Chapter Thirty-Three
THERE WAS A small stream a few paces north that they ended up making camp next to.
Tree roots spiraled out of the soft, mossy stream bed.
As thick as some trunks, the roots rolled through the earth like waves, twisting and curling like snakes around the cluster of trees where the three settled.
A natural barrier to the elements. The stream trickled by slowly, the water in no rush as it traveled over the forest floor, sliding over the rocks and pebbles in its path.
The horses were tied close, untacked and grazing on the plants around the base of the trees.
Killian had taken the first opportunity to rest, laying his bedroll down on the soft dirt and quickly passing out while Hokda and Fyar perched on the tree roots around a fire brewing tea.
He was loathe to give them time alone without him, time to discuss what they were hiding from him, but he hadn’t slept in nearly two days and the elixir he’d chugged could only do so much.
After a few hours, Hokda had woken Killian up with a booted foot nudging at his shoulder, and grunted, telling him to switch.
The afternoon hours were spent silently in that fashion. Fyar napping against roots, his eyes closed and his face tilted back, just breathing in time with nature. At peace.
Killian was sent out to collect more branches as sky darkened. The fire for light over warmth.
Tucking his legs under him, Killian settled on the ground. They picked at the supply of bread and meats and cheese they had brought.
“Drink this,” said Hokda, handing Fyar a vial from his bag.
Fyar’s face spasmed. The smallest groan slipping out.
Killian snorted.
Hokda pursed his lips in annoyance. “You’re not well, yet. This will help.”
“I’m well enough to not be babied like this,” retorted Fyar. “This isn’t the first brush with death I’ve had in my life.”
“I did the same with you then, too.” Hokda all but shoved the vial into Fyar’s hand. “Bottoms up.”
“To be king is to be babied, no?” Killian smirked. “We are to bend to your every whim, Your Majesty.”
Fyar shot Killian a wry smile and downed the vial in one gulp. He grimaced. “That’s disgusting. You couldn’t have improved the flavor at least?”
“To what end?” Hokda asked. “It’s medicine. It’s not meant to taste good.”
“Your poor patients,” snickered Killian.
“Sadistic,” agreed Fyar fondly.
Hokda kept his face impassive and turned away, huffing and puffing, but Killian could see that his lips were turned up in a smile.
It was easy. Light and comfortable.
Killian could even admit he was having fun. It was the small moments that he’d missed in the commotion of it all. The laughs and the fun, shared amongst close friends and confidants.
Smile fading, Killian looked between Fyar and Hokda. The two he was meant to trust the most—and he did—though it seemed to not be reciprocated as of late.
A twig snapped in the distance.
Killian whirled around, his hands curled around the twin hilts of his swords, his ears pricked and alert. After a moment, he met Fyar’s eyes over the fire, and shook his head.
“It’s nothing,” Killian said quietly. “We should turn in for the night. I’ll take the first watch.”
There was something incredibly eerie about camping in the woods, the dim fire was the only source of light for miles in any direction. They were alone in their little bubble.
Killian’s mind wandered in the darkness.
From anafei to Lyra, Killian went over everything he knew as he sat, his swords in his lap, watching over Hokda and Fyar as they slept.
Poison was risky for an assassin. A fickle mistress. Never quite willing to let you have your way.
The only way to ever be sure that someone you want dead is dead, was to be there when their heart stops beating and their body goes cold.
Killian would know.
Poison leaves too much to chance. A failed attempt meant they would surely try again.
Killian’s eyes snapped open as his ears pricked, catching movement in the distance.
He stood, drawing his swords. Turning in a slow circle, he took stock of the sounds of the forest. The trickle of the stream and…
nothing else. The forest had gone quiet again.
Too quiet. No singing insects or hooting owls.
Hokda groaned, groggy and disoriented when Killian kicked at him. He opened his mouth to complain, but went still at the sight of him.
Jerking his chin at Fyar, Killian motioned for Hokda to wake the king quietly. Slowly. No sudden moves.
Soon, the three were awake. Fyar drew his own blade, but stayed low to the ground.
The horses nickered nervously, stamping their feet and pulling at their ties.
Killian whispered, “There’s something out here with us.”
“Lyra?” asked Hokda.
Killian shook his head. “No elf or two-legged creature.”
“A true hunter.” Fyar flexed his hands. “Stay back. It’s my kill.”
Bowing his head, Killian stepped back, crowding against Hokda to push the healer further out of the way. To protect him. Hokda clicked his tongue and snapped at his rough manhandling. They crouched amongst the tree roots, and waited.
It came from above, a long and lithe body dropping from the branches above them. Gleaming claws extended from a paws as big as dinner plates, maw open wide, it aimed for the soft flesh of Fyar’s throat.
Fyar just barely rolled out of the way in time.
Twisting mid-air, this predator landed gracefully on the edges of their camp.
Crouching low to the ground, the feline curled its lip and hissed, exposing lengthened top fangs that extended past the lower jaw.
Spotted black and white fur covered the cat’s hind legs, its front half a speckled grey. It’s tail flicked in agitation.
On two legs, this feline would easily be as tall—if not a head taller—than Killian.
Breathing deeply, Fyar rolled back his shoulders and brought his sword up, the blade pointed straight out, the hilt supported at his side. Flecks of gold burst through Killian’s sight as Fyar focused his stores of en in his legs to give him a boost and in his arms to give him strength.
The feline yowled, spitting angrily as Fyar’s sword sliced through the muscle of its shoulder. It attacked, claws catching and drawing blood as it danced out of Fyar’s reach again and again, keeping the king at its front and never letting him close to its belly.
Killian grit his teeth, hissing whenever the fangs or claws got too close.
Standing on its hind legs, the feline met Fyar’s sword head on. Using its massive paws to attack, batting at Fyar while he backed into a corner.
Smaller—but not weaker—Fyar used his size to his advantage. Moving quicker than his opponent and maneuvering into the space inside the feline’s guard, where it was weak.
All it took was one well placed blow of Fyar’s sword. The blade pierced the feline’s thick hide and slid up into the ribcage, slicing through internal organs and tissue.
Fyar panted, his clothes and hair soaked in blood.
In silence, he took one of his flags and stuck it into the body. He surveyed his kill. “It would make a fine rug. If the blood doesn’t stain.”
“Yes,” Hokda agreed, emerging from behind Killian. “Pallux cats are rare. From the high mountains of Valle. Cold weather creatures. She shouldn’t be here.”
Killian closed his eyes and turned his face towards the sky. “Fuck. Another thing not native to Netyere? Where’s all this shit coming from?”
“Escaped from a carnival, perhaps,” wondered Hokda, staring down at the feline.
They all knew otherwise. No carnival could hold a beast like this. It was brought here purposefully and set loose in Fyar’s path.
Fyar knelt by its side, ignoring the way his boots began to stick as the blood became tacky. He pet over the feline’s muzzle, the rough whiskers and large teeth. “A shame. Beautiful things, these creatures. They don’t deserve to be slaughtered as pawns in Lyra’s games.”
“How did they know it would go after you?”
“They didn’t,” said Fyar. “They may have given it my scent, but it’s more likely that this isn’t the only creature they released into these woods. The chances of us coming across one were high enough, especially when we are out looking for them.”
“It gives a good alibi too,” Killian added, crossing his arms. “A freak attack. A tragedy. The king caught off guard.”
“Yes.” Fyar’s fists clenched in the feline’s fur, his anger beginning to leak out. “Deaths are not rare in the hunt. It would be the perfect opportunity.”
“We won’t let that happen,” Killian promised. Fyar turned slowly to meet his eyes. Bathed in crimson, the king looked like an avenging angel. Beautiful. Powerful. Terrible. “We’ll get you through this.”
Fyar grinned. “Of that I have no doubt.”
The king wasn’t so easy to kill.