one
Dawns glowing streaks are plastered against the sky, I look down into the jar- enough barbait root powder to make it quick; if a bit painful. I stare at it until my eyes hurt, then in a fit of rage, slam it down- shattering the jar and its contents.
I am a coward.
Valena, Laune, Syllar, High general to Otinio II, Mycenae warrior, Coven member, coward. Angry tears swell against my lower lids. My heavy breaths echo in my head. Pulling on my cloak, I trudge out of the palace gates. If not for the wine corks left by drunk nobles and smouldering runes in the cobblestone, you might think the grounds deserted. They’ll usually be up for late afternoon and party through twilight, no doubt they’ll make me join them in an endless cycle of engaging with one after the other of people ‘you really must meet’. It's not all that bad really, so long as I keep my head down and keep near the food I'm fine.
The heavy grated iron slams shut behind me. Even the rioters have gone home, staying well clear of the faeries who love to wreak havoc in the early hours of day. I don't know where I'm going and I sure as hell don't care. The inked runes trailing up my neck shine, almost as brightly as the prospect of Linea not knowing my absence. That is- if i return.
A litter of elderberry clusters and makeshift tents mark the end of the forest the track to Chestyr lies behind the abandoned clutter. Chestyr being the main hamlet, bright with meadows and fields. It's people are far from comparison- stripped of food, they hunt and survive with what little magic they possess. Magic is a rarity nowadays. Even in the centuries before, the Mycenae warriors never had a large quantity of mages, but 5 years or so ago the majority of magic vanished.
The people of Chestyr believe that king Otinio bargained using their magic in some sort of compromise with Lucales leaders to prevent war breaking out. Peasants rally beneath the palace walls every night. Truth be told, people became too reliant on what magic they had. Leaving them stuck without it.
To the right is the dusty road leading to Lucales outer border. The dirt path is defined by the years footprints and animal tracks. It's a laborious trek on foot but something different than the cabins of Chestyr.
I am one of the few respected people accepted by both the nobles and peasants. It wasn't always that way. But I guess my position and the food snuck out of the palace had something to do with it. After a while they even invited me to have space on the Coven. Having no magic, I can only presume they wanted me as a sort of ambassador from the castle. Surprisingly the king agreed, wanting to ‘uphold and unite the morals within the people.’
Pixies skitter across the road infront and the trees have started to filter the light above my head. A pond trails to the side of the road-which actually looks like a road now. The water is stagnant, slow with no ripples I stare at my reflection and laugh sadistically, I look frightening to behold. My ebony hair rustling against my elbows, sleepless rings circle my eyes, my eyes remain the same, the light blue that all Mycens possess peering darkly from under my hood. Still in my blouse and breeches from the day before. I splash the water as if to wipe away the unsightly image, and leave.
What was once full of spring saplings has progressed into sturdy hawthornes. Struggling to find a foot- hold- I heave myself onto the thick bough of an oak. A low roar echoes far to the other side of the path, even so I touch my hand to the hilt of my sword: Mycenae steel is sought after by all kingdoms. It's tradition to craft yourself either a sword, dagger or axe at the age of womanhood. Mine, made at my 13th autumn, curves from the hilt , filed in to a deadly blade, it's on the border of being a dagger, but it's easier to carry and I don't mind getting up close before I slit a throat or two.
The roars are silenced and as if to fill its place an eerie humming circulates the forest. I hear twigs snapping on to the other side of the road. Flattening myself against the branches, waiting, listening.
A boy. A small boy, no older than eleven, maybe twelve crashes into the copse, halting wearily under my tree. he has muddy brown hair and has cuts all over his arms. The humming has crescendoed to an almost unbearable volume. The boy panics, snapping a stick from a nearby tree- shaking as he stances. Something about him is off but I ignore it, a purple shadow looms through the trees. A pyxos.
Even Mycenae warriors know better than to fight with pyxos. Sewn with fine capillaries onto it's gnarly body are the faces it reaps. Each one a different level of shock, depending on how fast they realised their inevitable and gruesome death. I draw my hood tightly over my head. Usually, pyxos tend to leer in shadows waiting to pounce. This boy seems to have a death wish- leading a pyxos this far from it's lair, what was he thinking.
The boy, trembling, rushes forwards, yelling like a madman. A grotesque hand clamps onto his neck before his stick even comes into contact. His eyes bulge and what i think is sludge drips off the pyxos’ fist.
“foolish human, you thought you could kill me." it laughs gutturally. Raising it's other hand to snatch his face. I jump off the branch, thrusting my smaller dagger firmly into its head. It roars in anguish turning, dropping the boy. “Who dare bring down the wrath of a pyxos!"
It turns its head and spots me,”Mycen, what wonderful eyes, such a great addition to my collection it would be.”
I unsheath my sword, the runes sparkle across it in the early evening rays. This should be over quickly. The hovering pyxos lunges, grabbing blindly. I dodge and fall to it's right. Stay in offence. The pyxos turns and this time I feign a lunge and pull back, not fast enough. It clips my shoulder ripping my scarlet cloak and sending me onto the floor.
The boy shouts at me behind the pyxos,“Lookout!” I roll to the side just in time it's claws that turn out not to be claws, instead human canines hit the forest floor centimeters away from me. I leap up only to be thrown backwards by it's glowing fist. I hit a tree and feel blood trickle on my neck
I'm angry now, I charge forwards sword raised and stab it through the open mouth hole of a Calinamese man in it's chest area. It hisses, makes a feeble attempt to claw at me and topples to the ground. Dead.
If it took the general of the Mycenae to kill a pyxos- barely- then that boy had no chance. I turn to him and it dawns on me, he's South-Lucalean, the telltale signs are all there white allies from the north have light brown hair and pale skin. Their southern counterparts like him have mud brown hair golden eyes, and that stance he did when preparing to fight the pyxos is standard training. Although Otinio managed to forge an ally out of northern Lucale. Southerners have always remained our mortal enemies.
"You shouldn't be here," I almost growl at him, "leave." the boy scurries off into the trees.
I smile and follow.
