Chapter Eight
THE EDGE OF the forest of Nolphi stands before us as the sun crests to midday.
The caravan comes to a halt and the scouts step forward.
We all wear simple dark fabrics with leather belts and only our blades.
Armor and spears would easily give us away.
Despite the situation, my skin bristles under the coarse clothing, an incessant reminder that will never retreat.
Olena and I take the right flank and enter the forest. My senses are swarmed by the scent of pine and musty forest floor.
The crunch of crisp leaves under our feet causes me to cringe at every step.
Once we make our way into the forest, we can hear the snap of the reigns of the wagon drivers, taking the caravan along the overgrown road.
For the next few hours, Olena and I stay on the outer right side of the caravan, keeping it at the edge of our awareness; just close enough to signal.
Every small breeze gently rustling the leaves, every squirrel scrambling from tree to tree, and every growing shadow all pull the tension in my body tighter than a drawn bowstring.
To her credit, Olena follows my lead well, avoiding the brittle twigs of the underbrush and keeping movements small.
We climb the side of a hill as we continue our stealthy route.
The Nolphi forest must skirt some mountain range as the ground becomes rocky and the smells are less earthy.
I gesture to Olena and we climb a bit farther up the hill, away from the caravan, in order to get a better vantage point.
Reaching a small outcropping of rocks shielded by several trees, we stop to rest from the climb and crouch along the edges.
The sun must be starting to set, as the shadows continued to grow long during our ascent and a chill settles among the trees, light fading along the rocks.
Southerners must get tired of the constant change in temperature.
From up here, we can see down the hillside, catching a glimpse of the caravan through the pines.
Three short whistles fly out from the direction of the caravan, echoing through the forest and hillside; the signal to return.
We must be ready to set up camp for the night.
I give a hand signal to Olena, as I stand up from my crouch.
My foot slips on some loose stones, shooting my leg out and body falling backward.
The sharp clack of metal on stone rattles off to my side as an arrow strikes where my head was before I slipped.
I push off the ground and draw my sword, desperately searching for the archer.
Some distance above me on the hillside stands the attacker, half hidden behind a tree, hand reaching to grab another arrow.
My eyes widen as I see two other bandits rushing down the hillside, weapons drawn, black leather armor making little noise in the dying light.
I scramble off the top of the rock, putting it squarely between me and the archer. Olena had turned at the first arrow and manages to come up on my right before the bandits reach us. I blow two sharp whistles to alert the caravan.
The air barely leaves my mouth before a hammer swings down from above the rock.
I jerk to the left, narrowly dodging, the hammer head striking the rock, sparks shooting off to the side.
Pivoting, I swing my sword blindly, feeling it bite briefly into flesh.
A curse flies from the bandit as he drops his weapon, clattering to the ground next to us.
Olena steps away from the rock to get a clear view, but quickly changes plans as the second bandit comes hurtling around the rocks, brandishing a blade in each hand. Quick stabs rush at Olena who twitches this way and that avoiding each deadly strike, her own blade eager to strike back.
Suddenly, the bandit above us jumps down and kicks my sword out of my hand, knife poised to finish the job, blood dripping down his arm. He cracks a wicked smile of perfect white teeth, sticking out against his black leathers and I know I have met my end.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, I feel a pulse around my neck and liquid fire races throughout my body. Confusion streaks across the bandit’s face before he lunges forward, knife angling for my throat.
I blink. The bandit freezes, as if made of stone.
I blink. His arm moves forward ever so slightly.
I blink. The knife point edges infinitesimally closer.
I blink. His heel lifts off the ground, drawing my eyes away from his blade.
Fire roils through my body as I stop blinking and look around me.
Everything has stopped. A leaf mid-flight to its resting place, Olena poised to strike a killing blow against her adversary, rocks kicked loose from our fight frozen in air.
Looking down the hill, I see Helia charging up the hill with a few soldiers following; too far away yet to be of help.
I snap my eyes back the fight and quickly rush forward, fighting against the fire in my veins, pain building behind my eyes and tightening pressure around my neck.
In one smooth motion, I grab the dropped hammer and snap it upward into the bandit’s jaw.
A slow cracking starts to fill the air and I finally close my eyes, unable to stand the pain anymore.
The slow crack turns to roaring thunder as the hammer shatters the man’s skull, blood and viscera exploding upward, the wooden haft splitting in two.
The pressure around my neck lessens and I open my eyes, bearing witness to my bloody work. Crimson rain pours down as I look at the broken hammer. A bellow from Olena brings my head up as she slices the throat of the second bandit.
Turning to me, her eyes go wide at the crumpling body in front of me before rushing over and shaking me.
“Come on! We’ve got to get—” Before she can finish, Olena throws me to the side and lunges behind me. I feel more than hear the arrow pierce her body as she bumps into me. I stumble up and turn to see the archer nocking another arrow. Except this time they are aiming downhill. Helia!
The arrow looses, arcing its way toward Helia, the commander’s helm a clear target. A preternatural yell rips from my body, the mark along my neck blazing once more, infinitely more painful than before, silver light bathing the hillside. The air pulls toward me. I won’t let her die!
I scream.
The air surges outward in all directions, racing along the hillside, toward the archer and downhill toward Helia and the arrow.
The archer falls to their knees, blood erupting from their eyes, nose, and ears, death throes muffled by the air.
The arrow snaps in two, lifelessly falling to the ground short of its target.
I let go and my mark rests once again. The pain doesn’t leave me this time and my body starts to fall backward.
The last sounds I hear are the screams in the distance.