The Bringer of War

Blood had been streaked all about the gruesome scene, making the floor sticky and the air fetid. The bodies of the fallen lay in tattered pieces, barely recognizable as the living beings they had once been. A bright lance of sunlight splashed across the massacre as a door to the outside opened.

“The slaughter took place in here,” said the man who had opened it. He was a grim faced, burly man, face red and lined from many hours in the fields. Ducking low, he went into a near crouch in order to gain egress through the small opening.

“Keep this door shut all night,” he said, grunting as his knees protested the effort “don’t rightly know how that...thing was able to get in.”

The man moved away from the door, allowing another person to enter. This man was just as tall, but much lankier. He wore a scaled breastplate with an ostentatious red and green pattern. A long bladed sword hung at his side, which he gripped in a calloused hand to prevent it hampering his entrance. Blue eyes the color of clear skies scanned the bloody chamber, and he stroked his pointed chin with his free hand thoughtfully. A bent nose that had been broken several times twitched as the revolting stench hit his nostrils.

“No flies,” said the new man, nodding his head “sure sign that this is the work of a dragon.”

The other man grunted, bent at his waist to pick something off the floor. He held an orange hued beak in his thumb and forefinger, brushing a bit of white feather off of it.

“Lost twenty hens and my breeding cock,” he said, turning to face the armed man with a scowl “can you help us be rid of the beast, master Fennick?”

The man called Fennick smiled with a hint of smugness.

“My good sir,” he said “my brother and I have slain more dragons than there are stars in the evening sky! We are licensed by the Crown to do our noble work, and are fully accredited Dragon slayers. You have seen our credentials-”

“What I saw,” said the man, drawing up to his full height, meaning his head brushed the roof of the chicken coop “was a scrawl of parchment that bore words I cannot read. What I am hearing sounds much like a swindler’s honeyed words.”

“Good master Raff,” said Fennick with a wounded expression “I can assure you that I am no swindler.” He walked a few strides inside the tiny structure, pointing at a bloody footprint on the wall. “See here? Three toes, typical feathered dragon.”

“Dragons, bah,” said Raff, putting his hands on his hips.

“Sir,” said Fennick spreading his hands and smiling “something stole its way into your chicken coop and slaughtered all your fine feathered friends...”

“Aye,” said Raff, nodding his head “and my neighbor’s as well, and his cousin’s. This dragon, if that it be, has caused us great strife. Why, even the widow Masters has said that a tiny, fanged creature alighted on her windowsill and stole one of her apple pies as it cooled.”

Fennick looked a bit uncomfortable, a mirthless chuckle escaping his lips.

“Ah,” he said “I do not think that likely, sir. Dragons are meat eaters, one and all.”

“You are the licensed, accredited expert,” said Raff in a tone that clearly displayed his doubts “I leave such distinctions to you. If you can truly rid us of the beast, be it dragon or fox or wolf, I shall make payment.”

“Absolutely!” said Fennick, sweeping into a theatrical bow. He exited the coop, sighing as fresh air once again reached his lungs. Raff followed a moment later, casting a regretful glance at the coop’s interior.

“I wish to see the beast’s corpse,” said Raff, crossing his arms over his chest “before I make payment.”

Fennick grinned, attempted to put an arm over Raff’s shoulder, but the farmer angrily shrugged it off.

“My good master Raff,” said Fennick “I shall do even better! I shall present the dragon to you, alive—caged of course, so it may not wreak further havoc!”

“We shall see,” said Raff, walking towards his one story house. Fields of young wheat stood surrounding the house, Raff’s children and wife bent over in the amber rows plucking weeds.

Fennick frowned. It was too bad the man had no daughters of the appropriate age for wench sport...

“Did you not hear me, Fennick?” said Raff, scowling at the man.

“Sorry, old chum,” said Fennick with a smile “I was a bit distracted, going over the hunting methods I might employ. Could you repeat yourself, please?”

“I said, where is this brother of yours you keep mentioning?” said Raff.

“No doubt working hard to track this murderous dragon,” said Fennick with a wink.

** *

“Alright, love,” said the big man. He stood below a towering elm tree, hand shielding his eyes from the bright morning sun. “C’mon down here, and I’ll give your head a scratch.”

The leaves high in the trees rustled, and the man shifted from foot to foot nervously. Large, hairy hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knotted muscles playing in his forearms. A red and green scale vest identical to Fennick’s sheathed his body, the scales glittering in the sun. A green kerchief was tied about his head, covering it from just above his brows to the back of his neck. Eyes the same blue hue as Fennick’s stood on his face, though they did not glint with the same craftiness. A bristly mustache adorned his lip, partially concealing his gap toothed mouth.

“Oh, come on, then,” he said in exasperation “don’t do this to me, love.”

He stared expectantly into the foliage. After several moments nothing happened, and he swore. Dropping to one knee, he rummaged around in the travel worn knapsack at his feet, taking out a bit of salted pork.

“All right,” he said “here it is, love. Come down and get it, hear?”

Something darted out of the leaves, plummeting towards the man in a brightly colored streak. The man stood and raised one arm above himself, as if to fend off at attack.

The creature rapidly batted its feathered wings, slowing itself until it nearly hovered a foot from the man’s offered arm. It resembled a bird most of all, with a hawk sized body and feathered wings. However, a serpentine neck was attached to the shoulders, and at the end was a lizard like head. Its mouth opened to reveal rows of tiny, needle like teeth. Like a bird, it had but four limbs, wings and two clawed feet. The three toed appendages rasped open and the little creature alighted on the man’s leather-wrapped arm. He offered the little bit of swine and it greedily snapped it up in two bites.

“There we are, love,” he said, scratching the little beast under the chin. A feathered crest on its head stood up and a low growl escaped from its diminutive throat. Expression was difficult to read on its scaled face, but it did seem to enjoy the attention.

“You spoil her, you know,” said Fennick, striding up under the tree with a haunch of deer meat slung over his shoulder.

“Bah,” said the other man, as the little dragon hissed at Fennick. “What’s that you have there?”

Fennick grinned, holding the meat out for inspection.

“A down payment,” he said “our friend Raff the farmer is far more suspicious than he has any right to be.”

“Told you we were hitting too many marks too close together,” said the kerchiefed man.

“Oh, come on, Seamus,” said Fennick, casting his eyes skyward. “Let me do the thinking, and you do the dragon-wrangling, yes?”

Seamus sneered at him, returning to groom the feathered dragon on his arm.

“It feels as if we exploit poor Buttercup,” he said ruefully.

“Oh,” said Fennick, blue eyes widening “such as sending her to fetch a pie, for example?”

Seamus swallowed hard and looked away from his brother.

“I saved a slice for you...” he said sheepishly.

** *

Aven cursed her luck, eyes flashing back and forth between her two adversaries. Her strength was returning, but not quickly enough. Summoning a small piece of her flagging reserves, she focused on the gentle breeze teasing her hair through the open window.

“Pharu!” she cried, and all at once the breeze stiffened into a gust of wind which neatly blew out every candle in the little hut. Even Crown’s oil lantern, with a glass shield surrounding the low flame, was extinguished. She used the sudden darkness to leap out of the window, crunching her knees up into her chest so she could sail smoothly through it.

Bruno, prepared for faerie trickery, moved to stop her. He swung his blade in an arc, intending to slam its edge down across the window sill and halt her egress. The sword bit deep into the dark wood a split second after Aven had spilled onto the ground below.

Swearing, the Templar tore his weapon free. A growl issued from his throat as he ran madly out the shattered door and into the night air. He spun about in circles, scanning every inch of the landscape for his quarry. Aven was gone, vanished like so much dew in the hot sun. Bruno stomped back into the hut just as Crown managed to get a candle lit.

“Aren’t you going to pursue the fell creature?” said the priest, casting a worried glance out the broken window.

“Nay,” said Bruno, shaking his head. “Night time is the purview of the faerie. When the Allfather’s eye shines down over the world, that is the time of the Templar.”

The knight’s eyes fell on Hector, softening slightly. He strode over to the boy’s side and put a hand upon his forehead. The squire’s eyes fluttered open, his dry lips uttering a single word.

“Allison?” he said, voice cracking.

“Bruno,” said the knight, tousling the boy’s hair. “I fear I am no fair maiden...”

Hector laughed, wincing a bit with pain. He tried to sit up, but Bruno’s stout hand held him fast.

“Take it easy, lad,” he said “you may have broken bones, bleeding...”

“I hurt,” said Hector, relaxing against the table “but not so terribly as before.”

Bruno looked up at Crown and arched his brows. The priest hurried over the Hector’s side and began to poke and prod at his wounds. After a thorough examination, he looked up at Bruno in amazement.

“I can find no lasting injuries upon him,” he said “see how his cut lip has closed, how his broken fingers have straightened? It appears your squire owes the faerie lass much...”

“Bah,” said Bruno with a dark scowl “she only sought to heal him so she could steal him away, to service her in the dark woods.”

“I can think of worse fates,” said Hector, drawing a laugh from Crown and a stern frown from Bruno.

Out in the forest, nearly a half mile from Ravensford, Aven sagged against the moss covered trunk of a small tree. Her breath came in gasps, hand clasped to her side. She used her forearm to wipe sweat from her brow before casting her emerald gaze back towards the town. No pursuit seemed imminent, but still she felt the need to put as much space as possible between herself and the vengeful Templar.

Walking with as much speed as she could muster, she moved until the dense foliage embraced her, swallowing up her form as the horizon swallowed the sun. Inwardly, she roiled with turmoil. The priest had recognized her, but she did not believe that Sir Bruno had. She knew that the best course would be a cautious one, putting as many miles between herself and Ravensford as she could.

“I need to start over,” she said wearily “again.”

Her shoulders slumped and her head filled with despondent thoughts. How would Brutus take her sudden disappearance? She could see the old man harrying off after her, trying to play the hero after so many years. Certainly, she could do without ever laying eyes upon Thurston again, and her oft pinched bottom could have done without the attention she received in her barmaid guise, but still...

Fists clenching at her sides, her mouth twisted up in anger. Why should she leave? She had done nothing wrong, after all, had only tried to help. Why should she have to uproot and leave her home of the last two years?

Looking down at her body, with its strangely bent, hooved legs, she smiled ruefully. She had to leave because she was different. It did not matter that she was innocent, or even that she was only half-faerie. She would leave Ravensford forever, that night. A pity that she might not chance upon the muscular Knight as he sparred bare chested with his squire...

She slapped her palms to her cheeks. The squire! Sir Bruno had no idea that the priest had tried to smother him. Was he even alive at that moment, or had the little man finished his grim work? Why had the priest tried to do such a thing anyway?

Partly from guilt, partly from curiosity, but most of all from a desire not to be lonely again, Aven turned her hoofed feet towards the town. Though it nearly made her swoon, she changed her form to a human one. Putting one tired foot in front of the other, she slowly picked her way through the woods, jaw set with determination.

She was gladdened to see the squire walking on his own power, though Bruno held tight to the boy’s arm. The look of concern on his handsome face, so different from the usual angry scowl, made her heart jump in her chest. Admonishing herself for the momentary weakness, she slumped against the oak concealing her. The knight was the sworn enemy of her kind, and would slay her given half the chance. That he cared for his squire was touching, but ultimately meant nothing. Smiling bitterly, she realized that she would not even be able to reveal the priest’s treachery, lest she expose herself.

Sighing, she staggered off towards the woods, the only comfort she had ever known. She found a secluded copse of trees far enough from town to avoid discovery and laid down on a bed of fallen leaves. When she drifted off to sleep, her dreams were filled with flashing knives and priests who had the heads of dragons.

However, she also dreamed of being held by the stout arms of Sir Bruno, her cries having nothing to do with fear or anger.