Drifted
The east wind brought with it a gentle reminder of home. If she listened closely, she could hear her mother calling her in from the garden with the promise of a snack. She and her sister would sit on the wooden porch, picking at the splinters and eating fresh flatbread that was baked in a herb-crusted oven. They would stick their toes into the pond below and tease the fish, playing out an enticing dance with the wild wriggling of bare toes. Their mother would sit beside them with her well-worn copy of Das’Huras, their mothers’ favorite religious text. She’d read to them the stories of their beloved Goddess while they finished their snack and lay their backs on the cool wooden slats, drifting into a lazy afternoon nap.
A sharp shift in the wind brought an ember against her thigh. She hissed and rubbed the scorched skin. The once raging campfire was waning. The few men still sitting beside it talked in a low timber, keeping to their groups and slowly retreating to their own tents. She watched as they drank and ate and talked. She adjusted, keeping her balance on the low, yet strong branch. The rough bark of the tree scraped against her back and pulled at her hair. She sighed and tried again to find a comfortable place to keep watch.
Giving up on her attempt to get comfortable, she lowered herself from her perch. As she walked through the camp, she caught the whispers. When the reinforcements from Kanavur arrived, she was placed in charge of their scouting regimen. They folded into the other men well enough, but they seemed to have little care for their commander. The whispers accused her of nepotism, of lustful manipulation, and worst of all, of pity.
She had to admit that the whispers had validity on the surface. She was young, only aged 16. As the daughter of a line of Wae, she and her family had access to a severance treasury and were afforded comfort and connections. She was also engaged to a decorated commander in the Kanamin infantry, who just so happened to be the heir to the Kanamin Wae. The whispers told no lie, as far as they cared, she was made of advantage. The only whisper that she would not tolerate, however, would be pity.
Her father preceded her as the commander of the scout regimen. He was an outstanding man, full of life and love. He had everything going for him. He was the reason she joined the combat academy, he was everything to her. Thinking of him brought that afternoon to the front, like a burning brand behind her eyelids. She stuffed it down, unwilling to relive it. She turned and watched them silently. She settled on the loudest of them all for a moment until he stilled and looked to the ground. Satisfied with their reactions, she went back on her path.
The river wasn’t too far from the camp. She scrubbed the ash from her leg and splashed her face with the cool water. She waited until the water settled and she watched the clouds gather around the moon. A shiver ran up her spine and she stilled, straining her ears against the rustle of the leaves and the calls of wildlife. Her mind was swimming, and her stomach churned. She slapped her hands over her ears once, twice, the cacophony surrounding her came to a crescendo, and then, the world went muffled. She breathed through a sharp pain and a wave of dizzy nausea, but it was worth it- she could finally think.
She gained her bearings and took inventory. She had left her chakrams and bow at the base of the tree. She had a small knife and a carefully wrapped case of arrowheads and leather strips. She mentally wept at how ill-prepared she was. If her hunch was right, she’d have to get to her bow. Shrugging off her woes, she began tracing her footsteps back to camp. She could hear the roar of her blood pressure in her popped ears, which only got louder the closer she got to camp.
Upon her return to camp, she was shocked to see that the only thing being done about the out-of-sorts wildlife was complaining. Had they not paid attention to her this morning? She was clear on the signs and dangers. She was clear, wasn’t she? Clearing her throat, she went to address her men.
“I am shocked to find that my regime has been struck deaf and dumb!” Her voice carried through them, snapping their necks around. She turned a pointed stare at the man sitting closest to her bow. “You. Your name is Ser’ras, right? Fetch my bow.”
The young man straightened and stared for a moment. His red-crystal eyes and shockingly white hair burned bright against his dark skin. She held his gaze, begging him to hurry. He moved to stand and she released a breath that she didn’t realize she was holding.
“Hold on!” Ser’ras jerked backward as the man that sat next to him yanked on his wrist. “Why can’t you get it yourself?”
Her ears burned in embarrassment. She needed to stay where she was. She could see the branches sway against the wind behind the camp. She had to stay put, she couldn’t give up her position.
“If you had listened to me this morning, you would know.” She couldn’t say it outright. It knows its name, it’ll come more quickly if they utter it. She swallows the anticipation and continues. “The time is close at hand. I need to stay where I am.” They both spoke loudly over the still chittering wildlife. He must know what that means. He has to know why she can’t move.
The man spits on the fire. “I checked out during your speech. I have more experience than you’ve had birthdays. I don’t need some Prilvir Waeran telling me how to survive.”
He looked and spoke like a weasel. Slick sandy-blonde hair, sharp eyes, and a nose that seemed to be long and flat at the same time. He pulled on Ser’ras’ arm again despite the constant flow of protest from the other man. Something about him sparked lava-hot rage in her chest.
“All the same, I’m the only one here with leather.” She puffed out her chest a bit. It was true. She had beaten one of these beasts before and earned her rank and her leather belt.
He went quiet and released Ser’ras’ arm. He took a long drink from his cup and stood. As Ser’ras ran past him, he raised his hand. A small root slipped around Ser’ras’ leg and toppled him to the ground. With a yelp, Ser’ras loosened his grip on the bow.
“What the hell, Rhena!” Across the fire, an older man with deep scars across his forehead leaped up. Rhena casually stood straddled over Ser’ras and plucked the bow off the ground. A murmur rippled through the camp, but none offered more assistance than a weary glance. Her company fell around her. The sway in the trees became more aggressive. It was waking up. Sweat prickled her neck and her pulse quickened. This fool is going to get them all killed.
SNAP
If pressed, she’ll tell of the pure terror that simple sound sent rippling through the camp. She’ll tell of how quickly the strong, rugged men at her command turned to her in horror. What happened next is a pure blur in her mind. She shouted orders, demanded the fire be snuffed. She held her hand out and willed for someone to toss her bow. One second her hand was light and untethered, the next her fingers curled around the familiar wrappings. She readied the bow in the dark, highlighted only by the moonlight.
She willed her breath to still and felt the too-hot air sweep over her whole being. She counted the creaks and cracks of the trees and named the distinct rustles of their leaves. After a moment, the threat seemed to be a trick of the shadows. All eyes turned to the clouds that threatened to cover the moon. The clouds completed their mission, casting the grove into the pitch-black unknown. Their eyes slid down from where the moon once hung to a new source of glowing light. Her heartbeat, once held high in her throat, dropped like a stone to the pit of her stomach. She was right, so gloriously, regrettably right.
A thunderous crack echoed around the camp as sharp claws dug deep into the trunk of a tree. It towered above them, glowing blue and green against the clouded sky. It was covered in gold, stuck to its hair were rings and wefts of it, and its horns were capped with it. Its ornate golden mask was stained red from where it cries tears of blood. It was a divine being, sent to battlefields by Bana’eraina herself. The Bana’censa, a soul collector.
