What Enchantment Hides - Book 1

Chapter 8

         Fallon woke up angry, got dressed angry, walked the corridors angry and went to the brothel. He stood outside and listened to the sounds coming from within. It turned his stomach with hatred. He stormed away and paced the hallways. When he looked around himself again, he was in the armory. He looked over the racks of weapons and his mind whirled through tons of incoherent thoughts. The image of Calya’s confidence came into his mind. She had the same defiance in her eyes that I see everyday, even with the emotions pouring out of her. He shook his head. He hated her. Hated her so thoroughly that he didn’t want to look at her again. And yet he was so intrigued by her that he couldn’t keep himself away. He headed back up the stairs. He reached the next platform up and saw two soldiers passed out, drunk, against the wall. “How anything ever gets done around here…” he murmured to himself, irritated with everything.

         He slowly opened Calya’s door and walked quietly in. Her figure was outlined by the dawn just now coming through the window. He stared at her, not entirely sure why he had come. He looked at her face, peaceful and content in her slumber. Strands of hair hung in front of her face and he sighed heavily. He moved silently to the bedside and moved the hair out of the way. He looked at her small, innocent and fragile frame lying before him, shook his head in frustration, dragged his hand down over his face and removed himself from the room. He went down to the food hall and sat down to eat. Another man slid next to him with his breakfast.

         “So, Fallon. She really is the missing princess of Kezna, isn’t she?” He licked his lips. Whether from his food or his thoughts, Fallon was unsure.

         “What is it to you?” Fallon responded coldly.

         The man laughed obnoxiously and clapped his comrade on the back with a large, heavy hand. “Brother, you have obviously looked at her. You are in her room alone with her on a regular basis. The men have also seen you with her through the window from in the courtyard.” Calya’s guard shot him a lethal, venomous glare, warning him to cease speaking. The other was too oblivious, because whatever images danced in his mind were much more interesting than the line he was currently crossing. He glanced over and bellowed out another laugh, more hearty and deep than before. “Don’t look so annoyed! You cannot tell me you don’t know that the men stand in the courtyard while she changes and washes herself. Ah yes,” he said mostly to himself now. “The brothels get old and stale after some time, but that… that is true beauty in that window.”

         In an instant Fallon had the man’s tunic in his iron grip, lifting him off his seat. The look in his eyes was that of death as he brought the man’s face to almost touch his. Fallon’s voice was a low, terrifying whisper that could freeze the fires of even hell itself. “You bite your tongue, close your eyes, and never speak of or look at her again, or I will rip out your tongue and gouge out your eyes with my bare hands. Do you hear me?” Without another word, he heaved the man up and over the table, stalking out of the hall with murder on his mind. Those behind who had been eating, stared silently after him in muted confusion while the man who had been thrown over the table stood slowly to his feet.

         Fallon barreled through the walkways with consistent, long strides toward the princess’ room. He threw open her door to see her sitting on the bed, brushing her hair. She had a cloth beside her on the bed and a pot of water on the floor to clean herself. Walking over to her, he raised his hand as if to strike her. She stared him down. A burning rage poured from him and he dropped his hand and stormed out. He slammed the door shut and headed to the courtyard. There were a group of men standing together, chatting among themselves, and gesturing toward her window. One man made a crude comment concerning her and the others all laughed in encouragement and agreement. As Fallon approached, the men called to him and waved him over, intending to have him join them in their filthy revelry beneath Calya’s window. As one man turned to face him, Fallon landed a solid fist into his face, instantly dropping him unconscious to the ground, nose shattered and blood spattered across his features. The others were shocked and immobilized for a brief moment before going on the offense against him. Fallon drew out his broadsword and held it before him, ready for a fight. The courtyard went deathly still. Everyone focused their eyes on the rampaging man in black. The group of men was unarmed except for a few hunting knives and backed up out of range of his weapon. Suddenly, the soldier from the food hall came running into the courtyard, stopped short by the site of Fallon with his blade drawn.

         Hannon appeared behind him and put a hand on his shoulder, moving somewhat leisurely past him into the courtyard toward what appeared to be a demon personified. He calmly called to the enraged mercenary in that chastising and fatherly voice he favored with his second in command. “Fallon, put down your weapon.” Slowly Fallon lowered his sword and turned to face his commander. “Are you becoming soft?”

         Enraged, the young man lunged at his authority, sword raised once more, a scream of rage rising from his throat. It echoed off the stone structure around them. Hannon blocked his blow with his own blade in an instant. And quicker than anyone could comprehend, his foot landed a solid blow to Fallon’s gut, throwing him back and to the ground. Teeth gritted, he raised himself to his feet and held his weapon low, tip nearly touching the dirt and stone. The captain gave him a cold stare before speaking. “I want her dead. By your hand, Fallon. This is enough. I have allowed you your petty quarrels until now. You kill her, or I will kill you and her myself.” He gave one last icy glare, glanced around the yard at those watching, sheathed his sword and walked back the way he had come.

         Everyone held their breath, unsure if Fallon would accept the admonishment or if he would press the fight. He conceded, sheathed his blade and stalked off in the opposite direction pushing aside the soldiers he had challenged only minutes before with a grimace of revenge.

         Above the courtyard, Calya peered out her window anxiously. She had not heard most of what had happened, but from what she saw, there was nothing good to be expected. Her captor was completely out of control. She quickly washed herself, dressed, and tried to prepare herself for the worst. It did not come that day, or the next. In fact, she did not see Fallon at all for over a week. She was given one meal each day instead of the three she had been allowed. The change was under his orders, but he did not come himself at all. Her nerves were on high alert to the point of causing her insomnia. Any day now, she expected he or a different murderer would show up in her room for execution. Calya stared at the lit lantern in her room. She gazed in the mirror. “Then I will die with dignity,” she whispered to herself. “I am a princess.” She laid down in bed, but could only doze. Every sound put her on edge and every footstep in the hall made her heart stop. Eventually, though, she drifted off, her emotional exhaustion taking its toll.

 

         Cornelius rode hard, the unconscious and nearly dead elf strapped tightly to the front of his saddle. He rode a heavy draft horse bred for speed, endurance, and the weight it could carry. He needed both for the success of his insane plan. He knew he was much too old for stunts like this, but he had felt that way for two generations and it had not stopped him from doing reckless things yet. Maybe it never would. He did, however, feel sincerely lacking and inadequate in the way that he could bless the royal family with the ability to heal any ailment just shy of bringing the dead back to life, but he could not heal this man on his own. The way his magic worked was frustrating and at times made him wish he did not have it to begin with. All of his hard work had apparently been for naught. He had failed, and saving Kikarri was the only thing he could do to try to put right what he had been unable to foresee. Perhaps every nation on the map would have to pay for his inadequacy, but he would face that fact at a later time.

         He urged his horse faster. If he could make it to the tree line before they found him, he would be safe. He could imitate the concealment magic of the elves easily enough in a forest where perfection and accuracy were not as necessary. He risked a glance behind. Good. No one trailed him yet. A couple minutes later, he passed the tree line and seemed to vanish.

         It took nearly a week to reach Tant. He rode straight to Habbi’s home and banged on the door, yelling for his old friend to wake up. All around, people were coming to their doorways. It was rare to hear such a commotion in the middle of the night in this small village. Rare but not unheard of with Habbi and Ven being the most skilled healers in the Lowlands. Habbi finally opened the door, his night clothes rumpled and his face concerned.

         “Cornelius?” He blinked a few times to make sure his eyes were seeing things correctly.

         Cornelius pulled him to the horse and began untying Kikarii. “You have to save him. I do not care by which means. Just do it.”

         Habbi’s eyes were giant saucers in their sockets when he saw the condition of the elf he had helped before. The young man’s beard and shaggy hair were full of dried blood. His face was sunken and almost unrecognizable. The burns on his neck and arms were severe and hadn’t healed properly nor been treated in any way. “Oh no! Where did you find him? How could this have happened, old friend?”

         “I took him from Harta. Now hurry and get Ven!” The prophet raised his voice as he carried the elf inside. The magic that made the outside of the house smaller than the inside had always made him uncomfortable when he entered Habbi’s home. This night, he did not even notice it. The old healer scrambled unsteadily to Ven’s door and went inside to wake the younger man. Ven could not heal Kikarii himself, but the older man would need his help anyway. It had been a long time since he had used magic in this way. It aged him and took vitality from him. He had only survived this long because he had been a healer for the royal family and they had used Cornelius’ blessing to keep him healthy and strong. But the prophet was a dear friend who had helped him escape the steward after the queen’s passing. He owed him his very life. He made hand gestures to Ven and got to work, his lined face creased even more with concern and focus.

         Cornelius waited out on Habbi’s couch. He had made himself a cup of tea and sat down to rest. The ride had been hard on him. His energy was spent and he ached. Sipping his tea, he dozed off sitting up a few times before setting down his cup and reclining. He was asleep in minutes.

         By the time Cornelius opened his eyes it was nearly midday. He hadn’t meant to sleep so long. He looked around to see Habbi in the kitchen. When he hobbled into the room and looked up, Cornelius saw the toll using healing magic had taken on him.

         “I am sorry, Habbi. I should not have asked this of you.” And he did regret it. In his desperation, he had discounted the life of one friend for the life of another. With the consequences staring him in the face now, he was unable to justify the demand he had made when he lacked sleep and did not take the time to think through the cost of his request.

         The small healer waved a hand. “No need to apologize, Cornelius. I would have done it whether you had asked or not.” His aged face was more creased, even sickly looking and pale. His eyes seemed more sunken and, in a way, dulled. He moved much slower, as if he ached all over. Yet he smiled a tired smile and came to sit next to the prophet, taking his time to adjust himself on the couch. “He will not die. That, at least, I have made sure of. He will never be the same, though. Not at all. I have helped with the healing of scars, but there is only so much I can do at my age. I’m sure you understand.” Cornelius silently nodded his head. “Ven will continue where I left off. I ensured his survival, but no one can promise that he will wake up again. Not possible. I have never seen injuries like his. You were right to bring him here, you were.” He stretched uncomfortably and yawned. Glancing at his friend, he chuckled. “Don't worry about me. I won't die this easily. Living just won't be as easy anymore. That is all. Ah. You need more tea. I won't have my guest drinking cold tea. Not at all.” His quirks resurfaced as he spotted Cornelius’ tea from the night before still sitting on a table next to the couch.

         The prophet reached out and stopped Habbi from rising. “Rest, friend. You've done enough.” He rose himself to take his tea cup into the kitchen. By the time he returned, Habbi was fast asleep, his chin resting on his chest. Again, the man felt a pang of regret, but he pushed it aside and moved the healer to his bed to sleep comfortably.

 

         Fallon walked into Calya’s room and watched her sleeping. The moonlight on her face ignited something inside of him. He knew not what to call it, but it was there nonetheless. He silently put a hand over her mouth. She struggled and swung at his face till he put a finger to his lips.

“Shh…” His eyes had an odd glint to them. Mischievous even. He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of bed. The moon was high in the sky. It was only a sliver, but still, it was there. He told her to get dressed, threw her the royal garments she was wearing when she was first captured and then left the room.

Hurriedly she pulled her tunic over her head and pulled on her leather riding breeches. She felt the hole in the shoulder and hesitated. Pain cut through her at the memory of her companions who had fallen. She warily struggled into her boots, tied her corset as best she could and tied her long hair back into a ponytail. Then she waited. The seconds seemed endless as she sat on the bed. Would she be killed? What was going on?

Fallon returned a few minutes later and closed the door silently behind him. “Take this.” He tossed her a cloak and a leather riding bag. She looked inside to find another cloak wrapped up and food on the top. She eyed him suspiciously. “Why is there food in here?”

“If we are ever going to get out of here we need to do it now.”

         “There is not much food.”

         “A complication I could not avoid.” He leaned against the door and listened. No sound. He opened it and looked down the hall on both sides. Since the door opened inward, he had a clear view. He beckoned her to follow. She crept out of the doorway and down the hall behind him. Suddenly they heard a noise, like dragging footsteps. The cold realization that they would be caught sent a sickening dread coursing through her veins. Then Fallon moved…

         Calya was shoved into a closet, the door closed forcefully, yet quietly behind her. Fallon stood outside and leaned against the door. One of his drunken comrades came stumbling by. He looked at the blank wall behind the young man, and stared, perplexed.

         “Fallon…” The man’s speech was a bit slurred. “Wahrn’t there ar door thur?”

Fallon looked behind himself and shrugged. “You need to stop drinking so much,” he said, sounding incredibly annoyed. The men had seen him mellow out to his old self over the past week, since he had stopped visiting Calya’s chamber. And instead of avoiding him and hiding their revilries like they had begun to do, they went back to letting loose in the corridors.

         “But I…”

         Fallon pushed him down the hall, with his heel against the wall, and told him to go to bed. He looked around before turning and opening up the door. Calya looked confused and shot a questioning glance his way. “Later,” Fallon whispered harshly, pulling her along without another sound.

         He followed the tunnels and stairways down to the lower levels. Calya could smell the stale air down there. She wrinkled her nose as they continued on. Fallon seemed to glow in the darkness as his adrenaline basically poured from him.

         They arrived at the armory and he roughly threw her in. Whatever was happening, he still obviously had no thought for her physical wellbeing. Fallon took his broadsword from the rack and a polishing rag; then his longbow and his quiver. He sheathed the sword, strapped on the quiver and shouldered his bow and looked for a weapon for his female captive. He clicked his tongue as he perused the racks. What can she hold? He picked a longsword and handed it to her. She took it and swung it in a reckless arc. She needs lessons. He thought to himself. Focus, Fallon. You have mere minutes to not ruin this entire thing.

         He found the last longsword sheath in the armory. Good. This blade will not be missed… Until they realize I have it, that is. He helped her with the strap at her shoulder. It was a back sheath, but it was the only one available and would at least keep it out of her way. I’ll have to teach her how to use this. Then he found her throwing knives in a chest and quickly handed them to her.

         His ears pricked. Someone was coming. Fallon pushed Calya into yet another closet; this time she landed on a pile of sandbags. He leaned against the door. Someone was using the underground route to avoid Hannon..

         Another drunkard stumbled down the passage pulling a girl from the brothel behind him. It was obvious he was headed to one of the cells where no one would find him. He was probably bailing on his night watch. That was good news for Fallon. The drunk man stopped short when he saw his comrade, unsure of whether to continue past or turn around because of everything that had gone on recently. The young mercenary looked up from polishing his steel and nodded grimly down the hall with an air of warning and the man continued. He no longer cared what they did. He was leaving. He was leaving right now.

         Fallon waited a minute before grabbing Calya from the second closet. Calya grasped his hand more out of desperation than anything else and followed him through the fortress. They arrived at the stables where he bridled both a black and a brown steed. Both his. The black stallion was not fully gentled. He had captured this one himself and was the only one allowed to work with him, so he would ride that one.

         Calya pulled herself up onto the brown horse and they walked as quietly as possible through the underground passages. The floor was coated with a thick carpet of dirt and moss for the purpose of muffling any exit or entrance. They bent low over their mounts’ necks when they neared the surface. The ceiling was lower there. Then Fallon dismounted and unchained a gate. He walked his horse through and looked around to see that the watch was in the middle of a shift change. Perfect timing. He waited until Calya exited the tunnel and then chained the gate again. Then he remounted his horse and it sidestepped. He fought with the steed to regain control, and then moved the steed forward. Calya followed cautiously, expecting, at any moment, to be caught. When they were out of earshot they kicked their horses to a gallop and flew over the dull, dark landscape. The sliver of moon was like a silver thread hung by a god in the sky.

         Fallon and Calya rode through the night, and by dawn she was exhausted. Calya looked like she would fall asleep riding. The young man stopped and beckoned to her to dismount. She was obedient. He told her to sleep while he kept watch. Within minutes she was breathing rhythmically, curled up under her cloak. He sat against a tree and rubbed the back of his neck, almost regretfully. Almost. He had never felt regret and he did not intend to learn the burdensome feeling now. He looked back at the horizon and thought about what he had just done. It was treason. It was insane. He looked at the dusky landscape. It was awesome. He was free. Free to do as he pleased when he pleased and where he pleased. Free. Looking at Calya, he glowered. Well, almost free. After a couple hours, he nudged Calya awake and told her to mount up and they continued on their way.
 

         Cornelius had spent the last week looking after Kikarii after they returned to his hovel from Tant. Traff had asked about his sister, but the prophet had no word on her whereabouts or if she was even living still. Gammir offered any assistance that may be needed, but there was nothing he could do. Kikarii was nearly out of his mind and only very rarely was he fully conscious. Only after they returned did Kikarii get his bearings enough to speak about what had happened to them all. Cornelius learned that Skara had died in the forest at the entrance to Barkit and as far as Kikarii knew, Calya had been stripped of her dignity and turned into a sex slave by her captor. The old man held back his rage at the brutality and bit his tongue so as not to upset the young man even more. The young elf wept at the memories and his failings. The tragedy and trauma of his captivity, the lack of sleep, food, and water had messed his head up and destroyed his ability to self manage his own thoughts or emotions. He was no longer needing to survive so he cried. Tears of bitterness, tears of rage, tears of loss and of regret. All of it flowed like a waterfall. It would take a long time for this to pass, but for now he was safe. The prophet was sympathetic and solid, protective and encouraging. The more Kikarii spoke, the greater heartache the prophet felt. He doubted the princess had survived or was even in her right mind if she had. He looked at his table, covered in maps, legends, and histories of the lands and despair began creeping up. He swallowed as if that could force the desperation back down, but it was there, a dark and brooding presence just below the surface. He had failed. He had failed her parents and he had failed her. He cursed his old age and stifled a cry of anguish. It was time to turn his attention to those who still needed his help. His years of searching for the heir of Kezna and the only opportunity the races had to survive were over. He would have to learn to let that go. It would take a long time, but the hope of redemption would eventually burn itself out and he would move on.

 

         Calya looked to the side to see the forest of Barkit. The same wood where Skara was struck down and she and Kikarii were taken captive. The redhead’s bright green eyes, sassy smile and ever-present, ornery anger that lingered just below the surface came into her memory. A tear slipped down her cheek and she pulled her steed to a halt. She stared, lost in memory and yet ever present. She stared ahead at Fallon who had turned his horse around and was watching her, waiting for her to continue. Anger filled her - a rage that could only be described in terms of what the mercenaries themselves participated in. She glared at her sadistic, dark captor then back at the trees. She steeled herself and urged her horse forward once more, no longer caring to even glance in the man’s direction.

         Fallon looked at the trees and then at Calya as she rode past him, confident and defiant, even with tears rolling down her cheeks. Something stabbed him inside. A slight twinge of… Regret? Shame maybe? He watched her and yes, there it was. The first hint of shame he had ever felt in his life. It was a hint- like breathing in the taste of something you have yet to eat. He shook his head, frustrated at himself, and urged his horse forward again.

         That night, they camped in a tight grove of trees a small distance from Barkit. Calya lay her stuff out opposite Fallon, with the fire between them. He rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, the mangled and deformed flesh unavoidably obvious beneath his palm. He shrugged and dropped his hand. Then he noticed Calya staring at him. He gave her a frown and walked away into the trees. He had to relieve himself and he wasn't going to do it where she could continue to stare him down. He finished his business and lifted his crimson eyes to the treetops in search of anything edible. There was no fruit, no animals. He let out a heavy breath. It had been days since he ate anything remotely resembling a meal. Calya was given all the food. But why? Why was he starving himself to feed her? Slaughtering her companion and convincing her I slaughtered the other one might be a good reason. As if I actually care. A few minutes later, he returned to camp. The princess was sitting by the fire poking it with a stick absentmindedly. The unafraid, stubborn, cold and unfeeling princess from the cell was melting away like ice in early spring. This is what I gave up my life for? No. I gave up my life to be free. And now I’m babysitting an adult. He arrived at the campfire, grabbed what little food they had left and proceeded to shove it into his mouth.

         He sat down near the princess and saw her shoot him an uncomfortable look without turning her head. “Alright, Calya. I know you hate me. That is obvious enough. And that really doesn’t matter presently because I am your only real source of protection at the moment. So why don’t we talk. Just talk.”

         Angered, the princess looked up at him bitterly. “Talk about what? What could you possibly want to know that I could tell you?”

         Fallon’s aggravation was brewing. He fought to keep it under control. “First, I don’t know how you are alive or why you were traveling in the Barkit woods with an elf and a knife thrower, neither who seem to have any connection to the royal family or the stewards. You are without a doubt the princess, but how you are still breathing after all these years is beyond me. Especially since you were supposed to be dead by now. So let’s chat.”

         Calya sighed and tossed her twig into the fire. There was no getting out of talking. She resolved to at least make this journey polite and bearable for as long as she had to be around this man. Clearing her throat she began. “I was taken as an infant to Dorsha. Far as I can tell, mercenaries came while the king was away at war in the southern Lowlands and took me to sell to traders. They succeeded and I was brought up as a fire dancer to the god Misheth in the temple arena. Kikarii was a bull dancer. The prophet of the royal family purchased me from the marketplace and revealed my true identity. I am headed back to Kezna finally to take the throne back from the stewards.”

         Fallon chuckled mockingly. “Do you have any plan at all to regain your throne from stewards who have held it since you were a baby? Do you know how to reign? Do you know anything at all? Or do you plan to walk up and ask for it politely and hope they acquiesce?” He watched color flush her cheeks and she looked at the grass, ashamed and embarrassed. He rolled his eyes at how fragile and soft and weak she was. “So just learn.”

         He said it so matter of fact that Calya was not quite sure if she had heard him correctly.

“What?” she asked.

         He shifted to face her more. “Just learn. I am here to make sure you can keep yourself alive so I can go off and leave you without finding you in the brush two days later, not that I'd technically have an issue with that.”

         Her eyes questioned him, skeptically. “Is that actually why you are here?” She was uninterested in this conversation, yet seemed to have no choice in the matter and so she figured that she may as well play along.

         He laughed a low, dark, chill-inducing chuckle. “No. I’m here because Hannon can no longer make money off you and he has been bothering me recently. But you can just learn.” He waved his hand in the air to emphasize the ease of the solution. “You just have to stay focused. Just make a plan, focus, and figure out the best way to make it happen. And refrain from dying after I leave. Though, I assume that is obvious.” He was getting bored with talking as if to a child and stood up. “It does not bother me one way or the other. Either you figure it out or not. I have nothing bet on this. I could leave you here tonight and I would not look back a single time. I won’t because the same place I am going is the same place that may help you. And I may need to use you as leverage along the way. So go to sleep and be ready at dawn.”

         Calya gritted her teeth and seethed silently. Even out here in the open, he knew he was in control since her luck would lead her immediately back to the fortress on accident. This seemed all a game to this man and she was merely a pawn to be used and disposed of in whichever way brought him the most profit. She grudgingly lay down and closed her eyes, refusing to face him. At first she had the slight sense that maybe he wanted to help. But then she realized he wanted her to learn skills to make his job of revenge and leverage easier. He really was a horrendous monster.

 

         Fallon lay in the dark staring up at the stars through the tree branches. The stewards had hired the mercenaries to kidnap the child. The temple priests paid the traders, the traders paid the mercenaries, the stewards paid the mercenaries. He knew the story well. When Fallon found her again, his men thought her and her companions were part of the battle they were fighting. When she tried to fight against him using the blessing of the royal family, it gave her away. He knew instantly who she was. Otherwise he would have let her go, being under the assumption she was a messenger from Kezna and therefore under the protection of the contract the fortress currently had with Orin. Not that he would not have enjoyed killing her either way. However, it would put a damper on the financial reward they would receive. Orin had a way of shorting Hannon on their contracts if he disapproved of the way things were going. That, however, did not stop him from having his fun with her and her companions anyway. He would have played with their lives and let her go, using the excuse that they were in a battle zone. What else could the steward expect? The mercenaries were hired to destroy small villages and prominent cities, after all. Those in Barkit fled or had been butchered where they stood. Where the survivors ran to did not matter. They had done their jobs, killed some survivors for fun and returned. Hannon’s goal had been to leverage Calya to obtain more money from the steward. However, when he realized that he was losing his highest ranking mercenary because she was getting into his head, he was much more willing to dispose of her and lose the extra coins than risk losing his perfect soldier. I am still the perfect soldier. Just not his perfect soldier. He knew Orin’s goal better than he had hoped. Harta was near the middle of the lands and the stewards were using them to clear a path to overtake all the nearby lands north and south of the border. He was annoyed with thinking about it all. It had been mere days and he was not himself. Maybe leaving was a bad idea. He glanced over at the princess. Maybe not. His mind was a mess of contradicting thoughts. He tallied their journey and how much further they had to travel. About another week before they reached their destination. Their food supply was basically depleted and their water was gone. They needed to find a village, and soon.

         The mercenary stretched and stood, looking around, taking in their surroundings. He eyed the trees in the distance, the ones near the entrance to the elven community. That is where the redhead fell. That is where this whole crazy situation began. What in Misheth’s name am I doing? Fallon thought to himself. The sun was peeking up over the horizon when he nudged Calya awake with his boot. She awoke with a start, her breathing ragged. She must’ve had a nightmare. Fallon couldn’t understand. He never really had them himself. He looked down at her a moment longer before walking to his horse. “Let’s go. We must hurry.”

         She dragged herself to her feet and pulled herself up, into the saddle. “Why are you in such a hurry, anyway?” Her confidence was returning. Her frustration, bitterness and anger at this terrible man was building and she no longer cared if he stayed to protect her or if he left her for dead.

         He glared at her as if she was the dumbest rock on the planet. “Do you really think that no one will be coming after us from Harta? Are you that naive?”

         If one more person looked at her like this, she was going to lose it. She was not that unintelligent. Calya swallowed her self-consciousness and annoyance at the fact that she always appeared to be four steps behind everyone else and kicked her steed into a gallop, heading northwest toward whatever lay there.

         Fallon followed behind for a time, every now and then, riding beside her. She was, for the most part, quiet. She thought about everything that had happened so far. She thought about Habbi and his maps. Habbi’s maps. That’s it! Pulling the memory up of his large, unfinished map that hung on the wall, she pieced it together in her head. “Ynhilay,” she said aloud to herself, but loud enough for Fallon to hear her.

         “Correct,” he said in response.

         The princess turned to look at him. They had been riding at a slow, easy pace for a bit now and he was walking beside her. “What is?”

         “Ynhilay. I assume you figured out where we are headed.”

         So she was right. She figured something out. But why were they headed there? They rode a little longer before picking up the pace again.

         Dark eyes scanned the horizon and aged features twisted into a devilish smile. He knew exactly where the two were headed and why. Did he think he could enlist the help of forest angels to protect him and shield him from them? As if they hadn’t cut them down like the lowest peasant? He was close and he knew it. He whistled to the riders around him and threw his hand forward to signal that they were close and should continue straight ahead. The group jumped forward as one large mass, their horses springing into a gallop simultaneously. There would be blood tonight.

         Calya lay out her cloak on the ground to sleep on since Fallon was determined to take the first and last watch each night. They ate nothing before settling down by the light of the very small fire. However, no sooner had Calya lay down than Fallon looked up, into the darkness, searching. The princess sat up and watched him, unsettling curiosity marking her face. Then she heard it. A slight rustling in the grass beyond the light, on the other side of the mercenary. She saw Fallon’s hand resting on the hilt of his large sword.

         Hannon appeared out of the darkness, alone, sword untouched at his side. “Ah, Fallon,” he said, his voice carrying some failed attempt at fatherly warmth to cover his overwhelming rage at having been defied. “I have been searching for you.”

         Fallon spread out his arms as if to say here I am, a devilish smile playing on his lips. “Must have been an easy search if you already found me.”

         “That it was, Fallon. That it was,” Hannon responded twice as if the first time was to his soldier and the second to himself. “I’m quite disappointed at that fact, though. You used to be good at what you do. And now this girl,” he waved his hand in disgust and dismissiveness toward Calya as he continued, “is making you slow and stupid.”

         The soldier’s teeth gritted and his jaw tightened. “I guess that just goes back to your decision making, Hannon, now doesn’t it? If your top soldier and second in command can become slow and stupid so easily, what does that say about you as a commander?”

         The captain let out a strained and obviously very forced chuckle as he replied. “Come now. Are we going to stand here tossing out insults like children? Surely not. If you come back now, you will keep your position, rank, authority - all of it. No consequences. Provided you kill her now, of course.” He waved again as if batting a fly. “It should be quite an easy decision for you.”

         Calya looked back and forth between Fallon and his captain, unsure of what to expect. Meanwhile, Fallon stood stock still, thinking, Tough luck, sir. Eat dirt. A moment later, the rogue mercenary slowly drew his sword, placing himself directly between the princess and Hannon, the firelight glinting off his murderous expression and turning his blade a bloody orange.

         His officer seemed to consider his response another moment before acting as if this was the most anticipated reaction possible. “You always were incredibly impulsive, now weren’t you?” He drew his own weapon and stared him down. “You really want to do this, don’t you? Give up all your power, all your influence, all of your freedom for this lowlife wretch?”

         Shut up, was all Fallon could think. What he actually said was, “Am I the only one who dares tell you that you talk too much? If I was afraid of you or convinced by your exhausting speeches, do you think I would have left to begin with? If you want to be a politician, then put your sword away and run your mouth. But if you really are a man as you claim to be, then let us settle this like men.” If it was Hannon alone, Fallon was certain he could win, but he was not foolish enough to think his former captain had come alone to apprehend his top killer. No chance in hell, he thought. But he had tasted the smallest bit of freedom and he was drunk on it. So drunk he was reckless because he was not going to give that up for anything. Even if it cost him his life. It was not even a matter of protecting the woman. He was not going back and at this point, he was also not going to give Hannon what he wanted. Why? Well, just to spite him.

         The two men clashed suddenly. It was as if they went from standing motionless to interlocked without any movement in between. Calya cowered back a little further. A maniacal laugh escaped Fallon's throat as he fought, taunting and mocking his superior. The princess’ thoughts raced uncontrollably until they settled on one memory. She had been in this situation before. A similar situation at night. The princess steadied her breathing that she only now realized was heavy and ragged with fear. She checked the pouch on her belt. It was full. But did she have enough if she missed? Did she have enough if there were more mercenaries in the dark beyond the ring of light? All of these things ran through her mind in an instant as the two swordsmen clashed again and again in a deadly dance that would only end in blood and death. She had a second pouch, though. She hadn’t thought of it at the time, when Fallon handed it to her. She felt it and froze for a few seconds. The second pouch was full of throwing knives as well. It had to have been Skara’s. They must have stripped her of her weapons and valuables and brought them back to the fortress with them. She swallowed the sawdust lump in her throat and focused, again, on the swordfight taking place before her. It had only seemed like a few seconds, but they were already far from where they began. Calya removed a few knives from their leather bag and chose her target. A moment before she let a blade fly, she saw the shadowy figure of another man behind Fallon and then another a few feet away and another a few feet away from that one. She realized in an instant that they were surrounded. The shadowy figure behind the soldier slowly, quietly drew out his blade as Fallon was locked in close combat with Hannon. This battle was completely and thoroughly pre planned and rigged.

         In a moment, Calya changed her target to behind the clanging battle going on before her to the figure beyond. She let a knife fly. It launched straight and sure, and was deadly accurate. The man beyond the light fell with no more than a short cry. Hannon was distracted for a brief second, but it was enough. Fallon raised his iron lined boot and embedded it into the cavity at the lower part of his enemy's ribcage, lifting him off the ground and propelling him toward the hungry flames. The man hit the ground hard and heavy, skidding nearly two feet to the edge of the campfire. The hem of his tunic caught fire as he lay, gasping hoarsely for breath to fill his lungs. Simultaneously, he struggled to pull free from his emblazoned clothing. The other men surrounding them let out a cry, but Calya had already anticipated this and let knife after expertly wielded knife leave her fingers to hit their marks with incredible precision.

         One by one, the men dropped around the camp as Fallon approached the frantic captain, sword lowered in his hand, eyes ablaze with bitterness, scorn and a blinding hatred. The man’s cloak and tunic were burning brightly and he scrambled in the dirt to put them out and escape as he also fought to stand and regain his breath.

         “Die, you miserable maggot,” cried the soldier as the last horrifying looks of panic flitted across Hannon’s face. He knew he was done for. The moment Fallon took the opportunity to kick him, the battle was decided. His iron lined boots were made for this very reason. Hannon had them specially constructed for Fallon. He was, after all, his top killer, the perfect soldier, reliable and immovable. Until now, that is. The exceptions made, the favor given, the extra freedom granted had led to his downfall. And now, he watched as the demon of death came for him. With liquid smooth motion, Fallon spun the blade as he lifted it into the air, plunging it down into the abdomen of his opponent. If it had ended there, Calya would have been better off. She had never seen Fallon in all his power and wrath and, no matter how much she tried, she would never forget what came next. As if in a blind, possessed rage, He continued hacking the body of his former commander. The princess started screaming at him to stop, her voice high and filled with such a stark terror that for a moment it seemed to reverberate off of the trees and maybe even the dome of the sky itself. The young woman couldn’t stand to watch, but couldn’t pull her eyes away from the nightmarish scene. She screamed again and it seemed to cut through Fallon’s rampage. He ceased his butchery and turned to her, his face and clothing covered in gore and his expression one of such cold and unfeeling abhorrence. Calya lurched where she stood covering her mouth and turning away. She vomited uncontrollably onto the ground. She dropped to her knees and continued to heave.

         It was only then that Fallon looked down at the butchered, mangled flesh that lay beneath him and then around at the bodies of the men that Calya had downed by herself. Something burned inside of him. Not a hatred or disgust at her weakness or at those who had come to fetch him in order to cage him in a dank, cold cell for the rest of his life. No. It was a deep embarrassment. Such a deep, foundational, embarrassing shame that he couldn’t even look in Calya’s direction as he listened to the sounds of her heaving in the grass no more than three-and-a-half yards away. He was confused and uncertain of his next move. He dropped his sword and stared at his hands covered in crimson. It dripped off his wrists and fingers, making small spots in the dirt. He took a deep, steady, calm breath before crouching down, grabbing hold of Hannon’s mutilated and unrecognizable corpse and dragging it out of the light and toward a grouping of bushes a short distance away. He continued this until all the bodies had been removed. He then grasped a length of wood from the fire and walked away, into the night alone with his makeshift torch. Calya wiped her nose and mouth with her sleeve and stared after him, shaking violently. She curled up near the fire to try to ward off the internal cold and stared into the night. Sobbing, she lay still, her body and mind in shock as she tried to process the waking nightmare.

         Fallon walked a distance until he could just make out the campfire and then paced back and forth. He didn’t know what to do. What were these feelings rising up inside of him? Why were they there? How could he get rid of them? He had lost control so easily. If she hadn't been there, he would have been dead. He hated to admit that. That had to be why these feelings were presenting themselves, right? His miscalculation and recklessness almost cost him his life. He convinced himself of that reasoning and exhaled deeply. Eventually he lay down and fell into a very fitful, restless sleep.



 

         The sword hilt fit his hand perfectly as it had many times passed. He looked Jain in the eyes and smirked. The fear was like a tangible presence that pleaded with him. It begged for freedom… for escape. He ignored it. The flame in his eyes sparked to life as he took the brand from the fire. Jain’s stark terror was palpable, flowing out of his pores. It was so clear Fallon could nearly taste it in the air. His adrenaline pumped through his veins as he lowered the metal and prepared to take on the first victim of his cruelty.



 

         Fallon’s eyes shot open. He exhaled and sat up. Sweat beaded on his skin, chilling him from the night air. The cold sunk down to his very bones. His pupils narrowed at the smoldering fire. He looked around at the surrounding darkness, his breathing coming in heavy gasps. He looked over at the campsite in the distance, outlined by the sliver of moon hanging in the cloud-dotted sky. The sound of his breathing clouded his head as he rose and paced around, raking his stained fingers through his black hair. His eyes fell, and he shook his head, hoping to rid himself of the dark images in his memory. He walked back and laid his head down, willing himself back to sleep.

         He was wide awake again well before dawn. Scanning the landscape, he spotted wild fruits in the bushes and some well plants. He headed straight for a well plant and snapped off a stalk, letting the clear liquid pour out onto his sticky and blood covered hands. He tried to wash up as best as possible. He snapped off a few more stalks before his hands were decently clean and his face and hair were no longer stained or crusted. Then he moved on to the bushes nearby and picked the wild berries that grew on them. He spent about an hour gathering what little food he could manage before making his way back to where Calya lay, still curled in a tight ball like a hamster, beside the cold firewood. He quietly left the berries piled up on a few large leaves on the ground beside her and retreated to a reasonable distance.

         “Calya,” he called, quietly, coldly, feeling both extremely uncomfortable and more than a little frustrated. The princess shot up and gasped, her eyes darting around frantically until they rested on him. Fear entered her bright eyes. A fear he knew all too well. A fear he had reveled in too many times to count. That look. That hopeless, crippling terror that lingered from the events from the night before was what had fueled him most of his life. And yet, gone was the pleasure. Vacant was the thrill of his kill. Empty and seemingly useless was the skill in which he overtook the only man who could ever overpower or pretend to control him. However, he had gotten what he desired. Freedom. He cleared his throat awkwardly and gestured to the fruit on the leaves beside her. “You should eat.”

         Calya’s stomach turned again as memories flooded back to the forefront of her mind. She rolled away from the food and vomited again, the nasty bile making her feel even more sick. I need to get away, her thoughts screamed at her. I need to leave now!

         And then Fallon came closer to the camp, sat down far enough away to allow her some space, and bit into a large, blackish-green fruit, chewing while he watched her. He was so cold, so uncaring. Calya wished she had never agreed to leave with him. She wished he left on his own, or that she had simply fled and allowed him to be taken down by his own kind. But instead, she sat across from this monster, nauseated and terrified of what he was genuinely capable of.