Swords with Souls
A Medieval Fantasy Fiction Story
(Adult Content)
By Dan Watt
(Author of BARD series)
(Author of the Plagueborn series)
Regicide?
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She can’t leave him to fight alone. It’s been a long time since she’s thrown her knives but what choice is there? Squeezing Fylste’s sides with her knees she gets behind the guards as they engage with Crimmthan.
Crimmthan’s thoroughbred batters one of the soldier’s shields with his flank, knocking the guard to the ground. At the same time, she sees Crimmthan slash down at the other guard’s sword hand.
These are professional guards with helmets on. She doesn’t see any protective bear skin, so she gets Fylste to halt and slides off. She charges ahead with both knives out. From behind the guard fighting with Crimmthan, she stabs blindly up into the front of the guard’s helmet. The guard impulsively elbows her. This gives Crimmthan the opportunity to cut deeply into the guard’s wrist.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees the other guard getting up from the ground. Without hesitating she flicks her free knife at his visible eye. He bats it away. She runs away from where Crimmthan is while holding out her other knife feebly. There’s no sense throwing it; the guard would just block it with his shield. She steps back and sideways so the soldier’s back is to Crimmthan. At least one of them can get away.
This guard is too big and powerful for her to have any hope of escaping. As he charges her, she backpedals and slips on the rain drenched grass. There’s a whoosh sound. The guard arches his back. Through years of training, he keeps hold of his sword and shield as he makes a quarter turn. There’s another whoosh sound and he drops his sword to cover the side of his neck.
The rain is getting heavier. She glances everywhere before passing the reigns of Fylste to Crimmthann. Without another word she darts towards a wild privet shrub. She squeezes between it and a juniper bush to get to a birch tree. At the base of the birch, she digs frantically through the wet soil with her knife. As the birch grew over the years, she had to keep moving the leather pouch she kept her treasures in a little farther away. Her fingers are coated in dirt as she pulls the pouch out. She places a hand on the trunk of the birch and taking heavy breaths. Being more careful, she moves cautiously between the wild privet and the juniper. Squinting through the rain she can see Crimthann glance around before yanking his arrows out of the dead soldiers while holding the reigns of his horse and Fylste.
She hurries to him and takes Fylste’s reign. She places the pouch into one of Fylste’s saddlebags. Terrified but determined she collects her other throwing knife. While pulling her dagger free of Sir Emil’s right eyesocket, she scans everywhere as Crimthann yanks out the last of his arrows. When he’s done, she sees him take a dagger out of one of the guard’s sheaths and carve something into his forehead.
After Crimmthann mounts his horse, he nods at her. She climbs into Fylste’s saddle and follows him into a ravine that he keeps them in for a short while before they climb up the bank and head into a woodlot with a path. When they come to a road, she’s familiar with, he rides beside her.
“Why the arrows?” she asks, “And what did you put on his forehead.”
“The arrows have my design,” he replies. “Brass collars for weight. Good for shooting through high winds and rain but only at a short distance. I put what I hope is a simple but clear symbol of Sir Ganbold’s family on the soldier’s forehead.
She glances up into the pelting rain. “Is that honorable and shouldn’t we pull over?”
“Not yet,” he replies. “We want the rain to deform our tracks. I will admit my sins to him and his family, if I ever see any of them again.”
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