Lying on her back in the cool grass, S’harani soaked up the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees to warm her body. Despite their hot, dry summer, this one space of grass by the river had grown so long; she was almost hidden from sight. Twirling a flower absent-mindedly in her fingers, she allowed her thoughts to wander elsewhere as they willed. Here, safe in her imaginary world, she could be whomever she chose.
Closing her eyes, she envisioned herself as one of the G’hiru, dressed in leathers and brandishing a mighty sword, she was leading the fight against evil. King Bryscrul and his men pleaded for mercy at her feet, but she had none to give. Her sword glinted in the sun as she laughed in cruel amusement at their approaching fate. The once mighty ruler sobbed in the dust like a child, begging for forgiveness. It was far too late for that. As the leader of her people she must show no compassion. Grasping the hilt tightly with both hands she swung her blade back, pausing for a moment to admire the sight before her. Then with a malevolent grin, she plunged the sword right through Bryscruls’ – “S’harani!”
The piercing voice cut through her head, like the blade her imagined self had been wielding. S’harani was jerked back to reality. Pushing herself to her feet she glared in the direction of the wooden shack she and her family were now forced to call home.
“There you are girl, get in here at once!” Henriqua may have been her Mother, but these were certainly not the gentle tones S’harani had heard in her early years. Henriquas’ voice was edged with anger and exhaustion, and how could anyone blame her after all that had happened. None the less, S’harani had lived past seventeen Lunar ceremonies, and was no longer a child. She needed time to herself; to dream and escape this dire existence, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. She could remember a time when she had had nothing more to worry about than what to wear for the seasonal Harvest Dance.
S’harani gazed down at her hands, now rough and calloused. Her fingernails were short and broken, dirt rimmed their tips. Several years ago her Mother would have scolded her had she seen her daughters’ hands in such a state. Now all Henriqua could do was set another task for her to complete, her grim face set in stolid determination.
How their lives had changed since the death of her beloved father, Farrel. Her once young and lively Mother had grown old the night Farrels’ twisted body had been dragged home. No one spoke what they all knew – the fighters for freedom had lost their best warrior, and his death was not of a natural cause either. Henriqua had stared down at Farrels’ body as ice crept across her face. The ice had not left in all the time since. It had been there while they hurriedly buried her husband’s body, hiding the evidence of his death from the other villagers without any of the usual grieving rituals. No one could know what had happened. Who could they trust in this dark time? The ice had kept her spine erect as they left the large home they had occupied at the centre of the village. Now that Farrel was no longer headman of the parish, they could not claim that house as their own. The ice helped her push forward, as they sold their possessions to the curious, whispering villagers. It strengthened her as her weeping children battered against her, begging to know why their dearly-loved Father would no longer be returning home to them. It was just the three of them now; Henriqua, S’harani and her twin brother Finnian. Guiltily S’harani allowed herself some relief that they still had Finnian. Although the same age as S’harani, he had moved without question to take his Father’s place as head of the family. Already he showed promise of the man he would soon become. It was no secret that Henriqua saw her son as their future, the one who would reclaim their lost standing in the village. He was old enough to work a full season among the crops, without assistance. The living conditions that had seen them struggling to buy their weekly bread would soon change. With some help, Finnian may be able to regain the land once held by Farrel. This broken down shack on the very outskirts of the village had been all they could afford after the tragedy. Soon they would find something more appropriate for a family of their position. The harvest would be collected, and if the gods willed, it would be good. They would buy back their lost possessions and their house in the centre of the village. All would be well again. While they endeavoured towards this however, S’harani’s wild imagination would had to wait.
Throwing the now mangled flower down, S’harani picked up her only half full basket of wood and ran home.
“You were meant to fill that basket” snapped Henriqua, “Don’t tell me you could not even complete that simple task.”
“Mother I just –“but before she could think up a reasonable excuse, Henriqua continued.
“Here I am, working until my fingers bleed, and you lie around pretending you are something better than what you are! The day does not wait for you S’harani, there are duties you need to complete and the afternoon draws on. What will your brother say when I tell him we all go cold tonight because of your laziness?”
S’harani sighed in exasperation, “Mother this is still an adequate amount of wood to keep us warm. Besides, it is no longer winter; we haven’t required a fire for months now. I’ve done what you asked, what else is there for me to do?”
“Where is your brother?” Henriqua ignored her daughter, “You were meant to stay with him. The village just isn’t safe, not since the castle guards have taken to coming here at all hours. Once they’ve been on the drink, there’s no telling what they’re capable of.”
S’harani had no answer to her Mother’s question. Since today was Shobus, their day of rest, Finnian had no need to be in the fields. She had not seen her brother since earlier that day. When she had asked him what he was going to do, he had loftily ruffled her hair, informing her that little sisters had no right to ask questions. Finnian never allowed S’harani to forget that he had been born moments before her, nor would he neglect to remind her of his superior strength. Fuming, she had watched him stride off into the village. He had most likely gone to meet with friends, but she had not seen him since.
“I do not know where Finnian is Mother, but I presume he is studying with Tarrlik. When he is not working, he spends most of his time there.” S’harani swallowed against the lie; she knew full well that Finnian cared nothing for his studies. He was far more likely to be practicing with the sword, or training with the bow and arrow. This truth S’harani dared not speak, as she knew that Henriqua would be livid with rage. They were both fully aware that Farrels’ death had been at the hand of a castle guard. The idea that her son might join the ranks of the G’hiru, the freedom fighters of which her husband had been such a proud member, the reason he was now dead – Henriqua would not even contemplate. She adored Finnian and it would never occur to her that he would deceive her. S’harani felt her stomach twist in knots.
“Do not worry Mother; I am alright on my own. I can protect myself.”
Henriqua laughed tauntingly. “My poor daughter, you could not defend yourself against a village mutt, let alone a trained and vicious castle soldier. You would probably trip over your own feet. Find Finnian and have him accompany you. That young man at least knows how to do things right.” Pride filled her voice. “With all his studies, as well as his work, he will be head man just like his Father. Note my words, daughter.”
S’harani turned away, hiding the hurt she felt. Despite her own love for Finnian the constant comparison and humiliation cut through her like a hot knife through butter. In a voice that was barely more than a whisper she said, “I will do my best to find him. What is it you want me to do?”
“I want you and your brother to go to the market and buy us some bread and milk. Make sure it’s fresh though! I do not want a repeat of last time; I still can’t get the filthy taste of sour milk off my tongue. I also need dye so I can finish off these fabric lengths for seamstress Oriana, and I do not have time to make my own. Go to the merchant Yewka and ask him for the indigo. Now get it right girl, because I do not have time for your daydreaming.” Henriqua dug into the pockets of her apron and bought out several small copper coins. She threw them into a basket along with a small pitcher.
“I know you rarely get things right S’harani but at least this once, don’t let yourself be cheated by the merchants. Better yet, let Finnian do the bargaining for you. Do not look any man in the eye, and if you see any of the castle guards, stay out of their way!”
S’harani took the basket and pitcher from her mother, then turned and hurried out the door, but not before she heard her Mother mumbling something in undertones about Finnian. When she found him she would make sure he knew he had been missed, she might even encourage him to pick their Mother some flowers. Finnian had a special power over their Mother, a charisma that she did not seem to be able to resist. He practised it on S’harani as well, she reflected crossly. She should be ensuring that he would be punished, but instead she was covering for him. He would have to return the favour somehow. Now where was he?
The path from their home wound through a few scattered trees before one arrived at the village. A few moments of brisk walking and she began to pass the first few houses that marked the edge of the village. Gildarn was a large and sprawling town, laid out in the shadow of Wrige Castle. It had been so for several centuries, right back to the time when the Artecro Dynasty, known scornfully to outsiders as the ‘peasant kings’, had ruled Er’dyne. The elders told stories of prosperous days, harvests of plenty, with shorter winters and warm balmy days. They told of gentle rains sweeping the valley, of Lunar feasts overflowing with abundance.
Those days were long gone. The pinched faces of the people that S’harani began to pass told a different story. The last fifteen years had been the hardest. Crops had mysteriously died. King Bryscrul kept raising castle levies, crushing the people with his demands. Flint eyed soldiers prowled the streets, tempers shot and blades sharp. Those of the merchants who could, had quietly packed their goods and moved on, finding safety in distance between themselves and the castle. The spectre of the King hung over everyone and everything. Like a storm cloud gathering over the horizon, S’harani glanced up reluctantly and saw the structure of the castle looming in the distance, and shuddered against the menacing sight. She certainly didn’t want all that evil looking in her direction. It was definitely time to find Finnian.
Halting indecisively on the path, S’harani looked around her. The houses that lined this section of the village were almost as shabby is theirs, although in marginally better positions. Mothers with crying babies scrubbed at pots or crouched over smoky fires. Hollow-eyed men rocked and muttered in their doorways, arthritic hands wrapped around twisted canes. Home from the fields for Shobus, men played card games or dragged up buckets of water for their wives. S’harani found herself envying their ordinary lives, filled with an endless round of ‘doing’ that they did not seem to have to think about.
Ignoring the ache in her throat, S’harani started in the direction of Waylin’s house to see if Finnian might be there.
Waylin had been Finnian’s friend for as long as she could remember. The bubbly, energetic young man was shorter then Finnian by a full head. He never seemed to sit still, always having something he needed to do, or someplace he needed to be. There was a vibrancy in his blue eyes that shone through. Waylin had been tormenting S’harani her whole life, but for some reason she always forgave him. No one could stay annoyed with Waylin for long.
S’harani found the tiny, foot worn path that wound around the back of the houses. It was a path that she had taken many, many times before, so many in fact, that her feet followed the indentation almost automatically. The house where Waylin lived with his Father stood back a little from the others. She knew that Waylin and Tarrlik had built it themselves, after the death of Waylin’s Mother. It was a subject they never discussed, as if Luciana had never lived. Once, their home had been right on the edge of the village square, their sprawling house only a jump away from that of the Headman’s; where S’harani and Finnian had lived. S’harani had never had the courage to ask Waylin about the morning he had come into the house to find what was left of his Mother, lying on the bed. He never spoke of it to her, even after S’harani had found him rocking on the doorstep, his blood covered hands clasped over his face. Rumours had spread of invisible beasts, black magic and the essence of Bryscrul, stalking the village. That had been three Lunar ceremonies past, even before her Father had been killed. Now, Waylin and Tarrlik lived away from the rest of the village, keeping themselves to themselves. Whatever had happened, however, it could not diminish Waylin’s spirit. He seemed destined to give joy to those around him, and was almost as much of a brother to S’harani as Finnian was.
Suddenly eager, she knocked on the solid wooden door. Most of the houses here were wood, hewn from the forest that surrounded the village. Some were stone, but why build with stone when timber was so easily available. The door swung open, and S’harani found herself facing Waylin’s lop-sided grin.
“He’s not here.” Waylin interjected before she could even phrase the question. “Not sure what he’s doing, but I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
Sighing in frustration, S’harani nodded her thanks. “If you see him, could you tell him I need him? Mother is sending me to the markets and does not want me to go alone.”
“Would you like me to accompany you?” Waylin offered swiftly, his forehead creasing.
Inwardly, S’harani groaned. Not Waylin too. There did not seem to be a single person she knew who thought she could handle anything on her own.
“No, I don’t need you!” The statement came out a little stronger than she had intended, and she saw the momentary flicker of hurt in Waylin’s eyes. Rather than take the time to ease over her mistake, S’harani turned and stalked away. She could see that Waylin was startled, but at this moment she didn’t need anyone else telling her how useless she was.
Evan as she strode up the path towards the market, S’harani heard a familiar whistle coming from behind one of the houses. She spun around quickly, scowling as Finnian emerged around the corner of the house, holding the hand of one of the village girls. The expression on his face one of smug satisfaction.
S’harani’ emptied her arms, and her hands found her hips as she watched her brothers conceited grin slip from his face. Dropping the hand of the girl as if it were a hot coal, Finnian looked at S’harani with guilt etched into his features.
“So this is what you’ve been up to then?” S’harani asked quietly. “Fooling around in the forest with her? Mother would be so disappointed. She’s been looking for you.”
The threat in her words was obvious to Finnian, who knew better then to attempt a lie.
“I’d best be off then. I’ll see you another time Arianna.” He mumbled awkwardly as he moved to retrieve the basket and pitcher from the ground at S’harani’s feet.
With a snort of disgust, Arianna turned on her heel and stormed off towards the other houses, the pale curls that spilled down her back almost trembling with rage.
“Arianna don’t be like that!” Finnian shouted desperately at her retreating form. There was no response save for a hand gesture flicked in their general direction that could only be interpreted as rude.
“What a charming young woman, you should think about courting that one.” S’harani stated sarcastically. She felt her annoyance fade at the dismayed look on Finnian’s face. After a moment he sighed and turned to her with a rueful expression.
“Was there something in particular you wanted me for or are you simply seeking to humiliate me?”
Rolling her eyes S’harani replied, “Mother has asked that you accompany me to the market. “
Sighing again, Finnian nodded his head in assent. “Very well then, I’ll lead the way but be careful that you don’t – “
“– look anyone in the eye and stay out of the guards’ way.” S’harani interrupted. “I have heard this lecture quite enough already. Now can we get moving?”
Sweeping his sister a mock bow, Finnian turned and walked along the stony path with ease. S’harani hobbled after him, struggling to keep up with his long gait. Laughing back at here, Finnian noted her effort. He deliberately jogged even further ahead of her, teasing.
“Come on sister, you’re the one in such a hurry. Let’s get this over with; I have things I need to attend do.” He said, winking at her. “You spend too many hours dreaming under the trees, your legs have grown weak!”
The houses blurred at the edges of S’harani’s vision as she hurried along behind her brother. They were back on the main path now, and Finnian was moving easily away from her. He darted in and out of the villagers, too intent on their business to notice him.
“Catch me!” He challenged.
Frustrated, S’harani urged her legs to give chase, but soon gave up as they began to burn. They had played this game for years, and she knew she would never catch him. The basket bounced irritatingly at her side. As Finnian ran further ahead, S’harani watched his back thoughtfully. Although they were twins, they really didn’t look very much alike. Over the last few years, Finnian had honed his body to whipcord strength. His work in the field, combined with his secret training, had removed all vestiges of childhood from his form, and he was the envy of all the young men in the village. Despite the increased amount of work she now did, S’harani still managed to retain the child-like softness of her body. Even with the fact that she was now technically a woman, she certainly didn’t have the allure of Arianna. Rather than being petite and curvaceous, S’harani was tall and awkward. Her hair was another point of contention. It tumbled across her shoulders in a wave of vibrant auburn that caught the sun and made her head appear as though it were ablaze. She detested the colour, but her Mother refused her constant requests to dye it brown like her brother’s. And while the sun had kissed Finnian’s skin to a deep tan, S’harani’s body was lily white.
Her Mother’s voice echoed through her head, “A lady should always have beautiful skin, and well kept hands.” With a pang S’harani thought of her once beautiful, elegant Mother. That velvet skin and those dainty hands were now stained with and calloused from two years of slaving over a hot tub. Two years of stirring stinking dyes into steaming vats, dragging wood from the forest and choking as the poisonous fumes ate the air while smoke curled around them. Two years of begging for meagre favours from merchants and selling produce to greedy seamstresses for copper coins. Two years. Surely it was time for things to change. S’harani brightened at the thought. Perhaps she could find some task to do, something which would bring extra coins to the family until Finnian cold reclaim their lands.
Finnian. Looking around her S’harani saw that he was now far ahead. The cheek of him, leaving his sister so far behind. She ran the rest of the way but by the time she reached the market the crowd was too thick, and Finnian was nowhere in sight. Her run slowed to a halting shuffle as she pushed forwards against the bodies that lined her path. She tried desperately to see him over the top of the crowd, but she could not so much as spot his dark head. Feeling more than a little uneasy now, S’harani allowed her gaze to sweep across the market. She remembered a time when she had found great delight in coming to the centre of the village. It had once been her playground. She had been known to all the stall keepers here. Those who sold fruit and vegetables, those who made garments and ploughshares, the candle maker and the baker with his fresh loaves of steaming bread. The worn cobblestones beneath her feet were textured with age, speaking of the many thousands of feet passing endlessly across their surface. Around the edge of the open square were the stalls. Some were built there permanently, their wooden frames hung with colourful cloth and sheltered with cheerful lean-to’s. Others were temporary; the back of a farmer’s cart, bobbing heads of flowers carried in ladies hand baskets. It had once been as familiar to S’harani as her own breath. A lot had changed in the time that had passed.
The houses around the edges of the square were much more substantial than those she had passed on her way. Many of them stood two stories high, some were made of brick, carefully moulded and forged in the fire. The largest house of all stood at the very end of the square. S’harani stared at the house which had once been her home. It’s large, imposing presence reached out to her. She had been so happy there. No one had taunted her or told her what an ugly child she was. There, she had been able to sit on Farrels’ knee, listening to the many legends of their people. He had told her of the brave fighters who protected their magical land against an evil King. Wide-eyed she had believed it all, imagining her Father as the valiant hero. He would slay the beasts and keep them safe. He would never allow anything to happen to her, she was loved and protected. Swallowing a lump in her throat, S’harani brushed away a stinging tear. It would do her no good to grieve; she had a task to perform.
There was still no sign of Finnian, but as she had the money, S’harani decided she would be best served by buying the things her mother needed herself. Surely Finnian couldn’t be too far away. He may even be waiting for her at one of the stalls. Battling her way through the crowd, S’harani began searching for stands that had the bread and milk. It cost her more than she had bargained, quite literally, and she reluctantly parted with the coppers as the baker wrapped the bread in a clean cloth and poured the milk into her pitcher. At least it was fresh. Placing the bread and the milk carefully into her basket, S’harani looked around for Yewka, the village merchant. It was a large and permanent stall, as befitted the nature of the richest trader in the village. His stall was laden with spices, fragranced with perfume and featured the most stunning scarves S’harani had ever seen. They were as soft as spiders silk, dancing through the air with their filmy gracefulness. Many times Henriqua had asked how he managed to get such vibrant colours into the cloth, but Yewka only laughed in answer. He would certainly not give his trade secrets away, nor would he allow anyone to leave if he believed there was more copper that he could squeeze from their grasp. S’harani began to push her way towards the stall, working her way through the moving crowd.
The brown leather stretched across the expanse of chest should have warned her. So too should she have realised when she saw blood red of the livery that marked its surface. As it was, she was so intent on reaching her destination, that she at first ignored the arm that thrust across her path. When the arm remained, S’harani frowned up at the offender, an impatient exclamation of her lips. It was only as the Imperial Guard reached out to grab her that she realised what she was doing. Her breath left her as S’harani remembered what she had been told about keeping her head down. Focusing on the ground she tried to sidestep and move away, but the guards hand clamped down painfully on her arm. Her eyes widened in fear at what was happening and she felt her breath coming in tiny pants. She could smell the sour stench of the guard’s unwashed body, mingled with the sickly sweet smell of alcohol on his breath. Her one startled look at his unshaven and dirty face filled her with fear. She tried to move again but found that the grip on her arm tightened. Still keeping her eyes downcast, S’harani felt a sickening lurch of fear run through her veins. She could see the feet of several other guards’ moving towards her, their loose-fitting riding breeches dirty, and their boots tattered. Swords swung freely at their sides, a blatant breech of the weapons ban that was supposedly enforced on anyone who entered the village market.
A rough laugh shook the guard who held her firm.
“Well lookie here lads. I believe we’ve caught one of them daemon sprites that old witch was talkin about. Look at the colour of her hair.”
Snorting, another guard interjected. “I don’t think you’ll be having too much fun with this one. She sure ain’t pretty, she’s too big.”
“Not in the right spots though.” A third one noted. “Come on Naruk. We got some more drinking to do. There ain’t nothin in this hole that would pass for anything more than horse piss.”
The hand continued to clutch her arm, and S’harani could almost feel the one they called Naruk’s gaze skimming her form. Summoning the politest voice she could muster, S’harani managed to croak, “Excuse me, please, but I need to go.”
The grip on her arm tightened as the guard leaned in to whisper hotly into her ear. “Oh no, we’re just getting started.”
Turning to the guards around him, Naruk barked “Come on Captain. She’s too ugly to get anyone else. We’ll do her a favour and break her in. I’ve been too long without, to care what she looks like.”
S’harani looked up in a desperate plea for help, her gaze freezing on the ice cold eyes of the one they called Captain. His tabard was different to the others; his leather armour bore the deep shine of much polish. The shock of his oddly lit eyes was compounded by the white-blonde of his hair. His features seemed to be carved out of granite.
“Please Captain...” She begged, aware of the quiver in her voice.
The other guards snickered as he stood in silence, surveying her with contempt. He sneered down at her before turning on his heel and striding away. Suddenly, several more hands grabbed roughly at her. Panicked, S’harani began to struggle against them. They were far too strong for her, and she felt her breath escape her, as a scream wound its way up her throat. Looking around her for help, S’harani watched in horror as the crowds of people began to vanish. They disappeared like smoke, every face averted from her as they pretended not to hear or see.
Tugged around by the guards, S’harani felt them attack her like wild dogs with a bone. She heard a rip as her clothing began to tear. Her basket had fallen to the ground. The bread was covered in dirt, the pitcher of milk smashed and leaking white fluid over the worn cobblestones. In the midst of her anguished screaming, S’harani found a moment to wonder dazedly what her mother would say when she returned home.
It was the voice that warned her before she saw him. That familiar full-throated shouting that signified Finnian was in a rage. She jerked her head free of Naruk’s grasping hand to see Finnian running as fast as he could towards her, a wicked short dagger curved in his hand. Finnian continued to shout angrily at the guards, but they paid him no heed. Whether they dismissed him as being no threat or whether they’re reflexes were slowed by the level of alcohol they had consumed, not one of them turned towards him. Finnian slid to a halt behind one of the guards, hazel eyes spitting fire. He grasped the guard by the hair, forcing his head back. The dagger flashed. It was quick and grotesque, and before S’harani could hide her face, the soldier lay dead on the ground, his throat pulsing as his life gushed away onto the cobblestones. Stifling a horrified sob, S’harani kicked out wildly at her captors, tearing her hands free. She had never seen anyone die like that before, and yet she could not bring herself to feel a moment’s pity for the man who had been pawing at her body just moments before.
Finnian howled in defiance as the four other guards turned towards him. The death of one of their own seemed to madden them, bringing them out of their drunken stupor. Swords rasped out of sheaths as they advanced on Finnian. He stood with the dagger held ready to strike, his chest heaving. S’harani saw Finnian’s eyes sharpen, he knew he was greatly outnumbered, yet she knew he would not back down now.
“Somebody help us!” S’harani screamed to the invisible faces that peered out around drawn curtains, and huddled behind closed doors. They all knew Finnian was about to be killed, yet they would do nothing. Anger boiled inside her like hot water in a cauldron.
“You should go now Shani.” Finnian offered softly, in an almost conversational manner. The guards were advancing menacingly, but he stood his ground.
“We’re gunna gut you for that boy,” Snarled Naruk.
“We’ll make it nice and slow, so you can watch while we take turns with your little girlfriend here.” Sneered another, gesturing towards S’harani.
And then they were upon him. Although he was outnumbered, Finnian was smaller and more agile then these drunken oafs. This combined with his training gave him an advantage over the guards, for now at least. Though her legs shook violently, S’harani knew she could not leave her brother here to face these men on his own. She needed a weapon. Looking around hurriedly, S’harani’s eyes picked out a long, hard branch lying on the ground. Perhaps it had been an old man’s staff, dropped and abandoned as the villagers fled from the square. It looked like it could do some damage, so S’harani dashed to where it lay as the guards continued their assault on Finnian. The bough was smooth and hard, and if she was lucky, it wouldn’t break easily. This would be her weapon.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, one of the guards rushed towards Finnian, swinging his sword with much effort. Seeming to anticipate the move, Finnian dodged to one side, yet this swift evasion placed him in the path of another guard’s sword. S’harani watched him twist away from that blade with a contortion and speed that was breathtaking. His dagger stayed the guards blow with a sharp clang, and he thrust the blade from him.
S’harani allowed her rage to surge as she ran her hands along the staff. It gave her a strange sense of power, and with a confidence she did not know, she rushed towards the guard’s turned backs. They were so intent on Finnian that they did not notice her presence until she had made her first move. Swinging as hard as she could, S’harani’s weapon connected with a guards head. Eyes thrown open in surprise, the man toppled over unconscious into a loose-limbed heap on the ground.
S’harani could have laughed at the expression on the man’s face, but her success was short lived. The three remaining guards lost all finesse, and rushed at the two siblings with heavy handed rage. S’harani turned to run, but slipped in the slick stain of blood that had spread underfoot. It dropped her to the ground, but she kept just enough wits to roll sharply away from a guards slashing blade. Finnian’s shout rang against her ears, echoing against the sound of the sword impacting the cobblestones alongside her. She could just see him, fighting to get to her while swords whirled around him. He was bleeding profusely from somewhere, and was desperately losing ground to his much larger and more effectively weaponed opponents.
In that moment of madness, a single figure came running across the ground. It took only a moment for S’harani to recognize the grizzled form of Tarrlik. Leaping onto the broad back of one the guards, he thrust a dagger high into the man’s spine.
It was Naruk who screamed in agony, dropping his sword as he attempted to reach the spot from which the dagger protruded. It seemed just out of reach of his fingertips from every angle. As he struggled, Finnian’s knife found his gut. The bright blood spattered the ground as Naruk slumped down, exhausted by pain and desperation. That moment had distracted the guard who stood above S’harani. He drew his sword back and swung towards Tarrlik, intent on quelling this new threat. Rolling away further, S’harani felt the weight of the staff in her hand. Pushing herself off the cobblestones, she grasped her weapon with. Using every ounce of her strength, she swung the branch upwards between the guard’s legs. Her aim was slightly off true, but even so, the guard groaned and fell back from his attack. He half turned back towards S’harani, his blade whistling instinctively through the air. She threw her whole body to one side desperately, as Tarrlik’s fist hit the centre of the man’s back. It was enough to throw his awkward stance off-balance, but even so, his sword had stung S’harani’s shoulder. S’harani fought the urge to cry out, struggling to drag her staff from the ground and hold it as an ineffective shield. Fortunately, Tarrlik’s shout caught the guards’ attention again, and he turned towards the older man with menace. A flash of relief shot through S’harani as she saw the sword balanced in Tarrlik’s hands. He looked far more confident now that he was armed with one of the dead guards’ weapons.
Through her sweat and grime soaked face, S’harani realised who the guard now duelling with Finnian was. The Captain had returned. Finnian wasn’t smiling now – his face was streaked with blood, and he seemed unable to raise one of his arms. Still armed only with his dagger, he was clearly on the verge of exhaustion. In contrast, the captain’s movements seemed effortless. He almost seemed to be toying with Finnian, forcing him backwards with fluid strokes of his sword. S’harani didn’t know how Finnian had managed to keep the captain at bay for this long, but he was quickly losing ground. All this flashed through her mind in an instant, and she tensed her muscles so that she could push herself up onto her feet. As she did so, Finnian looked directly at her. His eyes were dull and distressed, pleading for help. The captain changed direction in less than a breath.
Finnian was still looking straight into her eyes as the blade plunged into his chest. S’harani felt the world seize. This wasn’t real. The vicious blow knocked the breath from Finnian’s body. Those hazel eyes widened in horror, his connection with S’harani sent a jolt that seared through her veins. She felt the blossoming of pain echoed in her own body, and found herself paralysed. She couldn’t move, she tried to draw in a breath to scream, but nothing happened. Thoughts flashed through her at a mind-numbing speed. She needed to be at Finnian’s side, but none of her limbs would obey her. She was disjointed and deadened, powerless. The captain wrenched his sword from Finnian’s body with a sickening jolt. In the distance, S’harani could hear shouts of rage. Several sword wielding figures rushed towards them, but she took no notice. She had eyes only for Finnian, whose gaze was still locked on hers, eyes wide in shock. The captain stepped back, and Finnian fell to his knees. Breaking his gaze was S’harani, he stared down in disbelief. He raised his hands to his chest in hope that he could staunch the flow of life from his body. As if a spell had been broken, S’harani found she could move again. She was by her brothers’ side in an instant. Had the captain drawn back his sword and taken her head at that moment, S’harani would have accepted the kiss of his blade with relief.
She did not register Waylin or the others as they ran towards her, swords drawn. She did not see Tarrlik run his opponent through, taking his head with a vicious back blow. She barely noticed the captain backing away, stretching his bloodied sword out in warning to them before departing from the devastated courtyard.
S’harani caught Finnian as he fell backwards; pushing herself up onto tortured knees so she could catch him in her arms. Blood was gushing from the open wound, dark red blood spilling all over Finnian’s clothes and hands, sliding down his skin to pool beneath him. Finnian was gasping, clenching and unclenching his fists against his chest.
“No” moaned S’harani. The sound was ripped from her heart, clawing its way up through her throat. There was no other word she could say. Her body was shuddering so hard she could scarcely hold the weight of Finnian in her arms. Tearfully she looked up to see several figures standing over her, a silent look in her eyes, pleading for someone to do something. The noise and screams had died away; there was no sound save the tortured struggle of Finnian’s breath. A deep stillness sank into her bones. No one moved.
Ever so gently, S’harani lowered her shaking arms, resting Finnian’s head in her lap. His eyes were still wide, searching hers as if they were his anchor. His mouth gaped as if he were trying to scream, but only choking gasps escaped. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and S’harani reached for one of his clenching hands, as his pain glazed eyes held hers for the last time. His hand slackened in hers. It happened so quickly she missed the exact moment the light faded from Finnian’s eyes. There was no rasping struggle, only the soft hiss of a sigh as the last of his breath floated from his body. In the stillness of an eternal moment, her brother died.
His body lay unmoving on S’harani’s lap, her fingers still wound tightly around his. Her world focused into one point, the feeling of his weight cradled in her arms. She did not flinch as shocked villagers began to flood into the courtyard. She did not speak as heated discussions culminated in the rapid dragging of bodies from the filth that surrounded them. She held her arms cradled around his form as they washed down the cobblestones. She held him as they lifted her to her feet, half dragging, half shuffling her away from that putrid spot. She kept her hold on him as they took her to the house that was little more than a hut, letting her sink down once again onto the ground. She rocked her burden against her gently, as they let her mother into that house, her anguished wails breaking over S’harani like a wave across a rock. She clenched her precious brother to her as they dragged her mother away, a muttering healer forcing a sleeping potion down Henriqua’s throat. She held him until Tarrlik came and sat by her side, soothing her with hushed murmurs as he pried her fingers loose. Waylin was there too, standing behind her and holding her shoulders in a comforting embrace so like Finnian’s she could have wept at its bitter sweetness. Finally, she managed to let go, and Tarrlik lifted her precious brother from her arms. The emptiness overwhelmed her, and she clenched her shaking arms convulsively against her chest. Finnian was gone.
It was then, and only then, that S’harani began to sob.
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