True Fire

Chapter Three

The tall soldier grabbed Megan and whipped out a knife. It stung as he pressed it to her throat. A droplet of hot blood welled up and trickled down her skin.

A hooded archer stood forty yards away, his weapon trained on them. He was slender and a good few inches taller than Megan. A dark green cloak flapped in the breeze, revealing mud-stained boots and trousers underneath. Leather and wool, no metal. He wasn’t one of the soldiers.

‘Let the girl go.’

A woman’s voice? Megan peered at the figure. There was a hint of female curves beneath the loose clothing, a glimpse of smooth skin under the hood.

‘Did you hear me?’ said the woman, drawing her bowstring back an extra inch. ‘I said let the girl go.’

The soldier had another knife stuck in his belt. He’d left Megan’s hands free, reasoning – rightly – there wasn’t much her fists could do against metal, but his limbs were only covered by leather. There were plenty of gaps though which a blade could cause a lot of damage. Megan stretched out a hand and eased out the knife, fearing any moment the man would notice and draw his own knife across her throat.

She got the blade clear and took a firm grip of the handle, then tensed, preparing to strike. The woman’s head flicked downwards, attracted by the motion. The soldier’s breath warmed Megan’s temple as he peered over her shoulder. Megan thrust, hard as she could.

Blood sprayed on to her hand as the knife ripped into the man’s thigh, provoking a scream that almost deafened her. She wrenched his arm off her neck and scrambled away from him. She got no more than a step away when his fist crashed at the side of her head.

The world went haywire. The ground swapped position with the sky a hundred times in a second. Dirt filled her mouth. Megan tried to push herself up, but a boot thudded into the small of her back and pinned her to the ground. Something split the air above her head. The pressure against her lessened. She looked up to see the soldier toppling to the ground, an arrow embedded into his eye socket.

Megan clambered to her feet, spitting out soil and rubbing her bruised flesh. She turned to the woman, intending to thank her, only to find an arrow trained on her. She yelped and took a step back.

‘Who are you?’ demanded the woman, advancing on Megan, her aim unwavering.

‘I thought you were helping me.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘This is my family’s land; I ask the questions.’ Actually it ended at the river, but if the woman wasn’t going to obey the rule of rescuing, Megan could fudge the technicalities of property ownership. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Eleanor of the house of Endalay, Countess of Ainsworth, Baroness of Laxton and Herth, First Lady of Kirkland, Overlord of the Spice Isles and Defender of the Southern Lands. And you?’

‘Megan.’ And, because she was feeling conspicuously under-titled, she added, ‘Of Thicketford. What are you doing here?’

‘I saw the smoke. Did the witches touch you?’

‘What?’ said Megan. ‘Those aren’t witches.’

‘Yes, they are. And did they touch you?’

Megan shook her head. ‘They can’t be. The priests defeated them. My grandfather defeated them.’

‘Look at the tattoos,’ said Eleanor.

Megan glanced at the dead men. Their faces were inked with a multitude of designs: whorls and waves, suns and moons. None of them was the forbidden symbol, the symbol of the witches.