Warden
The lines led us here. As the Laidly Wyrm said, Heddon cave is the only way out of the Underhill. Unless we could get a portal to work. However, as it took the appearance of magic in a non-magical place to open the one we fell through, I doubt there will be any way of using it to get back.
All of this is wrong. From my chance finding of the tavern on the ancient drover road through the Night Lands to the kind agreement of the Duegar from the Shadow Keep to help me with my mate.
To the need for me to stay a further night when I should have been long gone.
There are too many coincidences for me to feel anything but uneasy about our trip through the Underhill.
I change from my Brag form to that of my more human one, Lady Ryle in my arms. I gently put her on her feet in the sand. To my delight, she doesn’t release me straight away. Instead she steadies herself against my chest as she stares out at the Heddon cave.
“Is the Shellycoat in the water?” she asks.
“The Heddon cave is a portal of sorts. He inhabits the portion between here and the Yeavering, along with his fortress above the sands,” I growl. “He is a creature not to be trusted, for he will drown you simply because he has nothing better to do and it entertains him.”
“He doesn’t sound very nice.”
“Beal is anything but nice.” My teeth are gritted. “He is an evil thing who should, by all which is right, be locked in my Shadow Keep with his masters.”
“He worked for the Faerie?”
I bark out a harsh laugh. “Beal works for no one but himself. Which means he is always available for the highest price to whomever will pay it.”
My fingers curl my hands into fists. The mere thought of the atrocities committed by the Shellycoat because he wanted to is not something I want to contemplate.
“So we can expect no mercy then.” My lady squares her shoulders, and her hand goes to the hilt of her sword as she gazes at the Heddon cave.
“No mercy. No quarter. If I could die, he would kill me,” I growl.
Her eyes return to me.
“Are you telling me the one thing which stands in our way of leaving this place is also your enemy?” She studies my face.
“Sort of.” I avert my eyes from hers.
“Sort of doesn’t cut it, Warden. Do we have more of a problem than having to swim for it?”
“You probably don’t. Beal will more likely want me than you.”
“Fantastic,” she replies, in a way which I’m pretty certain means she doesn’t think anything is fantastic, least of all me.
“Do you know how to use that sword?” I grab at the weapon, but she swiftly turns to one side to block me.
“You’ve seen me. You know I do.”
“I’ve seen you do a parlour trick. I haven’t seen you use it in anger.”
“Nor will you,” my lady says grimly. “I only use it when there is no alternative.”
“So, show me.” I reach into my saddlebags and pull out my weapon, a short sword, the type I prefer. “The Shellycoat is not immune to having parts cut off him, even if he will regrow them.”
“I won’t fight you, Warden,” she says. “Not with this sword. I don’t care if you don’t die. I care what else I might kill.”
I study her for a moment then toss her my sword, pulling another from the other saddlebag.
“You have two?” She stares at me.
“Two are always better than one.” I shrug. “Not that I have much need of weapons. I usually fight as a Brag and my hooves are all I need.”
“And the swords?”
“It’s hard to fight as a Brag going up a spiral staircase,” I respond with a grin.
Lady Ryle shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
“Fine,” she says, the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “Come on then, if you want to fight.”
She moves into a good stance, and instantly I feel my trousers tighten around my crotch. To distract myself, I too move into my fighting stance, lifting my sword and touching it tip to tip with hers.
My lady lunges at me but not in a forward movement. She goes sideways, putting me off balance and having to parry hard as she leaps away from my blade, which, impressively, does not catch at her clothing, despite the wind pulling at it.
“You’re not really trying, are you Warden?” she teases, doing yet another swift and deadly-for-the-unwary lunge.
“I cannot die,” I point out.
“I’m well aware,” she retorts with another set of strikes which I manage to parry. “You did a rather unpleasant demonstration of that fact.”
“But you can die, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then this is hardly a demonstration, is it?” She swings around me, a series of small slashes appearing on my torso, all of which heal again swiftly.
“You want me to kill you?”
“Absolutely not, but I’d like you to at least try.”
I genuinely think my trousers might explode.
My lady is a warrior, and her strange sword is not for show.
I press her, and she increases her battle with me.
It should be easy for me to overpower her.
I am large, she is small, but somehow she keeps going, keeps dodging my blows where necessary, blocking them when she is in the perfect position.
I feel like I am the pupil because her display is dazzling. I surge forward with a series of strikes designed to take down my enemy, and she holds her ground.
Right until the last strike, when her foot twists on the soft sand, and I have her.
I have her in my arms, pressed against my body, hers heaving with the effort of fighting the Brag, mine slick with sweat because she made me move so much more than I ever have in a fight.
I have her.
I have her.
This female is mine.