March 2017 Writing Prompt--Fantasy with Axe - Stories Wanted!

[Sammy Goode]

What an intriguing photo! Is she on the hunt? Defending her tribe? Going to battle? I am excited to see what you come up with for this pic. From haiku to limerick, snippet to short story please post away but as always keep it YA and if you use more than one comment box for your offering, please indicate the end of your entry by putting either #### or THE END!

[Sammy Goode]

reserved

[Eric]

OUR LADY OF THE AXE

[Post 1 of 5]


Saturday, 19 May 1804
Cavendish House
London


I looked up at the painting in pride of place. It is not a large painting, no more than two feet wide and not quite three tall. The frame is plain wood, as if the artist did not want to draw undue attention to what it surrounded. The colors are muted, age-dimmed, the oils dried with fine cracks marring the clarity of the woman who is the reason for the artist’s work. The lady. She wears ragged furs, but you know they’re not poverty-forced, but what a warrior wears. She stares off to the viewer’s left, her eyes intent on whatever it is we cannot see. A single thin braid frames each side of her face, and smears of dark paint make a half-moon around each eye, a slashing line along her cheeks, a vertical one on her chin. If anyone ever knew what the paint symbolizes, if anything at all, the knowledge is long gone.

In her hands she clasps a two-headed axe. Something about the handle makes it appear it was designed for her and no other. The blades are long arcs, and you can tell when the painting was new they would have been shining with the bright silver glow of magicked steel.

I didn’t understand why it was hung above the large fireplace in the parlor where, even at such a young age, I knew our guests were always welcomed, and it was an important part of the wonderful parties Papa and Mama gave. It looked quite small in a space large enough to hold a full-length painting of Grandpapa, even one with a wide, ornate, gilded frame.

Paintings like the ones I saw in the homes of my friends when I went to visit. No one else had a painting like that.

So, since Papa was in his chair and his neatly folded and carefully ironed copy of the Times was still on his lap, I asked him.

He lifted the newspaper, unfolded it, snapped it open to its full width and height and raised it before his face. This was his signal he was not to be bothered further. But still, his Earl of Cavendish, do not dispute your father, child, voice drifted over and down, instructing me to speak to my Mama.

When I inquired, in my best, eight-year-old, “I don’t wish to be a bother, Mama, but I would truly like to know” voice, Mama’s reply was odd. “It always is, my dear. And one day, when you are married, it will be yours, and it will hang in the same place in your new home.”

I kept my lips clamped tight around several opinions. One being the painting was dumb and old and faded and not at all impressive. The other being, when I married ten-year-old William, heir to Viscount Delacourt, in our home we’d have a grand and glorious and gold-framed painting of his wonderful father above the mantel. Or maybe even one of Papa.

If asked immediately after those thoughts, or any time later, I would swear a solemn oath I felt a sharp, twisty, hurting pinch on my bum and heard the words, “Don’t be impertinent, little girl.” But Mama’s lips were closed and smiling, her face remembering something pleasant, and there was no one else in the room.

I kept my imaginings to myself, but rubbed my bum anyway, but carefully, so Mama did not notice. The right part. Where the imaginary pinch didn’t happen.

[Eric]

OUR LADY OF THE AXE

[Post 2 of 5]


Thursday, 11 June 1814
Caversham House
London


Over the past ten years, from time to time, I asked about the painting, but Mama would never answer me, nor would she tell me when she meant when she said “when the time is right.” I asked her again, as we were taking tea in the parlor, a week after my seventeenth birthday, and two days after my graduation from the preeminent L'Académie d'Élégance d'Émilie pour les Jeunes Dames de Distinction, or as we students fondly called it, Lady Emily’s School for Distinctive Dames. I was prepared with various arguments to persuade her the time was right, but I didn’t need them.

“Yes, my dear, the time is right. Now as you know, the portrait is always passed on to the eldest girl upon the occasion of her marriage, and hung—”

I gambled my rudeness in interrupting her would be overlooked. “Yes, Mama, I know. But why should it be so?”

My gamble was successful. I was not reprimanded.

“Because it is part of the marriage agreement, Eleanor. Every marriage agreement for the first-born daughter ever since the painting came into the family. Every husband-to-be has reacted to that proviso with varying degrees of amusement, surprise, annoyance at contract dictating décor, or whatever it might be. Yet the right husbands-to-be signed, became husbands-who-were, and they all honored their word.

“Except one. In some fit of pique, or a moment of madness, he moved the portrait to a small room, rarely used, and put a portrait of himself above the mantel in the parlor. He came to regret his action. With her protection removed—” she paused and tilted her head to the painting to be sure I understood the her to whom the pronoun referred “—he suffered dire reversals in his fortunes. Of course, once he was brought to his senses by his lady wife and put the painting back, matters returned to nearly what they once were. The almost being a subtle reminder of the efficacies of remembering the side upon which one wants one’s bread buttered.”

I was looking at the painting and listening while she said the latter, and then looked back at her. I still didn’t understand, and so I said, although I kept tight rein on any opinion about not quite believing. Not even “voicing” it inside my head, lest my bum be pinched again. Or rather, lest I imagine my bum being pinched, as I had back when I was a mere child and not a woman grown.

“Ah!” I said aloud, in lieu of an unvoiced “Ouch!” when my mind imagined a most powerful pinch. Upon Mama’s looking askance at me—she has a most excellent askance, which has been used on me upon more occasions than I care to remember—I went on, “Just a general ‘ah’ indicating understanding, Mama, with a slight emphasis to show sharp enlightenment.”

Mama paused again before speaking.

Mama has said so many things to and about me over the years.

“Don’t fuss, Eleanor.”

Or, “Genteel steps, Eleanor, not a stride as if you were a peasant serving girl.”

Or, “In a summer as hot as this, only mad dogs and English men go out in the noonday sun, my dear, and a husband will want a wife with pale and delicate skin, not nut-brown from hatless wanderings.”

So many more, but my favorite has always been, “Dear Lord, what am I to do with her?”

But of all those words, none astonished me more than, “Where else would the painting be except with the eldest daughter? She is our ancestress.”

Not that Mama has personal knowledge. She said her own beloved great-grandmama, who would be one great more for me, swore great-grandmama (Lady Moore), and grandmama (Lady Bellamy), she (my dearest Mama) and therefore I (Eleanor) are her direct descendants. It was unfortunate Lady MacDonald—a Scottish aberration in an otherwise unblemished English lineage, and also my one-more-great grandmama—died the day I was born, so I never got to hear her swear it to me.

I doubt I would have believed her any more than I did dear Mama. To my great surprise, I was pinchless during the remainder of the conversation, despite my disbelief.

It is a tale sent down from eldest daughter to eldest daughter through all the long years since the painting was painted. I cannot call it a portrait, which suggests someone who sits still long enough for an artist to render her image in oils, with all her faults for the world to forever see. Or with no faults at all, and any existing ones corrected, if enough pounds are paid and enough artistic scruples are lacking.

This painting, so cleverly called “Lady With An Axe,” is of a woman the artist—whose name is lost in those fanciful mists said to obscure long ago times, as he apparently never painted anything else worthy of remembrance—never knew, and only heard tell of. The tale of a woman warrior in the age of magic. Who wielded a magical battle axe with all the ease and finesse of a lady today wielding a fine, filigree fan.

Fine fan-wielding can insult, praise, provoke, mock, and so many other things, but the consequences are never dire. Well, there is the tale of Lady Arabella’s seductive fanning and flirtatious glances over the edges, which led her to being alone and fully clothed with Lord Atwater for all of five seconds before they were found, which created such an appearance of impropriety and possible vanishing of virginity they were married in short order. Unfortunately for the Ton’s addiction to gossip about the worst of all possibilities, the heir was born eleven months later. I consider the “unfortune” part of the tale to be her unhappy marriage. A dire consequence, it seemed to me.

The consequences of the axe-wielding, in the few stories surviving from an era long gone, stories likely to have been embellished and re-embellished again and again, were bloody, dire and deadly. But the axe was always wielded in service of the right.

After reading one of those fanciful tales several years earlier, in a forbidden-to-girls collection of “true” stories from the times when magic existed throughout the British Isles, if not the rest of the world, I thought if she had been a real woman, at Harfleur, perhaps, then when Henry cried “God for Harry, England and Saint George!” she would have been a greyhound straining at the slip, and let loose, she would have wreaked such havoc among our enemies the walls were not closed up with our English dead.

Mama then confounded me by confiding two more secrets. The first was the correct title of the painting: “Our Lady of the Axe.”

The “our lady,” however, does not mean she is some venerated saint to whom one could pray for miracles. Which was, I thought, an absurd fancy, when Mama finished the words. A saint who wields a battle axe, bringing pain or death, even though only to serve and protect? The emphasis in the title, and Mama carefully cautioned me it was only to be used among the women of the family who knew, is actually on “our” rather than “lady”: “Our Lady of the Axe.”

The “our” is because we are of her blood, but also because of the third and last secret: “It is said,” Mama said, “when there is great need, she will return.”

I did laugh, then. Not the guffaws of which I am more than capable, but the more lady-like ones Mama prefers when I feel I have absolutely no choice but to laugh, rather than use a more delicate giggle or titter. Although I must say, though never aloud, the last word sounds rather vulgar to me.

Pinchless at that, too. Apparently when the eldest daughter is having “the talk” with her mama, greater leeway is given about belief.

Mama waited with pointed patience until I subsided, though I still stuttered starting to speak. “B-b-but, Mama, you can’t mean she is some Arthur, some once and future queen, who will return to save England. If he did not return when the Armada was headed our way, when we took the field at Agincourt, when we spent all these years fighting Napoleon and so many valiant men died at Waterloo, why should she? Why hasn’t she?”

She pursed her lips, and visibly strove for patience with what she probably perceived as my impertinence. Truly, I didn’t intend it to be so.

She relaxed her lips, and surprised me. I have always known Mama loved me, but she has never been the most demonstrative of mothers. All the more reason her rare hugs and hand-pats were treasured. She rose, came to the settee, waited while I scooted a little, sat beside me and enveloped me in a warm and loving hug. She even bestowed a kiss on the top of my head, and one again on my cheek.

“My darling girl, my ‘once and forever’ darling girl, whatever she may have been all those years ago, even if she was indeed a warrior going into battle, she is now, and has been, our protectress. She will return if we need her. I believe this. I have faith this is so. I hope you will, if not now, some day, have this same belief and faith. And I pray, too, she will not need to return in our lifetimes.”

My voice was smaller than I wanted it to be. Almost back to eight again. “Do you...pray to her?”

Mama’s laughter was as light as, no, lighter than, Lady No One There. “My dear, she is not a goddess, and I am not some pagan. I am a devout daughter of the Church of England. I pray only to God, from whom all blessings flow. But a part of my prayers is always, and it please God, if need arises, she will be the blessing bestowed on us.”

She hugged me again, and returned to her chair.

She also picked up the latest edition of La Belle Assemblée. I hid my shudder and set myself to endure, as she began discussing current fashions and what would be appropriate for a young woman making her first formal appearance among the Ton. At least I could be grateful Mama would not compel me to wear the customary white, as almost every marriage-minded mother, that is to say, every other mother with an eligible daughter, did to her own child. Even with a dire consequence when the color, or lack of it, detracted from the wearer’s appearance, and damaged her self-esteem.

“Yes, Mama,” I dutifully said when she drew my attention to a fashion plate she assured me was just right.

[Eric]

OUR LADY OF THE AXE

[Post 3 of 5]


Friday, 11 October 1816
Cavendish House
London


I looked up at the painting. Smiled at her.

No, I smiled at it. A painting.

But still I put my bum at risk by saying, “I have great need, oh Lady of the Axe.”

No. I most certainly did not feel someone was watching and listening, particularly as I was the only one in the room.

“Or should I say, ‘our lady,’ my lady? I am being courted by the Duke of Haversham, whom I find I cannot quite like, much less find him someone with whom I can see myself falling in love. If I fall upon my knees before you, spread my arms in reverence, will you appear and save me? Put the fear of the axe in his soul and send him on his way?”

Light laughter lilted through the room. I no longer look around to see who it is. Lady No One There I call her. And resolutely refuse to believe it is she who has pinched and laughed from time to time. It was just one more of the vivid imaginings which I will have to endure forever, it seems, even though disclosing one or all of them would not land me in Bedlam. No, the Earl of Cavendish has more than enough wealth to ensure my being safely ensconced in a private asylum equipped with all the necessities of life, except the most important one: freedom.

Today was no laughing matter.

I have been on the Ton for two years, a diamond of the first water only because of the size of my dowry, and what I will inherit upon Mama’s death. Plus the other reason. I had not yet... gasp! ...looped the marital noose around some noble neck and pulled the knot tight to prevent escape. What I feared was the noose being placed round my neck by someone I did not wish holding the rope.

Every other girl whose first season was the same as mine has married, most in the first season, the remainder last season, and those who have not have had—as I overheard one matron with a marriageable daughter say—the common decency to formally dwindle into spinsterhood and firmly put themselves on the shelf.

I chose neither.

What I wanted to choose was unknown, even to me.

And I did not believe I was willing to choose the duke. Though he offered me the most assiduous of attentions, lavishing me with praise, escorting me and my parents to various events, trying his best to get me to agree to a third dance at Almack’s or elsewhere—a virtual announcement of a betrothal—there was nothing to suggest any emotional attachment to me.

It was far more likely he knew the unfortunate truth...an irrational, inexplicable, illogical truth...about the first-born daughters of my family. For as far back as the women kept records—records never shared with any of the males around them—and that is quite a few decades, history has ever repeated itself with the first-born daughters.

When each of them married, and they all married well, and generally love was at least some part of the basis, and growing into more, they produced an heir immediately. Never less than the proper number of months after the wedding night, of course. She then produced not less than three, nor more than six daughters, and never another son. There might have been some worry about the lack of a spare, but none was ever needed. The eldest son survived unharmed to a marriageable age and inclination, married, and himself...with the assistance of his wife...produced an heir and several spares so there was no concern the male line would die out.

The husbands of the eldest daughters were all men of property, but no matter what degree of wealth they brought to the marriage, it went forth and multiplied as if God had commanded it with all the authority of the Bible. The sisters had a similar effect on their husbands, though to a lesser degree. And not one of these women possessed any skills which could be used in business, or any other wealth-producing endeavor. All they had was their mere existence.

I did not know if the duke had a hidden need for funds, or whether it was just normal greed and a desire for more! no matter how much the man might have. I did know I did not wish to be a Midas for anyone. Eventually I would have to be, since I loved my family, and my extended family, and wanted one of my own.

But....

A brisk knock interrupted my ruminations, and preceded the entrance of Smythe, our butler. He announced, “His Grace, the Duke of Haversham,” and held the door wide.

The Duke’s ego required all the width our doorway could supply.

He strode in as though if he did not presently own this place, he soon would. His long steps brought him close far faster than I liked, so I extended my hand to give him pause. He had no choice but to bestow a kiss upon it. A far too wet kiss. A kiss too long, too intimate.

He was so very sure I was going to say “yes” when he asked. Or commanded. That my parents agreed to this private meeting with the door closed—though the servants, perhaps even my parents, were not far away, not so far they could not be through the door in an instant if I gave them the slightest cause—hinted at my acquiescence.

So far, the duke had not given me cause to give that cause.

He was still holding my hand as he led me to the settee. I was too lady-like to knee him between his legs to retrieve it. I knew the effects of doing so from once seeing an irate groom do it to another groom in a quarrel over a kitchen maid. A quarrel at a place and time I had no business being but nevertheless was. The kneed groom squealed, loud and shrill, clasping his hands to the injured spot and fell to his knees. He seemed to be in a vast amount of pain. “That’ll learn ya,” the kneeing groom said, and stalked away.

I suspected even the mighty Duke of Haversham might squeal so if I were to go that route. But alas, my chance was lost, when he suggested I take a seat.

The arrogant.... As if he were host and I a mere guest.

He flipped his coattails so they would not be crushed and sat beside me. Propriety required a man not yet affianced to take a seat apart from an eligible female. The duke did not appear to believe the rules applied to him.

We sat in silence. He was, after all, the one who requested this meeting. I would initiate nothing.

“Well, my dear?”

“Well, what, your Grace?”

While his lips remained relaxed, his eyes hardened. I might have missed it had I not been somewhat expecting it to happen.

He took my hand again. I let it be as limp as I possibly could.

“You have but to give me the answer, and I am sure you will make me the happiest man alive.”

“But to what question, your Grace? If I do not know the question, how can I answer in a way to make you happy?”

This time his lips thinned, and the smile became more painted on.

Perhaps if I continued to play the dim debutante he would become sufficiently annoyed and this farce could end with his following the playwright’s direction to exit through the door stage left.

Alas for my dim debutante plan, since the upcoming season would be my third. He gripped my hand a little tighter, making me wince. A wince he plainly saw, but which did not result in the immediate release of the pressure. When it did, I yanked my hand away.

His voice was tight and not at all the tone one should be able to expect from a man asking such a question. Even if he had to fake the feeling. “Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

It was difficult, but I managed to stand and step back before he could do anything to stop me. For some reason I was certain if he’d expected me to do what I did, he would have prevented it. He stood, perforce, as a man could not remain seated in the presence of a lady not his wife who was standing.

I moved two more steps away, and paused. I looked quickly to the Lady—I had begun capitalizing the pronoun recently—and back. Ancient, worn, faded paintings cannot wink! That is a fact as universally known as that a man of good fortune must be in want of a wife. Hence the wanting of this duke for me...and the good luck I presumably brought with me...to be his wife.

I would prefer all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune to the sea of troubles I would be in if I said yes. So I said “no.”

Politely. Clearly. With profound—and I hoped believable—regret.

An unequivocal rejection.

I expected disappointment, possibly a flash of arrogant anger at all his wasted courting time, quickly controlled. I never expected his fury. It was well-masked, but there, and I knew with an odd certainty it had nothing to do with the comparatively modest sums he’d expended in wooing me. The same certainty told me the time it took for him to respond was not to pull himself together over his loss, but rather to bring himself under control and not lash out.

The bow was stiff, formal, full of ducal arrogance. So was his voice. “Very well, my lady. I expect I shall see you Saturday next, at Lady Palmer’s ball? Will you save a dance for me?”

“I would do so if it were possible, your Grace. But alas, that is the 19th, and I will be attending Lady Emily’s birthday party.”

“Lady Emily?”

“The proprietress of L'Académie d'Élégance d'Émilie pour les Jeunes Dames de Distinction. A dear friend, your Grace, and I could not miss it for all the world. But on another occasion I would be most honored to dance with you.”

What a fine, fine liar I could be when propriety demanded.

He nodded, but when he reached the door and opened it wide...ego exiting, I could not help but think...he turned back. His face was solemn.

“I will not beg, of course.” I could hear the silent, The Dukes of Haversham beg no one for anything. “But I can hope you will reconsider. Even for such a fine and beautiful young woman as yourself, there are dangers in this world. I could protect you from all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune you might find shot in your direction. Consider that.”

The last was a command rather than a request, especially as there was no “please” to finish it. I almost laughed at our minds turning to the same Hamlet lines, but on reflection as I watched his back during departure, I was not sure there was anything humorous about it.

I looked at her painting.

No wink.

The Lady saw no humor in any of this, either.

If there were a Lady capable of seeing humor or anything else.

Which there was not.

Which there was not.

[Eric]

OUR LADY OF THE AXE

[Post 4 of 5]

Saturday, 19 October 1816
A cottage in the woods
Near Lady Emily’s Academy

They removed the hoods from our heads. I was the only one of the five of us they ungagged and untied. We were in the main room of a small cottage, not in bad condition, recently swept, firewood ready, everything neat and in its place.

And overfull with four kidnapped girls and one kidnapped woman, or so I deemed myself, and four kidnappers. All armed, though none were on display to threaten us. We were mere females who could pose no danger, their attitudes said, so why bother? The attitudes were seen only in stance and stare, since all their heads were covered with masks, with crude holes for eyes and mouth.

We had not ridden long, so where....

I knew this place. That zig-zag crack in the plaster above the mantel. We were still on Academy land.

“Did you harm Lady Emily? Her servants? Mine for the carriage you stole?”

The tallest one answered. “Bruised and battered, those who tried to resist. They’ll get loose eventually.”

They had better. A clever plot. One I doubted men dressed as these men dressed, who sounded as these men sounded, came up with on their own. Waiting until the celebrants at Lady Emily’s birthday party were all gone, save the group with me. Making our carriage the last one to come to the entrance. An astute someone who knew we were...who knew I was...unlikely to pay attention to a mere coachman until it was far too late.

Until they leaped out of the carriage, took Lady Emily, staggering with shock, and Miss Bennett away. Leaving us cowering. I admit it. I cowered with the rest of them. But I could cower no more.

I forced my voice to scorn, and smashed any shaking of voice or body to flinders. I was oldest. It was my duty to protect.

Something inside me...around me...approved. Warmed me.

“Do you think our fathers and brothers and all our friends and family are stupid? Do you think they won’t think to look here just because it’s close to the Academy, even if you’ve laid a trail trying to make them believe you’re dragging us far away?”

I looked at them all, one by one, came back to the tallest, the closest, the one with the in command attitude.

“If you harm us, you’ll hang.” I focused only on him. “If you ransom us, my father will find you and see you hanged, whether we’re harmed or not, whether the law wants him to or not. You’d best leave us and run far and fast. That’s your only chance, you stupid, stupid men.”

Where was this bravado coming from?

“What if she’s right?” the middle of the three further off said. “We ain’t been paid, and—”

“Shut up, you bastard,” the leader snarled.

“The same to you, bitch.” He slapped me hard. No one had ever hit me, hurt me before. It would leave a bruise, I knew. I fought back tears.

“Sorry,” he said, with no sound of sorrow in his voice. “The d... The man who hired us said you weren’t to be harmed. No rope burns around your delicate wrists and dainty ankles. No other harm.”

The last was said with what sounded like a leer being hidden by the mask.

“But I can’t help it, can I, if you’re kind of clumsy-like, and run into my fist, or something else a time or two. It ain’t your face he wants preserved anyways.”

He looked to his men. “He said we was to give ‘em all back once the ransoms was paid, but these four—” he gestured to the other girls with far more than a leer in his voice “—he didn’t say nothin’ about what condition they was to be in when we gives them back. A little extra pay, eh?”

Another look at me. “You, your ladyship,” he said with a mix of mockery and disgust affixed to the title, “will stay right there. You won’t interfere. Or try to, since you wouldn’t succeed even if you did try. If you do, you’ll learn all the ways it’s possible to be hurt without leaving any signs behind. And what happens to your friends will be even worse. And the marks will be visible. Very visible.”

He stared at me, only a few feet away. Daring me.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“I’ll pick one. You split up the rest. Then we share.”

“Taking turns?” I didn’t know which of the other men said the vile words.

The leader laughed. It was a vicious sound. He said over his shoulder, “I’ll take the little one.”

The “little one.”

My sister Mary. She was only seven! She wasn’t even supposed to have come but hid in the carriage boot because it was a lark.

The voice which was not my voice used my throat to say, “Leave now and you won’t be hurt.”

This time it was no slap. It was a backhand which cut my lip open, blood dripping out, forcing me to my knees.

So while I was down there, I said a wordless prayer to God, asking, begging, but without demeaning His love by bargaining, to grant me...grant all of us...one blessing. The one Mama hoped we’d never need.

He did.

It was not at all what I expected in the way of a successful prayer.

I stood, and when I stood I was standing straighter, stronger than I ever had before. In my right hand was something I did not need to see to know with an unsettling intimacy. A double-headed battle-axe, it’s twin blades curved and shining with a brightness which shouldn’t have been possible in the dim light inside the cottage walls.

An axe held in my right hand as if it weighed no more than a teacup of Mama’s finest porcelain.

“Hell-oh, boys,” I heard my voice saying, rough and low, a harsh voice used to being raised so it could be heard over the sounds of fighting, the sounds of steel against steel, of horses screaming as they went down to death, of men who tried to avoid doing the same but could not, and howled as they went. A voice both mine and not. “The bitch is back. Shall we dance?”

They stood in stunned surprise, the leader most of all, as I wove tight figure-eights with the battle-axe in my hand, easily, with no strain on wrist or arm, and stepped up on the stool. Damn my height.

But it was tall enough and I had a new superb sense of balance. A girl, a mere slip of a girl they knew to be only nineteen, a girl they must not harm or face the wrath of their employer, the man I was certain from the slip could only be the damnable Duke of Haversham, was trying to frighten them with an axe she got from...somewhere. It didn’t matter where, just then. What mattered was whether they were going to be frightened by a girl who couldn’t possibly know how to use the weapon she was holding.

They weren’t. Of course they weren’t, they told themselves.

I was within easy reach of the leader. All he had to do was step close, grab my fragile right wrist with his large left hand and crush it, the duke be damned, forcing me to drop the axe I’d never dare use.

But before he stepped—a plan I...we...easily saw since his body screamed his intent—we two-handed the axe, twisted down and down and to our right, swung up and up again, the axe above our head, and with a single stroke, we cleaved the bastard who would have hurt my sister, from crown to crotch.

Damn.

I was never going to get the blood out of this dress, or any of the rest of the spatters. I liked this dress.

Quiet. Complete quiet.

I liked quiet. Preferred it.

Quiet in part because three of the four other kidnapped girls had fainted. But not my brave Mary. She looked at me, only at me, and what I saw was not the fear I expected at what her sister had done, but a vast and shining love.

I looked away at the other causes for quiet.

The remaining three kidnappers.

Silent. Frozen. The trousers of the middle one were wet, the stain becoming wider and running down his left leg. An inexplicable wetness since nothing had spilled but blood.

Oh. Explicable after all. The Lady inside laughed and I fought off a blush.

I stepped off the stool, stepped away from the blood on which I might slip and slide if I fought again. Stepped toward them, and watched with no satisfaction, but only careful watchfulness as they backed away.

“Three to one, boys,” I said, my voice...our voice...the voice of a tavern brawler who couldn’t even contemplate losing.

“I like the odds. You could grab your weapons. I’ll let you, since I like a fair fight, well, at least a fair fight until I decide fighting dirty gives me better odds at winning. You could rush me. But then, someone has to be willing to give up...a hand...an arm?...a leg? to take me down. More likely two of you because this is, after all, a double-bladed axe with a wicked back swing.”

I looked at the one who was looking at the girls. “No, no, no. Not a good idea. A hostage, I mean. Because after I was through with the other two, I’d carve you like a fat Christmas turkey, in slow and careful slices.”

He gulped loudly and turned his head to me.

We moved then in a slow and careful dance without music, with only their fear drumming the beat. A circular dance, although the shape we made was not truly that, as I moved away from blocking the door, and they moved toward it, putting me between them and the girls.

They backed out. I followed them. Four horses.

“Two horses,” I told them. “I’ll need two.”

One of them said “But,” but I stopped any more. “I can count to three. That’s not my problem. Yours is who gets left behind if I start running toward you, yelling, scaring the horses and swinging this lovely, lovely axe in all directions. Some of those directions being towards you.”

They said nothing, but the pants-stained man unhooked the reins of the grey, scrambled awkwardly into the saddle and held his hand out for the second man to do his own awkward scramble up behind him. The third man took the chestnut. They were at a frantic gallop in moments.

I stared after them. I wanted, so very much, to drop to the ground and cry. Loud, gulping sobs.

I couldn’t.

They’re all asleep.

“You can do that?”

Sometimes even a woman with a magical axe needs just a little bit more.

“I’ll...I’ll get them outside. I don’t want them waking up and seeing...that. Bad enough Mary saw it, will remember it.

None of them will remember. Nothing from the moment the bags were put over their heads at the Academy to waking up here, outside the cottage.

“Mary, too?”

Your sister, most of all. They will, however, remember your bravery, and trying to protect them. And an uncertain feeling you might have fought with one of the men.

“None of which explains the...body in there. Or this!” I waved the axe, which vanished. I staggered only a little as the lost weight overbalanced me.

One problem solved.

I gave her the weak chuckle that deserved.

You can bring them out, I’ll wake them, and we can get them on the horses.

“But still, what about this”—I gestured to my dress—“and...him?”

Do you have anything on beneath it?

I did my best shocked look at the empty air about me. “You don’t know what women wear?”

Your family has not needed me for some time. Fashions change. Personally, I prefer breeches or leggings.

“Mama would be horrified. She insists on propriety at all times. So...from my skin outward, pantaloons, a chemise with a corset above, and the gown over all.”

Remove the gown, bring them out, get them mounted and when they ask, keep telling them you don’t know, you don’t remember.

“That will work on frightened girls. Mama and Papa are far more astute.”

With a body in two parts and no weapon around—an event which could not possibly be laid at the feet, or hands, of a delicate English maiden—as well as a blood-soaked, wadded-up dress in your hands, how good can you be at enacting hysteria, pretending to be a demented young lady driven near madness by the horror of it all, and remembering nothing beyond the fact of terror?

[Eric]

As it turned out, I was quite good.

Better than good. Excellent, actually.

So much so, a Sarah Siddons Society should be created in honor of that great actress, for the purpose of bestowing an award on the finest actress of the year.

I would have won for 1816.

OUR LADY OF THE AXE

[Post 5 of 5]


Tuesday, 5 November 1816
Cavendish House
London


There was no need for me to rise when Smythe escorted the Duke of Haversham into the parlor. But since I was the hostess, it was only gracious of me to do so.

I rather suspected it would be the last gracious thing I did during the meeting, other than the most banal of social niceties.

Smythe bowed to me, and departed, leaving the door partially open, as I instructed.

The duke paused for a moment and stared at me with some intensity. He was poised as if to move forward to politely kiss my extended hand, except I did not extend it. I did, however, use a hand to wave him to a chair opposite the settee, with a table between the two.

I did not make him stand at all long, truly, before sitting, since he could not sit until I did. When our bums were in place—my recent adventure was marvelously freeing in terms of thoughts, if not in words aloud—I offered him tea.

He politely declined. When I asked if he minded if I had one, propriety demanded he not mind at all, and so he said.

I picked up the large and quite heavy silver teapot to pour the hot water. Despite the stretch, the awkwardness of the ornate design and the weight, my hand and arm did not tremble or strain. Some residual effect, perhaps, of wielding an axe so effectively.

I was slow to make my tea, every movement being “just so” and even slower to sip and savor the first few swallows. As I had invited him here, he could not, in all propriety, interrupt my banality with a demand to know why his presence had been requested.

It annoyed him. Greatly.

So, being the Duke of Haversham, he dispensed with propriety and introduced a different topic of conversation. The one he undoubtedly intended to have from the moment my invitation was delivered.

“I see you are recovered from your ordeal.”

I stopped the movement of the cup to my mouth and looked at him with what I felt was quite good surprise and mystification.

If my surprise and mystification had been on sale at the Pantheon Bazaar he would not have bought them.

Not even for thruppence.

I played the game a little longer. “My ordeal, your Grace?”

His smile was beyond smug. It contained the Ton’s entire allotment of smug for a year in a single smile. It was not a good look on him.

“My dear, I know everything. Particularly how you returned from being kidnapped all bloody...and soiled.”

The last word was said with such wicked delight. Or no, the better wording would be evil delight.

“One wonders, of course, whether any of that blood on your gown might have been virgin’s blood. But no matter.” He waved a hand to indicate how little concerned he was with the insult he had just given me. “Your family has done an excellent job of burying it all. Although I must in all candor warn you how easy it would be to, ah, resurrect the tale. And what devastating consequences it might have for you all, for your sister’s chances to make a fine marriage when she is of age, if the truth were bruited about.”

I was so very proud I did not hurl the hot water at him. It was no longer boiling but still, scalding water in his face or better yet his ballocks...ah, again, how wonderfully freeing a battle-axe is...might be quite painful.

I took another sip, saying nothing, annoying him further. I put the cup down, folded my hands in my lap like the elegant and fashionable and proper young woman I was. Or at least, had been until recent events.

“You have nothing to say, Lady Eleanor?”

I gave him a reasonable imitation of a demure smile, which he was unwilling to purchase either. “I rather thought you appeared as if you had more to say.”

“I do. I also wondered if you had considered that having had the great good fortune to escape from this ordeal, you might not be so fortunate if it were to happen again.”

“And do you believe it might happen again, but with a different outcome?”

“My dear, take it from a man who has been on the Ton for more years than you, and seen and experienced far more, what happens once can often happen again. And the second time can be even worse than the first.”

“Well, your Grace, with your vast experience in such horrors, what do you recommend I should do?”

That look, the one which went with the lie I cared anything about his opinion, was a look he was willing to expend coins to acquire.

“My dear, I think you should reconsider your refusal to marry me. Indeed, by marrying me I can ensure you will never endure such an ordeal again.”

But other ordeals? Too vile to mention, and which I could not conceive of? Yes, there would be other ordeals for the woman who rejected and thwarted him.

Time to end this.

“You know, your Grace, I do believe you are right.”

His smile used up all of the Ton’s smugness for a year and a half more.

“But, your Grace, before I consent to our betrothal, I believe you should know something about the woman who will share your bed.”

Another six months of the smugness allotment. His Grace of Haversham, preeminent peer, waved away my “ordeal,” as he put it, with both a hand and words. “It does not matter to me what happened in that cottage, my dearest Eleanor. If you come to me as a somewhat soiled dove, it will not change my opinion of you one whit.”

A soiled dove. A soiled dove? He dared call me a whore in my father’s parlor, in my own home?

“Oh, no, your Grace. It was not that. Ah, may I speak plainly?”

Satisfied with his control of the conversation and its ultimate outcome, he nodded.

“Your Grace, my concern is not with your belief in my whorish ways.” That caused a shock. And then a surge of renewed evil delight. A young woman who used such vulgar language must be whorish beyond what he might have imagined or hoped for. “My concern is for something else. May I?”

He blinked. “May you what?”

“Oh. I wasn’t talking to you, your Grace.”

I was talking to her.

The battle-axe, in all its gleaming glory, appeared on my lap. The duke leaped up, the chair crashing behind him, but only with a small thud due to the thickness of the carpet. No one heard and came running in to ask about odd noises.

He stared at the axe, stared motionless as my hand gently stroked, one might even say “caressed” if one wanted to do so, the smooth handle. He stared as I imagine prey might stare at a king cobra.

“Do be seated, your Grace.”

“I...ah...yes.”

He looked across the room as if he might make a dash for the door. I forestalled any such effort.

“Your Grace, if you run for the door, I suggest this axe in the middle of your back will be so close behind you, any fair judge would call it a tie.”

He righted the chair and sat.

“You did not believe the tale your men told you?”

“My men?”

“Your Grace, this will take far too long and risk an outcome even more disadvantageous to you, if there is no honesty in this room.” I stroked the handle again. “Have you ever wondered if a battle-axe might find particular delight in hewing down the dishonest?”

“I, no, I have not.”

“Think on it. But not at the moment. At the moment we are discussing honesty and the men...the remaining men...you hired to kidnap us and hold us for ransom. You did not believe their story of an insane woman who, ah, took an axe and gave their leader forty whacks, and when she saw what she had done, tried to give them forty-one?”

I borrowed a bit of his smugness back, and used it. I thought that was rather clever for something made up on the spot.

I waited until he realized an answer was required.

“No. I didn’t believe them.”

“But now you are rethinking your disbelief.”

“I...ah...am.”

“Excellent. Now. Here is how I see us moving forward. I have no proof you were behind the plot besides your admission today. You have enough power to ensure I would be seen as an hysterical young woman whose word would never be believed were I ever to accuse you. I, on the other hand, have this.” I ran a fingertip down the length of the handle.

“It disappears.” It did.

“It appears.” It did.

“You perceive my point without repetition?”

He nodded at my lap.

“Eyes up, your Grace.” He lifted them to mine. “Now, as I was saying. You will tell my father you withdraw your suit for my hand. You will ensure the silence of your other conspirators however you choose. You will never make any mention of or even hint about, my ‘ordeal.’ Or the ‘ordeal’ of my sister and the others. Indeed, should any of it ever come to light I will assume the blame must lie on your doorstep, and take action.”

“But that’s not—”

“Fair? No, your Grace. But really, do you think a battle-axe has any great concern about fairness? Isn’t an axe’s general concern, this axe’s particular concern, most likely to be about the difference between life and death? Mine and yours, respectively?”

“Yes.”

“And last, your Grace. Do you enjoy travel?”

He sighed. “How long?”

“At least a year. Although you might find you were so enjoying your voyage, what with all the conveniences and luxuries your wealth can command, you might prolong it. Are we agreed?”

There was fury in his eyes, but frustrated fury. “We are.”

I stood. He stood. He stalked to the door, threw it open but was undoubtedly disappointed when it did not slam against anything. As he was almost through, I called out. “One more thing, your Grace?”

He turned to face me and I walked toward him, the axe in my hand, but it was gone by the time I was close. “Do you see the portrait above the fireplace mantel, your Grace?”

He nodded.

“It’s called ‘Our Lady of the Axe.’ Do you have an idea, now, where my axe might have come from?”

Another nod.

“I know and you know that while you are gone, thousands of miles away on the other side of the world, you might still arrange for my death in a way I could not prevent. But consider this, the Lady who gave me the axe is not bound to ordinary methods of travel to cover vast distances. And she would be annoyed, most annoyed, perhaps even furious, about my death. Can you imagine what might happen to the man who caused it, no matter where on the good Lord’s earth he might be?”

He paled. No nod was needed. He knew I understood how well he understood.

He left. I knew Smythe would ensure he left the house as well.

I went to the bellpull to call for more tea. And some of Cook’s delicious scones with fresh berry jam.

You do know I cannot do any of what you threatened him with. I am bound to you, now.

“But he doesn’t know that!”

Our joined laughter was not pleasant.

When the tea and scones and jam were brought, I had Jane close the door behind her, and tell everyone I did not wish to be disturbed for a while.

Disturbance would be the least of my worries if anyone caught me talking to “myself.”

But I said nothing for a while. All this. From killing that man to routing Haversham...had changed something within me. There was something which was no longer the same. I knew I was through with playing by the rules of a game no longer mine. But what some new game would be I did not know.

Yet.

“You’re going to make it hard to find a husband,” I told her, when I finally spoke between gooey, dripping bites.

But if you have no children, who will I belong to, belong with, next?

“A good point. But I am not ready yet for that.” I sipped the scalding tea and groaned at how good it was.

What are you ready for then?

“I have no idea.”

I do.

“And is it a sharp idea?”

She groaned inside, I laughed aloud.

And then we began to plot and plan.


FIN

[Tully]

Wow, very cool story, Eric. (view spoiler)[like the shades of Lizzie in there! (hide spoiler)]

[Eric]

Tully wrote: "Wow, very cool story, Eric. [spoilers removed]"

Thank you kindly!

Eric-who-ever-relies-on-the-kindness-of-strangers

[Kaje]

Well, that's a lady not to cross! Very interesting use of the image as a painting. Thanks so much for the story. I'm glad you're finding fun trying out YA stories here.

[Eric]

Kaje wrote: "Well, that's a lady not to cross! Very interesting use of the image as a painting. Thanks so much for the story. I'm glad you're finding fun trying out YA stories here."

To quote "Amahl and the Night Visitors," which is where the phrase came from when I saw the opera the first time it was broadcast live many decades ago: "Thank you kindly."

Eric

[Kaje]

Using the Blade

Serae jumped at a tug on her elbow, and whirled. “What?”

Her younger brother straightened to his full height, a span above hers, his hand dramatically on the hilt of his knife. “I'm done bringing the healer's supplies to her. Can I go to the walls now?”

"No!" She snapped the flat refusal harshly. A second look showed that Trey's death grip on his knife was more fear than a pose, and his straight shoulders probably masked a wish to go hide beneath his bed. He was a good boy. But so young. “I've told you, no,” she repeated. “The walls are no place for youngsters. Even I was forbidden to be there.”

That’d hurt like fire, too. I should be at mistress Amara's side, not here cowering in safety with the babies. Amara had said Serae's duty lay here, and she'd obeyed. She always obeyed. In theory, she now commanded this rag tag of the too-old and the too-young. She supposed someone had to, but Granny Dora and the healer had things in hand. Surely she'd do more good as another knife at the walls?

But they were all bound by duty. She said firmly to Trey. “It’s our job to watch the little ones, and provide food and drink and care for those who fight.”

Her brother stuck out his lip. “If they die at the walls for lack of enough fighters, they won’t need the food.”

“Shush!” She glanced around quickly. The inner storerooms were full of kids, from babes in arms, coddled by the seniors of the town, to the older girls and boys. Even out here, in the anteroom turned infirmary, there were children. The last thing they needed was for the littler ones to realize what danger their parents and older sibs were in. You could tell which children still had the confident belief that their elders could do everything, and which went white-faced and grim about their tasks.

“Just let me go help them!” Trey begged. “There're more than enough cooks and childminders here.”

“I’m two years older than you and hunt tested,” Serae pointed out. “If anyone went, I would.”

“Then why don’t you?” Trey glared at her. “Or, if you’re too scared to go, stop treating me like a coward too.”

She gritted her teeth to keep from lashing out. He knows better. He’s jerking your chains. He’d be calmer with some hard work. “Run off to Chief Borna’s rooms and bring back all of his bed linens.”

“His what?”

“You heard me. All of them. We may need many more bandages.”

“But… Chief Borna’s?”

“His linens are softest.” And since Serae had to stay back and act as commander here, she was going to do whatever she thought best. A daring mission of invading the Chief’s suite might keep Trey from heading toward the fight the moment her back was turned. “Go now. Run fast!”

Trey stared at her, frown fading. Then he sprinted out the door and up the steps. She listened, heart in her mouth, until she heard him turn left, deeper into the keep, and not right, for the walls. Safe. For now.

She pivoted to look around the room. They'd set water to boil on the fire in the town's biggest pots, pulling each one off in rotation. A dozen steaming vessels stood along the wall. As she watched, a girl dashed out of the back room to snatch up a toddler who was aimed like an arrow straight for the hot water.

“Close that door,” Serae ordered. “And keep it closed!”

“Yes'm!” The girl hauled the small child away with her, and shut the storeroom door behind them.

The boy in charge of the fire gave Serae a quick look. “Thanks!”

“Keep working.” She wanted to pace around the room, wanted to pray to all the gods, or scream, or break something, but she wouldn’t. Would do nothing Amara disliked. She would make her commander proud of her. She set her feet apart in waiting stance, and dropped her arms at her sides, uncurling her fists. Calm. Ready. A warrior does not waste energy fighting a battle that is not yet before her.

She strained here ears. Down here, in the cool limestone caverns below the citadel, the world outside was distant and muffled. She could no longer hear the horn calls of the army at their gates. The beat of her own heart was louder than the tramp of enemy feet on the dirt that was once the citadel’s fields of grain. The silence was familiar, reassuring. A lie.

Running footsteps on the staircase made her grab for the hilt of her longknife. She shifted to ready stance. Only one set of feet. Too soon to be Trey coming back, unless he’d met trouble. Too light to be the enemy.

She sighed as Nica appeared in the doorway, then gasped as she saw the blood running down Nica’s arm. “Are they…”

“Arrows,” Nica said. “They’re shooting over the walls. Nothing more. Yet.” Their eyes met in painful knowledge of what was coming.

Serae slipped her knife back into its sheath. “Come on then, the healer’s in the next room.” Old Edit might be near sixty, but she'd lost no part of her touch with the ailing, even if she did work best sitting down these days.

“I can find her.” Nica gave her a nod. “Amara wants you to replace me. I'll get bandaged, and take over here. You go.”

Me? Despite everything, despite her desperate wish to be among those at Amara’s side, sudden panic washed over her. I can’t. I’m not ready! She hid her thoughts with a dip of her head. “Yes, Nica.”

Nica unclamped her good hand from her bleeding shoulder to give Serae’s arm a squeeze. She left red fingermarks behind. “Go fast, to the outer armory."

"Armory?"

Nica nodded. "Good luck.”

“You also.” Serae turned for the stairs. Trey would find her gone when he got back, but he’d listen to Nica. The fire, the children… she set her old duties aside. Nica would do it as well, even better. She ran upward, and turned right at the top.

As she emerged from the doorway into the courtyard, the sounds from the walls hit her so hard she froze for one shaking breath. Thrumm, thump, thump, blare. Out there, a horde of men, of barbarians who left their women behind to tend the homestead and roved the land to steal what others made, was waiting… She set her hand on the hilt of her knife, and sprinted forward again.

Through the second ring walls. Dolan and Viv at the doorway nodded to her as she passed. Then around along the outer wall toward the door of the armory. The drums beyond the gates were like a weapon now, pounding, beating their sound into her head. The air seemed thin, and she bent over to suck in a desperate breath.

Coward. Amara is waiting.

“Hug the walls!” That deep voice could only be Dig. Sure enough, the huge man stood with his back to the nearest rampart, sword unsheathed in his hand. "B'ware arrows." As if to confirm his command, a hiss, clang and scrape marked a feathered shaft hitting the wall above them and dropping at her feet.

Serae slammed her shoulders to the wall and gritted her teeth to steady her voice. “Amara sent for me.”

“She’s in there.” Dig flicked a thumb at the closed door.

"Thanks." Serae slid along the wall, the rough stone and mortar scraping her bare elbows, and then ducked inside.

It was dark inside the small, windowless anteroom. Only a shaft of sunlight from the ventilation slits high in the wall let her see the next door, also shut as it had never been in the two years of her apprenticeship. She knocked.

"Who is it?" Amara's voice.

"Serae, mistress."

The door swung open. Without ceremony, Amara grabbed Serae's arm, yanked her inside, and dropped the inner bar back in its slot. Serae blinked, looking around. The room was crowded, dim-lit with torches held by Suu and Lacy. Behind them stood Anders and Gol. All of Amara's hunt team, now wearing the facepaint of war. All armed. Why are we standing around in here?

Amara let go of her arm and turned to Suu. "You go first. Light the way. Lacy, give me your torch and go second. I'll take the tail. Quickly now."

Quickly what? Serae's chest ached with the effort of not asking questions.

Anders and Gol strode over to the wall where the rack for heavy weapons now stood almost empty. Each big man took a grip on the left corner of the rack and pulled. Slowly, gratingly, the rack was dragged away from the wall. Underneath its base, a dark gaping hole appeared. The men strained, their arm muscles standing out, veins popping, gaining another inch and another, until the other edge of the hole was revealed.

"Well done," Amara said. "Close it behind us, then go cover the door. They'll think nothing of guards on the armory."

"Yes, mistress."

"Suu, down. Quickly now. Mind the drop and watch your torch."

Suu trotted over and lowered herself to sit on the edge of the hole, legs dangling into it. She leaned forward, holding the torch low to check out the space below her, then dropped. There was a thump, and what might have been a yelp of surprise, but the light of her torch shone up from the depth.

"Lacy, go," Amara said.

As Lacy moved to obey, Amara turned to the weapons rack and pulled a moderate two-headed axe out of its slot. "Serae, take this."

Serae reached out and closed her hands around the shaft. The handle was square and wide against her palms. She'd used the work axes for a dozen years, but this was different. This was a war tool. A shiver racked through her. Hopefully Amara didn't notice. She widened to a better stance and tipped her head back.

Amara stared intently at her. The thud from Lacy dropping into the hole wasn't enough to break their eye contact. Amara pulled a stick of charcoal out of her pocket and stepped closer. "My Serae." Her voice was barely breath. "I'd hoped to have more time." With quick strokes she marked Serae's cheeks and forehead, then her chin. A quick smudge under each eye. It was surely accident that her wrist brushed Serae's lips, even if Serae desperately wished otherwise.

Amara stepped back and raised her torch. "Go. Down the hole."

"Yes, mistress." She still wanted to asked what, or why. But never once, since the moment she'd first stood in front of Amara as her newest hunt recruit, had she ever questioned a flat order from the Huntmistress. Turning, she went to the hole and sat, holding the axe carefully. Now that she could see down, the hole's depth was revealed to be over a man-height, with an earthen floor. Lacy and Suu were out of sight, the torchlight showing they were waiting in a passage to the left.

Knees loose, roll if you must, watch the axe. She breathed out and dropped. It was further down than it looked and she hit with a yelp louder than Suu's had been, rolling to take the impact. She lost her grip on the axe-handle, but got it again as she pushed to her feet. Hopefully her fumble hadn't been visible from above.

"Clear the way." Amara dropped the moment Serae was clear of the space. Her cat-steady landing, muscles flexing, the torchflame barely wavering, was even more impressive to Serae for having just mucked it up herself. She felt that familiar wash of admiration, like heat through her veins. A woman to follow to the ends of the earth.

Or to run ahead of, as Amara snapped, "Move out. Fast as you can." And gave Serae a push toward the tunnel.

Fast turned out to be a bit optimistic. The tunnel was very narrow and low. In several places they had to stop and squeeze through, one at a time, passing the torches afterward hand to hand. At the first squeeze Suu muttered, "Gods bedamned lazy tunnel builders."

To which Amara snapped, "They were told to make it so small that male warriors would have no easy way inward. Why did you think I brought Serae and not Gol?"

Serae tried not to react to that. I was her second choice. No, probably her fourth. After Gol and Nica and no doubt Anders. Sixth, counting Suu and Lacy. She kept her mouth shut and eyes forward as she squeezed through in turn.

After the second squeeze point, Amara murmured, "Hang back two steps."

Serae obeyed, as always, letting Lacy's back recede a couple of strides before moving out.

[Kaje]

Amara continued in the same private tone, "Are you pouting, girl?"

She flinched, and tried to center and straighten her shoulders. "No, mistress." Her soft voice wasn't as low as Amara's but Lacy didn't look back at them.

"Good. I'd hate to think you doubted my judgment."

"Never!" That got a bit loud. Serae dropped back another step. "I trust you."

"So you weren't upset that I'd have picked Gol over you?" Amara let the words lie out there until Serae could feel the cold disappointment filling her stomach, before adding, "For a mission where strength will count?"

"I didn't know about the mission!"

"But I did. Do I need to define trust?"

Embarrassed heat warred with the chill. Jumping to conclusions lands the jumper in the mud. How often had Amara said that? "No, mistress."

Amara moved closer up behind Serae, until the warmth of the torch scalded the back of her neck. Or maybe that heat was Amara's gaze. Serae kept jogging onward. Eventually Amara murmured as if to herself, "May the gods piss on the damned barbarians. Listen to me, girl. I had plans."

Serae wasn't sure if that might need a response, but Amara preferred her to be silent when in doubt, so she did that.

Ten more strides, and Amara said, "I was going to cut you loose from my hunt team next year."

Oh Gods! What did I do wrong? Serae stumbled and almost dropped the axe.

"You don't like that idea?" Amara's tone was oddly amused.

Hate. Despise. Fear. Bitterly regret. "No, mistress."

"Not even if I planned to send you to Fron's team because having a personal relationship with one of my own team is bad ethics?"

That time she did drop the axe. Face burning hot, Serae bent and scooped it up. Lacy had glanced back, but Amara must have gestured because she immediately turned and jogged on. Serae should have followed, but gravity deeper than a well made her turn. Amara held the torch behind herself, and reached out to take Serae's chin in her hand, keeping her still. Serae dropped her gaze to their boots, unable to stare into Amara's eyes right now, even in this dim place. Amara tweaked her chin gently. "We will speak again. After. You're still too young, but—"

Greatly daring, Serae interrupted, "I passed my final test. The Chief himself named me a woman grown and hunter trained."

"Which doesn't erase six years between us. But yes, if you were still a child, I'd not have spoken at all. Listen now. There's no time for us. Not now. And unless this mission succeeds, maybe not ever. But I would not have you go forward without knowing that I hope there will be. If ever a girl was made to be the apple of her mistress's eye, it was you. For me."

In that moment, it seemed as if the world stood still. Serae was flooded with a thousand memories, fantasies, dreams. Impossible dreams. Years with Amara, following her, guarding her. Knife-fasting, the ceremonial hilt passing hand to hand. This can't be real. She stayed there, as if encased in ice, while Amara brushed a thumb over her lower lip. She'd have dropped to her knees, given her heart, her life, at one word.

But Amara just stepped back, and grinned. "Now run, girl. We have work to do."

"But—"

"Go."

She went. Turned and ran as fast as the low ceiling and the need to duck and weave and crouch allowed. Behind her, Amara was near silent and yet loomed in her senses like the biggest ice bear of childhood tales. It was a relief, almost, to still be a little scared of her. For Amara to still feel like Amara. They caught up with Lacy and Suu at the tightest pass-through yet. Serae was glad of her flat chest and narrow hips, as Lacy had to shed her furs and slip through half naked.

In the larger chamber on the other side, Amara halted them. Very softly, she said, "A hundred paces now to the opening. I'll go out first. Then Lacy, Serae, and Suu take rear. Silent as if you tracked wild birds. Beware of enemy scouts. We don't think they've set pickets this far out, but we must not be seen."

"What's the mission?" Suu asked.

"When we get there uncaptured, it will be safe to tell you. We head for the lake."

"Lead the way," Suu said, as solidly as if she had no doubts. Amara grinned and doused her torch by rubbing it against the wall of the tunnel, then set it on the floor. Turning, she headed up a sloping, narrow exit tunnel in the side of the chamber. Lacy gave Suu a wide-eyed glance, and followed on her heels. Then it was Serae's turn.

As she squirmed up the tunnel, her mind was set free. It was like being born, this dark, narrow passage to the light. On the other side, she would be someone new. Someone worthy of Amara and this mission. Green filtered sunshine and the distant beat of drums ahead marked the new world.

The tunnel came out into a low cave whose mouth was screened by hanging, leafy vines. Serae took a long slow breath, and checked the set of the knife and axe at her belt. Suu came up behind her, gesturing her to move out through the screening brambles.

Thorns scratched at her bare arms as she worked her way out of the thicket, staying close to the ground. At the edge of the bramble patch, Amara crouched in the brush with Lacy, waiting. Once Suu was clear, she led them off in hunting file, fast, low and silent.

The tunnel exit could have been anywhere in the world, for how turned around Serae felt, but gradually she placed the sound of the enemy drums and horns, menacing despite the faintness, left and behind them. And the lake must be ahead. Her sense of place returned. She'd roamed these woods many times.

They moved at their best hunt pace. Several times Amara gestured and they froze in place, barely breathing. Once she gave the signal to drop and take cover, but Serae saw no enemy soldiers, and after several tense, silent minutes they moved out again. Ten minutes later they reached the base of the dam.

Crouching in the weeds below the waterfall, Serae peered up at the huge logs that had taken a score of men, women, and horses week after week to haul into place. She'd been a child then, but she remembered how everyone took a turn. Remembered Mother coming home dirty and exhausted, to tell Father of another log placed, another two feet gained, in taming the river.

The lake above the dam had spread for miles when it was finished. The river spilled over the low point, arching out in a glittering fall of water, hitting the rocks below and winding down the riverbed toward the sea.

Amara looked up at it. "The dam on Badgerwater. We're to take it out. Flood the valley. Drown that mothereating army," She said that as if it made sense. As if four women could somehow undam a river.

We're supposed to break that? Serae turned away from the huge green-algaed walls to look at Amara. Trust.

"This way." Amara jerked her chin upslope. They crept up the steep hillside to the lakeshore at the top. Amara gave the signal to take cover, and as one they dropped to the ground. In a barely-there voice, Amara said, "This was planned as defense, as well as resource. Only a few of us know how it was done. If we fail to finish this mission, if we're captured, you will guard the secret with your life, and beyond." She eyed each of them until she got a salute of hand to heart. Serae felt the race of her own heart under her palm. She breathed in, then out, as Amara had taught her.

"Under the water on this side, about ten lengths in from shore, there are five white stone wedges in place. Our first job is to remove those. Use axe heads for wedges, torquing toward the lake. Go." Without another word Amara began stripping off her clothes, hiding them under the edge of a boulder.

Serae had a moment of disorientation, then quickly reached for the laces of her furs. It wasn't winter, yet, but the air was cold and the water would be worse. She tried not to think about it.

Watch Amara. If she had to find a way not to notice the chill on her skin and the shake of her fingers, watching the mistress strip down to sleek, tan skin was definitely a good one. Gods, she's fine. Not that Serae had any right to look, but she always had, from the first time the mistress had pulled her aside to demonstrate a knife technique, muscled arms bare. Although… maybe now Serae did have the right?

Chill air on her nipples woke her to realize that she was naked without remembering half of getting there. Amara was already leading the way to the water, a small iron tool in one hand, slipping into the lake without a visible reaction. Suu behind her shuddered as the water reached her thighs, but was silent. Lacy's paler skin rose in feather-bumps all along her arms and she dropped down to swim as she reached hip-depth, one hand fisted on her axe. Serae set her teeth together, picked up her own axe, and followed.

Cold! Gods-bedamned cold! She managed not to squeak, as the icy water reached her private parts. Ahead, each of the others dove below the surface. Serae took a breath and followed them down.

The water was calm out here along the edge of the dam. The sunlight filtered down, blue-green with reflected algae, but bright enough to light their work. This side of the dam was slimy with waterweed, almost obscuring the structure of the massive logs, and the stone fill between them. Amara led the way downward and then along the base. She scraped with the chisel blade in her hand over one, two, three spots. Where she peeled the weeds, a pale slash of stone was visible. Four, five. At the fifth she stopped, and began to work her blade in around some unseen edge.

Suu went to the fourth, Lacy the third. Serae swam down to the second spot, her lungs already burning, her side cramping with the cold. With numb fingers, she fumbled along the revealed stone, finding the edges of a block about a handspan in width. She ripped away weeds and set the edge of her axe blade into the groove, trying to brace herself enough to wedge it in.

Lacy suddenly rose toward the surface. A moment later she came back down and returned to her work. Serae realized her own chest felt like thick rope was wrapped around it, tightening, tightening. She gave the axe a last shove, but it wanted to float handle-up. Pulling it free, she kicked to the surface.

The air came into her lungs like a gift, but the sound of the enemy drums thrummed in her ears as well. Two fast breaths, and then she sucked her lungs full and went back down. She passed Suu coming up, but they didn't spare each other a look. Serae found her block, and set her blade to the task again. You're coming out, you stone!

A swirl of water at her side marked Amara, swimming past into position at the first stone. She moved like an otter, wholly at home in the water. With a quick flip, she found places to brace her feet for leverage, and set her chisel to the wall.

Focus. The word came to Serae as if Amara had said it aloud, although she hadn't even glanced over. Serae snapped her attention back to her own stone. Her blade was biting in deeper. She found a place on the wall to jam her toes into, feet so cold-numbed she didn't feel the bruising, and leaned on the handle.

The stone loosened, moving out of its seat a finger's width, then another, and another. Her chest ached. Black spots gathered in her vision, but vision didn't matter now. Just the stone, the axe, that little shift, and a bit more. More. More.

Then the stone came free and she was able to drag its tapered length out of the deep recess, dropping it to the floor of the lake. Yes! Serae pressed her lips shut to stop a relieved gasp. Clinging to the axe handle with numb fingers, she kicked toward the surface. Her vision wavered, red and black. The second her mouth broke through to the air she dragged in a ragged gasp. Air. So good. She panted, fighting to be silent. Each breath pushed the darkness further from her eyes.

[Kaje]

When she could see again clearly, Amara was treading water beside her. Serae waited for praise for her success, or maybe a critique of her swimming, but Amara just turned and headed for the shore. Serae followed. Suu and Lacy were already wading ahead out of the shallows.

They crept back under the overhang of brush and Amara murmured, "Dry off with your underthings, then leave anything wet here, and dress in dry furs. Quickly."

Even before Serae had relaced her furs, Amara turned away and headed quickly down the hill. The three of them scrambled to lace their clothes and tuck weapons back into belt loops, then followed her once more. In single file, they crept down between the rocks and bushes of the slope to the muddy inlet at its base. Serae looked back up over her shoulder. The huge wall of the dam loomed above them, as solid as ever. Did we fail?

Amara stopped beside a big grey-flecked boulder near the waterside. "Now we move this." She set her shoulder to it. The stone looked far too big to be shifted with anything less than a team of horses, but they lined up beside her and pushed. Serae's vision went red again as she strained against the solid rock. Cold shivers began to wrack her despite her furs, traveling from her shoulders down her heaving chest and shaky belly to rock her knees. Not falling. She set her jaw and pushed.

Suddenly the boulder rolled, tipping a foot to the left and forward. Amara grunted with apparent satisfaction. "Push." Another heave together, and it tipped two more feet and settled. Amara dropped to one knee and lifted two thick, filthy ropes from the soil. Despite the dirt, they looked fairly new and solid. "Here. Now we pull."

"How, Huntmistress?" Suu asked.

"This way." As Amara lifted the ropes, their lengths rose from the mud and then the water, dripping in saggy lines out to the base of the dam. "You two take this one. Serae and I will take the other. There are bollards set, yours there, and ours there." She pointed at two odd rocks standing back from the shore, like squat columns. Serae had discounted them among the other water-carved boulders, but now she saw their shape was perfect for wrapping a rope around.

"Yes'm." Suu reached for her rope.

Amara passed it to her, but dropped a hand to her forearm. "You—" She glanced at each of them in turn. "You all have to know—" Something dark flashed across her expression, then was lost in her usual calm mask. "When the dam goes, there's a good chance we'll go with it. We'll take the ropes there— at the edge of those trees— to start hauling, but they're poor shelter and we can't go higher. When you hear the breach starting, run uphill. And Suu, Lacy, Serae, whatever befalls? I could not ask for a better team. In all the world."

"Mistress." Suu tapped her chest with her free hand. Lacy did the same a second later.

Before Serae could get her chill-addled head around what had just been said, she was being tugged in Amara's wake toward their bollard. Then it was too late to say anything real. So she just helped Amara snug the rope in two strong turns through the grooves, and bring the free end over to a patch of good ground.

Amara positioned Serae ahead of her on the rope, and glanced at Suu and Lacy, also set and waiting on theirs. "I'd always imagined horses for this, and someone else playing hero," she said. "Ah, well. On my mark… Pull… Pull… Pull…"

The first few pulls were jerky, but not hard. Behind them the ropes rose fully out of the mud and ooze, tightened, straightened, shuddered taut. And stuck there. "Pull… Pull… Pull…"

Serae dug her feet into the slippery ground and strained forward, leaning into the rope with all her weight.

"Pull… Pull… Pull…"

She wondered if Amara realized she'd fallen into the rhythm of the hated drums. The threatening beat sang through Serae's blood, carrying Amara's voice. Pull. They were gaining fingerwidths, no more, maybe even that was an illusion. Pull.

Then suddenly Suu and Lacy yelped in unison. The rope over Serae's shoulder quivered, jerked against her, then gave forward.

"Pull! Now!" Amara called out loudly for the first time all day.

Serae struggled with the rope, which seemed to fight back like there was a live thing on the other end, shivering and jolting. Her palms heated raw on its length. She scrambled, slipping, leaning to the work until her shoulder was halfway to the ground. It's giving! Panting, sobbing, she hauled her best. Amara worked at her back, her breath loud and strong. Serae knew nothing but the need to make Amara proud.

There was a sudden crack behind them, then a rumble. Amara called out, "Run! Now!"

Serae dropped the rope and looked back. Louder pops and cracks came from the dam, noises that shook the air. The arch of the water overflow sprayed wider and thinner. Then a second jet of water began, halfway to the bank.

"I said run!" Amara gripped her arm, yanking her forward. Serae stumbled, staggered to one knee, landing on a rock. Her leg turned to fire. Amara just hauled her up again. On the next step Serae's knee gave sideways. "Ah no." Amara wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her in close.

"Go without me." The words left Serae's lips without thought.

"Run, you little bitch, or I'll make you sorry! Run!"

Serae had never heard that tone from Amara before. The shock drove her forward. She couldn't feel anything beyond the sick pounding of her heart. Not the fire in her knee, not the clasp of Amara's arm around her waist, Not the sudden sucking tug of water swirling at her feet. Behind them, the sounds of the dam breaking rose to a rumble that drowned all other sound. If she is cursing me, I can't hear it. Serae's thoughts were suspended somewhere, in a bubble without meaning and pain and breath. She knew she was running, being hauled, up between trees, through tugging tangles of wet growth, but it was so distant…

A wave of water suddenly hit her inner thighs, and the chill jolted her back from that strange remove. The pain of her knee made her stagger, but Amara still supported her and kept her upright. A higher wave of water passed around them, slamming them into an old oak, and leaving them hip-deep.

Amara glanced swiftly around, then yanked Serae back as she tried to take another step. "Here." She shoved Serae in deeper to the thick trunk. "Hang on!"

"To what?"

"The trunk. Work around." Amara dragged them desperate handspans across the curve of trunk to brace flat to the tree. Serae was forcibly turned to face the bark. She pressed her cheek in close and tried to dig her fingers into the rough grooves, but there was little there to grip. The nearest branches arched well above their heads. She felt Amara spread over her back, sheltering her from the debris that rushed past in the rising water. Through slitted, watering eyes she could see Amara's fingers scrabbling on the bark for their own hold.

"My axe," Serae said abruptly.

Before she could explain, Amara hissed "Yesss." Serae felt the tug as Amara pulled the axe free from her belt, and then the warmth left Serae's back as her mistress leaned away.

Thunkkk! The axe head bit into the tree inches from her hand, deeper by half than Serae had ever driven it. Then Amara's chest covered Serae's back again, and her strong fingers clenched the shaft. "Grab on, girl!"

Serae grabbed the handle above Amara's grip, and closed her eyes. The water rushed around them, growling and thumping, roaring like a stampede of buffalo beset by wolves. Bang! Something struck hard right beside her. The oak at her front shuddered and creaked. A second later, Amara at her back jolted, was sucked back, then scrabbled closer, clinging like a limpet against the force of the flood. Serae bit back a scream as debris slammed into her bad knee. Amara grunted, then gasped.

Another wave of water broke around them at chest level, and as it drained away in a powerful, inexorable sucking force, the soil under their feet crumbled and dropped downhill.

Suddenly Amara was ripped loose from behind Serae.

"Noooo!" Serae opened her eyes wide, blinking afast. All around her, branch-laden waves fought through the trees, buffeting her into the thick trunk. Amara's gone! Or? Wait! There, at arm's length, Amara still clung with one white-knuckled hand gripping the handle of the deep-driven axe, her face set in a rictus of effort, her body pulled almost horizontal with the flood.

Serae gasped. "Let me—"

"Don't move," Amara whispered. "Stay. Don't move." Her hand slipped an inch lower on the quivering handle.

I can't just let you go! "I have to!" Serae tried to figure out how to help, to reach, grab—

"Stop! Trust me." Amara clearly had no breath for more. The force had to be hauling her shoulder half out of its socket.

Trust? Surely that didn't include doing nothing while Amara died for her? I should reach for her hand. Was it fear or obedience that kept her spread in place, holding the damned axe, her other fingers still dug into the oak's bark? Just watching?

Slowly, painfully, Amara reached her free hand toward the axe handle. As the water yanked and jolted her, she strained, arched, and got her second hand onto the long shaft as well. Then another effort, both biceps bulging, lips peeled back from gritted teeth, and she hauled herself back into place, her feet pressing against Serae's on the crumbling soil. Serae could feel the shudders of torn breaths passing through Amara as she plastered herself back over Serae's spine. The heat of each gasp brushed over Serae's ear. And each was the gods' blessing.

The waters slowly subsided. Serae was so chilled she could no longer feel her legs. That was probably a good thing. She was still standing. They were both alive. She'd count that as her win.

When the river had dropped to their knees, Amara tugged and turned her, supporting half her weight as they hauled themselves upward, between the remaining trees, wading till they reached the edge of the new, wild river. "Another few steps." Amara pulled her in tighter, their hips plastered together. They managed six more staggering steps away from the water before falling. Serae wasn't sure who went down first, but neither of them was letting go and they landed in a heap.

"How bad are you hurt?" Amara asked, without loosening her grip.

"I'll live." The fire in her knee was reawakening and she bit back a groan, to gasp, "You?"

"I haven't caught my death of a chill in seven years on the hunt. I'm not starting now." Amara pulled Serae in closer, as if to warm her.

"Things were hitting you."

"I'm fine. Any danger we walk away from is a good day." Amara raised her voice. "Suu? Lacy?"

"Here!" Scrambling sounds to their right heralded Suu's approach. Serae's heart dropped to see she was alone. But as soon as she was close she said, "Lacy broke her arm but she'll live. She's back there." She pointed behind her.

"Praise the gods!" Serae sighed.

Suu knelt beside her. "Are you two hurt?"

"Bruises, a bad knee, no worse," Amara said.

"And— do you think it worked, Huntsmistress? The flood?"

Amara pushed herself to sit upright, and shot a look at the angry, roiling river below them. "The drums have stopped."

Serae realized that was true. The roar of the flood was muting, but there was no return of that malignant, distant beat.

Suu grinned, her teeth white in her muddy face. "We did it!"

Amara rose to one knee. "We'll find out for sure very soon."

"Soon? But—" Serae rubbed her knee and bit her lip against a whine. She swallowed and managed a more reasonable, "I can't travel at all fast, I don't think. You might have to leave me."

Amara actually smiled. "I like your grit, girl. But no. We'll get you and Lacy doctored and settled, and then Suu and I will hurry back to check in. You're not afraid to hide in the cave and wait for us?"

[Kaje]

If the flood had routed the enemy from the low plain, they might be retreating through these woods at any moment. She had a sudden image of being found in that cave by angry, half-drowned men. But she shook her head. The nod of approval from her mistress made it worthwhile.

There was something else, something nagging her… "I lost my axe." She was embarrassed the second the words came out of her mouth. What a stupid thing to worry about. But Amara's warm expression didn't change.

"In a good cause, thank you, yes. I'll give you my knife."

Serae felt her jaw drop and heart leap, then the heat of deeper embarrassment warmed her face. Not a knife-fasting, you hopeless dreamer. She's going to leave her knife for your self protection. She hoped desperately that Amara hadn't been able to read her thoughts. "Yes, mistress."

Getting back to the cave was a miserable business that took three times as long as coming the other way. Lacy's broken arm was a closed wound, but she was clearly shaken, and each short step pained her. Amara and Suu made a chair-carry for Serae, wrists locked together, but they too were chilled and bruised. Serae cling to them, knee on fire, teeth chattering, and made no sound. They had to pause to rest often, making heavy way over the rough ground.

By the time they reached the cave at the end of the tunnel, the daylight was dimming. Serae was set on the ground outside, and she swayed, so tired she wasn't sure which way was up. "Come on, girl." Amara hugged her close. "Down now. One last crawl and you can rest."

"Rest?" Serae licked her cracked lips. Why is my body wet and my mouth dry?

"Yes, rest. Come on. One more effort for me."

"Effort." Her eyes wanted to close.

"That way. Crawl."

"Way."

"Ah, hells." Amanda's cool fingers closed on her chin, forcing her to look up. "Serae? Follow me. All right?"

"Right." She could do that. For Amara, she could do anything. Crawling on one knee, dragging the other, tugged at by the tiny barbs of a hundred thorns as she strove to reach the cave, was the most painful thing she'd ever done. Luckily, her head was floating again, outside her body. The pain didn't matter as much as the flash of Amara's arms as she backed away ahead of her, calling her name. Reach Amara. Follow. She crawled and squirmed forward, as Amara retreated.

Then suddenly there was open space around them. Amara pulled her forward and aside, and began rubbing her back and arms.

"M'leg hurts. Not arms."

"You're chilled." Amara's voice came from a long way off. "Here. Let me—"

She didn't hear what Amanda wanted. Not that it mattered. Whatever you need. Yes. Her heavy eyes closed in sleep.

***

Serae came awake slowly, through a clinging haze. She was warm and her bed was soft. The air held a hint of smoke and seared meat. As she surfaced, she realized her whole body hurt. She was so tired even her eyelids felt too heavy to lift. Her left knee burned like a hot spike had been hammered through it. Maybe if she just slept again, she could skip all that. She squinched her eyes tighter, chasing the darkness.

Amara's amused voice said, "Are you pretending to sleep? Don't you want to see me?"

Amara? At my bedside? She opened her eyes fast and stared up at the face hovering over her. Yes, that's Amara. She eyed the Huntsmistress's expression for clues. There was a bruise on one chiseled tan cheekbone, and— Oh. The sudden rush of memories was almost like another flood. "Did it work?"

"Yes." Amara sounded grimly satisfied. "The flood took out half their army, broke their wagons, scattered the weapons and supplies. Our people sortied as soon as they saw it hit, and cut off those who didn't retreat."

"A fight? Did anyone—" die? That was a dumb question. Obvious.

Amara answered it anyway. "We lost six. None close to you, I believe. And more injured. But they lost far, far more, and even better, the rest have gone home to lick their wounds."

"Will they come back?"

"Not this season, or next, or the one after. They left half their men in the field. One day?" She sounded sad. "Some learn from their mistakes to take another path. Some keep making the same mistakes."

"We don't have another dam."

"We will."

"But they won't camp down there by the river next time."

"No. We'll find other answers." Amara laid a hand on Serae's brow. Her fingers felt so lovely and cool. Serae knew there were more things she should ask about, but the touch of that hand was like a center to the universe, all she could think about. Her eyelids fluttered shut, unbidden.

"You should sleep some more," Amara said into her darkness. "You took a chill. You've been quite ill."

That would explain the weakness.

"We'll talk again later."

An odd thought slid through the red-tinged darkness behind her closed eyelids. "Did I lose your knife?"

"Did you what?"

Serae forced her sticky eyes open. This felt important. "Your knife. You said you'd—" lend? give? The memories were fuzzy. "I remember something. Did I lose it?"

Amara chuckled softly. "You never had it. You were out of your head with fever by the time it would have done you any good."

"It'd do me good now." Serae heard the echo of her words. "Oh, Gods!" That chased away the drowsy peace. What did I say "Ignore me, mistress. I must still be fevered."

"Perhaps." Amara didn't leave though. "Serae. Things were said."

She wondered what things. Some of what she thought she remembered had to have been fever dreams. Surely?

After a long silence, Amara spoke again, firmly but with an odd undertone. "You're still under my command. Still too young."

For what? Amara's voice echoed in her head. "Personal relationship." Not a dream? She was grateful for the fatigue that kept her from blurting out the wrong things.

"I was afraid you might have to come back without me and never know. Well, that shows even I can be selfish. I shouldn't have spoken. And I won't share my knife with you yet."

"Of course not, mistress," she mumbled.

Amara's fingers under her chin held the echo of a dozen touches, a hundred. The mistress's eyes met hers, bright amber and brown, boring into her own. "So you get well, you hear me? Heal that leg. Return to your tasks. One year, as a hunter still, but under From, not me. And then. Then we'll see."

"See." The fever must have been rising. She shook with tremors from head to toe. "Yes, mistress."

"I brought you something else, though." Amara reached to the floor, and when she straightened, she had a two-bladed axe in her hand. "Remember? The moment you trusted me most? With the axe in that oak?"

"But." There was something wrong with this picture. "I've trusted you with my life before, a bunch of times."

"That was the moment you trusted me with mine."

That made no sense, and then it did, washing through Serae with heat. She had the feeling she was gasping like a fish.

Amara stood and patted her shoulder firmly, just once. "Get better, girl. Work. Learn. Remember. And in a year, perhaps it will be you, sharing your blade with me." She strode to the door of the room, paused, and then swung the axe. The blade bit deep into the wood of the frame. Before the handle had stopped quivering, Amara was gone.

Serae lay there, body aching, mind a whirl. The axe hung in the wall, like a promise. A year. I've loved her for two years and more, thinking it was hopeless. I can do another year, with hope.

When her mother came into the room some time later, asking if she could eat a little broth, the axe was still there. Solid and sharp and dangerous and trustworthy. A challenge.

"Yes, Mother," she said, forcing her aching body to sit upright in the bed and ignoring the sharp pain from her knee. "I'm hungry. I want to get well soon. There's a whole future waiting."


####

[Eric]

What a marvelous story, Kaje.

You made the pic into a photograph of a girl in that period (my reaction is not-quite-medieval) and told us a beautiful, adventuresome story of how she reached that moment in time,
and then what happened next.

And in the midst of battle, there's love.

Thank you for wonderful reading.

Eric-the-grateful

[Kaje]

<3 Thanks Eric.

[Sammy Goode]

Kaje and Eric--what different but wonderful stories!! Thank you for sharing them with us!

[Sammy Goode]

Hey gang, it's that time again to post the pics you love for the April writing prompt--you can find the nomination thread here:

https://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/...

[Erik]

Party Time

Ok, so if this is supposed to be a D&D theme party, then why am I the only one in a barbarian getup? Everyone else is dressed formally.

My best friend, Eliza, is going to pay dearly for this.

Ah there she is, I'm going to make sure that she never... wait, why is she biting her lower lip and being all shy and cute while she's looking at me? Huh, has she always been so sexy?

Ok, fine. She lives another night.

The End

[Eric]

Erik wrote: "Party Time

Ok, so if this is supposed to be a D&D theme party, then why am I the only one in a barbarian getup? Everyone else is dressed formally.

My best friend, Eliza, is going to pay dearly fo..."

Delightful, Erik-with-a-k! *s*

[Kaje]

Erik wrote: "Party Time

Ok, so if this is supposed to be a D&D theme party, then why am I the only one in a barbarian getup? Everyone else is dressed formally.

My best friend, Eliza, is going to pay dearly fo..."

Very cute - thanks for the flash fic <3

[Riina]

Lovely stories guys!! :) Made my lunch break fun.

[Eric]

Thanks, Riina.

You made my morning fun right before heading into TFD!

*s*

Eric

[Kaje]

Riina wrote: "Lovely stories guys!! :) Made my lunch break fun."

<3 Thanks for reading.