Page 38 of Artemysia
At this time of year—late autumn—wreaths of fruit and bread are hung on doors in the month leading to Winter Carnival.
Ivy and I approach, still mounted on our elk. The wooden doors of the thatched-roofed cottages hang open, some broken off their hinges.
The wreaths are torn off. Some appear to have been chewed.
No villagers. Eerily, there are no signs of life, but there are no deadeither. At least, no blood or bodies in view yet. What happened here?
A typical Syf attack would mean mangled bodies strewn about.
My mother was slaughtered on our porch steps. I found her after a morning ride. I’d left to train a pair of new elk with my father and the hired farmhand, who was twelve, like me. Mom was scheduled to help that morning, and I was supposed to stay home and study. But I’d begged to take her place because I wanted to see the new elk, and…I adored the farm boy.
I insisted that I wasin lovewith him and pleaded to go instead. So Mom relented, yielding to my wishes becauseshe loved me—and off I went.
Love is deadly.
When I returned, the doors were ajar just like this after everyone ran for their lives.
My pulse drums loudly in my ears.
This is too familiar.
My mind reaches for calm, for control.
Violet, blue, green, gold, crimson…
Except the crimson that day was my mother’s blood, pooling around her, soaked into her dress of violet, blue, green, and gold stripes. The crimson was my selfishness. The crimson was my fault. The crimson was because I chose love over duty, and there was no way I could ever take that mistake back. I gasp for a breath.
Never.
But here, there’s no blood splatter, no body parts, no dead children, no burnt homes. Only broken doors. My spine straightens, bone-chilling dread lifting the tiny hairs on my neck.
One second, I’m creeping along the path between cottages. The next, an ear-splitting shriek from behind launches me into action. I whirl my elk around, blade drawn.
At first I think several tall, long-haired people have barged out of a large cottage. Some are dressed as farmers, in trousers and shirts, but others are more ragged, bare-chested and bloody. Both male and female.
But then the last of the dusky sunset glints on their gorgeous wings, the iridescent panels rippling behind them like silk banners.
A band of Syf.
“I count seven of them.” I tip forward in my saddle to sweep my right leg behind me, over my elk’s hindquarters. Landing on both feet, I charge the Syf, pounding over the sparse grass between cottages.
Ivy does the same. We don’t give them a chance to control the elk.
“I’ve got your back, Ivy,” I holler. “Stay together, talk to me.”
The Syf run at us wildly. They lack formation and coordination, as if competing against each other to see who can kill us first. None speak, but some scream. I duck and twist, a blade in each hand. Rising up, I lop the head off one. Ivy holds her own beside me, gutting one, then beheading it while it writhes in the dirt.
They’d do the same to us if given the chance.
“Behind you, Captain!” Ivy shouts.
A dozen more Syf rush out of the cottages. What they were doing inside, I have no idea, but they wield weapons in each hand. Some swing blades, while others grip farm tools or kitchen knives, seemingly taken from the cottages.
I unsheathe my second longsword and organize my stance to fight in all directions. Instinctively, Ivy and I circle back-to-back.
“Stay close. Don’t let them separate us,” I warn. “I’ve got you. We may be outnumbered, but we’re not outmatched.”
“Got it, Captain Fancy Bird. You and I are badass.”
