Tales of the Five Kingdoms

Irsa of Makurov (Part One)

He didn't even appear to be that old. Maybe close to forty at the most, but Irsa would've put gold marks on him being younger. There were stereotypes about Althandi that they always looked younger than they really were, but Irsa heard youth in Rex's voice. It was just that he carried himself like a veteran of decades of warfare.

"Put up your hair," Rex ordered. "It'll get you caught up when you need to move."

Irsa frowned. She'd been about to, but now she wanted to leave it down just to spite him. Bowing to practicality, she produced a tie from her pockets and used it to bind her auburn hair into a bun. There was too much of it to get it all under control, so she was left with lengths of it framing her face. Good enough.

"I work best alone," Rex went on. "If I was of a mind to take on help, I'd ask for it, and I'd ask a hunter or a forester. Not a village girl."

It was real hard for Irsa not to roll her eyes, so she didn't bother stopping herself. She held up a clenched fist and flexed her arm to display her bicep. Irsa was awfully proud of her biceps. "Do I look like a village girl?"

"Put that away before you hurt someone. You know what I meant."

"Do I, now?"

"My problem isn't gender. It's experience. Best fiend hunter I ever knew was a batty, old granny from Leyrshore, and she didn't need excessive protein to bring down her marks." He tapped a finger to the side of his head. "She had brains. Outsmarted them. Knew what they would do before they did it, and you don't get there with... admittedly impressive arms. You need to know the fiend to kill it, and you don't know fiends like I do."

"You haven't even proven it is a fiend," Irsa said pointedly. "Half the goodfolk think it's a rabid fangblade."

"Fiends do what they do for a reason. They're cunning, and when you've hunted them as long as I have, you start to be able to feel the cunning behind the things they do. The ones who live long enough to make a nuisance of themselves are just as cunning as men, if not more so. You ever see a fangblade do something like that to its prey? Even rabid beasts eat what they kill, and they don't carry off shepherd boys and little girls without leaving a drop of blood behind. Or leave tracks like the ones your headman showed us. It weren't no big cat."

"Fair enough, but just so you know, Altieri call village leaders the mayor. Not the headman. Your way sounds like an executioner."

Rex looked her square in the eye and didn't blink. "Who else would carry out justice but the village leader?"

Irsa honestly didn't know what to say to that. She turned away from Rex and peered out into the clearing. The trick with putting snow in your mouth was something she'd heard of but never tried before. She stuffed some in, not wanting to be the one to give away their position and get nagged at for it. It was uncomfortably cold, but the snow carried a faint flavor of juniper from the undergrowth, so it wasn't so bad.

"Why you?" Rex asked in a low growl.

"Pahrahn?"

"You don't need that much snow. Why'd the mayor insist I bring you?"

Irsa spat out three-quarters of her mouthful. "It's dangerous out here, like you said."

"I've been in the Altieri hinterlands before."

"Experience, remember? No one from outside the kingdom has spent near as much time in these woods as I have, and I know how to handle myself in a scrap."

Rex passed an eye over the chain hauberk covering her shoulders and upper torso. Her padded shirt underneath it wasn't as finely made as an armsman's, nor as protective as a knight's gambeson. Makurov wasn't exactly on the beaten path, so the only armor in the outpost was what could be cobbled together from scraps. Irsa had about the most complete set of gear out of anyone, and even hers was missing some key items. Other than the hauberk, there was nothing guarding her arms. No gauntlets, no helmet, and her heavy boots were about the only protection she had below the waist. Come to think of it, Irsa wasn't much more protected in her armor than out of it.