The warmth was an unexpected blessing.
Benedict had moved on upstream to water the horses and give her privacy, something she hadn’t had much of in the three weeks since she left Tallfellow Canyon.
A warm pool in the mountains, heated by the deep fire of the mountains, steam rising.
It was luxurious, and with the weather beginning to turn, Scarlet didn’t know how long it might be before her next bath.
Her skin hadn’t felt warm for weeks and the hot water made her flesh feel alive, siphoning stress and worry from her. Muscles that hadn’t relaxed in days stretched and relaxed.
Her hair felt heavy but clean, and now smelling of lavender. But it was the last of her soap.
At the mountainous side of the pool, she had found a flat rock under the surface, very warm, perfectly shaped, and positioned just against the ledge. It made an ideal reclining seat.
She let her legs dangle over the edge and leaned back, enjoying the contrast of cold air from her shoulders up, and the heat for everything below.
Scarlet let the warmth take her as she drifted, drifted.
She felt the warmth of summer, calling her. The early fall afternoon sun tanning her skin. The copper bath at Kestrelmont.
She felt safe and home and happy.
A smile came to her face, unbidden as she drifted in a fugue state.
She was not frightened when she saw the motion in the water.
First, she saw the dark hair as he rose from the water, then his impossible blue eyes, and his shoulders, the damp hair on his chest. The vee shape of his torso, the—
Scarlet jolted herself awake, her hands automatically covering her chest.
It took her a moment to catch her breath as she looked around.
And then she laughed at her own foolishness, lay her head back in the water, letting it cover her face as she pulled her body deeper into the pool with handholds on nearby rocks until her back brushed the bottom of the pool.
She held her breath looking up through the water into the blurry trees.
Then, she let go, and let her body float to the surface, barely breaking it, just her nose and chin and other bits above the water.
What if he was actually—?
Nah.
He didn’t want her anyway.
She turned over on her front, warming her core again, and swam the width. It wasn’t far. Just two or three pulls to get to the other side. But it was enough to feel good.
On her second pass, she stopped.
A horse whinnied.
Somewhere upstream to her east.
And then there was silence.
Too much of it.
Another stroke and she was on the bank, donning her clothing. Blouse first, breeches next, sword third. Then she slipped on her shoes, the light ones. Her boots were back at camp.
She picked up her sweater, coat, and scarf.
“Benedict?” she called.
There was no answer.
“Benedict!” Louder.
She ran upstream, spying the smoke still rising from the camp.
Dark shapes.
Men on horses.
Three of them.
A fourth was dismounted.
She broke into the clearing, sword drawn.
The fourth stood in front of Benedict, who was on his knees, unmoving. The pupils of the man’s eyes were dark as midnight, his head tilted back slightly, his hand on Benedict’s forehead. A fine mist seeped from Benedict’s face, his eyes, his skin, even his hair. Flowing into the thing that looked like a man.
Scarlet moved quickly, bringing her sword to bear.
But she knew, instinctively, she was too late.
Benedict’s hair went white, his skin stretched and aged and thinned out. His eyes pale.
The creature let go and Benedict, now a hundred years old, slumped to the ground.
She took the creature’s head off with one stroke, and it fell to the ground.
But to her horror a black ichor, not red blood, poured from its neck.
She felt, rather than saw, a second one of the men dismount. He touched her forehead.
Scarlet could feel the pull — the pull of years — the essence of life reaching for something inside her.
And finding nothing.
The creature’s hand was still against her skin but whatever it sought simply wasn’t there. No purchase. No yield. It stood for a moment as though confused — and that moment of confusion was all she needed.
She gutted it and beheaded it. More black syrup, spilling around her.
Two others dismounted and drew swords, handling them as if experts.
“Abba’s grace,” she whispered.
She cut one down with two strokes, slipped and fell to her knees.
One more.
She turned, pivoting on her knee.
But a man stood between her and the creature, his sword flashing as he cut it in pieces.
He turned to look at her, long blond hair, handsome features, his hand reaching for her.
Lance Ashcroft.
“I’m here,” he whispered.
“Ash—Ashcroft? Why?”
“I came to find you. I was worried.”
He held out his hand.
But she turned away from him, back to her swordmaster.
“Benedict!”
She shook him. His body was light now, as though whatever had given him weight had been taken along with his years. His face was not frightened. That was the only mercy. He had not known what was coming.
She closed his eyes with her thumb and forefinger, the way she had seen it done once, a long time ago.
“BENEDICT!”
But he was gone. Just like the Aelvani.
She now knew how they died.
She stayed kneeling beside him for a long moment, her hand on his chest, not moving, not speaking. The fire crackled. The horses shifted. Somewhere downstream the pool was still steaming.
Then Lance was at her side, his hand on her shoulder, steady and warm.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”
He didn’t say it would be okay. He just said he knew, which was harder to argue with.
He picked her up and carried her, and she did not resist. She simply cried.
Lord Ashcroft carried her to her tent, placed her gently inside, covered her with a wool blanket, and lay beside her, holding her close.
Scarlet slept.
She awoke, screaming.
“Benedict!”
“He’s gone,” Lance Ashcroft said from outside her tent. “I’m so sorry, Lady Scarlet.”
“How? What—What were those things?”
“I know not,” Ashcroft said, “But they nearly took the will out of me. Fearsome foes.”
He handed her a drink of water contained in a used wine bottle.
“Thank you,” she said. “And—thank you. But I don’t understand why you’re here.”
Ashcroft chewed on a piece of bread. “Hey, this is quite good. Not stale.”
“I need to see to Benedict.”
“I’ve already buried him, my lady.”
“You did?”
“Found a shovel in his saddle pack.”
“I need to pray over him,” she said, getting to her feet.
Lance waved her over to the fresh dirt mound, marked with a single stone.
She sang over him, asking Abba and Solenne to guide him to the afterlife, where he might finally rest. After singing, she sat there, numbly, staring off into the distance, not knowing what to do. Only knowing that she had cost her swordmaster his life.
“Come, Scarlet,” Lance said. “I’ve made something to eat. You need to eat.”
A few minutes later, she came over and sat on a log near him.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Not that I’m not grateful.”
He handed her a tin plate filled with ham and eggs.
“There was word back in Stormrest that you had left on some quest to Psalter’s Point. I inquired about it.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity, mostly. I wondered what you were doing. Plus, I hadn’t seen you since the night of masquerade party, and hoped I hadn’t offended you too much.”
“I wasn’t offended.”
“That’s good to hear,” he said. He passed her the water.
She took a drink. “And—?”
“I heard that you went alone, into the contested territory. Plus you were going over three hundred miles alone.”
“No one has faith in me,” she said.
“I have plenty of faith in you,” he said. “I just don’t have faith in the world—at least certain elements of it.”
She stared at the fire and took another drink. “They bled black. What does that mean?”
“Diseased maybe?”
“I think it’s more than that.”
He nodded.
“They touched Benedict and turned him old. But it was more than that. It was like they siphoned his life away.”
“Something unnatural,” he agreed.
“What time is it? How long did I sleep?”
“I would say it’s about five. You only slept a little over an hour,” Lance said.
“I guess that’s why I feel so tired still.” She picked up a piece of ham with her hand and took a big bite out of it, chewing slowly.
Lance watched her.
“Crazy that you should show up right when those creatures attacked Benedict. It’s a wonder they didn’t get you.”
“Fortuitous timing. I’m glad I did not sleep longer this morning. But I was anxious to find you.”
“How did you catch up to me? I had nearly a week’s head start.”
Lance shrugged. “I didn’t sleep much, plus it looks like you took some time to bury at least two people. Who were they?”
“You found those graves?”
“I did.”
Scarlet ate a spoonful of scrambled eggs.
“Well, two bandits that tried to steal our horses for one.”
“Benedict was a competent swordsman. Bad choice for them.”
“He was more than competent,” she said, but said nothing about who did the actual killing. No need to announce that.
He buttered his bread, ate it quickly, and took a long drink of water. “So there were two of them?”
“Yeah, but they wound up in the same grave.”
“Who was in the other grave?”
“I think they were Aelvani, and they were aged—maybe the way Benedict was aged.”
“Aelvani? Curious. I haven’t seen an Aelf since my youth.”
“Where did you see them?”
“Falconholdt,” he said.
“You’ve been to the capital of Thyl?”
“A few times, actually,” he said. “My mother is Thylish and she visits about once every three or four years.”
“Really? I did not know that,” Scarlet said.
“The Aelvani live openly in Falconholdt. So do the Oroquai.”
“Oroquai in a human city?”
“Yeah. It’s normal in Thyl. Although I don’t remember seeing any Urukesh there.”
“They are mountain people,” Scarlet said. “The Oroquai stick to the plains. I thought the Aelvani were children at first.”
“If you’ve never seen a child-sized Aelf swearing up a storm in a pub while plastered, you haven’t lived,” Lance said.
“Guess I haven’t lived,” she said, cleaning her plate and washing it down.
“I can help you live,” Lance said.
Scarlet looked at him, the comment hitting her differently this time. Lance might be a schemer and a smooth talker, but he wasn’t all bad. Besides Benedict, nobody else had volunteered to help her; and even Benedict had been ordered to do so.”
Lance had come of his own free will. That wasn’t nothing.
She got up and crossed over to where the battle had been.
“We should bury these bodies too.”
“Think whatever they were deserved a burial?”
She glanced back at him.
“I was just going to burn them when we left,” he said. “Pile them up and burn them.”
Scarlet nodded. It made sense. “Did you see that one of them has claw marks on its boot?”
“No, didn’t notice.”
“I wonder what that’s about.” She looked down at the three deep gouges in the boot, wondering if some horrid creature was possibly responsible for what happened. It seemed like these had been men at one time, but were no longer. Like they had existed beyond normal life. There was a term for that, but she couldn’t think of it. Something in lore.
That evening, Lance watched Scarlet drift off as they occasionally talked. She struggled to find real sleep. There were moments he thought she was out for good, but then she’d ask another question or make a comment or talk about Benedict or her mother.
But she remained, the entire time, wrapped up in a wool blanket that she used as a pacifier, rubbing her nose and chin with it, and occasionally inhaling the scent.
It was just before midnight that he knew she was asleep. She hadn’t stirred in nearly an hour.
Lance watched her for a while longer.
“Scarlet?” he asked.
She did not respond.
“Lady Wentworth?” He was not loud.
She gave a brief snore, turned over, and remained still.
Satisfied that she was out, Lance stood up, walked over to the scene of battle, shovel in hand.
He spent the better part of a half hour, turning over the soil, but he dug no deeper than a foot. Once he was satisfied with his work, he placed four stones on top of the disturbed topsoil. It looked exactly like a grave large enough for four bodies.
Then, he began speaking in a low voice, as if praying over the black ichor creatures, who had been lying motionless since the battle ended.
After a few seconds, there was motion on the ground, and then, one-by-one, the broken corpses reassembled themselves. One-by-one, they stood up, facing Lance.
He stopped speaking and looked at them. They stared blankly at him.
Then, he spoke and pointed.
The creatures bowed and departed, finding their horses tied up at the road, and they headed west.
Lance put the shovel away, returned to the fire, and sat on a log watching Scarlet sleep.
He had watched her in the hot spring earlier, from the tree line. He had seen her float, eyes closed, face turned up to the sky. He had watched her for a long time. She’d had no idea.
“You don’t know it yet,” he said to her. “But you will soon be my wife.”
An unkind smile made its way to his face.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
Ohhhhh, I had a feeling those creatures were with Lance. Poor Benedict 😭