“I feel as if the tides are changing beneath my feet, the currents hidden to my eyes. And yet, enemies arrayed before me, their knives drawn and their mouths watering, you still abandon me in the dark, with barely a word as to your current goals. I expect answers soon Judge.” A Sending to the Orc of Thespious.
Grass tickling his ears, Kaladhen stared up at the night sky, the stars swathed in a swirling blanket overhead, twinkling and shining like glitter in molasses. The sun had just set, and there were still the faintest remnants of oranges and violets twinging the southern sky, right at the horizon where the world ended. A hand rested on his own, Arrietty lay in the grass beside him, mouth open in wonder as she stared at the stars. It was so easy to see the stars, away from the world, away from the troubles of running an army, of making decisions, of everything. It was quiet, but for the sounds of nature. The wind blew, the crickets sang, and below, a small stream babbled.
Utter peace and tranquility. How long had it been? Kaladhen could hear only Arrietty’s mind clearly, though the rest of the Five Flowers were close enough their cognizance barely poked from the stream. So quiet, so calm. He breathed in clear air deeply, no tang of blood, no smog clogging it up. Just nature, and a twinge of perfume.
He rolled, so that he was staring at Arrietty, she smirked at him, and rolled herself to face him just the same. “You’re staring,” she accused with a twinkle of her own gleaming in her eyes.
He rolled back to gaze upon the stars. “Am not,” he said, smiling, a bit of red spotting on his cheeks. It would be too dark for her to notice, besides, the cold was solid enough an excuse. He felt a light punch on his shoulder, and saw her sit up in his peripheral vision.
“It’s so quiet,” Arrietty murmured, glittering light dappling her face. Kaladhen shifted onto his own arms, matching her, feeling the cuffs of his jacket scratch at his wrists. Cursed thing, he would never get used to the clothes of nobility. He could feel the dirt on his hands, and tried to ignore the sensation, to bask in the moment.
He raised a hand aloft, palm upward so that it looked like he was clutching the moon. “And we have it all to ourselves for once. No scouts updating the situation, no debates over our next action, no pleas to lend our aid. Calm. How long has it been Arrietty?”
She rose to that odd crouch, or perhaps perch she so loved to take. Kaladhen had tried to replicate it, but found it grating on his ankles. Must be the weight difference. “Years, there hasn’t been peace since Baudouin declared support for us. It’s nice…” she said.
Kaladhen smiled. She said it oddly, like it was forced out, or an odd taste on her tongue.
“Not used to the quiet?”
She laughed, it was a beautiful laugh, not bubbly but full, a genuine mirth in it. It was medicine to the soul, warmth on a cold night. He wished his laugh was a tenth as infectious. “No, I guess not.” She fell back to the ground, hands outstretched above her. “I feel antsy. I loathe waiting around.”
Kaladhen looked at her. Everything was going well, their armies moved, their supply lines provided for the cities they had taken, their scouts and spies made preparations. Aside from Centurion and Vitruvius–and Facetious, but he was nearly spent–every other alliance had fallen or declared support for one of them. They were nearing the end, and still she worried. They had the least of the remaining alliances, the least people, the least cities, the least believers.
But, they did not have the least conviction. No, he stared at Arrietty, as she lay watching the stars, her chest rising and falling to the beat of her own drum, face screwed into annoyance at having to wait and sit still when she thought they could be doing something, anything. Typical. But he wasn’t annoyed, it was abundantly her, and he would expect nothing less. They could be outnumbered ten to one, and they weren’t far off, but Kaladhen had absolute faith in their chances of victory. “Waiting here is strategically sound, Vitruvius has to waste resources to take Dragon’s Throne from Facetious. Centurion can’t besiege us without leaving himself vulnerable to Vitruvius. So, we wait.” He leaned over and brushed a bit of hair from her face, and stared into her eyes. She reached out to him, a hand grazing his cheek. He let it happen, but drew away a breath after, closing his hands around hers gently.
“Now’s not the right time,” he whispered.
She snuggled close to him. “I know.” She delivered a chaste kiss on his cheek, and it blossomed with warmth. “I hate waiting.”
“I know,” Kaladhen smirked.
And they watched the stars in silence.
*
Leaves dug into her hair, dead things, fallen things, all prickly or mushy, and very much without providing comfort. If not leaves, then needles and rocks prodded her, and Gwynfor hoped very much that the slimy thing she felt right above her waist was also a dead leaf and not a slug or some other manner of foul thing. She tried to pry open the canopy with her eyes, but was left sorely disappointed. The Greenwood was ancient and not prone to revealing the wonders of the sky to its denizens. The air was musty and clogged with dew and mulch. Despite knowing the sun would be making his climb skyward, Gwynfor could see no evidence of his light.
Hours had passed since they ventured into the forest, and only now had Dylon called for camp. The night had passed without incident, dangerous or revelatory. No signs of a Unicorn, or a deadly spirit, or much of anything. Tree after tree they passed, each utterly unique, and each utterly boring in the shadows.
Even compared to other forests, Greenwood was dense and elderly, a thing of the distant past even in her people’s oldest tales. Lydia had told Gwynfor this forest had sprung up this way, and would survive even humans and elves. It was a crotchety place, like her grottmoth, a place to be respected and feared. At the moment, Gwynfor could only summon annoyance. A few insects buzzed right overhead, occasionally alighting on her and would flee skyward when she motioned violence towards them.
But they would invariably return and so she would swat at them again.
Rinse and repeat.
Over.
And over again.
Dylon had a tent, strewn in in the little clearing they had found. It barely fit and forced everyone else to fight for space. Gavin had strung up a hammock between two trees, driven nails into the ancient trunk for his comfort. Sure, she had gotten a talk for speaking once, but he was allowed to hammer away at it without reprimand for the noise he made. Vericho merely threw a sleeping bag onto the ground and fell asleep a few feet from her, making an awful guttural snore that sounded like an angry bear.
Caistlin claimed no spot, and stood like a specter on a nearby hill. A little itterfire in his hand illuminated him and gave an otherworldly glow to his silhouette. He was the first watch, and it had been him who tied her up. She could not even be trusted with freedom to sleep. One wrist of hers felt tight with the rope wrapped about and driven into earth with a stake. She wondered what they would do in an attack, if she were caught and killed because they did not trust her. This expedition would be for naught and would serve them right.
Though, considering it were her own life on the line, perhaps that would be a step too far in her estimation. This could all go horribly wrong in all manner of ways where she survived. The aftermath would have to wait and be seen though. Dylon could not be trusted. Should she survive and her parents freed, Gwynfor doubted anything would ever be the same, could ever be the same. Gwynfor shifted, rolling around, trying to be comfortable, trying to stare up at the sky, divine any meaning to how she had gotten here.
She hated waiting, lying around like a rabbit caught in a trap. She hated the rope around her wrist, hated she was helping these thugs capture a Unicorn and steals its Gift, hated herself for being here. But, deepest in her heart, the fire in which fanned the rest to boil, was her hatred of Dylon. She glared at his tent, patterned with bright colors and made of material her parents would pay a fortune for. Hated him for dragging her into this, for refusing to free Willow, for refusing to spend even a modicum of effort to improve the lives of the people it was ostensibly his duty to serve. She spat at the ground, trying to rend away some of her pent up anger.
“It ain’t right,” a voice said suddenly, right beside her.
Gwynfor screamed, and jumped, the rope biting at her wrist and rashing it. She twisted to see that Vericho had collapsed into a seat nearby her, a pipe in his mouth puffing out acrid smelling smoke.
“Moron,” she growled, scooting as far from him as she could manage, which was minimal. His greasy hair hung over his face, and his clothes were splotched with dead leaves and dirt, his patchy beard snug round his chin and cheeks. “Nearly scared me to death.”
Vericho shrugged his shoulders and a bit of litter fell from the mantle of the cloak he wore. “Sorry little lady, didn’t mean to startle ya.” He gave a big yawn, stretching his arms, and Gwynfor could see through the ripped sleeves of his coat, the gratuitous amount of scars and muscles he had beneath it. He smirked at her. She wrinkled her face at him. “Damn wrong of boss to have you here.”
Gwynfor narrowed her eyes, Vericho’s eyes met hers, and he still smiled, showing far too much teeth. “Why’s that?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders again, he seemed to like doing that, and waved his arms as he talked. “Ain’t right to steal a girl away from home and force her into business like this.”
“Vericho,” Gavin’s voice lazily groaned from his hammock. “Do us a favor and shut-up.”
Vericho rolled his eyes. “I can right talk if I want,” he drawled. “You can’t stop me.”
“Wasn’t forcing, asking a favor,” Gavin said, and Gwynfor saw him roll over and shuffle his coat over his head.
Vericho turned back, an annoyed look on his face. “Like I was saying, ain’t right of him–”
“then let me go,” Gwynfor whispered, staring at him.
“Ain’t going to happen,” he said, shaking his head. “Sorry girl, but we's got a reputation, and Gavin’ll kill me for breaking it. Just sorry you got caught up in all this.” He was frowning, and made screwed up looking faces, but Gwynfor saw his eyes. They weren’t sorry for her. There was something far different in his gaze: want. “I’ll make sure you gets home in one piece girl, get you home safe. I promise you that. Sound good?”
Gwynfor stared at him for a long moment, his desiring eyes seeming to look her up and down like how a predator stares at their prey. She met his eyes. “If you aren’t going to free me, fuck off. I can look after myself.” And she rolled away from him, heart beating quickly, wondering if she had just killed herself.
His shadow stood over her for a very long moment. She tried to ignore it, but there it remained, almost completely frozen.
“Great, you broke him,” Gavin groaned from above, but he did nothing to move the man away from her. Gwynfor turned back, and saw a faint tremble in Vericho’s lip and hands, shaking with barely contained rage. Gwynfor had seen it before, felt it before. She resisted trying to bolt. It was an ugly anger, the kind that made you do very dumb things–she knew all too well. She swallowed, and forced herself to meet Vericho’s gaze with as much defiance and mettle as she could muster.
His hands clenching and unclenching now, his mouth opened and closed a few times, with only guttural noises sputtering forth. Then, Gwynfor saw something happen. It was as if the man’s eyes glazed over for a second, completely without life. Then he blinked a few times, utterly confused looking, like a child who had fallen asleep with their parents and awoke in their bed. Then he turned, and wandered away, not without any look of anger or malice, but a normal lope.
Her heart still beat violently, but was slowing to a much more manageable rhythm. She shifted, and for a brief second, as she did, she noticed something. On the top of the hill, still apparently standing watch, Caistlin seemed to be staring at her for but a brief moment. He gave her the barest of nods, and a nod of the head towards Vericho. A silent promise to watch him, before returning to his vigil. She felt calmer after that, even if she could not be certain it wasn’t mere imagination. There was little she could do in the first place, should Vericho make trouble. But, as she lay back down on the awful bed of leaves, her free hand quietly roamed around for something.
She found a jagged rock nearby, and a pointed branch that must have recently fallen. With a careful observation of her surroundings: Vericho asleep, Gavin not caring, Caistlin watching, and Dylon separated, she began to whittle away at it. She made slow careful slides of the rock to form a sharp point, but left it sturdy and wide. In reality, with all of her captors wearing heavy coats and bearing armor, it would do little. But it gave something to occupy the mind, a reason to move, something to fight with. And that was all the more important.
Finally, she finished the endeavor, feeling the fruits of her efforts in her hand. The little stick was sharped, its point deadly. Useful, maybe not, but she felt a few tears well in her eyes. She hid it beneath a pile of leaves, and kept the jagged rock nearby–in the end that would likely be the more practical weapon–but it felt good to make something, do something.
She was left again stuck on the ground, waiting, trying to fall asleep.
Sleep did not come for more than a few meager fits.
*
Caistlin glanced back at Gwynfor. The elf had finished making her spear and was trying to sleep. He could hear her thoughts, ragged and worried, float towards him, seasoned with bitter anger. Even worse though, was her passion. It clouded everything else, even her worry. She wanted to change things, make things better, it was why he had chosen her to lure the Unicorn. It ate at him, those thoughts, drifting to his mind, close as he was.
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He could also help her sleep, but he had been playing with fire too much. Dylon had roused in his sleep when Caistlin struck at Vericho, calming and forcing that grimy man to forget what Gwynfor said to him. Caistlin was growing too reliant on his powers again, a dangerous preposition, given the circles he now worked in. Caistlin had given away too many hints of his identity to Lydia and to Atilan. Anymore, and he might be discovered. It was far from the right time for that. There was too much left to be done, more pieces to put in place before he could reveal himself.
But, it hurt to not be able to help her. It was his fault the elf was here. Yet, despite his regrets, and misgivings, he would not alter his course, change what he had done. Gwynfor was a key piece to the puzzle, and would provide the first step to topple Judge’s carefully built empire. He grinned at the thought.
He awoke in the water, feeling it boil around his neck, that sizzling warmth fading to an absolute frigid bone-deep chill encompassing the rest of him. All was chaos, as the last feathers burned away in front of his eyes, and all went black. He felt the ocean churning him around, like grain in a mill, turned this way and that, the frothing deep flinging him to and fro, scraping past rocks, barely avoiding being battered against an uncaring bed of deadly sharp coral. He became as he imagined enemies caught in his Sophomancy, whirled in the depths of his mind, twisted and dragged by horrid imagery. Except it was all too real.
Kaladhen–no Caistlin opened his eyes, forcing the memory to ebb away with the tide of his breath. In and out, the river flowed from him. His leg, blazed with a sore and familiar pain, burning hot as his heart. Judge’s face seemed to stare down at him from above, and Caistlin could almost taste the tang of his blood filling his mouth once more. He shook his head. The forest hazed back into view again. The visions were growing worse. They had been, ever since that day. It was hard to keep a grip on reality sometimes. But, as he occupied a part of his mind with slowly counting, he forced himself back to making observations on their current terrain.
It was lots of dark. And shadow, and absences of light. Plenty of plants, how detailed of him. It was like any part of a forest, dark and dismal and abundantly verdant. Nothing like the forests back home. The trees there were tall and proud, refusing the seasonal coverage of leaves for the eternity of needles. They did not need to worry about underbrush, or choking vines, they merely had to compete with the other trees around them, reaching ever higher to the sun for its warmth. Neater that way, cleaner too. The ground here was utter pandemonium, and all the more twisted for it. Uncountable haunts lurked in these woods, barely accounting for the less ephemeral dangers of tripping or being nipped by a poisonous plant or stumbling across a hungry predator.
Nothing like home. It did remind him of the jungles of Magnolia, and he violently shoved those thoughts aside. He already dwelled upon happy memories more than enough today. He needed focus, clarity, not nostalgia. That was the only path forward to success.
*
“Wake up,” a voice rudely and firmly pressed against her shoulder, shaking her. Gwynfor opened her eyes, expecting to be met with even ruder rays of sun assailing her blinking gaze. Instead, it was dark, and she saw only Caistlin crouched over her. “Time to go.”
“Are we not eating?”
He shrugged, “Guess you weren’t awake in time.
Gwynfor shot up, rubbing away bleariness from her face, and felt a very slight tug at her wrist as she got ever too far away from her stake. Vericho and Gavin were striking down Dylon’s tent, whilst the noble was crouched over a flame, a small pan in one hand, browning some greens.
“That got you up quickly,” Caistlin remarked, and handed her a small little pouch of oats and dried bits of meat. “All the good stuff’s for Lord Overbearing,” he whispered.
“I’m surprised he knows how to cook,” Gwynfor said, quite honestly. Nobles didn’t cook, that’s one of the reasons they had servants.
Caistlin raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d know why he would. Cooking is important to the Mel’Aniuh tribe, all their old ceremonies involved cooking. Noble or not, it is still a point of pride in their heritage.”
Gwynfor bit at her lip, unsure. Dylon was not an elf, she refused to believe those traitors deserved the distinction. But, still, she felt a connection to him for the first time, seeing his face screwed up in concentration, a ritual focus on something that seemed important to him. Yet, he still was who he was. One small connection to tradition did not make an elf, or even a good person. Yet, it was not something she had expected to see. As she battled through the dried meat and even drier oats and nuts, she watched Dylon cook, and saw the perspiration bead on his forehead.
Then, she saw something…strange.
Behind Dylon, the foliage seemed to dance, not like leaves flustered by a gust of wind, but move and shake as if ordained by a body. And Gwynfor swore, for just a moment, she saw a pair of yellow eyes staring out from the lump of leaves, fixated on Dylon.
“What’s that?” Gwynfor said, her voice pitched higher than she meant, as she pointed at the odd sight.
All four of the men turned to follow her finger.
And there was nothing. No bush, no movement, just nothing.
“There is nothing there girl, now shut your mouth or I will make you shut up,” Dylon threatened.
Gavin merely stared at the spot she pointed. Vericho glanced at her and she saw nothing in his expression, almost as if he barely even saw her. Caistlin though, got up, stretched and limped over to the spot she pointed.
“She's just playing tricks mercenary,” Dylon grumbled. “No need to play into her fancies.”
Gavin slouched forward suddenly, joining Caistlin in checking the spot.
“Not you too,” Dylon sighed. “Vericho, watch the girl, make sure this isn’t some game for her to make a run,” then he went back to his cooking.
Vericho gazed at her with a shrug, then went back to barely noticing her. Was he just ignoring last night? There was nothing of the anger, the danger she feared from him before, he almost seemed dazed, like he had been hit in the head. Had Caistlin done something to him? Or Gavin, maybe he thumped his friend over the head for that stunt last night and it knocked some sense into the oaf.
Caistlin crunched over dead leaves to her, a bit of dirt grimed to the bottom of his boats. “What did you see?” he asked, in a low voice, sounding sincere. He also went to her wrist and undid the rope around it, freeing her. Once again, she felt the instinctive urge to make a run for it, a potentially fatal dash towards freedom. She didn’t.
“It looked like a bush…” she paused, realizing how silly it would sound, then forced herself to carry on under the weight of the odd mercenary’s gaze, “dancing,” she finished, somewhat lamely. “It was watching Dylon, almost mesmerized until I pointed it out.”
Caistlin was quiet, obviously lost in thought, then he nodded. “A leshy,” he said, staring at the spot Gwynfor had pointed to prior. She knew the name. Leshys were old spirits, said to be the very embodiment of the forests themselves. It was said the Cranduine of House Bitter were descendants of the Leshy, or perhaps they were one and the same. Tales varied on the nature of the Leshy, good or evil, harmless or dangerous. They were as varied as a forest itself.
“Are you sure?” Gwynfor asked.
Caistlin shrugged. “Fairly, I’ve seen one before, sounds like it. They are drawn to art, and cooking is among the most ancient arts.” He looked up, raising his voice. “I think Gwynfor spotted a Leshy. Let’s keep our eyes and ears open today, and try not to anger the spirit. Treat the forest with respect, and we should all be safe.”
His words appeared to make only a minimal impact on the other three. Dylon barely registered Caistlin was speaking, still focused on his cooking, while Gavin and Vericho seemed bored. Caistlin withdrew and went back to packing, readying the horses. Gwynfor went to help, not wanting to remain still now she was given the freedom to stretch. Besides, saddling the horses, petting them, cleaning burrs caught in their hair was a wonderful change of pace.
After another thirty minutes, everything was cleaned and ready to go. Caistlin made them double check that they left nothing behind, Dylon grumbling the whole time, but finally they were off. In the saddle behind Caistlin again, Gwynfor kept her eyes out as they went. It was dark as ever, despite the fact it should be late afternoon. Soon, they would be traveling by night again, when spirits roamed most often. The road they followed was windy and shattered, the rocks which had once formed it broken away by roots and eaten at by moss. It was hard to follow and their pace slowed to a crawl. Yesterday, they had followed the main thoroughfare through Greenwood, which had been kept at least traversable, but today the path was swallowed entirely by the forest on occasion and Caistlin would have to go ahead and parse their next step while they waited in silence and shadow.
The conversation today was even more muted than the day prior, and Vericho especially went without talk. Whenever she heard Gavin try and speak to the grimy man, he would only grunt and ignore the efforts to force conversation. The more and more they went, the more convinced she grew that something had been done to the man. Not that she was complaining, he deserved what happened to him, but he was different. She kept glancing at Caistlin, but he gave no tell as he led their horse onward. The only thing she heard was near imperceptible mumblings from him, as he spoke to himself, debating their way forward.
“How do you know we’re still on the track of the unicorn?” She whispered finally, growing bored of their monotonous journey.
He stiffened, surprised by the sound of her voice. “There are a few places in Greenwood where spirits tend to congregate. We’ve passed a few of the lesser ones without much luck. Tonight, we should reach another where I hope to have greater success. It is a guessing game we play, and we can be proven fools should our efforts have failed to draw the unicorn to any of them.”
“If we fail?”
“You should pray we do not,” he said, not looking back.
After those ominous words, she did not continue the conversation, letting it die. Hours passed, and nothing changed. More trees, more shadows, occasional glints of light from the moon, more buzzing insects.
Then, she saw something. It was no dancing bush, no silhouette of a tree, but a gleaming wisp of white. A tuft of fur, snatched on a branch seemed to gleam as a ray of moonlight cascaded through the branches and befell it like an angel proclaiming a child as a hero. Dylon was continuing on, having missed it, same with the rest of their party. It was no ordinary fur, it was white as snow, even in a dirty forest, ensnared amongst branches and prickles. Gwynfor felt drawn to it, to its beauty, it seemed ethereal, or perhaps extra real.
She could stay her mouth, refuse to announce it and let their group pass. Perhaps, they would encounter no further evidence of the spirit, and she would spare its life without any effort. But, she thought of her moth and pad, of Lydia, of the Red Wraiths. They depended on her, Dylon held their fates in his palm upon which her decisions were paramount. She sighed, and felt her very nature curse her, as she said, “Wait.”
At the same moment, Caistlin held up a hand, and stiffened as their horse stood very still. “What’s that?” There was an edge of fear to his voice, one Gwynfor had not ever heard him with.
Dylon looked up sharply, hearing the same tenor caught in Caistlin’s throat. “What are you speaking–”
There was a sharp twang sound that echoed through the woods.
Their horse whinnied and reared onto its hind legs, bellowing primal pain throughout the dark forest. Gwynfor failed to hold on and the world became a dark blur as her vision toppled. She felt air whistle past her, then her back slammed against the mulch of the floor, and a sharp pain cracked through her. Her vision blurred and fuzzed, and her head rang like a bell.
Through the ringing, she heard snarls and wails and cries, like the high-pitched whine of a tea-kettle. She scrambled to her feet, and in the dark saw shapes scurrying around. Light flashed into existence, as both Dylon and Caistlin held out their itterfire and they burned brighter than normal, casting away shadow and drawing color from their surroundings. About a dozen small little humanoid figures danced out from the darkness, their skin sunken and pulled across harsh features more ratlike than human. They bared pointed yellow teeth, with too many rows, like a shark’s maw, and had bulging yellow eyes. Their skin was mottled greys and browns and greens, and they held wicked looking weapons made of bone and stone and wood. Goblins, awful little denizens who roamed in clans and who still claimed the untamed wildlands.
Dylon was bounding forward atop his horse, his sword drawn as he leaned in the saddle and cut down two of the creatures with a single swing. Three more leapt onto his horse and spidered across it, gnawing and gnashing at the horse hide as they scrambled up. Caistlin had drawn a sword from the cane he propped himself up with and lashed out a goblin of his own, beheading it, and sending a smatter of blood across the dead leaves.
Gwynfor didn’t have time to see what the other two were doing, as one of the goblins snarled its way at her, spittle falling from its cracked lips as its tongue, long and spindly, lashed across its upper mouth. It held a pointed spear. Gwynfor, from the folds of her cloak, drew her own spear, and found it had cracked from her fall. All that effort, utterly wasted without point. The goblin advanced towards her, with a guttural scream, jabbing its weapon at her. Gwynfor pirouetted to one side, barely avoiding the strike. With a broken haft of the spear, she slammed it into the goblin’s side, sending it careening back. It was a spindly thing, somewhere between two and three feet, and her strength was enough to launch it a meter. It landed with a crack against a tree.
Her victory was short-lived, as pain flared through her arm. She spun, and spotted another goblin, barely on the edge of light and shadow made by the itterfire, a sling in its hands. The rock which had struck her bounced down a little gulley Gwynfor had missed, and had she stepped there, would have spelled doom for her. Gritting her teeth, she charged the goblin as it loaded another stone into its sling. She had to kill it before it killed her. It threw the stone, she danced aside too slowly. The stone struck her in the chest with enough force to wind her and force her to stumble. She fell hard against the ground, feeling the burn as she slid against dirt and rock and litter. She heard a gargle of happiness from the goblin as it prowled towards her. She hurried to her feet, fast as she could manage, but knew there was no use. She was too close, the goblin too fast. So, instead, she rolled to her back and kicked forward with as much energy as she could muster, relying purely on faith her timing would be right.
It saved her life. Her kick caught the goblin right as it leapt at her, and sent it sprawling back. Gwynfor kicked up leaves and stones as she came to her feet and charged the thing, bashing it in the head with another kick. She heard the sharp crack of bone and saw the light in the creature’s eyes glaze as it was flung five feet away, its sling and dagger falling limply to the ground. She snatched at the dagger–and realized it was far too nice to be a goblin made implement. She shivered at the thought–and stored it in the folds of her cloak. A much better weapon than a mere sharpened stick.
When Gwynfor looked back, it was over. The goblins lay dead or dying on the floor, and blood reeked across her nostrils. Caistlin was standing now, looking down at the corpse of their horse. Gwynfor felt a pang for the animal. Its neck had been slashed open and the culprit for the wound was struggling beneath the horse’s weight, the little arms failing to push the animal ten times its size from it. Caistlin walked up to the goblin, and with one firm movement, crushed its skull under his boot, sending a spatter of brain and liquid oozing out from him.
Gavin was nursing a cut across his arm, and Vericho was leaning against a tree, his face plastered with sweat as several bad looking cuts bled from his legs. Dylon looked fine, as he observed the battlefield himself from atop his steed. His horse bore wounds as well, but it seemed its hide was made of sturdier stuff than the other horses. Gwynfor wondered if it might have some spirit blood in it.
“Caistlin, status,” Dylon said.
“One horse dead, injuries for two of us. Vericho might be dead weight for a bit of time.”
“He is not,” growled Gavin.
Caistlin shrugged. “Won’t be able to walk well with how shredded those legs look.”
“And you won’t be able to keep up either without your horse, nor will the girl,” Gavin said, jabbing a finger towards Gwynfor. Gwynfor ignored him, and began to creep along the edge of the road, towards the little tuft of fur she had seen.
“What would you suggest, mercenary?” Dylon asked, staring at Caistlin.
“Take one of their horses, and either the three or the four of us continue.”
“You can’t be serious!” Gavin spat. “He ain’t dead, he ain’t even close to it. He can ride just fine in a saddle. Give him a few days and–”
“We may not have a few days to let him recover. We are on a time crunch, and if I recall, I am the one paying you. It is up to I to make our decisions here.”
“What’s the girl doin?” Vericho asked, speaking for the first time, his voice sounding strained.
All of their eyes turned to look at her. Gwynfor ignored them, and plucked the tuft of fur from the bush. When she did, a little jolt of warmth flowed through her. She turned, looking back at them, holding up the hair. “I think I found our evidence of the unicorn.”
