Balances

This is the first chapter of an ongoing weekly serial. You can find later chapters at http://phantdreams.blogspot.com/.

Balances - Chapter 1


The crossbow bolt flew from somewhere in the underbrush near the tree line. Bryn subconsciously registered the faint whir of the bolt's flight and awoke on impulse, her open palm slapping the shaft away a split second before it would have lodged itself in her throat. With a loud thwack, it sunk instead into the saddle upon which her head was cradled. The bolt stood there vibrating, humming faintly.

Bryn rolled to the side as another bolt thumped into her bedroll. She snagged her sword belt from the saddle horn and buckled it on as she spun to her feet. Her good eye narrowed as she scanned the tree line, searching for the source of the barrage. The road stretched horizontally before her. A rail fence ran along the far edge of the road. Beyond that, across a narrow field, was a dense forest.

Damn it, she thought. She was tired of being hounded by Henson's men. Though she could not really blame him for sending them after her. She had quite thoroughly embarrassed him.

Her hand snapped upward of its own accord, grasping the shaft of another bolt as it sped towards her, stopping it just before the point plucked the patch over her right eye. She lowered her arm slowly, snapping the bolt's shaft in her hand.

"You'll have to do better than that," she called out sardonically as she cast away the splintered arrow. "Why don't you run along and tell Henson that he'll have to take care of me himself."

"I thought as much," replied a gravely baritone voice from the tree line. Bryn's lip curled as she recognized the man's voice. It continued, "It is refreshing to see that you haven't let yourself grow soft. It will make your death all that much more satisfying."

A dark shape detached itself from the shadow of a large oak. It resolved into the shape of a burly, dark haired, bearded man holding a crossbow. He ambled easily down the hill towards the fence, casting aside the crossbow and drawing a short, thick-bladed sword. Bryn slid the toe of her boot under her staff where it lay next to the campfire and kicked it aloft in response, plucking it from the air and spinning it around her head, bringing it to rest in the crook of her arm. She crossed the road, approaching the fence.

The man halted his advance when he approached within five paces of the other side of the fence. Bryn matched him. Her eyelid twitched.

"Articus Henson," she said. "I have to admit, I'm surprised that you came after me yourself. You got tired of your boys coming back with broken arms, did you?"

"On the contrary," Henson replied. "You provided me with abundant resources with which to show the rest of my men the price of failure. No, I have concluded that nothing will give me greater pleasure than to see the half-Norse, half-Nihonjin bitch who broke her contract and humiliated me before my own men die by my own hand."

"Walk away. I am no longer a part of your little band, and I have no interest in your affairs."

Henson's features twisted into a scowl. "Not a chance," he spat, and leapt toward the fence, spinning in midair. He easily covered the five paces to the fence and alighted upon a post, perched like a crane, empty hand extended before him shaped as a claw and sword raised beside his head, point forward. Bryn rolled forward and launched herself toward the fence, flipping once in midair and landing on the post opposite him, matching his stance, her staff extended behind her.

They perched motionless for a few moments as the wind rustled through the trees. Bryn tilted her head toward him, her eye casting daggers. "Make your move."

She felt the fence quiver underfoot as Henson charged along the fence rail toward her. She cartwheeled across the rail to meet him, parrying his descending sword with her steel-shod boot, while feinting at his throat with an open handed strike from her left hand. Her right hand shifted grip on her staff, and she drove the butt into his solar plexus. A puff of air escaped from his flaring nostrils, but the strike had no other visible effect, not even breaking his stride. He barreled into her and she clawed into his beard with her left hand, letting his momentum flip her over his back, sending her airborne into a lopsided flip that landed her on the post that he had originally occupied, facing him, her staff extended before her. Henson somersaulted along the top rail, coming to his feet on her previous perch, and spun towards her, his sword in a two-handed grip.

They shuffled along the rail towards each other, both delivering and parrying a series of short, bone-jarring blows, faces expressionless, each intent on the other. Neither presented any openings. Neither could penetrate the other's guard.

Finally, Henson made a wild swing at her head, catching Bryn by surprise. She bent backwards like a reed, easily avoiding the blow. But Henson stomped down on the rail at the same moment, splintering it. Bryn flipped backwards onto the post behind her as the rail collapsed. Henson launched himself into the air after her. She cartwheeled backwards along the rail, barely avoiding Henson's hobnailed heels crushing into the top of the post, splintering it and driving the it a full foot further into the ground. Bryn bounced to a halt, and advanced, whirling her staff about her body in a complex pattern, bludgeoning Henson about the face, arms, and chest as he struggled to regain his feet. He dropped to one knee on the splintered post under the assault.

But Henson wasn't beaten. As Bryn drew back her staff to deliver the finishing blow, he surged to his feet and caught the end in his hand as she propelled it towards his throat. His sword arced upwards, neatly halving her staff, and she cartwheeled back to the next post in retreat. As he cast away the piece of her staff, she hurled the remaining part at his head, but he easily knocked it away with his sword. He snarled at her as he twirled his sword in his hand, shifting back to a two-handed grip, and extended it before him, charging full tilt across the rail towards her.

Bryn dropped to her haunches, reaching back and grasping the rail behind her. With a guttural grunt, she ripped it free of the fence heaved it up and forward, putting all of her weight and strength behind it. It caught Henson in the teeth, snapping his head back and sending him flying back a full four rail lengths, trailing an arc of blood from his mouth, where he landed on a fence rail, bent backwards. Bryn planted the end of her improvised weapon in the ground and vaulted after him, landing feet-first on his stomach, driving him downward to the ground, breaking through both the top and bottom rails. As the wind was driven out of him, he spit a tooth and a thin stream of blood from his mouth. Bryn snatched the tooth from the air as they landed.

His eyes were wide with fear and his breath ragged as Bryn grasped his beard and hauled him to his feet, slamming him against a post. She held the tooth up in front of his face.

"You see this, you dirty bastard? I'll take you apart piece by piece if you keep hounding me."

Henson did not say a word -- probably because he was too busy hyperventilating.

She shook him once. "Hear this, you cur. I'm not going to kill you. I've had enough killing." He gulped, and she shook him again. "But if you ever, ever bother me again, I might not be so forgiving." She tightened her grip on him for a moment, then let him go, turning toward her camp across the road.

Henson's blood-stained face contorted in rage as she walked away. He lurched to his feet, producing a dagger from his boot, and careened towards her back.

Bryn's sabres came to her hands seemingly by their own accord, and she spun to meet him. The sabres scissored upwards, so slowly, it seemed to her, and Henson's hand -- still clutching the dagger -- flew lazily over her head, a line of blood splashing across her cheek. Then the sabres were buried in his chest, twisting, cutting through him.

#

It seemed like a dream to Henson as she cut off his hand. He did not feel any pain. Nor did he feel any pain when she buried her sabres in his chest. It just felt strange that he could not breathe. That and the dizziness. He stared into the face inches from his own, an expressionless face. A face that he felt he should recognize, although he could not. The patch over the right eye, the scar running beneath it from forehead to chin. The other eye, with an oriental cast despite it's green iris. The high, Norse cheekbones and pale, so pale skin, framed by such straight black hair. The face of death, he decided, unable to link it to a name.

Then the sabres twisted. The pain began.

Then there was nothing.

#

Bryn's thoughts took her back to Westphalia. She was nineteen. It was a time long before she had traveled to the Duchy of Weald and joined Henson's band. She was currently serving in the armies of a slavic warlord, Vladamir Dragos. She had risen quickly through the ranks, becoming his second in command.

Dragos had ordered her to take a raiding party to the nearby town of Biernan and burn it to the ground, hoping to put a dent in the flow of supplies to the opposing faction and make an example of the peasants who lived there. She had picked fifteen men, vicious men, and they had ridden hard since the small hours of morning. She prided herself on her ability to get maximum results, and was looking forward to the exercise.

The town's wooden gates fell easily, and they descended in a majestic whirlwind of chaos, torching buildings and howling like banshees. Their howls rang in heady dissonance with the screams of the town's pathetic militia as it was slaughtered.

Bryn dismounted in the square, breathing in the heat of the flames and the smell of the ashes and blood as she directed her men to nail the survivors to poles and raise them in the square. The men worked diligently and efficiently. She approved.

She wandered amongst the flaming buildings, basking in the heat, dispatching what few tried to oppose her.

Her meandering eventually brought her to a collapsed storehouse. A boy, no older than sixteen, stood in the doorway. A little girl, perhaps a sister, judging from their resemblance, cowered behind him amidst the rubble. Her leg was covered in blood, a clumsy bandage on the gristly wound.

Seeing Bryn, the boy stepped out into the street and knelt next to a body, prying a sword from it's fingers and clumsily raising it before him.

Bryn threw him a feral grin and winked. "You've seen what happens to those who dare to raise a blade against Dragos."

The boy charged at her, screaming, the sword raised above his head, tears streaming from his eyes. They met, and as the sword descended, Bryn's sabres scissored upwards, severing the boy's hand, and she spun, driving the blades deep into his chest, then twisting them apart. The boy fell, dying within moments.

Bryn looked down at the crumpled body and frowned. She saw the blood dripping from her blades. But she had been given no choice. Her orders were to kill anyone who raised a blade against Dragos or his troops. She had been given no choice. No choice...

She saw the wide-eyed stare of the little girl cowering in the rubble. Bryn blinked, turning away. Something broke inside of her heart.

That night, she slipped out of Dragos' camp. She wandered westward, crossing out of his sphere of influence. Crossing into Weald.

But her heart never healed.

And in her mind, the story repeated. It repeated until she finally came to her senses...

#

Bryn blinked and flared her nostrils. She smelled coagulated blood. Looking down, she realized that her swords were still buried in what was left of Henson. He was very dead, his body long cold. She planted a foot on his chest and slid the sabres free of the corpse.

Dazed, she wiped them on his tunic. She sheathed them and walked slowly back to her campsite. She kicked dirt over what was left of her campfire and saddled her horse.

She rode slowly down the road to the west. It would be evening soon, but, if memory served, there was a public house nearby where she could spend the night. She could probably reach it before dark. If the weather holds, she thought, glancing up at the gathering clouds.