapping him, not harming him, but he would kill her if they came to blows again. She was the Wolf-Blood Witch, but she fought like a child throwing stones. He was the Weeping Monk, and he fought like he'd been born with a sword in his hand.
"Let's go," Nimue told Arthur, tearing her eyes from the Monk.
"Khodulai!" Cogaira warned Arthur away when he glared at the Monk, moving closer to the caged warrior.
"Arthur, we're leaving. Now." Nimue ordered. When Arthur didn't move, she went to him, Cogaira taking her hand and walking with her. "You want redemption? You want to call yourself an honorable man? Arthur, would your father kill a man in a cage?" Arthur clenched his jaw, but he lowered his sword. Turning, his tormented brown eyes met Nimue's, and he cursed himself again for robbing her, for abandoning her. He would find his honor, and she would lead him.
The Weeping Monk watched as the witch and her companions disappeared into the wood. She spoke of honor? He looked at the six red-robed bodies in the red lake. Red Lake, that's what it would be called as word of this fight spread. True, she fought them alone, killers of her kind, but she fought with an evil fey sword. He would not soon forget the way the sword whispered. It had surely whispered to her, urging her to kill him, but at the bidding of a child she had given up her prey. He had wounded her, but she left him relatively unscathed. She kept her human companion from attacking him. She offered the young thief redemption... She was his enemy. That was all he needed to know.
