Sorceress

Chapter 15:

A spear is thrown at my shoulder, and gasping, I only just manage to dodge it, but in that time, I am roughly pulled down from the tree, and dragged to the Icelandic noble. Yanking my arms away from the man grasping my shoulders, I pound across the glade away from the Vikings, desperately trying to connect with my magic, wildly attempting to suppress my panic and fear. Somebody kicks at my legs, and they buckle beneath me, causing me to tumble over, before my hands are bound, and I am dragged in front of the noble again. Breathing heavily, I am pushed onto my knees, and when I try to get up, I am hit around the head so hard that my head starts to ring, and the camp goes hazy before me. Camp fires and tents turn into a mesh of blinding pain and color. I snap back into focus when I am slapped around the face,

"How old are you?" the noble asks in a very clipped voice. I spit at him, but my head is yanked back by my hair. Screaming, I form the words through the pain,

"Sixteen... Winters," my hair is released, and my body slumps forward in a blissful escape from the pain.

"And what is scum like you doing here?" fury pulsates along my veins,

"It is my country," I try to get to my feet again, but am harshly shoved down again,

"That's where you are wrong. This is not your country, I saw it, I want it, it is mine." I feel like I am back at that night where Brea died, when clarity cleansed my mind, and everything become sharp and clear. Suddenly going slack, I feel the hands pushing me down momentarily release me in surprise, and I seize the opportunity, and rush to my feet. Kicking my captor in the abdomen, I pull on my magic, and the ropes binding my hands slip off. I run through the camp, screaming out to the forest. A brown hawk suddenly rises from the forest, the sunrise illuminating the silken feathers so it creates the effect of a phoenix rising from the ashes. Men suddenly reach out to grab me, and jumping backwards, I send a severe gust of wind in their direction, sending them flying backwards into braziers and tents. Following a weird instinct, I pick up a feather from the ground, and ask it to enlarge into an arrow; collecting a twig, I use my magic to fashion it into a bow. There is a row of tents between me and the next row of soldiers. I dip the arrow into a brazier, aim, and the tents burst into light. The hawk suddenly swoops down to me, as it starts descending, I scream out to it in gaelic, and it enlarges, until it is double the size of myself. Leaping upwards, I land on it's back, and collapse against soft feathers.