Chapter Eight – The Scarlet Blade of Elland

  Although she had eventually found a comfortable and quiet room to spend the night in, Atalanta simply couldn’t rest. The thought of the oncoming swarm of bandits, the idea that they were potentially looking for her, the poor preparation of the village’s guard, they all contributed to her restlessness. She’d polished Balmung three times, counted out each individual arrow in her pack four times, and even did what little exercise she could manage in her room to try and tire herself out. None of it worked. She guessed that, maybe, she’d received one or two hours of sleep? If even that.

  The dawn was greeted with the sounding of a warhorn, which must have awoken even the village’s local rooster. She crawled out of her room in the alehouse, dropping her four ducats on the table, and stepped out into the radiant peach light of the dawn. It was beautiful, but an ever-present reminder of what the day held. She couldn’t let herself get distracted by something as inane as the dawn, not today. Nor by breakfast. Fighting on a full stomach would only slow her down. She could withstand the hunger for a while.

  Various villagers began moving to the village square, where the watchtower stood. Some with makeshift weapons. Rusted spears, pitchforks, wood-axes, anything they could get their hands on. Men, women, even some older children joined in on the march to the watchtower. Within it stood two men. One man, and Hal, at least. He was a man of some advanced age, ever so slightly younger than Bjorn, but the years hadn’t been so kind to him. A wicked scar ran down the left side of his face, leaving the side’s eye clouded and blind. Behind the green of his good eye, however, there raged a fire. One of defiance. One that resonated deep within Atalanta.

  “Good people of Elland!” He began his speech, holding his arms out wide to greet the entire crowd. They cheered, though Atalanta stayed silent, simply watching. Hal nodded at her, she nodded back. “Today, we stand on the break of a day that will define our fair village! The crimson banner flies in the east, Harold here saw them himself. They carry blades with them, to tear apart our families. They carry torches with them, to burn our fair home to the ground. They bear rope, to steal our children. Will we accept their presence?”

  “NO!” The crowd roared, though Atalanta missed their mark, her cheer echoing the rowdy mob, somewhat.

  “Will we accept our so called ‘inevitable defeat?’ Allow them to overrun our homes?”

  “NO!” Atalanta joined in with the roar, her voice part of the masses.

  “Then shall we fight to our last, no matter what happens?”

  “YES!”

  “People of Elland! Battle positions!”

  Of course, Atalanta wasn’t actually privy to any plans. She stood there for a second as the crowd dispersed, watching as they moved to each gate. She frowned... where to go? She said she’d hold one gate, but Harold clearly hadn’t got the message across to the village’s temporary warchief. North. She’d go north. That felt the most right, somehow. Most of the more well-armed men were heading south, too, so that cemented her choice. The North Gate would need the most defence. She followed the crowd until they settled, their pitchforks forming an unsteady spear-wall. It wouldn’t stop any serious invasion force. Ten pitchforks, as much as they wished to try, would be worthless.

  “This is how it’s going to go.” She filtered through the pitchforks – standing between them and the closed gate. She had a devilish smile on her face and, despite her lack of sleep, stood as tall as ten men before the crowd. “You two.” She pointed at the two largest villagers. Enlisted farmers, no doubt, “you’ll stay here. Anyone who slips by, stick ‘em. Everyone else. These guys have fire. Protect your homes. Ready water from the well, wet your roofs. Temporary pain now will make everything easier. When you’re done, stay with them, or head to the west gate. There’ll be kids that need protecting. I’ll watch this gate myself.”

  “And why should we trust you?” The largest of the villagers stepped up to her. She didn’t back down. She didn’t flinch. She stepped up to him, placing her right boot atop his foot.

  “Because I’m the one with the sword. With the training. Now do you want to survive, or not?” She growled. Nobody had put her in a position of power except for herself, but it had always been drilled into her that insubordination meant death. Especially on the battlefield. She didn’t want to threaten these villagers, but if she had to... She unsheathed Balmung, the golden blade receiving a collective gasp from her troops. The sheathe lay against the gate – she'd collect it after the battle was won. “Any questions?”

  “N-No, Ma’am!” The villager backed down, scrambling to get his spear. Good. She turned her back to her force, listened to them as they dispersed, then opened the gate.

  There were two dozen of them, at least, just at this gate. All of them wearing the same clothes. No, the same armour, as if it was a uniform. These weren’t just simple bandits. In the centre of the group, a bannerman, holding aloft a drape of crimson... with a cobalt blue wolf, snarling in the centre of it. A near mirror-image of her own coat. Wolves were common for heraldry, however. They signified strength and unity. Perseverance above all odds and dogged determination.

  “Close the gate.” Behind her, the spearman nodded, shutting the village gate. She held Balmung aloft. Her hair blew in the wind, her blade glinted in the light. For a moment, she was at peace. The time had come to set all insecurities aside. She was a weapon of war. She was a fighter of untold skill. This village would not fall today.

  “Crimson-clad bandits! I am the defender of this village. If you do not wish to face the might of my blade, flee, and I will spare you your life.” Her voice carried across the time-worn crag... but seemed to fall upon deaf ears. She sighed. Diplomacy was always worth a shot.

  The bandits all got into formation. Three lines of six. Swordsman, spearman, swordsman. With the remaining six bandits holding the flanks, three a side. It was almost heartwarming; they were cautious enough of her to try using actual tactics. Cute. She’d let them advance. Balmung held steady by her head, she waited. Charging them was a death sentence. She’d be impaled in an instant. The right moment would present itself, however. It always did. A warhorn blew, somewhere in the distance. They began to approach. She breathed. In and out. Just like she’d trained. Just like she’d practiced.

  Thwip! An arrow soared through the sky above her head, finding a new home in the eye of one of the spearmen. He screamed, his advance halted. A second arrow. A third. The ranks of spearmen dwindled. It was time. She stepped forward, the enemy swordsmen raised their blades. Too slowly. She swung low, cautiously. It was good enough. The swordsmen halted, stepped back. If they hadn’t, they’d need new boots. This wasn’t quite Balmung’s intended purpose, she was quite certain of it. Most blades used for these defences were straight, with edges on both sides. Her Balmung, however, had all the intimdation she needed on her side regardless.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Come on, try your luck.” She rest Balmung on her shoulder, smirking. One plucky swordsman tried his luck. She swung down. Hard, inelegant. Balmung bit into his shoulder, the blade sliding clean out through his padded armour. He dropped his sword and backed off. A second tried, with the third moving in as backup.

  “You don’t learn, do you?” She swept her blade around, parrying the attack from the first swordsman, before wheeling around to the third. Balmung cut into his shin. He wouldn’t be a problem any time soon. That’s when the realisation struck her. These guys looked tough, they looked well-trained. But they were total amateurs. They were still bandits at the end of the day. She chuckled to herself and launched herself at one of the spearmen. He raised his weapon in defence, but it shattered with a blow from her sword. She kicked his chin, knocking him to the ground.

  “You know, you guys had me worried for a second. I lost sleep over you.” A sword behind her. She stepped back, Balmung raised. A sword to her right. She spun. Her blade caught her opponent’s wrist. Disarmed, probably down a few fingers. She reached down and took the head of the shattered spear. She launched it at another of the spearmen, not caring which. Another sword to her left. Her eyes glinted. Balmung went straight for the kill. Right into his guts and into the man behind him as well. She pulled her blade out, the golden edge dripping with blood. Her grin was wild, her heart racing. Oh, this was the kind of battle she so desperately longed for.

  “Who else wants some? You?” She glared at her potential next victim, but he shook his head and dropped his blade, fleeing. One by one, the bandits got the message. A single swing of Balmung was enough to convince those that were still on the fence. She huffed. She was expecting more of a fight. She needed more of a fight.

  “Gah-!” A cry cut through the din of the battlefield. She looked up, trying to find where it came from. It wasn’t anyone she had to worry about in her own defence, but. She saw it. An arrow sticking out of Harold’s shoulder. How? He should’ve been safe. He was a backliner. She rushed back. The larger villager looking over the fence to see her arrival and pulling the gate open. She almost wished he hadn’t, upon seeing the scene before her. The village square was a bloody mess. In the time it had taken her to dispatch her bandit assignment, the other side, with twice as many men at least, had advanced into the other side of the village. The southern wall was ruined. Many villagers lay wounded. Harold had an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. She had to do something. She’d fight them all of herself. She brought Balmung up into a combative stance, ready to strike out at her opponents.

  “Hold, now.” A shrill voice cut through the clamour. The air fell deathly still. From within the mass of bandits, a wiry man emerged. His back was draped in a long cape, his body covered in thick robes. His face was a twisted smile, his eyes cruel and calculating. “I would recognise that glow anywhere. Galtinum, is it not?” He approached, running a finger along the inside of Balmung’s blade. Atalanta froze. This man’s very presence... something about it sickened her, deep in her core.

  “We have what we came for. If you would come along, dear. I will spare this village. Fight on, and you’ll be wishing you had surrendered.” She gripped Balmung tighter. It was her. She was the reason why the village was under attack. Why? Why her, in particular? What was so special about her that drove this hunt? About her sword? Would Ulssia have been next in his crosshair? She whipped her head around as he walked past her, towards the northern gate.

  “No.” She refused. She was never going to surrender. She was going to get answers in her own way. She was going to win this. She was going to defend these people. Her knuckles whitened. Her vision tunnelled into her target. Him. But if she lunged, she’d be vulnerable to who knew how many attacks? Balmung could only do so much. She could only do so much. Why? Why? Why?

  She let out an anguished wail. Her voice growing harsh, her neck wrenching up to the sky. Her wail deepened. Power began to course through her body. She had the strength within her to do this. She could take this bastard down, her way. Her legs tensed. Muscles growing thicker. Her bones snapping within them. She fell forward, her nails digging into the dirt. Claws digging into the dirt. Deep blue fur gathered on the back of her hands, overtaking her entire form. With it, came power. Strength. The will to do anything she needed to. She stepped forward, right hand and left foot working in unison. She grew taller. More comfortable in herself. In her power. A streak of blue overtook her vision, between her eyes, where nose normally was. Her lips curled, a deep, guttural growl echoing through the town. Razor-sharp fangs grew in her mouth. Golden, like the blade she once held in her hand. The blade that had now disappeared. But she didn’t need a weapon. She was a weapon. Her claws were as blades. Her teeth were daggers. She was as tall as a house, peering clear over the village’s walls.

  She threw her head back, howling into the wind. Friend and foe alike stepped back, afraid of the beast that was before them. All except for the one person who should have been afraid. The man in her eyes. The greasy, wiry man who ordered this hunt. This attack. She lunged, sweeping her claws at him.

  She was too slow. Some may even say clumsy. He took a step back, a cloud of dirt filling the air from his burst of movement. That wouldn’t help him. There were only so many places he could go. She batted the air with an open paw – hitting absolutely nothing, aside for the dustcloud that had now been scattered to the winds. He appeared above her, arms outstretched and a wicked smirk upon his face.

  “Venitas Severas!” Several blades of wind assaulted her face, buffeting her, but doing no real damage. Her fur had seen to that. And he had revealed himself. She reached out, snapping at him. Another gust of wind, however, saved him from her jaws. A narrow miss. Curse him.

  “Stay still, damn you!” She barked – quite literally, unknown to her. The words she had intended to speak lost to the back of her throat. She snapped again. He stepped back. She raked him with her claws, he leapt over them. She slammed her paw down and he stepped aside. There was nothing she could do. Or. Was there? His movements had a pattern. A specific reaction to each attack. A favoured direction for movement. Her lips curled into something approaching a smile. She could work with that. The gate. The gate was closed.

  She changed her own pattern of attack, guiding him back. To the gate that he hadn’t come through. Enter the village one way, leave the other. Or find himself torn apart by a great beast. It was his decision, really, and it didn’t take long for her plan to come to fruition. His back was against the wall, her heckles were raised. Her legs were tensed. She was ready to attack. To finish this foolish game.

  “Which way? Jump, I’ll snap you out of the air. Work your way back, and I’ll tear you in two. Make your move.” She snarled, her tail flicking behind her restlessly. Her eyes bore into him and, yet, he made not a single move. He just stood there, staring at her. What was he doing? This was a fight! She was not going to have her fight belittled like this! She snarled and leapt rocketed forward, leaving giant pawprints in the ground where she had been waiting.

  She played right into his hand. She attacked and, like always, he dodged. Straight upwards, over her snapping jaws and away from the coming chaos. She was simply too much. Her speed too great. She slammed her paws into the ground as soon as she realised what happened, but that only destabilised her. She slammed into the north gate with an almighty crunch. Wood and splinters settling in the fur covering her face. She wrestled herself to her feet... but with such an impact, she’d loosened the stones of the wall. As she stood, the wall began to crumble. Stone after stone piling on top of her back, as if the earth itself was burying her inside of it.

  The wiry man, the evident leader of the bandits, walked past her – hand running along her flank, though his own footsteps were cautious of the stones that now littered the ground. She snarled and growled, eyeing him warily.

  “My, you are a feisty one. You could be just what the boss needs... I’ll let you go, today. Come find me, when you can hurt me.” He tapped the side of her snout and walked off, regrouping with his group of bandits and leaving the town.

  “You bastard. I won’t stop hunting, not until you’re dead and buried. You hear me? Dead and buried!” She yelled and howled, her words falling upon deaf ears. She fought and struggled, clamouring to her feet. But the more she fought, the more the wall crumbled. The heavier her burden became. In time, she lost all the strength that she had, and fell into a long, heavy sleep, surrounded by the ruins of the village she had tried to save.