Artemis and Caspian: The Spy

Chapter Twenty One

Lady Kendra grounded herself, digging the heels of her boots into the fresh mud below her feet. Swollen droplets of rain unleashing themselves from pregnant clouds landed loudly on her leather armor, creating a rhythm that reminded Kendra of the steady beat from a Calatinian war drum. As they drenched her hair, she shook her head gruffly to clear the water from her eyes. This damn storm was making it hard to see. She twirled the hilt of her axe roughly in her palm to get a better grip and looked around.

Her latest victim lay dead on the ground, his blood still spattered across the metal of her blade dripping down the weapon's side and mixing with water. A big gash on his chest left no question about the matter of death. She smiled to herself, trying not to enjoy her victory too much. Guilamontian scum were no match for the ruler of Calatan, the soldier never had a chance. Lady Kendra breathed heavily, wiping her free hand across her mouth, just because he lost didn't mean he didn't put up a fair fight. She hated when they whined or begged or gave up, it made it all so mundanely easy. Her thoughts snapped back when she heard a man grunt under the pressure of a massive shield.

A few feet away, one of her men struggled against a Guilamontian soldier who drove down on his chest with a shield that bore the mark of the snake. The Guilamontian was huge and fully equipped with metal armor plating every inch of his muscular frame. He laughed as the smaller man's eyes grew wide, closely watching a goliath's sword swing from his enemy's hand, glinting in the dim grey light of the storm. The Calatan man, inexperienced and fearing for his life shrank to the ground, his knees splattering in the mud, soiling the freshly made armor that hung awkwardly off his body.

Lady Kendra cracked her neck and urged her sore screaming muscles to move forward. They responded and the warrior launched into action, throwing herself between her soldier and the bigger man. She bore her teeth like a wolf and let out a determined cry, taking her ax and slugging it at him. The man, surprised, doubled back slipping slightly against the mud. Lady Kendra cracked a small smile. Exposing a weakness? His first mistake. When he regained his composure and lunged she quickly shifted her weight letting him sail by her and slip again on the slick mud. When he straightened up again, he whirled around, anger lighting a fire in his eyes at the Lady who casually adjusted her grip again. Letting anger in? Strike two. The man like a wound-up bull tried to ram her. This time she was ready. Bored of his game she let him run by her again but only a little. Letting gravity do her dirty work she saw him slip and played it to her advantage, using her weight to push him farther off balance. The man, a bit surprised a woman could knock him down, fell hard on the earth, quickly squirming around with the sword in his hand, trying the strike the Lady. A clumsy reaction time? That was strike three.

Lady Kendra who had snuck behind him during his incessant flailing knocked the sword out of his hands with a yell. As he flipped over to face her, she quickly marked him with her blade, piercing the soft flesh into his heart. The metal armor the man was wearing cracked under the pressure of her blow and gave way to the man's exposed chest. He tossed his arms around like an overturned cockroach as he gasped for air. As much fun as it was for her to witness, the Lady had other things to do. She jogged over to her fallen soldier.

"Thank you, my Lady," he said breathlessly, still shaken from his rather close and perhaps too friendly encounter with death.

"No problem," she answered gruffly, extending her forearm to help the man up. "Next time, pick an enemy your own size. Easier to kill." The man nodded enthusiastically like a child eager to learn one of life's great lessons and scampered off. Lady Kendra took a brief moment to shake the water from her eyes and turned on her next foe.

Lord Terrowin stood on the great castle balcony, surveying the warriors below. He watched his wife brandish her axe and strike another unsuspecting Guilamontian who died where he stood. He looked down at the makeshift sling that held his arm and cursed under his breath. Damn infirmary. Despite his many protests they insisted he keep this accursed sling on his arm until it healed fully. He rolled the arm in his shoulder once and winced. The pain wasn't as bad as it was yesterday. It was fine. He could fight.