Oleander

IV. Marrow

The faint glow from the moon was guide enough for Yalira. Cloaked in the dark mud and draped in wind, she moved like a wraith over the rough land.

She had coaxed the boys to lend her a knife to help cut sprigs of heather and bore into the gnarled pine trees. Cato had been proud to lend the small bone blade to her, honored that it would be granted such high purpose from the High Priestess. It was not a mighty weapon, but it felt fierce, held tight in her frozen fingers.

Yalira did not fear the nightly predators that roamed this land, for they were the domain of moonlight, the creatures of Antala. But no matter the length of the lead, she knew there would soon be a different kind of hunter behind her. The thought of Andar following her trail was a spur to her sides. Purpose and fear pushed the gentle hand of sleep away. A half night's distance before his pursuit would be her greatest advantage.

Inky night faded with the fingers of dawn, the dreaded vibrations of hoofbeats rang from the earth. The scrubby cover of  pine and cypress afforded no shelter. Though Yalira had painted herself in dark mud to blend with the darkness, the growing light threatened to expose her. There was no place to hide. She ran. 

Outrunning a warhorse was foolishness. But with the hilly domain of the mountainous countryside, her goal was to outmaneuver. Swiftness, fueled by determination, carried her across the rockiest paths. Any obstacle that might deter a beast, Yalira put between them. Her legs screamed at the pace, breath burned in her chest. Her right palm bled from shallow scratches as she scrambled across the rocky terrain, her left held fast to the tiny knife. The mud-crusted fabric flew behind Yalira like a wild banner. 

There might have been a shout, her breath drowned out all sound. Endure. Endure. Endure. There could be no thought of the impossibility, the inevitable failure, the wolf at her heels. Too hasty in the ascent, Yalira stumbled, drawing her gaze to the path behind her. Andar's gray beast pawed at the silt restlessly, riderless. There was no sign of the man, until something grabbed at the swaths of fabric billowing behind her.

The loss of equilibrium sent them spiraling to the earth in a mad tumble. Without hesitation, without thought, Yalira thrashed, slashing wildly with bone-hewn knife. There was a sharp hiss of breath, she felt the tension and give of the weapon against skin, a spray of warmth. 

In the moment of chaos, prey had become predator. Though his knees had pinned her hips to the rocky hillside, her desperate attack had sliced across his cheek. The shallow laceration oozed freely, the blood bright against dusty skin.

Though Andar panted heavily above her, he made no move to staunch the bleeding. Through luck or fate or instinct, Yalira had managed to angle the blade where it might just dive beneath his breastplate. A belly wound would not kill him outright, but he would suffer towards death. Their eyes locked, she looked deep for fear, but there was only wary calculation.

Sweat and dirt stung at her eyes, but her hand was steady. Justice, her heart called as it pounded in her throat. And yet she could not move her hand. She knew where to cut, how deep. It was only one small push. She had seen seas and oceans of wounds in the past year. Yalira had bled to heal them. She had prayed and cursed and wept. 

Yours are the hands of the goddess. 

She could feel Thais' words in her ears. It had been a thoughtless motion to strike at him in their scuffle, but with thoughtlessness passed, she could not force her hand in this calm of the storm.

Her hesitation was time enough for Andar to twist from the blade. With an effortlessness that bespoke years of practice, he shifted his weight to roll them once more. This was not their wild fall down the slopes, but a controlled containment. Before Yalira could imagine her next move, she was rendered defenseless. The bone white of the blade, stained with blood, gleamed out of reach. His arms, her prison.