Foxfire (The Blood Oath) old version

Chapter 6: The Enchantress

"Run, boy, run now!" Old Alfred yelled at Drake.

The veteran Ranger knelt on the grass, weak, and helpless. Drake hands trembled as he held the sword. He swung left and right, trying to intimidate the assassins, but the warm sweat rolling down his skin proved his fear was greater than his courage.

The leader infused himself with energy. The shadowy man stretched his right hand sideways and white frost condensed from mist until it solidified into a long sharp shard of ice. Drake stepped back in confusion and almost lost his footing.

He has had many encounters with men who were adept conjurers, but never seen any with such a cold, dead, stare. The man came towards him with commanding steps. Cold white vapor curled around the thin shard of ice on his hand.

"Run, Drake, do not fight him," Alfred screamed.

Drake glanced at his injured guardian. He found courage for a split second and drew his dagger, carving a sigil nervously. His hands were quaking.His head felt heavy. His palm bled continuously as if he had done it wrongly. There was no fire burning on his hand. He needed it now more than ever, foxfire, his own bond to Conjuration. But it wasn't forming. Something was wrong.

The man reached Drake and the boy raised his sword. With a strike of his shard, the assassin sent the sword off Drake's grip. He seized Drake by the throat and lifted him up until his feet dangled in the air.

"Please," Drake heard his voice, weak, and pathetic.

"Sorry, kid," the man said, "you're worth much gold for a little man."

Drake felt his life force waning quickly. Before his very own eyes, the man raised his hand, ready to plunge the thin shard of ice into his guts. Alfred jumped on his feet and shoved the cloaked man to lose his balance.

The three fell on the floor, rolling down an inclined terrain, amidst grass and spiked shrubs. Drake settled and cocked his head up to see his foe. The assassin had found his feet and was up again with his shard of ice. Alfred grabbed his fallen blade and swung at the man. He sliced the air as his target was quick to dodge.

Alfred swung again, one knee still on the floor. The assassin parried with his shard of ice and grasped the sharp end of Alfred's sword leaving Drake wide eyed. A thin sheet of ice spread quickly on Alfred's blade until it froze still and the cloaked man crushed it with his hands.

The steel blade scattered like crusts of ice.

Drake saw it in Alfred's weak gaze that he had struck his last move. The cloaked man kicked Alfred to fall. He lifted his hand and quickly sank the sharp end of his ice shard into the old Rangers breast.

"Alfred . . .!" Drake cried in disbelief.

Blood spread on his guardian's armour as the dying light left his eyes cold. The assassin threw his dreadful gaze at him, a vile stare that sent a cold chill down young Drake's spine.

"Run . . . Master Drake . . ." Alfred muttered one last time, pain evident in his dying voice.

Drake took a few steps backwards. He glanced to his left and thought of Elizabeth, injured and sitting alone in terror. That moment, he knew what he must do. He took a turn quickly and fled into the woods. In his minds, thoughts rose like a violent tide, dreadful thoughts, painful thoughts, all pointing to who would want to harm him. Where does he begin to count his foes amongst two brothers whose hatred of him could only be compared to his father's?

Something grazed his flesh and the pain urged him to take a good look at his surroundings. He was in a dense jungle of dried shrubs, thick with long thin thorns sprouting from every side of their branches. The darkness was unsettling. Crickets chirped their high pitched cries, and at the foot of the woods, a white mist curled like the ghosts of a thousand dead.

He clasped his arms around his chest and braved the eeriness with gentle strides. Something glowed in the distance, a bright yellow light that grew to become many.

"Fireflies," Drake muttered.

He continued onwards and then paused as he heard the crack of a breaking twig. The fireflies paused in the flight, odd, unusual, but Drake leaned forward to see.

"How far can you run, boy," a voice rose in the eerie darkness.

Drake turned too quickly and his foot was trapped in a vine-like weed. Thud! He fell, eyes wide and staring into the yellow devilish glow that was the assassin's eyes. Even in the face of death, he was glad that his plan to draw them away from Elizabeth had worked perfectly. He reassured himself it was the right thing.

"Please," a frail sound escaped Drake's lips.

He tried that before and did not expect sympathy from his foe. The assassin stretched his hand and the blood-sigil on his palm grew alive, red like hot iron. Drake thought he knew everything about Sigils and their bonding, but the assassin has proved him wrong. A long thin shard of ice formed on the cloaked man's hand.

Suddenly, a gust of wind tore through the woods. It echoed a loud howl. Trees pulled away from their roots. Shrubs were split apart. The wind came hard, strong, and relentless. Something stung Drake ears as he held on to a protruding tree root. Thousands of black crows masked by the night's darkness flew past him, shrieking as they swept through the skies. Drake lifted his gaze and the first he saw were the bare feet of a woman walking towards him.

The wind grew calm. From the depth of the woods, a fair Lady walked, clad in the darkest of garments.

Her hair was as black as the night, yet her face was bright and like the light of sunset, beautiful to behold. The trees bowed as she walked. Grasses retracted into the earth. Plants shed their flowers on her path. She reached Drake and held his face, the warmth of her hand channeling affection down to his mind.

She turned her gaze to the assassin. He was spooked, turning at all direction with his shard of ice in his ready grip. The white mist curled from his legs to his torso and into his skin, tickling him to a burst of giggle. The mist curled with a melody. A song that sang of lovers lost, wanderers found, and promises abandoned. The assassin fell to his knees, ensnared by the tranquility forged in his deluded mind. His shard of ice melted away from his hands in her presence.

"Speak to me, oh killer of Princes. What tidings urge you onwards to my sanctuary?"

The assassin in his fervent stupor fearfully replied, "Promises of gold for the death of a prince.My lady of dreams, forgive my boldness."

The Enchantress turned to a murder of crows perched on a tree beside her, "oh flock of Woden. Bear my message to my servants. Let them stir the conflict on all sides until there is none left to fight."

The crows took flight in a mighty mass of blackness.

Drake did not understand what was happening. The lady was nothing like he had seen before. The way she spoke, her hair, her clothing, the brightness that concealed her true face, indeed he must be standing in the presences of a wood-witch.

She returned her gaze to the assassin, "you like death, don't you?" she whispered.

As quick as a flash of light, the crows gathered around the assassin. He screamed, waving his hands to drive them away, but failed. They ate out his eyes, tongue, and feasted on what was left of his flesh. His corpse fell on the ground and jerked in spasm as his blood seeped into the soil of her gods. The others turned and fled into the woods, scattering like seeds on soil.

Drake crawled nervously to the root of a tree and rested his back on its trunk. He never thought it possible that anyone could control the creation of another's blood-sigil. It was utterly impossible, yet the lady had broken the rules before his very eyes. He caught the woman's eyes on him. His heart began to throb faster as she approached him.

"Who are you?" Drake shifted and crawled away from her. "What do you want from me?"