Banshee’s Honor
Part Three
by
~Chapter
Five~
Rising
early, Azhani slipped on her mostly dry clothes and limped over to the
stardancer’s room. She raised
her fist to knock then decided she would just peek in, and see if
Kyrian were awake. The door
was unlocked, and she made a mental note to remind the stardancer to
lock it at night.
Kyrian
was awake, the shutters on her window open wide to allow in the morning
sunlight. Clad only in a
short, pale green tunic, the stardancer was involved in a strenuous
workout. Pale skin rippled
over lean muscles as she easily moved through a series of exercises
that fell somewhere between dance and meditation.
Having
spent a few years studying with the monks at Y’len, Azhani was familiar
with the ritual. Kyrian’s
skill and control in the art was nothing short of amazing, especially
in one as young as the stardancer. Mesmerized
by the grace in the stardancer’s movements, Azhani could only watch as
Kyrian executed a flawless spinning kick that would have knocked an
opponent through the window.
When
Azhani leaned her crutch against the stardancer’s bed and stepped in to
throw the counter strikes to the exercises, Kyrian automatically
adjusted her speed and skill to accommodate the warrior’s injury. As they worked out, the calm sounds
of early morning allowed each woman to concentrate on her opponent. Everything was going well until
Azhani tried a bit of fancy footwork, lost her balance and fell.
“Ouch. Damn.” The
warrior reached down and rubbed her leg. After
their bath the night before, Kyrian had decided to let the warrior use
just the crutch to walk. Without
the splints for support, the muscles complained bitterly about the
rough treatment.
Instantly,
the stardancer was kneeling next to her, running warm hands over the
bare leg, checking for signs of injury. “Sorry
about that,” Kyrian murmured, wincing at the new bruise already
purpling Azhani’s ankle. She
began to hum softly, her hands flaring up in a soft yellow glow.
“You
don’t have to do that,” Azhani said gruffly.
“I can handle a sprained ankle.”
“I
know, but I want to,” Kyrian replied.
Azhani
shook her head ruefully. “Why
are you doing this, Kyrian? Why
are you helping a murderer?”
Abruptly,
the stardancer’s song ceased. Looking
up and meeting the warrior’s hard blue eyes, Kyrian said, “Because
you’re not a murderer, Azhani. A
killer, yes – I know you’ve killed. In
defense of Y’dan, or in defense of yourself, I know you’ve taken lives,
but I do not believe the woman who rescued me, the woman who treats me
with such deference could have killed in cold blood.
So, even if you don’t want to tell me your story, you’re
stuck with me.” Standing, the
stardancer rubbed her hands on her thighs and sighed.
“I’d like to be your friend, Azhani.
Will you let me?” She
reached her hand out, waiting for the warrior to take it.
Azhani
looked up into Kyrian’s face. Seeing
only a gentle, welcoming smile, she accepted the other woman’s hand,
allowing the stardancer to help her to stand.
“All right, we’ll give it a try,” she said tersely. “I’m not an easy person to like,
Kyrian, and I can’t always promise-“
“I
don’t want any promises, Azhani. I
just want us to stop crashing heads over every decision. Here, you’ll need this.” Kyrian bent to retrieve Azhani’s
crutch. Stepping close to
hand it to the warrior, she smiled as the warrior took it and shoved it
under her arm, obviously grateful for its support.
“Thanks,”
Azhani muttered, nostrils flaring as she caught the scent of the
stardancer’s sweat-sheened body. No! Remember your beloved, Ylera? The heady burst of attraction
faded almost instantly, replaced by the dark, fiery anger that burned
ceaselessly in her soul. Arris
had laughed at her tears, watching her from the outside of the cell
door and mocking her weakness. Hatred
swelled, and Azhani clamped down on the emotion, not wanting Kyrian to
be exposed to that darkness.
Unaware
of the rapid emotions streaming across Azhani’s face, Kyrian said, “You
know how to fight like one goddess trained.
Have you studied with the monks of Y’len?”
Wrinkling her nose as she exchanged her tunic for the
warmer crimson robes and brown leather boots, she added, “We need to
make sure we buy enough extra clothes so that we’re not having to wear
wet clothes all the time.”
“Yes,
but it was a lifetime ago,” Azhani replied, shaken from her dark
reverie. Gripping the crutch,
she said, “Come on, we’ve got a long day ahead of us.”
By
midmorning, Azhani’s bartering skills had bought them a rickety cart
and half the supplies they would need to survive the winter. The gold from the kidnapper had gone
far, but not quite far enough. Wondering
if the stardancer would forgive her for getting hurt again, Azhani
started heading toward the edge of town, where the rowdier element
spent their days.
“Azhani,
where are you going?” Kyrian asked, halting the warrior in her tracks. She had been staring at the Barton
hospice contemplatively but had noticed when the dark skinned woman
began limping off toward the seedier section of town.
“I-“
“Never
mind. I think that hospice
across the way is Astariun. I’m
going to find out, so, don’t go anywhere, okay?” Kyrian put her hands
on her hips and gave the warrior a stern glare.
“Okay,”
the warrior meekly agreed.
Smiling,
the stardancer went across to the stone and timber building and went
inside. Azhani frowned,
wondering why the stardancer was suddenly so interested in the place. Then she shrugged and turned away,
reaching out to pat Arun on the nose. The
horse had been hitched to the wagon right after its purchase to get the
gelding used to pulling its weight.
“Maybe
she’s decided she likes it here, hey boy?” she muttered as Arun nosed
her hands for attention. “Yeah,
maybe. If that’s the case, I
won’t have to go get my face smashed in after all.
I can live off of what’s in the cart.”
The cart!
Oh shit, how the hell am I going to get that home? Arun belongs to Kyrian, and he’ll be
staying with her... Astarus’
balls! Some demented looking
donkey I’ll be, hauling the wagon down the road! Arun shoved his nose toward her
pouch, hunting for treats. Laughing,
she pulled out the carrot she had hidden there earlier and fed it to
him.
Finely honed
senses caused the warrior to simultaneously turn her head and fling out
her arm, neatly catching a thrown object. A
pouch, heavy with coin, fit snugly in her palm.
She looked up to see the grinning stardancer jog across
the street.
Slung
from Kyrian’s left shoulder was a heavily filled haversack, and she had
a large roll of dark crimson fabric balanced on the other shoulder.
“Did
you find what you were looking for?” Azhani asked curiously.
“Yep. Did you know that the hospice is run
by a couple of doctors from Y’skan?” Kyrian asked.
“Yeah, I remember when they first arrived. A lot of people used to die of the coughing sickness during the winter, but after the Y’skani came, no one died.” The warrior looked over at the hospice, and smiled sadly in memory. “They saved a lot of people.”
“They’re
not Astariun, but there’s a starseeker in residence.
I turned in my marks and got my stipend.”
She nodded at the pouch in Azhani’s hand.
“I’m afraid I’m not a big spender, so, there was quite a
bit to collect. It should be
enough to finish buying our supplies, don’t you think?
I’d really rather not eat Arun’s oats and hay.”
Azhani
hefted the pouch again. Even
if it were full of copper, there had to be at least six months worth of
the stardancer’s stipend in there. “I
can’t...”
A
warm finger brushed over her lips. “Yes,
you can. I pay my own way,
warrior. Now, I think our
next stop was the blacksmith’s shop, right?
We need nails and bracing, if I remember correctly.”
Azhani
nodded dumbly, unable to come up with a reason why she should deny the
money. As they walked toward
the sound of ringing metal, she realized that she no longer even wanted
to. Kyrian was staying. Yeah, I think
I like that.
%%%
I
never did buy a sword, the warrior thought as she
pulled up her blankets and settled into the bed sleepily. Tomorrow, they would leave Barton
behind and return to her father’s cottage and begin the work that would
restore the battered building to a place that would weather the winter
storms.
In
the dark, she could barely make out the shape of her new coat of
studded leather. The armor
had been her one extravagant purchase. It
had hung on the wall at the smith’s, the steel studs glowing silver
from the light of the forge. Reverently,
she had fingered the circular studs, wondering what she could promise
the smith in exchange for the beautifully made coat.
Kyrian
had noticed how the warrior lingered over the armor and had quietly
spoken to the smith about its price. Azhani
didn’t know that the armor had been made for the blacksmith’s son. The boy had been badly gored by a
wild boar early the previous summer. The
Y’skani doctors could do nothing for the young man, so he had lain for
nearly two seasons, dying of a slowly festering wound.
Hearing
about the young man’s injury, Kyrian had immediately offered to heal
him. The blacksmith was all
too willing to let the stardancer see his son, and after six
candlemarks of singing and chanting, the boy would not only live, he
would walk again. The man’s
gratitude had been immediate and gracious. He
offered to give the armor to the warrior, cost free.
Neither
Kyrian nor Azhani were willing to accept the coat without paying for
it, so a token amount was agreed upon. It
was still more than Azhani felt they could afford, but the stardancer
had wordlessly handed over the gold.
For
a first gift, it was a strange one. Yet,
there was something so right about Kyrian stepping in and making sure
Azhani’s back was protected. She
smiled, feeling another tiny crack break in the wall around her heart.
They
would winter together, and in spring, she would say good-bye to her new
friend and travel to Y’Syr and see if Ylera’s eerily prescient
conditioning paid out.
“Again, my love. Say them again, so I know you have them,” her beautiful lover instructed, drawing long fingers down her jaw.
“Tellyn Jarelle. Morvith Aneswyth and Nara Vell,” Azhani repeated gamely, turning her head and capturing a wandering finger between her teeth. She sucked on the digit briefly before letting it go and asking, “But what do they mean, my love?”
“They are names, my heart. Names of my friends who one day, may be your friends.” A brief flash of pure sadness flickered in the elven woman’s eyes before being overshadowed by a smile of pure adoration. “Someday, if you have need, you will go to Y’Syria and you will find them. When you do, tell them my name and show them this symbol.” Ylera turned Azhani’s hand over and sketched a design into the skin, chanting softly under her breath. The rune glowed and hovered above the surface, then sank into the warrior’s hand, leaving lighter colored lines in the skin. Soon, even they vanished, but when Azhani flexed her hand, the lines briefly reappeared.
Ylera smiled and kissed her lover gently. “Whatever aid you require, they will give, and more.”
“But why wouldn’t I just ask you, Ylera?” Azhani asked curiously. “Or were you planning on leaving me?”
“Of course not, my love, but fate and the gods have a way of conspiring to make our lives interesting. I would rather you were prepared for any eventuality than to have you show up in my land friendless,” she explained gently, pressing soft lips into the hollow of Azhani’s throat and stilling further questions with her insistent, loving touch.
Hot
tears pricked at Azhani’s eyes and she angrily dashed them away. You couldn’t
prepare me for your death, though, could you beloved?
The
still silence of the room mocked her in answer.
%%%
Lying
in bed, staring at the darkened ceiling, Kyrian sighed and rolled
fretfully onto her side. The
stardancer couldn’t sleep. The
truce between Azhani and herself had grown into a budding friendship
over the three days they had spent in Barton.
Tomorrow, they would leave the trader’s town and head back
to the warrior’s homestead, to spend winter together.
It was almost romantic, and Kyrian found herself looking forward to the solitude with an eagerness that surprised her. Romance. Goddess, Kyr, get your mind out of the bedroom will you? Azhani’s a friend, not some pretty wench you can charm for a night or two of pleasure!
She
blushed, thinking of the many invitations she had received from two of
the barmaids. Though she had
turned them both down, she hadn’t realized until that moment it was
because she was attracted to Azhani. Kyrian
sighed again. Instead of the
demon everyone claimed, she had found Azhani to be a person – a woman
with a deep stain on her soul that called out to be healed. As one of Astariu’s Own, the
stardancer was drawn to that cry like iron to a lodestone. Wondering what it would be like to
kiss the warrior until she saw stars, would not cure what troubled
Azhani.
“This
isn’t fair,” she whispered into the empty room.
“I’m not supposed to fall for my patients, damn it!”
Since
then, Kyrian had tried every meditation technique she knew to stuff her
raging hormones into a box and then lock that box away in a deep, dark
closet in her heart. It had
taken some doing, because her body was very reluctant to let go of its
favorite new fantasy.
She
realized some mild success when, after dinner, they had walked up to
their rooms. Standing in the
hall, Azhani wished the stardancer goodnight, and gave her a gentle,
sweet smile. Instead of
inflaming, it touched Kyrian that the normally dour warrior would gift
her with such a treasure of emotion.
Something
within the stardancer clicked and she decided right then and there that
Azhani’s friendship would be a jewel that she would treasure, not
cheapen with lustful thoughts. Kyrian
still felt the attraction, though, and it drove her to distraction. Little things about Azhani got to
her, like the warrior’s low, thrumming voice, or her badly tangled,
soft black hair.
The
stardancer sighed and threaded her fingers into her own, curly reddish
blonde locks. She loved
Azhani’s hair, it was so thick and dark that she just wanted to reach
her hands out and twine the tangled strands around her fingers. Kyrian closed her eyes, imagining
how it would feel. Azhani
would look up at her, her blue eyes so bright and clear, like the
midsummer sky, and Kyrian would want to drown in them.
Her fingers, allowed free rein, would sift through the
warrior’s hair, delighting in the crinkly soft feel of the sable
strands.
Biting her
lip as her heart rate increased dramatically, the stardancer firmly
said, “Friends, Kyr, friends. That’s
what you’re going to be, nothing more. Best
put those thoughts away in a nice, strong box and forget about them,
before your heart gets broken.”
Oddly,
the words, spoken aloud, did more to calm her errant thoughts than a
thousand silent remonstrances had. Stripping
the attraction of any emotional connection, made it seem base and
unworthy of the woman she admired. Azhani
deserved more than a lovesick, scatterbrained stardancer’s misplaced
affections.
“I
can do this,” she said, turning over once more and pulling the blankets
up to her chin. “I will be
her friend.” Friends,
yeah, I like that. I haven’t
had a friend since Ylera... goddess, Ylera... I still need to know...
Did you kill her, Azhani? Because
I’m not sure I could forgive you for that... With that troubling thought,
Kyrian drifted off to sleep.
~Chapter Six~
The
sky was bleakly gray when they left Barton.
Heavy, dark clouds rolled ominously overhead and Kyrian
was doubly grateful for the extra warmth of her new clothes. She looked at the road ahead and
sent a prayer of relief that the trip would take them less than a day
to get home. Azhani was in
the back, cushioned by the huge pile of goods in the bed of the cart. As they had packed, Kyrian had
noticed that the warrior was starting to favor her newly healed leg,
and had suggested that she ride with her leg stretched out, to give it
a rest.
Cold,
freezing wind whipped down the road, chilling Kyrian’s fingers as they
gripped the reins. Shivering,
she reached under the seat and pulled up her new fur-lined gloves and
slipped them on. They were a
present from Azhani. The
warrior had given them to her just before they had left and Kyrian knew
that the last of their gold had gone to pay for them.
As they rode out of town, the stardancer noticed that the
warrior’s eyes lingered on every sword they passed, which made her feel
bad for not turning over the blade she had discovered in the shed.
At
the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do.
Some strange intuition kept the stardancer from giving the
warrior a weapon so potent as a sword. Or
maybe I was just scared she would use it on me... It was too late, now, to change
that. She had the blade with
her, though. For the trip to
Barton, she had rolled it up in her bedroll and now it was hidden just
under the driver’s seat, still cocooned in its sheath of ancient silk.
Comfortably
seated in the bed of the cart, Azhani dozed, lulled by the steady, even
pace of the gelding. Kyrian
expertly guided the horse down the road, avoiding the larger ruts and
stones, allowing the warrior to nap. The
heavy chill, coupled with the dark clouds boiling overhead told the
warrior that snow was on the horizon. Perhaps
even as soon as that evening or the next day, the world would once
again be wrapped in white. Sighing
contentedly, the warrior tugged her blankets closer and snuggled into
the warm bed of flour sacks.
Azhani
listened to the sound of Arun’s hooves clip clopping on the dry ground,
the even beat mixing pleasantly with the rustle of animals and birds in
the trees and bushes. Overhead,
she could see the lazy flight of an eagle, searching for a bit of food
to take home to its warm shelter. The
scent of sandalwood drifted over and she smiled, recalling the bath
that she and the stardancer had shared.
Friendship...
that was the magical talisman that the stardancer had offered, and
greedily, Azhani had accepted it. Now,
as they traveled homeward, she found herself hoping that the winter
would temper their hasty bond into something that would make Kyrian
want to stay.
It
would not be easy to open up to Kyrian. Even
the thought of talking about her story made Azhani queasy. She could feel the boiling darkness
within her, raging as it ached to claw its way out and take over. The Banshee wanted to be freed. She wanted to run wild and carve a
channel a mile wide for the river of blood that killing Arris and his
toadies would spill. Azhani
had to fight to keep that darkness at bay, because it would consume
everything and everyone in its path, and not even the beautiful young
stardancer would be able to escape.
If
she were wise, she would spend the winter with Kyrian and then send her
on her way. That would be the
right and best thing to do. Making
up her mind, Azhani nodded and steeled her will.
The stardancer would stay for the winter and then, when
the spring rains came and the northern road to Y’Syr opened up, the
warrior would safely escort Kyrian to Y’len.
After that, she would turn toward Y’Syria, and to Ylera’s
promise of help.
The
tiny, almost imperceptible ache that threaded through her stomach was
probably from the amount of porridge she had eaten for breakfast. Azhani shifted once more and fell
into a deeper sleep.
%%%
Taking
a deep draft of cool water from her waterskin, Kyrian rubbed her eyes
and looked down the road. They
had been traveling for several candlemarks.
Above, weak sunlight had pushed through the clouds to
brighten the day. It was
almost time to wake Azhani and stop for lunch.
Looking over her shoulder, she smiled at the childlike
peacefulness of the warrior’s face in sleep.
Kyrian
was glad that she had taken the time to talk to Paul, the innkeeper of
the Barton Inn. He was more
than willing to share news with her. When
Azhani was busy purchasing supplies, the stardancer had sat at the bar
and spent a few coins on ale and talk.
According
to the garrulous innkeeper, things in Y’dan were the same. Arris was slowly increasing the
boundaries of the law, introducing new sanctions and restrictions that,
when taken separately, seemed to be very beneficial to the populous. Hearing them listed together made
Kyrian’s skin crawl.
The
most disturbing trend was the alienation of the non-humans. Y’dani elves and dwarves, residents
of the kingdom for years, were suddenly being forced to pay taxes, or
buy special permits, just to live in the cities and towns. Non-human goods were inspected twice
as much as that of humans, and non-humans could only sell their
products on certain days of the week.
Many
of them had already left, packing what they could and getting out of
Y’dan even though travel in the winter was hard.
Y’mar and Y’Syr both reported a steady influx of Y’dani
non-human refugees. Half-elves
were also being targeted, only for them, it was much worse. Not only were their movements
regulated and their wares overtaxed, but those half-elves who had held
high paying jobs suddenly found themselves demoted or out of a job. When those same half-elves would go
elsewhere for employment, there would be no work.
With
many of the non-humans already gone, the half-elves were sure to
follow, leaving Y’dan a land of humans. A
chill ran up Kyrian’s spine as she recalled the bartender’s whispered
words.
“Aye,
lass. ‘Tis a good thing, I be
thinking, that you and yer friend be not in that place, now. I’m a thinking that the new king’s
not cut from the same cloth as his Gods beloved father, now. And I be a-thinkin’ that the good
lords and ladies of the Council are findin’ that out, too.”
The
older man had looked around the empty inn, and then leaned forward to
add something more.
“They say that our Azhani killed the elven ambassador when she went ‘n lost her mind at Banner Lake, but I’m a thinkin’ that mebbe there’s less truth an’ more tale to that story, cuz ain’t no one as been there can ‘member the lady’s face among the dead. I lets ol’ Takk tell his bloody poems cuz the customers like him, but I knew ‘Zhani as a child and well remember when her da would bring her with him to trade furs. An’ lemme tell you, stardancer, that I don’ believe for one half second that Rhu’len DaCoure’s little girl is the monster them fancy tales say she is!”
Kyrian leaned closer to the bartender and nodded solemnly. “I’ve been caring for her for a few days now, and I haven’t seen any signs of the ‘demon’ your Takk speaks of.”
“’N you won’t, neither! ‘Zhani’s a good girl,” Paul beamed
happily, wiping out a glass and filling it with a draft of cool ale and
then setting it on the bar in front of her.
“But you mind and not spread ‘round who she be. There be unfriendly ears in Barton,
and don’t think I didn’t notice the girl a-limpin’!”
Having
someone refer to the powerful, strong willed warrior as a “girl” had
almost been enough to send Kyrian into paroxysms of giggles. She smiled in reflex, considering
how darkly Azhani would frown if she heard herself referred to in that
manner.
Hearing
that no one had seen Ylera at Banner Lake that day had confirmed her
suspicions that there was more to Azhani’s story than what the heralds
and bards had told. If Azhani
wasn’t guilty of the princess’ murder, if, say, someone else had killed
her for his own reasons and blamed it on the warrior to keep the
Y’Syran army away, then Kyrian knew that everything else attributed to
the “traitorous Warleader” was suspect.
Now
more than ever, she had to hear the warrior’s story.
Taking one last glance at the peacefully sleeping woman,
she clucked her tongue and sent Arun down the road once more.
A
cloud crossed the sun, darkening the day. Kyrian
sighed and whispered, “Guess I’ll just have to prove to her that she
can trust me, eh Arun?” As
they traveled, she scanned the edge of the road, seeking a convenient
place to pull off and have lunch.
Azhani
came awake as Arun’s pace changed. Rubbing
her eyes sleepily, she judged that she had slept for at least four
candlemarks, far longer than she had planned.
As she yawned, stretching out sleep-cramped muscles, an
unexpected flash of light caught her attention.
Standing, she strung her bow and knocked an arrow quickly,
hunting the trees for her target.
Kyrian
had just spotted a clearing when Azhani’s sudden movement caused her to
pull up on Arun’s reins and turn around. Seeing
the warrior’s militant stance, she dropped the reins and reached for
her baton nervously. An
electric tension filled the air; crackling off the warrior’s body in
waves as she scanned the trees swiftly and then, let her arrow fly.
A
muffled scream followed by a body falling from a tree signaled that
Azhani’s arrow had found its mark. Men
poured from the forest around them, yelling and shouting and waving
deadly looking weapons. Kyrian
watched in stunned amazement, as the warrior’s hands became a blur,
knocking and loosing two more arrows in quick succession before she
jumped off the cart, landing with a stifled groan of pain.
Frozen
in place by fright, Kyrian could only watch as the first of the bandits
reached the cart. Rolling the
bow in a figure eight, Azhani used the weapon as a staff, blocking the
bandit’s swords easily. There
was a sharp twang, and a thin streak of blood crept down Azhani’s
cheek, where the bowstring had hit her.
A
filthy hand reached for the stardancer and a raspy voice commanded,
“C’mere pretty thing, Skavitz got use for you.”
Cold
dread clutched at Kyrian’s guts and the weight of her baton seemed to
double as she sat, paralyzed. Dirty
fingers brushed the hem of her robe, reaching under the fabric to
stroke her thinly clothed leg.
“Mm,
gots us a nice one, we do.” The
man licked his lips, tightening his grasp.
Panic
exploded, sending Kyrian scrabbling back on the seat, her baton falling
to the floor, useless. Terrifying
memory slashed her vision, overlaying the bandit’s face with the
shattered remains of another.
“No,”
she whispered hoarsely, blinking against the haze that fogged around
her, cutting her off from reality. Kyrian
flailed wildly about. The
cool hardness of the baton intruded on her fear and she grasped it,
striking out blindly, scoring a light hit to the bandit’s shoulder.
Shaking
himself and backing away, he growled, “Got claws, eh?
Well then, let’s be seeing how you like this!” A whip
uncoiled and struck out at the stardancer, the spiked tip ripping the
tender flesh of her throat.
A
strangled yelp of pain erupted behind her, and Azhani spun, frowning
angrily when she saw the man who was attempting to molest her new
friend. Driving the heel of
her foot into her opponent’s knee then sucker punching him in the skull
when he bent over, she yelled, “Run, Kyrian!”
The
warrior drew back and threw her bow at the man attacking the stardancer. The long shaft of stout yew cracked
into the bandit’s skull, sending him staggering away from the cart,
cursing and clutching at his bleeding head.
Snapped
out of her funk by Azhani’s shout, Kyrian watched as the weaponless
warrior took on the four remaining bandits.
Running sounded like such a good idea to the stardancer. Killing that man in Myr had torn
Kyrian up so badly that she didn’t think she could defend herself and
if she stayed, then Azhani would have to worry about the both of them. The stardancer sheathed her baton
and took up Arun’s reins, preparing to urge him on when one of the
bandits pulled out a dagger and threw it at Azhani.
The
warrior easily dodged the knife, but took a hard blow to her kidneys
from a wickedly studded club. Damn
it, Kyr, move! Viciously forcing her body to
action, Kyrian reached under the seat and grabbed the silk-wrapped
sword.
As she
shucked the fabric, the stardancer shouted, “Azhani!” and tossed the
blade.
The newly
freed sword tumbled end over end. Blazing
in the sunlight, the blade seemed alive with fire as it arced across
the clearing. Blinded
momentarily, the combatants ceased fighting.
Metal slapped
flesh and laughter rippled across the road.
An eerie, bone-chilling wail erupted from Azhani’s throat,
startling the gelding. The
hollow keening sound caused the hairs on Kyrian’s neck to stiffen. So this is why
they called her the Banshee...
she
thought, shivering suddenly.
Unaffected
by the warrior’s cry, the bandits resumed their attack, bent on killing
the wickedly grinning woman.
“Oh
yeah, bring it on, boys. I
need this,” Azhani shouted, laughing merrily and dodging their best
swings effortlessly. Her
blade spun in tightly controlled arcs, each lightening strike biting
deep into dirty flesh.
Blood
sprayed, dappling the warrior’s clothes and face and she only laughed
harder and threw her head back, letting out another one of those
terrifying screams. Shuddering
again, Kyrian turned away, unable to watch the carnage.
She could easily believe that this was the woman who had
been named the “Banshee of Banner Lake”. This
was the warrior who could tear through hundreds of men, bathing in
their blood gloriously, all without pausing for breath.
She was awesome, and glorious, and terrifying all in one
package. A headless body
toppled to the ground and Kyrian nearly fainted.
Clamping
her teeth down on the bile that threatened to rise, the stardancer
steeled her courage and jumped down from the cart.
The whip-wielding bandit had shaken off the earlier blow
and was slowly approaching her once more. Braided
leather flicked out, coiling around her baton.
He yanked, pulling her within his reach and struck,
punching her in the jaw.
Spitting
blood, Kyrian shook off the blow and struck back, cracking him in the
solar plexus and dancing away when the whip went slack.
He doubled over, clutching his chest and wheezing in pain. The stardancer finished him,
delivering a solid rap to the back of his head with her baton. As soon as he was down, she checked
his pulse, reassuring herself that he was alive.
A steady thrum answered her questing fingers and she
sighed heavily and pulled out a length of super strong twine to bind
his hands.
When
she was done, she stood to help Azhani, and ended up watching in
speechless awe as the warrior darted around the wild swings of the
remaining bandit’s club and cleaved him nearly in half with one stroke
of the sword.
The
warrior stepped back and watched the man fall, the pieces of his body
falling apart as they hit the ground. A
primal snarl twisted Azhani’s face as she looked up and into Kyrian’s
shocked face.
Kyrian
staggered back under the force of the warrior’s powerful blue gaze. Slowly, she sheathed her baton and
held her hands out to the warrior.
“Azhani? It’s over,” she called out
soothingly.
The
conscious bandit grabbed his bound buddy and dragged him off, running
toward the trees in an attempt to get away from the blood-maddened
warrior. Since it was far
more important to break through the warrior’s battle haze, Kyrian let
them go.
Keeping
her eyes locked with Azhani’s, she took a step closer and closer until
the other woman blinked and let her sword droop to the ground. The stardancer breathed a heavy sigh
of relief and then dashed over to the side of the road and began
vomiting violently.
Azhani
watched Kyrian jog off with a bemused expression on her face. The coppery tang of blood speckled
the air around her and she looked down to see her new clothes liberally
spattered with it. She wiped
her face and was stunned to realize that it was coated in blood and
gore. Quickly checking
herself, she was relieved to find that, although she was painted in the
thick, rapidly congealing crimson fluid, none of it was hers. A tiny cut on her cheek was the only
injury she had sustained and it was so small that it would be gone
within days.
You
can still slaughter ‘em like pigs, she thought to herself in
disgust as she bent over to clean her blade on one of the bandit’s
trouser legs. She was even
more grateful now for the coat of armor, because it was all that had
stood between her and the man with the wicked mace.
The area hurt and she winced, knowing it would probably
ache for a while.
She
stood and tried to sheath the sword, then stopped herself. Wait... I
didn’t take this from one of them... so... where did it come from? Curious
now, she examined the blade, surprise coloring her features when she
recognized it.
“My
father’s sword,” she whispered haltingly, looking at the blade with a
new reverence.
It
was on the tip of her tongue to ask the stardancer where she had found
it when she realized the young woman was incapacitated.
Kyrian was still kneeling, her sides heaving
uncontrollably. Azhani took
three steps toward the scarlet robed figure then stopped, realizing the
last thing the sickened woman needed to see was her blood drenched body. The blade in her hands became a
hateful weight.
Azhani
glanced down at the finely wrought blade and considered tossing it into
the forest to rot, but resolutely grasped it tighter, feeling the wire
wrap of the hilt bite into her palm. Carefully,
she slid the blade into her belt, avoiding the razor sharp edge, and
then slowly began to search the bodies of their attackers. She knew this type well – just the
kind of scum that she and her men had chased out of Y’dan so many years
ago, when she was just a young circuit rider with nothing more exciting
in her future than a hard bed of dirt and rock.
The
warrior pocketed the few coins that the bandits had in their pouches,
having long since given up the fanciful notions of “honor” and
“chivalry” when faced with the real horrors of hunger and disease. What goods that came from the dead
could be used to feed her and her companion, and maybe, spread a little
cheer into the hand of a grubby child or winter-starved adult, the next
time she was near civilization.
Weapons,
on the other hand, were at a premium for her.
Daggers, knives, anything the dead men had, ended up on
the cart. Anything not deemed
good enough would be melted down and used to patch pots, make
horseshoes, arrowheads or nails. Everything
else could be cleaned, sharpened and added to her personal arsenal.
By
the time she had finished looting the bodies, Kyrian was back from the
roadside and only slightly green around the edges.
“Wh-what’ll
we do with them?” the stardancer asked as she took a sip of water from
her almost empty skin.
Azhani
stared at the corpses, considering. She
had thought to leave them lying as they were, but she realized that
probably wasn’t the best of ideas. Disease
was no one’s friend, and rotting bodies drew unsavory things.
“There’s
a spade in the cart. It
shouldn’t take long to bury them all.” In
truth, it would add several candlemarks to their journey and they would
not likely make it back to the cottage before it was very late, but it
was worth it to see Kyrian’s shadowed face clear.”
The
warrior stripped off her armor and rolled up her sleeves, preparing to
get to work. Kyrian stepped
closer and ran a hand through her disheveled curls.
“Can
I help?” she asked softly. “Were
you injured?”
“No,
it’s okay, Kyrian, I can do this, I’m okay.
See,” she turned, pulling on her shirt, “No holes. Take care of yourself and Arun.” The warrior nodded at the horse,
whose left flank had taken a whip strike. Amazingly,
the gelding had not bolted, but had stayed still, placidly waiting for
his mistress to come and fix his sore backside.
The
burial took several candlemarks, and by the time she was finished,
Azhani ached in a dozen places, not the least of which was the fiery
lance of pain in her side. Goddess,
I hope I didn’t break a rib...
As
she surveyed the newly turned earth, a sense of satisfied
accomplishment seeped through her and left her feeling like she had
done her duty. Toward the
end, Kyrian joined her and helped her to drag the bodies of the men to
the trench and roll them in. The
stardancer hadn’t spoken aloud, but Azhani could see her lips move,
singing the prayers for the dead as she worked.
It’s
so easy to forget she’s a priest, Azhani thought wonderingly. Maybe that’s
why she can forgive so easily – it’s part of the job description. She
quietly watched as the stardancer sprinkled several drops of fragrant
oil on the soil then poured out a libation of water.
Kyrian’s eyes
fluttered shut as she completed the ritual.
It was the first time she had done it since that awful day
in the Y’Syran forest, and it seemed oddly fitting that her prayers
were for the souls of bandits once again. The
stardancer’s lips parted and a soft, wordless tune began to fill the
air.
Azhani
recognized the song, having heard it more times than not. The familiar, haunting tones brought
back memories. Faces and
voices, laughter and tears of the men and women who had fought and died
with her came gliding back, carried by the notes of the tune.
Her own,
bloody musk called up the memory of her father’s burial. Rhu’len had died saving a child from
the clutches of a demon, the last time the foul creatures had come up
from the bowels of their hellish homes, hungry for the flesh of mortals. Lastly, as the song faded away,
Azhani remembered her beloved Ylera, who had not been sung on to the
heavens by a priest, but by the warrior herself.
The broken, tuneless warble had echoed pitifully
throughout the dungeons. As
he stood outside the cell, Arris had laughed and taunted her about her
inability to carry a tune.
Azhani
finally turned away, drained and saddened, yet ready to leave the
graves behind her and head home.
A
hand on her shoulder made her turn back, and she was briefly enveloped
in a warm hug. Awkwardly, she
hugged the stardancer back, patting her gently.
Kyrian was shaking, tiny tremors of fear that she could
feel were just aftershocks of a much greater terror.
“You
saved my life,” the stardancer whispered as she clung to Azhani. “Thank you.”
It
took all of five heartbeats for the warrior to decide that she really,
really liked Kyrian’s hugs. Ah
goddess... it’s been far too long... The last time anyone had touched
her with anything other than contempt had been... Azhani swallowed and
pushed the thoughts away with a massive force of will.
Now was not the time to mourn.
Later, when they were safely locked behind the doors of
her father’s cabin, she would grieve. Then,
she would tell the stardancer her story, and hope that Kyrian would see
the truth in her words.
Letting
go of the warrior was the hardest thing Kyrian had done in a very long
time, but she slowly disengaged, taking deep, calming breaths. “Sorry,” she murmured, reaching for
her robe. “I’m not usually so
clingy.”
Azhani
shrugged and said, “Did you hear me complain?”
Startled,
Kyrian stopped in mid-motion and stared at the warrior.
Grinning,
Azhani said, “Hey, I can like hugs, can’t I?”
“Uh,
sure. I uh, just thought...”
“You
just thought that since I’ve been a grumpy, moody, pain in the ass
bitchy patient, that I’d probably cut your throat for touching me?”
Azhani filled in the blanks.
“Well...”
Kyrian searched for something to say.
“Sorry
to burst your bubble, healer. I
like hugs. I like flowers and
children – not for breakfast, either – and I rather enjoy sunsets too. There, have I totally spoiled your
image of me as a hard-bitten, soulless killer?” Azhani joked wryly.
“Okay,
no more pigeonholing, got it,” Kyrian said and headed for the cart. “You’ve always done this, haven’t
you?” she asked as she climbed up into the driver’s seat. “Fight bandits, I mean.”
Azhani
considered Kyrian’s statement. “Among
others, yes. It’s all I ever
wanted to do,” she said, shrugging into her cloak and pulling herself
into the back of the cart. Her
armor was too gory to even consider putting back on.
If those bandits had any more friends, they would have
found them by now, so she felt relatively safe in going without the
leather coat’s protection.
The warrior’s
nose wrinkled. Her new
clothes now smelled horrible. Blood,
sweat and dirt mingled to create a miasma of death that was far too
familiar to Azhani. It was
both comforting and disturbing. Part
of her exulted in it, reveled in the knowing that she still had the
skills, and drive to be the best and part of her watched another piece
of her soul slip away, given to the service of the sword.
The
sword. Azhani reached over
and picked up her father’s elven made blade – a gift from her mother –
and began methodically cleaning it. She
remembered how it had come to her hand, and calmly she asked, “Where
did you get this?”
Kyrian
looked over her shoulder at the warrior and bit her lip. “I – I found it in that trunk. The same place I found those
clothes?” she answered softly.
The
warrior grunted, then reached for the sheath she had taken from the
body of one of the bandits and began cleaning it, too.
“And you didn’t want me running you through with it in
your sleep, is that it?” The
question came lightly, but the words struck like hammer blows.
An
answer hovered at the tip of Kyrian’s tongue, but she couldn’t make the
words come out. No,
I never was afraid of that... I just... oh damn it... Stopping the cart and dropping
the reins, she turned to face Azhani. In
a calm, even voice, she said, “I kept the sword because I didn’t want
you racing out the door to go play the big, brawny warrior while you
were still injured. I am not,
by the goddess, nor ever will I be afraid of you, Azhani Rhu’len!
“Why?”
The warrior’s voice was a breath away from cracking, slivers of it
breaking away and piercing the air between them.
Their
eyes met, green and blue depths that swam and melded, searching for
something hidden in colored pools that was impossible to find.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because, of all the
things you could have done that day on the road, you chose to risk your
life to save me. Maybe it’s
because even though it meant losing your only weapon, you readily
stopped that guy from hurting me today, and maybe it’s because no
matter how much you hated it, you sat with me every night in Barton,
keeping the scum away from our table with just a glare.
Now, it’s late, I’m tired and I don’t want to sleep on the
ground. Let’s see about
getting back before moonrise.”
Well,
I guess she told you! Azhani thought, a tiny smile
quirking the corner of her mouth.
I’m
gonna throw up again, Kyrian
thought, swallowing hard. Oh
goddess, that was hard. Okay,
breathe, Kyr, breathe. In,
out, in, out, that’s it, she’s not gonna use your head for target
practice. The stardancer silently talked
her nerves down and concentrated on keeping Arun on the road.
“Hungry?”
Azhani asked, fumbling around in a bag for something to eat.
Food. As in, eating, as in, I didn’t just
bury four bodies and a head back there. Okay,
Kyr, you can do this. “Sure,” the stardancer said,
swallowing convulsively. Bread
and jerky were passed forward, as well as a fresh skin of water. Kyrian picked at the bread and when
it didn’t come flying back up, she dug in, chewing on the jerky and
drinking the cool water gratefully.
It
was very late by the time Kyrian turned Arun up the path that would
take them to Azhani’s cottage. The
warrior threw off her covers and jumped down, limping ahead of the cart
with her sword held out at the ready. Kyrian
drew the horse up short, allowing Azhani to search the place and make
certain there was nothing amiss with the cabin.
It
didn’t take long for the warrior to return, carrying a lamp. “All clear,” she said shortly,
stifling a yawn. “I’ve opened
up the shed. We can get Arun
bedded down and carry in the bare necessities.
The rest will keep until morning.”
Tiredly,
Kyrian jumped down from the cart and began to gather the few things
they would need to finish out the night. Azhani
had already gone ahead and when Kyrian came around to the front of the
property, she could see the warrior tying a length of rope across the
break in the fence where a gate once hung.
The
two women worked quickly, dragging in only two loads of things before
stripping down and collapsing exhaustedly on their pallets.
%%%
Azhani
was dreaming. She had to be
dreaming, because Ylera was alive, touching her, kissing her, and
brushing long, golden blonde hair over her bare torso like so many
thousands of feathers.
“Goddess,” she murmured, cupping her hand around the elven woman’s narrow face and drawing her up for a long kiss. “What you do to me.”
“What do I do to you, Theodan’s Warleader?” Ylera whispered huskily, drawing her long, tapered fingers down Azhani’s bare torso.
“Everything,” the warrior replied honestly. Her blue eyes glowed in the firelight as they met her lover’s amber yellow ones.
Ylera laughed, wrapping her lover in the musical sound joyfully. “You amuse me so, Azhani, child of Rhu’len. Now, tell me about your mother, darling.”
Azhani closed her eyes and called up the faint, shadowy memories of her elven mother. Small in stature, fine boned like Ylera, but dark, where the ambassador was light. Eyes as green as the plains of Y’Nor in high spring, hair midnight dark, a voice that crooned the softest of lullabies and hands that always soothed away her tears. These were some of the only memories that remained of the woman who had given her life.
“I don’t really remember her,” she finally said.
“Your eyes tell me that you loved her,” Ylera said, a touch of jealousy coloring her tone. “Tell me more,” she commanded, her golden eyes blazing with inner fire. “Tell me of how your father met your mother.”
Azhani looked away, staring into the fire. “You should know that story. It’s nearly the same for all Y’dani half breeds.”
A finger captured the warrior’s cheek and drew her eyes back. “Perhaps so. I would hear from you, what the man who gave you life said in explanation.”
The warleader sighed. “All right. It was the border wars. Y’dan and Y’Syr were bickering over land rights, again. My father was part of a small patrol of Theodan’s men, given to guard a small section of the forest. One day, they came upon a group of elven merchants.
Flying a flag of truce, they stopped to trade news of the other kingdoms. My mother, Ashiani, was the daughter of a merchant in that party.
My father used to say that my mother was so beautiful, she had stolen his heart with a smile. The merchants and the soldiers camped together that night, finding a strange sort of peace under the cover of the trees. They danced many times and shared food from the same plate; drink from the same cup. When my father retired to his tent, my mother followed him.
In the morning, when he found out what his daughter had done, the merchant accused my father of rape. My father had to return to Theodan in shame while my mother was taken back to her family home to live in seclusion. King Theodan never believed my father was guilty of rape, but paid my mother’s family a handsome amount of gold anyway.
Before my father could go and beg for my mother’s release, the demons invaded, sending the kingdoms to war. It was during the war that my mother died – giving birth to me had weakened her, and she was never able to regain her strength. My grandsire, having no wish to raise a half-breed, had me delivered to my father.
Theodan allowed my father to take me to the mountains and let me grow up some before recalling him to Y’dannyv. From that moment on, I was never far away from my father. Even when he would go to Y’Syr to talk of peace, he would bring me with him and turn me over to the monks of Y’len. My father died two years ago in the mountains near his home. He was visiting friends when the demons came down and raided Barton. He saved a little girl, but his own life was the cost.” Azhani’s lips tensed, pressing together tightly as the memories overwhelmed her. Sighing, she looked at Ylera and said, “Is that what you wanted to hear, Ambassador?”
A hard, teasing kiss took Azhani’s breath away. “Yes,” the elven woman said, smiling before giving the warrior another kiss. Sharp teeth nibbled a trail down naked flesh. “I should have known that only great love could produce a great lover like you.”
“Do you love me, Ylera?” Azhani whispered as her lover used every bit of her considerable skill to bring pleasure to the warrior’s body.
The elf purred, nibbling a hip delicately. “I love your body,” she said, sliding her tongue along the crease of thigh and hip. “I love your taste,” she demonstrated her pleasure, taking the warrior’s breath away. A long, lithe form slid up Azhani’s body and whispered, “Do I love you, warrior? As much as I am free to love, yes, I love you, Azhani. Does that please you?” Ylera’s fingers dipped down, stroking relentlessly.
Azhani gasped and panted, “Yes!”
“And you, Azhani, do you love me?” Ylera whispered, continuing to stroke the woman below her, fiercely loving her.
“Oh goddess, yes! I love you!” Azhani cried out helplessly. “I love you, Ylera!” The beautiful elf smiled tenderly and the warrior returned the smile, reaching out to stroke a soft cheek. The skin under her fingers turned bloody and shredded, ruined and ravaged by torturer’s knives. “No,” Azhani whispered. “Ylera! No! Don’t...” the warrior watched helplessly as the fireside scene shifted, becoming the cold dungeon cell where Prince Arris had buried her dreams.
“It’s all your fault, Azhani,” Arris said mockingly, sneering at the dead body of Ambassador Kelani. “If you had only accepted my proposal,” he said wistfully.
Right after his birthday, he had been puffed up by his own importance and eager to please his father by choosing the perfect bride. He had come to Azhani and begged her to fulfill his dreams and rule Y’dan beside him when his father had passed. Gently, the warleader had refused him, thinking that his request was only a device to gain his father’s attention. She had not known of his true feelings, and had laughingly informed him that she planned to wed the ambassador of Y’Syr that winter.
“I loved you, Warleader, why did you not see that?” he added, in a soft voice. It was late and the prince had come to see her while she languished in his dungeon.
Azhani’s nostrils flared, but her eyes remained dead.
A hand appeared on the bars of the prison door. “I would have been content to allow your – liaison – with the elven harlot, Azhani. Why did you deny me? It would have made Father so happy,” he coaxed, staring at her almost pityingly.
“I have no desire to dally with children, Arris,” the warrior said dully. Arris was nearly half the warrior’s age – she had bounced him on her knee as a babe.
Black eyes flashed angrily. “A child? Is that all you see, Warleader? I will show you a child, Azhani. Before I am through, you will see. You will know that you chose wrong, Warleader, and you will regret that choice! Guards!” Arris gestured, and the door was flung open.
Ylera Kelani’s battered
corpse was unceremoniously tossed into the cell, striking the brick
walls with a sickly thud. Arris
smiled wickedly. “Enjoy your
last night with your lover, Azhani Rhu’len, tomorrow you will both feed
the vultures.”
Azhani
thrashed to wakefulness, sitting bolt upright and gasping for breath. Tears streaked hotly down her cheeks
as she searched for the woman who loved her, but would never again be
there.
Watching the
warrior through partially closed eyes, Kyrian felt the overwhelming
sadness of the warrior’s loss. She
had wakened to Azhani’s ragged cries of, “Ylera, goddess, no, Ylera!”
and had lain on her pallet, listening to the warrior sob brokenly.
She
cries Ylera’s name like a lover,
the
stardancer realized sadly.
The
anguish in Azhani’s grief moved Kyrian deeply and she rolled out of her
bed and crawled over to the warrior’s side.
“Azhani?”
she whispered, tentatively putting a hand on the woman’s arm. Azhani flinched, but did not
immediately pull away.
“She’s
gone,” the warrior whispered brokenly, covering her face with her hands. “She’s gone and it’s my fault. I killed her too, Kyrian. Just like I kill them all.”
Oh
goddess... she killed Ylera... Astariu, please, give me strength... let
me see this through... Kyrian prayed.
As if in answer to her prayers, she remembered that she
still hadn’t heard the whole story. She
had to believe that somewhere, in that tale, would be the reason why
Ylera Kelani had to die. For
now, she wrapped her arms around Azhani and quietly held her, not even
letting go when the warrior stiffened and tried to pull away.
“Shh,”
the stardancer gentled, “You can’t hurt me.”
She wasn’t sure why she had said those words, but they
seemed to work, breaking through the warrior’s last barriers, allowing
her to break down and sob. Kyrian
held her, rocking her slowly until the lazy fingers of dawn tickled
their way through the shuttered windows.