The Jerikova Wars, Chapter Five

Royal Estate, Guthror 1319ҕ Third Era of Jerikova

It was shortly before lunchtime, and to Wolfria's relief, the weather was as close to perfect as it could get. The sun was shining diligently through the thick, green treetops, various birds were chirping and calling to each other in the individual songs of their species from branches high and low, and the mellow breeze’s warm fingers tickled the back of her neck under her long hair. All around her animals chittered and chattered cheerily as they went about their daily routines of hunting and gathering, having mostly become accustomed to her presence. Even Ysolara was quiet for once.

Peace.

She was singing to herself while in the process of making a stew over the fire, throwing in bits of carrots, green plants, roots, wild onions and other forest produce. Absentmindedly she reached for another carrot, reveling in the delicious aroma wafting out of her small black pot.

Snap.

Something stepped on a twig behind her, something big. Wolfria went stone still.

Someone must have found the trail I had you leave.

She heard another footfall, definitely a human one. Fear clutched at her throat and lungs and her breaths seized up altogether as the stranger drew nearer. Blood spiked through her veins, hot and thick, eliciting a sudden surge of panicky adrenaline that set her body like a spring, coiled and tight and anxious.

Do not worry, princess, I’m ready.

That makes one of us, Wolfria responded silently, swallowing hard.

Ysolara had control of her now, and for once she was okay with that. The violet woman had a vested interest in keeping her “vessel” safe, and she claimed she was very adept in battle skills and technique. Such expertise may be the only thing to keep Wolfria alive, so she gave herself over fully to her uninvited companion, not raising a fuss or fighting it or arguing. The time for all that was past.

Her eyes stared straight forward while her ears strained to catch the slightest sound, her heartbeat pulsing heavily in them, a war drum. She tensed. A hand tangled in her hair, jerking her head back as a cold, steel blade pressed hungrily into her vulnerable neck. Ysolara feigned a panicked cry, the carrot diving from her fingers as she pretended to have been startled.

“Tell me your name, enchantress!” a strong voice demanded.

What? Ysolara and Wolfria thought at the same time.

“Enchantress? Wh- what in Jerikova are you talking about?” Ysolara-Wolfria stuttered, shock and confusion slamming through her. Enchantresses weren’t real, they existed only in fables and children’s bedtime stories. True, some of the Sondíks, Southron and Far Northern clans believed in magic, and perhaps in enchantresses, but these were more civilized times. The religions of those peoples were absurd and nonsensical. How could this man possibly believe in such a preposterous notion?

“You know exactly what I’m talking about!” he hissed through her hair, his lips rough against her ear and his voice sending a shiver down her spine.

He was behind her so she had no way of knowing what he looked like, whether he was a peasant farmer or a Guard or someone else altogether. Ysolara quelled the fear rushing through Wolfria and pushed words out of her mouth in as calm a voice as possible. “I’m quite sure I don’t. Why do you think I’m an enchantress?”

“Who else but a beautiful woman with magic takes up residence in a forest?” the voice growled, thinking it was surely obvious.

“Magic? Now who said anything about that?”

Wolfria desperately wanted to catch a glimpse of her enemy, for though the violet woman hadn’t said it, she knew that whatever she was plotting depended entirely upon the right person finding the trail she’d very clearly laid out. It had taken her the better part of the morning, tracing out a winding path that led from the edge of the forest at Keep Guthirr to her little campfire and ramshackle shelter pieced together with dried clay, moss and fallen trees and limbs. Branches had to be broken, fabric torn from her skirt and piked haphazardly on thorns, a few strands of hair tangled in leaves, smudged and sporadic footprints in the dirt.

The princess had doubted anyone would find it unless they stumbled across it on their own trek through the woods, which the Guard and the nobles weren’t extremely disposed of doing, but Ysolara assured her it would be discovered. Lo and behold, she was right. Aside from that path, the violet woman had made sure that no other traces of their existence in the forest could be seen.

Despite all the time Ysolara had spent in Wolfria’s head, she still hadn’t entrusted her with the potentially maniacal plan that was being put into place with every word she pushed through Wolfria’s lips and every action she pushed through her muscles. If this man was not the right person, the princess feared what Ysolara would make her do to him. They could leave no witnesses, she was sure of it. This plan was big, really big, and she suspected that was why the violet woman didn’t tell her anything about it or herself; she didn’t want her letting anything slip, especially if she was caught and questioned.

Behind her she could feel the man sneering. “Your singing. Enchantresses’ songs are filled with magic, and when I heard it I suddenly felt the urge to lay down my sword and walk defenselessly into your camp. Who knows what you would have done with me then? It was a good thing I heard it in time and was able to plug my ears as I advanced upon you.”

He thinks my singing is enchanted? This man is a lunatic! Unless you have some sort of magic that you wove into my voice, Ysolara?

The violet woman was silent, focused on the man who held them captive.

“And what is this you are making? Some kind of poison no doubt, disguised as a stew so you can tempt some poor soul into eating it, thus killing them.” Disgust echoed in his voice, prompting him to dig the blade further into her throat.

“Why should I need to kill anyone?” Wolfria asked evenly, forced to take a deep breath to calm her nerves. Every muscle in her was threatening to mutiny and melt to the ground like hot wax, so filled with terror she was, but Ysolara wouldn’t let her.

“You’re an enchantress, how could I possibly know your reasons?”

“Will you please lower your sword?” she asked politely with hands raised in surrender.

“Never, not around the likes of you! You’d cast a spell on me.”

“Would I?”

“Yes.”

If the situation weren’t so precarious Wolfria might have found it comical. He honestly thought her an enchantress and believed she had the power to wield magic. Who was this man? From where did he come? There was no accent in his voice, so he was likely from the Five, which made his religious beliefs even more of an enigma. The gods of the Five, little worshipped as they were, had never spoken of such things as enchantresses good or evil. “And what spell would that be?”

“You’d cause me to fall in love with you and your false beauty, like some fool who’s never encountered a real woman before. Then you would use me and manipulate me for your own gain,” he spat.

“But what if I am a real woman?”

“Ridiculous. What would you be doing out here, alone? Anyway, there are no women as beautiful as you, it has to be magic; but I shall not fall under your spell,” he vowed, the sword jolting against her skin.

Wincing, she said, “if that is true then you have nothing to be afraid of. Please, lower your weapon.”

“No. Stand up first. Slowly!”

Wolfria did as he commanded, Ysolara readying her hands to grasp the rapier hidden within the folds of her skirt.

“Now, put your arms behind your-“

He wasn’t allowed to finish. In an eyeblink she’d threw her head back and smashed him in the face, ducking out of his grip and yanking out her rapier, then whirling around to meet his blade, a metallic clang! ringing out into the air. She’d caught him off-guard, good. Wolfria took half a moment to survey her opponent.

He was young, maybe a few years older than she. Stark blue eyes were centered over his high cheekbones, dark umber hair grazed his tanned forehead and ran down the sides of his face to his well-defined jawline, a snippet of a beard on his chin. His chest was thick and his waist was narrow, his arms and legs were clearly put to good use on a daily basis. Standing over six feet tall with muscles that fairly burst from under his skin, he loomed like a monster. But gods, was he a beautiful monster.

Did I really just think that? About an enemy?! Ignoring the bitter taste that the dangerous thought left in her mouth, she took in his clothing. The man was no knight but royalty! His surcoat was black velvet trimmed in gold cord with two crossed swords embroidered over his chest, the colors and sigil of King Alaric.

The man stared Wolfria down for a small second, but whether he was appreciating what he saw or simply getting a feel for the accused enchantress she couldn't be sure. His gaze was both cold and approving, like he was undressing her with his fracturing blue eyes while at the same time picturing his sword thrust through her heart. Had she the freedom of her own body, Wolfria would have gulped, but she wasn’t permitted such a luxury, and in place of a gulp she quickly sliced her sword down to his pommel and shoved him back.

Easily he recovered and sidestepped, his face falling stony and flat as he watched for an opening, for some access to her vulnerable, unarmored flesh. “You’ll never defeat me, you know. I’ve trained with the Warriors’ Guild, fought in skirmishes with the Southron savages, and killed men twice my age with far more battle experience. I could kill you blindfolded.”

“Perhaps you have more experience in battle, but have you ever duelled a woman? Or killed one, for that matter?”

“Women die by the sword just the same as men,” he sneered.

That wasn’t exactly an answer, but it was obvious he had no interest in saying more as he circled around her like a hungry wolf, salivating at the sight of his next meal, eyes gleaming crazily with anticipation of the kill. Suddenly he lunged and Wolfria’s sword raised up to block his assault, dropping low as he retracted and swiped at her legs, her body leaping back as he stabbed at her soft stomach then whirling and swinging her blade at his exposed side.

Swerving away, his sword reached for her head, missed by an inch, then struck forward again just as she ducked and snapped her sword at his feet. The man was too quick though, and brought the butt of his hilt down on her back, and a sharp pinching pain went shooting down her side and the back of her thigh.

Wolfria dropped to the forest floor but was instantly forced back up by Ysolara, barrelling into him like a bull, her shoulder punching into his stomach and throwing him back onto his rear. She didn’t think he’d expected her to be able to push him around like that, for as little as she was and as big as he was. Effortlessly he lurched onto his feet, a sliver of surprise and what might have been allured fascination flashing through his eyes momentarily.

Panting by now, she stabbed at him, crying out when he scraped her arm, breaking the skin and drawing crimson streaks of blood. Ysolara began losing her control over Wolfria’s body as terror and exhaustion coupled with such high levels of adrenaline took their toll on the princess. Her movements became jerky and half-hearted, born more out of desperation than Ysolara’s orders.

The man was not wrong when he said I’d never defeat him…

The violet woman bristled. Stop that! It’s imperative that this plays out as I planned, or at least in such a way that I can repair the situation if we should lose this battle. Focus, princess! Everything depends on these few moments.

Growing desperate Wolfria dropped to her knees and flung a fistful of dirt and dead leaves at his eyes, rolling to the side nimbly as his blade came down right where her head would have been, losing a lock of her long hair instead. An enraged curse burst from his lips like an arrow loosed from a bow as he tried to rub the debris from his face, stumbling backward and falling over a decomposing log, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

Determined to put an end to it, Ysolara ordered Wolfria forward, intent on placing her sword against his neck and bending him to her will like a blacksmith bends horseshoes. Suddenly the log came flying at her shins, delivered with a powerful kick from her opponent that sent her sprawling face first onto the forest floor, grit and pebbles crunching between her teeth and scrapes striping her palms. Triumphantly he rose to his feet and shoved the tip of his sword into her chest once she’d struggled onto her back and lay there gaping up at him.

“Throw your sword away into the brush,” he hissed, his hawk eyes watching her do so.

Air filtered into her lungs in great, burning blasts while her quaking elbows propped her up, her body too weak to fight any longer, no matter what Ysolara commanded. The cut on her arm stung fiercely, blood trickling down in fine lines like red spider silk before dropping to the ground or smearing on her dress. On the man there was not even a scratch.

Wolfria knew what came next. She’d always known the risks of staying on King Alaric’s land, no matter what the violet woman tried to tell her about protecting her. Trespassing on the king’s estate was nearly synonymous with treason, and now that this man thought she was some sort of evil, vile enchantress, there was no doubt as to her fate. Archaea had laws and regulations concerning accused criminals, how they needed to have a trial by jury before their punishment was decided, but much of the rest of Jerikova (including the Five) still allowed for the Royal Family and their close relatives to judge and execute criminals as they saw fit.

“Get on your knees, witch! I am sentencing you to death for attacking-“

“Witch? I thought I was an enchantress?” she cut in as if insulted.

“On your knees!” he shouted, jabbing the sword at her.

Wolfria yipped and pulled herself up, feeling the calm confidence still present in Ysolara even as ideas flitted through her at an alarming rate, ideas of how to placate this man and endear herself to him at the same time. The easiest thing she tried first. “Please, you don’t understand, please don’t kill me!” she begged with bottom lip quivering and eyes glistening.

A malicious smirk curled onto his face as he watched her plead for her life. “Would you prefer me to run you through the chest, or is decapitation a better choice?” This man was a Vatrark through and through.

“What?” she stammered.

“Decapitation then?”

“Wh-what? No, no please don’t kill me! I’ve done nothing wrong! I’ve never harmed anyone! Please!”

“Shut up!” the man screamed and jerked toward her aggressively, driving his sword deeper into her flesh. Rocking onto her back Wolfria snapped her mouth shut like a book, all but choking on her own spit as she swallowed roughly, Ysolara’s calm momentarily fleeing her. But then, to her incredulity, he took a deep, calming breath to compose himself, as if realizing how savage he seemed and being a little embarrassed by it. “Your answer?”

Inwardly, the princess felt the violet woman smile, though she didn’t know why. The situation did not seem to be going in their favor.

Don’t worry, I still have this under control.

“Decapitation? No, please no! That sounds so- so violent! Such a horrible way to die! And I’ve heard stories about the executioner missing their mark or being unsuccessful in making a clean cut the first time. I - I - I think I’d rather be stabbed,” Wolfria sobbed, commanded tears raining down her face.

“Fine, chest it is.” The man hefted his sword in his capable hand and drew it back, centering it above her pounding heart.

Eyes pinched shut, she cringed, Ysolara readying her to duck out of the way just as he went to plunge it into her chest and knock his feet out from under him. This fight isn’t done yet.

Moments before he moved to kill her he halted, the tip still high off of its mark. “Wait. Enchantresses can’t cry, they don’t have a soul...” he murmured suspiciously.

The apprehension that had consumed her released just a drop, granting a small breath of air to pass to her tight lungs. Don’t say a word, the violet woman ordered.

“You - you aren’t an enchantress!” The man was staggered, suddenly glancing her over with a new light of suspicion.

“No. I’m not. I- I never said I was.”

“But you didn’t deny it!”

“Would you have believed me if I had?! You were determined I was an enchantress before even speaking to me!” she cried out, sitting up off of the twigs and leaves beneath her that clung to her dress and tangled hair.

The man paused, the lines in his face contorting as he acknowledged she was right. “Well if you’re not an enchantress, who are you?”

“Who are you?” she asked in return.

“Answer the question!” he snapped, jabbing the sword at her again.

“Ariana C - Cutler!” she instantly spat out, the fictitious name and backstory surging through her mind in a blaze of purple light.

“Ariana Cutler? I think you’re lying.” The steel sword trailed across the skin under her collarbones as he circled her, affecting a long, horizontal slice that sent thin streams of blood cascading down her breast, staining the blue cotton of her bodice.

Sparks of needling pain burst in her eyes, shooting through her clenched teeth. “No, I swear I’m not!”

“Then what are you doing out here, Ms. Cutler? This is the Royal Wood, you know. You are trespassing on the king’s land.”

“Yes, I know, now please stop hurting me - agh! - so I can explain!” she beseeched of him, evicting a huge sigh when the steel lifted. “You see, my father is a poor farmer. When I was seventeen he arranged a marriage for me to some well-off older man. The only reason he could secure the agreement was because of my beauty.” With a huff she blew some stray strands of hair out of her face, hesitant to move her lacerated, bleeding arms.

“He wanted to marry me off to some rich man so he could steal money from him. Everyone would have said it was me stealing the money. I’d have been hanged… I had to escape. I didn’t love my fiancé either; he was a scheming, terrible person with the face of a pig! I couldn’t marry him, I just couldn’t.”

And the man bought it. For a moment he said nothing, did nothing, except to look her over. “Well you know what? Sometimes you just need to do as you’re told. You could have had a good life with fine dresses and jewelry and feasts and parties. And you threw it away for what? Selfishness.”

“No!” she burst out, shaking her head rapidly. “Never. I threw it away for love.”

“Love.” The word sounded like poison on his tongue as he visibly shook with disdain, which was not the reaction she’d been hoping for. “And I suppose this lover of yours is a poor farm boy as well? Let me guess, you were going to run away together? Start a new life?”

Wolfria faltered. Ysolara had branded her backstory into her head so she would never forget it, but she had never instructed her on exactly what to say when someone questioned her about the deeper complexities of it. “No, actually I’m not in love. I’m just… waiting until I find it.” Hopefully she could find it with Grantos. Everything she’d been told of him seemed wonderful, but then men were always different with their wives than they were with the rest of the world. What if she could never love Grant? Or worse, what if she loved him but he didn’t love her in return?

“You won’t find it. Not even a woman as beautiful as you gets that lucky.”

“Says the man who hasn’t yet discovered it, who probably isn’t even looking for it,” Wolfria replied, seeing his ring finger bare. His words stung but she wouldn’t allow herself to believe them. She couldn’t allow herself to believe them.

“I don’t look for love because love doesn’t exist.”

Right, only hate exists in the hearts of the Vatrarks. Why couldn’t you have come up with a better backstory?

Ysolara groaned within her, irritated but not yet defeated in this fight. Just make up something sappy. You’re good at that, little lovebird.

The princess obeyed, willing herself to look up and into his eyes so he could see the sincerity behind her own. “Wait until you meet the right woman, sir. She will change your mind on the matter.”

He poked the sharp end of his sword into the thick dirt and leaned on it uncomfortably, averting her gaze. “Yes, well, we don’t all have the luxury to afford love. These days marriage is just a business.”

Slowly, carefully, she rose to her feet as gracefully as she could, the sword reflecting in her big eyes as she kept herself as far from it as possible. “Among royalty, I agree. But why should we have to sacrifice our happiness? I’d rather be a peasant in love than a princess betrothed to a prince she’d never met, forced together by the desires of greedy fathers. I’ll never marry Pr-“

Wolfria froze, stunned at herself for what she’d nearly said. “I’ll never marry a man I don’t know and love first,” she corrected, praying to the gods he didn’t find anything off about her words, unable to stop them from spilling out her mouth, words she’d waited too long to say. “And if I must remain unmarried to the end of my days, so be it.”

There. She’d said it. And to a complete stranger who had no right to know her business, but nevertheless she’d said it. It felt as if a huge weight had lifted from her soul, but as the weight lifted panic crept into the space left behind. Do I really mean that? What if I’m alone forever? Quickly she ducked her head, refusing to let him see the masses of emotions roiling through her and locking away her confusion, at least for the time being.

Good work, he believes you.

He examined her quizzically, looking her up and down in genuine interest, one hand on his chin as if he were deep in thought. Wolfria dropped her head, praying he didn’t recognize her. Being famed and envied throughout the lands for her beauty had turned out to be more of a curse than a blessing. Everyone knew who she was, no matter where she went.

“And what about you, my lord? What is your name?” she asked in an attempt to divert his attention. She’d said too much about herself already. Now it was his turn.

He stared a few moments longer before eliciting a short, dark laugh, the wicked smirk reclaiming its place on his lips. “I am Prince Daren Vatrark, heir to the throne of Guthror.”