Blades of Men (on hold - sorry!)

Chapter Two: Athalia

Chapter Two: Athalia      

 My heart stopped. Every ounce of blood seemed to beat past the vein in my throat - a tribute to how important it was. Every second seemed to wait for the smooth coldness of the blade to slide through my skin like butter. I cleared my throat, yet his skill was enough to prevent even a drop of red from falling.

   "My name is Athalia. I need to get home - I'm just passing through this glade." My voice sounded strong, unafraid. Each word spoken evenly and clearly with a hint of an indefinable accent. I was proud of that.

   "That is what you are called, not who you are. Who are you?" The smooth steel of his voice lured me into a false sense of security, made me want to throw information at his feet despite his threatening tone. There was no use lying, but I couldn't tell him everything. That would be the mark of a fool, and I was already teetering on the edge of idiocy by getting myself into this situation.

   "I live at the castle. I'm a daughter of a knight who lives there." No reason for me to say that I was the illegitimate bastard of a rogue, and that my father cared very little about whether or not I came back. There was only one detestable man who did...who saw me as asset to be gained instead of a hindrance.

   Lord, I begged silently, don't let him deliver me back to those stone brick walls. If I was ever forced inside them again, death would be a preferable fate to slowly wilting in spirit and soul. My body, though easily broken and with the weak mark of a woman, would last longer than my heart. I couldn't resign myself to that.

   I needed to get home, yet I didn't know where that was anymore. At the thought, the knife was swept away and I was turned - ever so quickly and in one dizzying swing - to face my assailant.

   Relief washed through me as piercing gray eyes locked with mine. I could feel heat rush to my cheeks in embarrassment at both mine and his blatant staring, but without the constraints of gossips and whispers, I couldn't bring myself to follow society's rules. He was lean, muscular in the way of a hunter or the hunted, and acutely aware of everything around him. You could see it in his graceful, quick movements and the slight tilt of his head. Dressed completely in black, he seemed like the ghost of a ghost, about to evaporate into the ether.

   "A knight, you say? There have been stories..."

   He knew exactly what his words were insinuating. What was worse was that he was right.  Somehow I had tipped him off, whether in tone or inflection or simply because of the curve of my neck. He knew that I was little more than a peasant in fine clothes - dressed as one of wealth but lacking the distinguished air of authority or the mysterious presence that seemed to shroud those with money and noble blood. A cheap imposter, a mockery of an imitation. Never as good as the real thing.

   "Well, a knight will pay handsomely to retrieve his precious gems, and more so for the precious flesh of a daughter. I think that you shall come with me." He grabbed my arm, his strength immediately evident in every flick of his sword which rested at his leg, a hand still wrapped around it.

   Soft thuds of many horses' hooves filled the air. It could only mean they were close - too close. Just as the thought reverberated in my skull, a clump of soldiers burst into the clearing, all noise and bravado and metal. The hand hadn't let go of my arm, but as soon as I felt a different grip tightening on my flesh, I thrust myself into a sequence of movements I hadn't even realise I'd known.

   A hard kick to this new captor's groin. A sharp elbow into another's ribs. Too many for me alone - even one could have overwhelmed me - but as I heard the sharp swish of a skilled swordsman, too refined for the brute strength of the newly arrived men, I knew that I was definitely not fighting a battle without an army. He was only protecting his interests, insuring his pocketful of gold coins from an iron-fisted drunkard. He was my escape, even if it would only lead to the necessity of another fleeing scramble into the night.

   There weren't as many as I had once thought. Six or seven, though I couldn't say how many I had a hand in rendering useless. I looked at the men lying on the ground, motionless. Cuts in their arms or legs leaked blood like pouring raindrops.

   "Dead?" I breathed, not daring to look at the man standing beside me, dealing with the remaining unfortunate. The thud of skin on skin echoed through the clearing.

   "No," he said in a grunt. "Lightly wounded and unconscious. What do take me for?" Another smack of his fist made me flinch.

   "A brute who intends to ransom innocent women." My tone was hard. I wanted to get away from my life, but this might be a good way of ending it. With a muffled groan, a body thumped to the ground to join its comrades. I could hear his heavy breathing, his laboured pants as he regained his breath and dealt with the pain of broken knuckles. I would have to fix those for him later, yet I was already contemplating the guilt of causing pain despite the necessity. I'd had plenty of practice       

   I didn't think. I just did.

  With a quick survey of the rider-less mounts, I picked out a magnificent horse nibbling at the surrounding grass, strong and powerful with a black, shimmering mane. Blackness seemed to seep from the man in front of me - and an animal should reflect on its owner. I climbed nimbly into the saddle, watching this stranger scrutinise my every movement. He reluctantly slid his foot into the stirrup and swung himself up. As soon as I felt a form behind me press close and gather the reins, I kicked the sides of the beast hard, feeling its thunderous power under me. A yelp of surprise, and then a last glance at the unconscious bodies lying like broken twigs.

   We were flying.