Anyta Sunday's Blog - Posts Tagged "f-f"
Wicked in the Woods
A Guardian of the Angels spin-off short story. This is part 1 of 4 - 5 that will give us a snippet of Leah's life before she arrives to Washington DC and is betrothed to Attic. . . .
Set in the early to mid 1800's in rural Europe near the Black Forest.
Wicked in the Woods
(Leah's Story, Part I)
--Zero--
THE TORCH TO HER LEFT BLEW OUT, smothering Leah in darkness. Light would make her way easier, but this was better—it drew less attention from the church guard. She descended two flights of steps, proving she'd committed each of her visits down here to memory.
The steps ended in the basement of the village monastery. Leah turned down the main corridor, made a left, and then ran her hands along the bumpy stone, counting the pillars she passed. Dust tickled the back of her throat and she rung out a cough, deepening it to make it sound male—just in case.
Her ears stretched, searching for sound. Hearing nothing but the slapping of her boots against the stone floor, she hurried her pace, tightening her grip on her bow.
She couldn't be too late already. She needed tonight. Needed a win.
Leah slunk around the corner to her left, drawing out an arrow from her quiver, warming it in her hands with a prayer. Let me aim true. Let me score perfectly.
A muffled cheering came down the corridor, and she let out a relieved breath. She made sure her brother’s cloak was on tightly and the hood hung low over her face, but not low enough to compromise her vision.
She’d fashioned a beard from the hair she’d cut from her brother earlier and had tied it around her face. With gloves to hide her long feminine fingers, she could pass as a man. A young man, maybe, but it just had to be enough to get in and win.
She stroked her bow once more and pushed the end door open, blinking in the torch-lit underground arena.
A weighty male, with beads of beer dripping off his chin, slouched on the wall. He growled. "Password."
Leah clapped three times palm to palm, then knocked her knuckles against each other. "Name's Zero," she grunted, striding past. "I’m here to win."
“Herwald is just starting on his last round. He’s the favorite to win.”
Leah glanced over his shoulder across the room at the large man pulling back his bowstring. He let his arrow sail a fine arc to hit the one of the ten targets set up at the other end of the arena. His aim was good. Very good.
But she was better.
“You sure you want to lose your money against that?”
She inclined her head and he beckoned her over to the sign up stall.
A roar from a pulsing crowd blew over her as she threaded her way through them to the sign up stall. She slapped a pouch containing the last of her money onto the table. She’d have it back before long. She added her name to the list of contestants. Three of the five she'd gone up against before. They'd be no match. The fourth sounded familiar, but she couldn't place the face. No doubt someone Zero had won against. The fifth name glowed on the paper. The handwriting much too . . . elegant for what was usually seen down here. Herwald Wolfe. The name made her shiver, and she unconsciously tugged her hood lower.
Another swell of cheers came from the spectators. She glanced back to see Herwald hit the middle of the last target. She tried not to feel the fear that threatened to make her arms shake and the back of her neck prickle. She was better. She had to be.
Within a quarter of an hour, it was her turn. She was the last to sign up, and it was all or nothing now. If she lost this round the winnings went to Herwald. And if she won . . . well, then her brother and mother would have to pay their greedy landlord. It wasn’t enough that they tended the land and farmed it and gave everything it produced to him. He wanted their mother and kept increasing the rent until she’d have to give herself to him.
Leah wouldn’t let it happen.
Her name “Zero” was called out. With a flip of her stomach, she pushed her way to the front.
The crowds whistled and shook their hands in the air. She heard some snorts.
“The guy won’t stand a chance.”
“Herwald has it in the bag.”
Nevertheless, people seemed excited, drawing in closer to the front and rushing whispers to each other.
Just ten shots, then she could take the money and go. She wouldn't have to care about this again until next week.
Herwald folded his arms at the side, his bow slung over his shoulder, and smiled as Leah placed her first arrow. The smile was arrogant and . . . and something else. His eyes looked too green. His build almost too tall.
The shiver rolled off her and she concentrated on the first target, set low to the floor.
Thwampk. It hit the center alongside Herwald’s.
Someone in the crowd pushed forward and Leah darted out the way of his shove with easy grace. She latched her gaze once more on her target, and shot.
Thwampk. Again. Right in the middle.
Thinking of her brother and mother, she excited herself into a frenzy of quickly timed and beautifully aimed hits until only one of the targets was left.
If she hit it with precision, the money was hers.
Sweat matted her light blonde hair to her forehead. She could feel it rolling down to her temples and making her beard loose. Do this quickly and get out!
Herwald, closer now that she’d reached the last target, growled and if it weren’t for what was at stake, she might have let it warn her.
Instead, she let out a grunt and loosened the last arrow. The hit was fruitful, shaving a layer off Herwald’s own arrow.
Cheers whooped and Leah, keeping her hood low and gaze cast down, could see the crowd's feet jumping in their hurrah. They cheered on the man “Zero” that they thought had bested the large, intimidating Herwald. But how quickly would that cheer turn to distrust if they found out Zero was a woman? And barely nineteen, at that.
Perhaps they would think her involved in witchcraft and punish her? Because no ordinary woman—peasant—could do what she did.
She swallowed the fear that always came after a win, rallied up her confidence, and took the money offered to her.
Quickly escaping the arena, she made it out of the monastery and to the path that fringed the forest. It was a flat path but dropped away into rolling hills toward her left. The village, nestled into the valley below, was bathed in the moonlight, and from here she could just make out a corner of her home.
Her win jingled at her belt, and she let out a relieved sigh. Mother was safe this time.
A snapping branch came from somewhere behind her. She twisted and peered down the dark path and into the shadows pooling at the base of the trees, untouched my moonlight. Another snap.
An animal. Of course.
It had to be.
Except it felt off. Different. More calculated. She blinked hard, swinging off her bow and reaching over her shoulder for an arrow—
Thwampk.
She heard it before she felt it.
Then pain tore through her skin and burned in her stomach.
She gasped and fell to her knees.
An arrow end stuck out of her belly. She clutched the stomach around the arrow end and her fingers grew sticky and dark.
Her vision swam as she tried to process it. She’d been . . . she’d been shot.
A male figure came in and out of focus near the trees, then he was in front of her. The frame . . . tall . . . familiar . . . Herwald.
He whistled and his lips curled into a smile as he inspected his work. Then he reached down and yanked off the pouch at her belt. “That’s what you call a true shot, human.”
She blinked, and then there was nothing, only a rustling in the forest and a lancing pain that came with every breath.
A cool wind spiraled around her, heading in the direction of home. She couldn’t look at it. There was enough failure bubbling in her gut, rising up her throat and pouring out of her mouth, thick and red.
She tried to speak, but it came out a gurgle. Sorry.
Her vision sparkled silver as she took her last breaths. But before she could crumple forward into the ground, there came the soothing touch of cool fingers against her bloodstained hand. And then a voice that wormed its way inside and steadied her.
“This isn’t the end, Leah. For you it’s just the beginning.”
Set in the early to mid 1800's in rural Europe near the Black Forest.
Wicked in the Woods
(Leah's Story, Part I)
--Zero--
THE TORCH TO HER LEFT BLEW OUT, smothering Leah in darkness. Light would make her way easier, but this was better—it drew less attention from the church guard. She descended two flights of steps, proving she'd committed each of her visits down here to memory.
The steps ended in the basement of the village monastery. Leah turned down the main corridor, made a left, and then ran her hands along the bumpy stone, counting the pillars she passed. Dust tickled the back of her throat and she rung out a cough, deepening it to make it sound male—just in case.
Her ears stretched, searching for sound. Hearing nothing but the slapping of her boots against the stone floor, she hurried her pace, tightening her grip on her bow.
She couldn't be too late already. She needed tonight. Needed a win.
Leah slunk around the corner to her left, drawing out an arrow from her quiver, warming it in her hands with a prayer. Let me aim true. Let me score perfectly.
A muffled cheering came down the corridor, and she let out a relieved breath. She made sure her brother’s cloak was on tightly and the hood hung low over her face, but not low enough to compromise her vision.
She’d fashioned a beard from the hair she’d cut from her brother earlier and had tied it around her face. With gloves to hide her long feminine fingers, she could pass as a man. A young man, maybe, but it just had to be enough to get in and win.
She stroked her bow once more and pushed the end door open, blinking in the torch-lit underground arena.
A weighty male, with beads of beer dripping off his chin, slouched on the wall. He growled. "Password."
Leah clapped three times palm to palm, then knocked her knuckles against each other. "Name's Zero," she grunted, striding past. "I’m here to win."
“Herwald is just starting on his last round. He’s the favorite to win.”
Leah glanced over his shoulder across the room at the large man pulling back his bowstring. He let his arrow sail a fine arc to hit the one of the ten targets set up at the other end of the arena. His aim was good. Very good.
But she was better.
“You sure you want to lose your money against that?”
She inclined her head and he beckoned her over to the sign up stall.
A roar from a pulsing crowd blew over her as she threaded her way through them to the sign up stall. She slapped a pouch containing the last of her money onto the table. She’d have it back before long. She added her name to the list of contestants. Three of the five she'd gone up against before. They'd be no match. The fourth sounded familiar, but she couldn't place the face. No doubt someone Zero had won against. The fifth name glowed on the paper. The handwriting much too . . . elegant for what was usually seen down here. Herwald Wolfe. The name made her shiver, and she unconsciously tugged her hood lower.
Another swell of cheers came from the spectators. She glanced back to see Herwald hit the middle of the last target. She tried not to feel the fear that threatened to make her arms shake and the back of her neck prickle. She was better. She had to be.
Within a quarter of an hour, it was her turn. She was the last to sign up, and it was all or nothing now. If she lost this round the winnings went to Herwald. And if she won . . . well, then her brother and mother would have to pay their greedy landlord. It wasn’t enough that they tended the land and farmed it and gave everything it produced to him. He wanted their mother and kept increasing the rent until she’d have to give herself to him.
Leah wouldn’t let it happen.
Her name “Zero” was called out. With a flip of her stomach, she pushed her way to the front.
The crowds whistled and shook their hands in the air. She heard some snorts.
“The guy won’t stand a chance.”
“Herwald has it in the bag.”
Nevertheless, people seemed excited, drawing in closer to the front and rushing whispers to each other.
Just ten shots, then she could take the money and go. She wouldn't have to care about this again until next week.
Herwald folded his arms at the side, his bow slung over his shoulder, and smiled as Leah placed her first arrow. The smile was arrogant and . . . and something else. His eyes looked too green. His build almost too tall.
The shiver rolled off her and she concentrated on the first target, set low to the floor.
Thwampk. It hit the center alongside Herwald’s.
Someone in the crowd pushed forward and Leah darted out the way of his shove with easy grace. She latched her gaze once more on her target, and shot.
Thwampk. Again. Right in the middle.
Thinking of her brother and mother, she excited herself into a frenzy of quickly timed and beautifully aimed hits until only one of the targets was left.
If she hit it with precision, the money was hers.
Sweat matted her light blonde hair to her forehead. She could feel it rolling down to her temples and making her beard loose. Do this quickly and get out!
Herwald, closer now that she’d reached the last target, growled and if it weren’t for what was at stake, she might have let it warn her.
Instead, she let out a grunt and loosened the last arrow. The hit was fruitful, shaving a layer off Herwald’s own arrow.
Cheers whooped and Leah, keeping her hood low and gaze cast down, could see the crowd's feet jumping in their hurrah. They cheered on the man “Zero” that they thought had bested the large, intimidating Herwald. But how quickly would that cheer turn to distrust if they found out Zero was a woman? And barely nineteen, at that.
Perhaps they would think her involved in witchcraft and punish her? Because no ordinary woman—peasant—could do what she did.
She swallowed the fear that always came after a win, rallied up her confidence, and took the money offered to her.
Quickly escaping the arena, she made it out of the monastery and to the path that fringed the forest. It was a flat path but dropped away into rolling hills toward her left. The village, nestled into the valley below, was bathed in the moonlight, and from here she could just make out a corner of her home.
Her win jingled at her belt, and she let out a relieved sigh. Mother was safe this time.
A snapping branch came from somewhere behind her. She twisted and peered down the dark path and into the shadows pooling at the base of the trees, untouched my moonlight. Another snap.
An animal. Of course.
It had to be.
Except it felt off. Different. More calculated. She blinked hard, swinging off her bow and reaching over her shoulder for an arrow—
Thwampk.
She heard it before she felt it.
Then pain tore through her skin and burned in her stomach.
She gasped and fell to her knees.
An arrow end stuck out of her belly. She clutched the stomach around the arrow end and her fingers grew sticky and dark.
Her vision swam as she tried to process it. She’d been . . . she’d been shot.
A male figure came in and out of focus near the trees, then he was in front of her. The frame . . . tall . . . familiar . . . Herwald.
He whistled and his lips curled into a smile as he inspected his work. Then he reached down and yanked off the pouch at her belt. “That’s what you call a true shot, human.”
She blinked, and then there was nothing, only a rustling in the forest and a lancing pain that came with every breath.
A cool wind spiraled around her, heading in the direction of home. She couldn’t look at it. There was enough failure bubbling in her gut, rising up her throat and pouring out of her mouth, thick and red.
She tried to speak, but it came out a gurgle. Sorry.
Her vision sparkled silver as she took her last breaths. But before she could crumple forward into the ground, there came the soothing touch of cool fingers against her bloodstained hand. And then a voice that wormed its way inside and steadied her.
“This isn’t the end, Leah. For you it’s just the beginning.”
