Eire of Hostility

  Chapter 15

  "Quit lazing about, would you? I'm missing the revelry."

  Dahlia weakly raised her head to Haas again. If she weren't in such agony, she'd pound him into banishment. The odd-looking bauchan stood there impatiently with a scroll in his hands. He constantly looked back over his shoulder into the dark night, peering in the direction of the distant war party encampment.

  Dahlia looked down at her gloved hands to focus enough strength to stand; she didn't want to appear weak, even in front of the worthless little fae. She slid a knee underneath her body and struggled to push herself into a seated position. With arms almost locked, Dahlia's elbows trembled and gave; she crumpled back onto the ground with an exhausted and painful grunt.

  Haas looked back down at her. He cocked his head to one side; one floppy ear lay against his cheek, and the other drooped from the side of his head to his shoulder. He shuffled a small step to his left to better see the Fair warrior in the fire light. "You look like ogre shit. Why do you look like ogre shit?"

  Lying on her side, Dahlia managed to say, "I only... wish it was... ogres." She coughed once; after the searing pain in her ribs passed, she tasted a bitter liquid pooling in her cheek.

  After cocking his head to the other side and inhaling deep through his pug nose, Haas said, "My nose says burnt flesh and leather, rock dust, blood, and moss. My ears say your breathing is labored and wet. My eyes still say you look like ogre shit. My brain says you were fighting a dragon, and not very well. Why were you messing about with a dragon?"

  Through gritted teeth, about the only thing that didn't hurt, Dahlia asked, "And what... does your... breath say?" She felt her own blood leak out over her lip and down her chin; her arm was too weak to wipe at it.

  "My breath?"

  "Yes... your breath; when I gather... enough energy, I'm going to... choke it out of you."

  Haas took a small, involuntary step back. "There's no need for that," he said. "Lucky for you, my heart says to offer a bit of healing... unless you intend to follow through with your threat."

  Dahlia closed her eyes and continued to lay prone. "No, I would... accept healing." She hated that she didn't even have the energy to articulate her meaning well. She opened one eye; in her swimming vision, she saw Haas hurry to set the scroll down next to her pavilion and then jog back over to her.

  "I'm not great at this," the bauchan said as he pressed his hands down on parts of her exposed torso, "but I think I can at least stop you from spitting up blood."

  Haas mended Dahlia's ribs and damaged organs, and then helped her to the bed in her tent. He managed to heal another severe wound before she was able to see to her own injuries. He found the scroll and set it on a table near the bed. His good deeds done, Haas thought better than to demand a debt from her; he'd earned it but he wanted little to do with the intense fae.

  Haas was about to depart, but his curious mind itched with a question. He turned to see the pale warrior slowly sitting up and breathing hard after she closed a gash on her thigh. Taking a small step back toward her, he asked, "If you'll pardon the interruption, my mind is asking... how did get yourself into a dragon's lair? And, for element's sake, why? The last I knew, you were battling another fae in the middle of a lane in some Hibernian village."

  Dahlia swung her battered legs off the side of the bed, and then glared at him. "Fair question, but the answer is inconsequential. What I wonder is, how much of a coward are you? I was left to fend for myself after you scampered off when more opponents arrived."

  With an incredulous expression, Haas retorted, "The fae that nearly reduced you to dust with a lightning bolt was Aldritch of the Old Wood! Did you expect me to stand in his way on your behalf? Nothing personal, Dahlia, but you're not that important, and I am no fool. Nor am I a coward; I simply had the wisdom to leave while I could. Apparently, you didn't." Haas spun and marched to the tent flap, and then stopped once more. He turned his head and said, "You're welcome for the healing. Don't worry about a debt; I want nothing from you."

  The bauchan departed before Dahlia could form a reply. She sighed and returned her focus to healing a deep burn on her arm. As it began to fade, she noticed the scroll sitting nearby, waiting for her. Groaning, she leaned over and retrieved it. The stamp on it bore Saraid's mark. Dahlia removed the parchment from the wooden tube, unrolled it, and began to read.

  Dahlia,

  I hope this note finds you in good form. As you might guess, I have important matters to see to that have forced my brief departure. This note will have to suffice in place of the conversation we might otherwise have.

  In my absence, I grant you the availability to what my entire holdings offer, save residence in any of my havens or use of my servants. Gather from my fields and livestock at your leisure. Glamour may be harvested as well, but only when in need. Until I return, do as you will.

  From speaking with your travel companion, I learned of yet another fiasco that would have aided our designs. Do not despair; I do not account the failure to you. You have been steadfast and faithful, both to me and to our cause. It is with those good sentiments in mind that I offer that which you seek.

  The war party currently has a leader. I grant you the opportunity to challenge for ranking. But not just rank - you may challenge for leadership of the party. The current commander has been made aware of my benevolent offer on your behalf, and waits for you at the encampment.

  May you fight valiantly and justify my generosity.

  Saraid

  Surprised, Dahlia set the note down and stared off. Finally, Saraid had seen the efforts she had put forth, and realized her value. With her faith in her mistress renewed, Dahlia set about regaining her strength as quickly as possible by means of gathering glamour from the rich land, healing her remaining wounds, feasting heartily, and resting.

  Under a hazy steel blue morning sky, Dahlia strode from her tent in the direction of the encampment. Her armor, while clean, still bore the burns, holes, and rips of her recent conflicts. Undaunted, she walked into the camp as if she was already in charge.

  There were two dozen or more fae assembled, but only a few were up and out of their tents at that early hour. Flipping her lavender braid back over her shoulder, she approached the two nearest fae.

  The two males sat near each other in compactable canvas chairs outside of their close-set tents. They were both in casual attire as they tended to their respective weapons. The nearest was obviously a sprite; he had overly large, cream-colored eyes under unruly, light brown bangs. He was rewrapping the leather handle of a large club that had landscaping spikes driven through it.

  The other one was a long-legged Fair fae with angular features, caramel skin, and flowing white hair. He was sharpening his stone throwing blades when he noticed Dahlia's approach. They stopped their hushed banter and waited.

  When Dahlia was within a few paces, the sprite asked with a slight French accent, "Another warrior to join the cause, are you?"

  Before she could respond, the Fair fae said with a smirk, "I'd rather hope she's come to offer all of us some personal entertainment. Some of us are becoming... restless."

  They both chuckled at the milky-haired fae's words before the sprite spoke again. "So, which is it; aspiring warrior or tent wench?"

  Dahlia kept a neutral expression when she asked, "Might I know what you both go by, please?"

  "What for?" asked the sprite.

  "I make it a habit of at least knowing the name of those I drive my blade through." Dahlia's large ironwood blade immediately appeared in her hand.

  Both of the fae grinned at each other before turning their eyes back to her. "There is no need to be so offended," the sprite said. "We were merely creating some levity while we waste away here." He set his club aside and relaxed into his chair. "If it will soothe your simmering mood, I am Renard, and my friend here is Uther. You'll find this war camp to be a gregarious one. Find a seat, join us."

  "I must decline; I have come here for
a specific purpose. Perhaps we will visit later when my business is concluded."

  "And just what is your 'specific purpose' here, o nameless one?"

  Dahlia gave the lighthearted sprite a stern look before answering, "I am Dahlia. With Lady Saraid's allowance, I have come to challenge the current commander for leadership of this party. I doubt that would be either of you two."

  Renard laughed at her insult. "You have the measure of us, good Dahlia; Uther and I are just along for the adventure." He relaxed further while he continued, "So you're the one; I believe the whole camp has been waiting for you to arrive." Renard turned his head to Uther and said, "Would you mind telling his servant that the challenger is here? And alert the camp, as well."

  The lanky fae grinned, nodded to his friend, and stood. Before Uther departed, he looked at Dahlia and said, "So you are the entertainment after all."

  Renard patted the canvas arm of the empty chair. "Have a seat; it may be a short while before the commander is ready."

  The sun was a bit higher in the grey-blue sky, and all of the other warriors were up and expectant, before Dahlia was approached by a gremlin.

  At only three feet tall, the low-caste creature was mildly revolting. It was presumably male, naked except for a dark loincloth. He had skin that was a sickly greenish gray with splotches of black, and all over his body were bumps and thorny spikes. The creature only had three toes on each foot, and the same for his hands. Atop his lean, wiry body was an elongated bald head. The alien features resembled that of a predatory amphibian, but his deep-set eyes were those of a feline. The lumpy ears that protruded out to the sides of his head seemed too large, as did his snake-like jaw.

  Jagged teeth showed in the gremlin's overly wide mouth when he stood in front of Dahlia and said with a croaking voice, "If you are challenger, master awaits you. Follow."

  Dahlia trailed after the loping servant out into the low-cropped grazing fields nearby. She ignored the warriors who followed behind while they whispered and laughed amongst themselves; she was focused on the lone figure ahead that waited for her.

  Dahlia stopped when she was ten or so paces away from the commander. While the other warriors formed a wide circle around them, she studied her opponent.

  He was shorter than she expected, being just over a foot taller than his gremlin servant. Under an impressive suit of hardened bone armor, combat boots, and black work gloves, his skin was a mottled gray. His unarmored head was as intriguing as it was sinister. Between two thick and ridged impala horns was a mohawk of crimson hair. Tufts of the same color grew from the base of his strong, angular jaw under small, pointed ears. Under a thick crease of brows sat sunken black eyes, separated by a long nose with a bone ring pierced through the nasal septum. The thin lips of his wide mouth formed a natural curl at the corners, as if he was constantly grinning. The commander, apparently a redcap, stood stoically and stared at her.

  The gremlin servant stood off to the side and loudly croaked, "Combatants, give names and reasons; challenger first."

  Dahlia planted her feet in a wide stance and announced, "I am Dahlia of the Fair, favored by Saraid Moon Maiden." She willed her gear; a sword appeared in her right hand and a shield was instantly strapped onto her left arm. "I have come to challenge for leadership of the war party."

  The commander rolled his shoulders and held his hands out away from his him. With a gravelly tenor voice, he made his own announcement. "I am Grigori the Glut." A short-handled metal sickle appeared in one hand, and a stainless steel meat cleaver in the other. He smiled, displaying an expansive set of thin, sharp teeth. "I am here because I have not yet dined this morning; I'm sure your beating heart will be delicious."

  If it were possible for Dahlia's fair skin to pale any further, it would have. As it was, her involuntary expression told enough of her dread. To her, Grigori wasn't just famous, he was a legend; a fae's nightmare. The laughter of the surrounding warriors was a distant echo; in her mind, she was screaming, 'Saraid, you devious bitch, you led me to my own death!'