Chapter 36 Leila #4
A lump lodged in Her throat. She loosened Her cloak and mantle, letting it fall to Her elbows so the length of it trailed Her like the train of a gown.
Mouth dry, She marched through the snow while looking over Her shoulder.
The fabric swept away Her footprints just as She’d intended, and an inkling of hope flickered in Her chest. She was capable.
She could do it. Then She flinched as the brush nearby rustled.
Perhaps it was a snow deer or weasel. The Queen’s Forest was a vast labyrinth of leafless trees, and the odds of someone finding Her so swiftly were slim, but that didn’t stop Her from feeling utterly exposed. Steeling Herself, She carried on.
Once She’d ventured far enough from Her horse’s tracks, She scanned the brush ahead.
There—a tree as gnarled and black as the rest, but it was thick and sturdy with many firm branches.
Grunting, She climbed up its trunk, slipping twice before gaining Her footing, then hoisted Herself high into its boughs where She sat and waited.
Dawn turned to daylight while She waited, eyes trained on the land beneath Her. Perhaps She might’ve been bored had it not been for the looming threat of death, but time passed quickly, hours coming and going while Her mind was elsewhere.
Save Tobias.
Save Your realm.
Snow crunched below. Footsteps. A hooded figure emerged, though She didn’t need to see their face to know they were a prisoner.
Their cloak was ragged, and She could smell the thick stench of sweat and urine from Her spot in the tree.
Her gaze landed on the weapon in their hand, and Her stomach lurched.
They carried a bardiche, its pole alone near enough to Leila’s height.
Leila dug Her fingers into the bark of the tree.
The bardiche was weathered and dull, but its curved blade was freshly sharpened.
The empty space on Her thigh mocked Her, but She fought past Her insecurities.
Save Tobias. Save Your realm. That was the challenge She had accepted.
Holding Her breath, She channeled the heat of Her power and set its course.
On top of them.
Her chest slapped hard against the prisoner’s back, and She threw Her arms around their neck.
Before She could wrap their waist with Her legs, they flung Her over their shoulders, catapulting Her to the ground.
She slammed into the ground, air evacuating Her lungs as aches and pangs cut through Her.
Before She could recover, the bardiche was headed Her way, and She rolled to the side, barely escaping its edge.
Fabric and skin tore, and She cried out—the blade cut through Her arm, painting the snow red.
Another slash to Her arm marked an X into Her flesh, and She screamed as the pain shot to the bone. The prisoner lumbered closer, bardiche pointed to Her chest, and light blared behind Her eyes.
Behind them.
She reappeared on Her feet in time to watch the prisoner stagger forward, lunging at nothing.
With his hood fallen, She recognized him—the man with the blond hair.
He shuffled from side to side, glancing madly in either direction before spinning to face Her.
His eyes shot wide, and then he let out an appreciative laugh.
Leila wasn’t so amused. Her gashed arm throbbed, and while he’d marked Her twice, She’d barely even touched him.
He tossed the bardiche between his hands, taunting Her, and his attempt to intimidate was working. Do something.
Before She could devise a plan, the prisoner was barreling toward Her.
His blade nearly grazed Her stomach before She shadow walked away, and She ducked beneath his next assault before disappearing amid Her light.
She sent the man in dizzying circles each time She summoned Her power, though he never slowed or tired, and that vexed Her.
Their tedious game had become familiar—a man with a bardiche against an unarmed opponent doomed to die.
Tobias and Antaeus. Tobias had managed to disarm the Giant, hadn’t he?
With another burst of Her power, She shadow walked behind the prisoner, and just as Tobias had, She launched Her foot at his ass.
The prisoner spun around and yanked at Her ankle, collapsing Her.
Fuck. The prisoner kicked Her ribs again and again, leaving Her to cough and gasp, feeble at his feet. She was better than this. She was a queen, for God’s sake. Silver glinted as the blade of the bardiche swooped toward Her.
Away.
The blade cracked into the forest floor, lodging into the frozen soil.
The prisoner tugged at the weapon, a distraction Leila had to exploit.
She was on his back yet again, arms wrapping his throat and digging in tight.
Heaving Her forward, he flipped Her once more onto Her back, but She had expected it and was ready.
As he reached for Her throat, She dug Her thumbs deep into his eye sockets, and he wrenched back and screamed, cupping his face as blood rained down his cheeks.
Leila staggered to Her feet, homing in on Her target—the bardiche wedged in the ground. She tugged at it once, twice, then finally yanked it free, teetering to the side. As the prisoner struggled to right himself, she slammed the bardiche straight down, splitting his skull.
The prisoner went limp, and Leila dropped to Her knees, breath billowing from Her lips in clouds of mist. She’d thought the cold might numb the pain, but it only seemed to heighten it, the icy chill like needles against Her opened flesh.
Closing Her eyes, She cursed. She’d barely managed to defeat one prisoner, and there were nine more remaining.
She shook Herself. There wasn’t time for doubt.
She fiddled with Her layers of clothing, ripping the lining of Her cloak in a thin strip and wrapping it thrice around Her arm.
She’d have to settle for the makeshift tourniquet, and hopefully, Her light would work swiftly and slow the bleeding.
Pushing past Her weakness, She hobbled to Her feet and stood over Her fresh kill.
Bastard. She pulled the bardiche free from his skull, then used the sharp blade to chop one of his fingers free, grimacing all the while.
She pocketed it before analyzing the weapon in Her grasp—nearly Her own height, just as She’d suspected.
Growling, She trudged ahead, lugging the heavy weapon at Her side.
Leila tried to concentrate on covering Her tracks, but it wasn’t long before the wear of Her body stole Her focus.
There was a dead man lying in the forest, and no doubt his presence would somehow point to Her whereabouts.
His finger in Her pocket was little consolation, as She was already marred, Her ribs twinging with every move She made.
Perhaps one was fractured or just heavily bruised, but either way, She wasn’t in prime condition, and Her best was needed against Kovahrians.
Something pungent singed Her nostrils. Sewage. No, the scent was familiar. Fear. Green wisps fluttered in the distance, starkly visible against the gleaming white. She readied Her bardiche and followed the emotion.
With each step forward, Her defenses ebbed.
These colors were despairing, even defeated, and by the time She made out the head of auburn hair, She’d lowered Her weapon.
Her fellow challenger lay sprawled in the snow, breathing in short, shallow spurts.
A bloodied gash split his stomach in two, and entrails spilled into his lap and down his legs. He looked up at Leila.
“Kill me,” he bit out.
Leila’s stomach caved in. Between the sour taste of his dread and his exposed innards, Her body revolted, pulling Her back and forth between sickness and sorrow.
Squatting low to his side, She awkwardly positioned the blade of Her bardiche to his neck, then sliced through his throat with one clean swipe.
Blood gurgled from the open wound, and life quickly faded from his eyes.
Bile coated Leila’s tongue, but She swallowed it down.
There wasn’t time for weakness. She dug through his clothes, relieved to find two severed fingers from a small knapsack.
Victory. That meant two less battles for Leila to fight.
She pocketed the trophies, then continued Her examination, flipping through his cloaks, patting his legs, and pulling his boots free.
No weapons, not even a dagger. She sighed.
Perhaps he'd defeated two prisoners with his bare hands, or maybe whoever had bested him stole whatever weapons he had procured.
Either way, She was stuck with Her unwieldy bardiche.
Seven more kills. She stood and carried on.
The passage of time became an afterthought.
Leila was far more focused on Her heavy weapon, the freezing chill, and the loss of feeling of Her toes.
She didn’t understand how numbness could hurt, but the sizzling sting of Her hands and feet became far more potent than the ache of Her injuries.
Snow melted beneath Her boots, so She gave up on covering Her tracks, pulling Her cloak tight around Her shoulders to shield Her from the wind.
It seemed everything was working against Her—Her body, Her heritage, and even Her magic.
Something clanked in the distance—metal against metal.
Next came muffled voices, and Leila scrambled to ready Her weapon, stumbling beneath its weight much to Her embarrassment.
Wrangling Her pride, She took slow, deliberate steps forward, following the din.
This was no doubt a fight, which afforded Her some cover.
Soon, the commotion was just paces away, and She pressed Her back to a gnarled tree and peered around its trunk.