Chapter Three
The Rescue
AS SOON AS the city receded from view, Cyrus finally began to speak again.
And speak he did.
If the faerie had pupils, Cyrus could have been able to tell that its eyes were rolling.
"-and it's not that I know why. It just happens. I can't talk to girls. I've never been able to. Maybe it was because of my mother; she always told me that girls only caused trouble. Turned out she'd rather send me to the Forest than have me married off."
The faerie was slumped on its stomach, staring vacantly into the distance. It had been at least two hours since Cyrus started on his rant and explanations of why exactly he was completely useless in front of women, among other things.
"Now I'm old enough to know better. I think twenty's a good age to start settling down and I want to get to know women but I can't seem to talk to them. Or look at them. Or be near them..." He was making wild gestures with his hand and threw them down in a huff. "I'm pretty pathetic, aren't I?"
The faerie chirped and didn't bother looking up. It was enough to tell him the little thing thought it too pathetic to merit attention.
Cyrus sighed and noticed his steps were becoming more slow. He was tired. He remembered that he hadn't slept at all the previous night. He didn't like to lose daylight so he kept moving north while he could still see in front of him.
He walked to the point of exhaustion.
When the sun did begin to set, he found a hill right next to the path where a small river wound nearby through the countryside below. He took only enough time to throw down his pack at the base of the only tree on the hill and collapse in a heap, using the lumpy bag as a pillow.
He pulled his faerie in towards his chest. The night breeze was a little chilly. He knew he didn't want any predators coming after his companion again. The faerie's glow gave off enough of a beacon for the night's hunters. The faerie struggled at first but gave in to the soft embrace, realizing it, too, was tired. Its wings fluttered before it stilled, drifting into a peaceful slumber with a contented sigh.
CYRUS WAS asleep when suddenly, a sharp pain exploded behind his eyes.
He fumbled for his sword, momentarily blinded.
There were some shouts and a yell from the faerie.
When the black dots in his vision ebbed well enough for him to see again, Cyrus saw that he was surrounded by three men, the largest one holding a large war-hammer, the two others wielding daggers.
One of the dagger-holders was struggling with a leather pouch.
The pouch glowed with the familiar purples of Cyrus's Soulyte. They had his faerie.
The largest of the trio swung out his hammer, narrowing missing Cyrus's head as the Hero dodged. The one with the pouch turned and ran down the hill to the bank of the river.
Cyrus pursued him in a panic. He couldn't lose his faerie. Not again.
His large foe was slow and unable to move very quickly. But the smaller man that was covered from head to toe in dark clothes made up for that. Lithe and swift, he quickly overtook Cyrus and tackled him to the soft earth, sending them both tumbling to the bank of the rushing waters.
A sharp crack told Cyrus that his assailant hit his head hard on a rock, so he wriggled free of the other man's grip, frantically running after the one holding the pouch. The thief was about halfway across the river, hopping cautiously from stone to stone. Cyrus sped in his direction, disregarding all safety as he sprinted across the slick stones.
Almost three feet from his shocked foe, Cyrus's foot caught on a loose stone. He plummeted forward, snagging the assailant's legging and pulling him into the freezing current. As they both struggled, the thief had dropped the pouch. It was drifting swiftly downriver!
His first thought was t catch it, of course. He reached for it, flailing frantically in the water to catch the drawstring. Then he managed to grab hold of it with his teeth and bit at it, trying to tear open the sodden leather with his teeth before his fairie drowned.
The drawstring loosened and the faerie flew out like a comet.
And that was when he remembered the little fact that he couldn't swim. He had stayed afloat only because the swiftly-moving current kept knocking him against the stones and boulders that littered the river. To his horror that they were growing fewer and farther between the longer downriver he drifted.
And his head began to be pulled under by the current that he could no longer see where the thieves were.
His eyes refused to stay open in the sting of the freezing water. And his lungs burned but he still kept trying to take in breaths.
Arms flailing miserably, he finally was thrown close enough to the bank to grab hold of a bush. He had enough strength to pull himself up. Just a little while in the cold and he was exhausted beyond belief! It took all of his strength to pull himself out of the water.
He knew his faerie was there, flitting to and fro, chirping frantically in its strange little voice. He could hear it everytime. But his thought was that he had nearly drowned. As his exhaustion overwhelmed him, he thought that he could have died before he could prove to himself that he could be a brave hero... as he had dreamed all his life...
But the next moment, something happened. It was a just a second. He was suddenly lying in soft grass, and he wheezing the icy water from his lungs. When he finished, he felt like his whole body was aching like he'd never hurt before. His tunic, undershirt, vest, leggings, and boots were soaked all the way through and he was shivering violently in the breeze, while his faerie perched on his chest, gazing at him with what he was sure of as concern.
It took him a few minutes to remember what had happened.
He had been transported. And it was because of the fairie.
That's why Heroes had companions, wasn't it? They were there to assist us with magic.
Weakly, Cyrus reached up a hand and patted his faerie on the head as gently as he could. "I'm glad you're okay," he whispered.
He closed his eyes, forgetting all about the bandits, desperate for sleep.