1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of Deception: Book #4, Chronicles of Marsdenfel

Year 253 of the Bynding - @ Skulls' Pointe - Harvestime, part II

A/N: Sorry for the delay. My computer's "brain" died. It's been repaired—the dead part replaced—so you might say it's been resurrected. :-) Thanks for your patience!

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My wet dress chills me as I run along the dirt path to the pointe, the only place without the fence built specifically to prevent this. It’s far enough away from the cave dwelling that the staggered guard, set to prevent this very thing, should be enough to stop any of the rescuees from getting that far.

But I learned long ago to never underestimate a person’s will to die.

Memories of Cousin, of Onlé, of my too-young self flash through my mind, distracting me from the disconcerting dizziness and physical churning in my stomach. There have been others, but…

As much as I hate what’s about to happen, it won’t haunt me. Strangers never do.

The boulder of the pointe juts from the earth to several times my height. I don’t turn aside for the start of the stairs that go crossways along the side. I leap up and grab the step above my head, yank myself up, and roll to my feet—an efficient motion I’ve perfected with practice.

But I forgot to account for my condition. My vision blurs, and I scramble to twist around and grip the edge of the stair as I gag. My throat and mouth burn, and tears sting my eyes. Creator that is, I can’t afford this, right now!

Aldrik takes the stairs from their start and takes me by the arms, which I realize are shaking. He efficiently picks me up as if I’m getting pulled from the battlefield during a lull. I’ve done the same too often to fellow fighters to take offense.

And Aldrik carries me up the staircase with strides that stay surefooted even as the stairs narrow and get more uneven, toward the top. He leaps the last few, to the top of the bolder, and sets me down as Cappie joins us.

“They can splinter our magic and our bodies, but we needn’t break!” I blurt in seafarthen and drach to the one who leads the group in fury and body language, before I process past the multicolored bruises to recognize the neck tattoo of a sylvanné from across the ocean. I flinch and switch to the dialect of felvish particular to the region her ornamentation indicates.

Sixteen rescuees are ahead—five of them furious, four fearful, seven lethargic. The furious ones would be who forced past the guards, probably dragging some of the others with them, while some came along just for want of an option they think better.

Aldrik fortunately has enough sense to take his cue from Cappie and me, and he stays put rather than trying to step towards the suicidal rescued slaves. I don’t let myself look at him, for fear that he won’t believe my commiseration genuine…and for fear that he will.

The sylvanné’s glower zeroes on me with a sneer. “What do you know of breaking, woman?”

Even with what they’ve done to her, she has no idea what agony is. I hold my arm out to Cappie. “Snap it.”

Aldrik jerks. “Tuelzi—”

I whirl on him too late to stop him from using that name, but I strike him anyway. Curse it, he’s a king. He knows how dangerous the shadow game is!

He seeks to restrain me, which turns the event in to a full struggle of knees and elbows and teeth.

Lightheadedness washes over me, and I promptly thereafter find myself on my stomach, Aldrik sitting on my back and holding my arms. He adjusts his grip to put my wrists in one hand, and he turns my head to the side so I can breathe easily. I buck experimentally, but it’s as fruitless a motion as I expected. “Alder.”