Warden of the White Tower
Terri-Belle Thrax urged her horse on down the road, the hooves of her mare lightly churning up the dirt beneath them as she trotted forwards.
The road here was only a dirt road, a brown strip cut through the verdant green on either side, but it was wide enough to drive a herd of goats or a flock of sheep down without many of them spilling out onto either side, and it was — bad weather notwithstanding — wide enough and firm enough to drive an animal-drawn cart, a car, or even a modestly-sized truck down without issues.
You might even be able to get two of them going side by side, depending on the width.
Terri-Belle had chosen to ride from Mistral in this, the first step in her search for the missing huntsmen and huntresses, whose continual disappearances were a part of why Mistral had been left so weak and her defences in so parlous a condition. She had chosen to ride rather than fly partly because, although you could see more from the air, it was easier to understand what you were seeing from the ground when you were closer to it; partly, she had chosen to go ahorse because not every village in rural Anima had places where you could land and refuel an airship — in fact, most did not — and partly because air travel felt an unnecessary risk on such an expedition as she was now engaged in. Someone, after all, had been killing huntsmen and huntresses — well, that was not yet confirmed, but it had to be acknowledged as at least a strong possibility, all things considered — and in the air, she would be vulnerable to becoming just another in the line of victims of this mysterious menace, shot down in a ball of fire or having her airship devoured around her by giant nevermores or whatever else. She did not intend for that to be her fate, she did not intend for Swift Foot to look for her coming from the White Tower but see her not; she meant to return home to the sound of trumpets yet. On horseback, she could protect herself, not least by getting down off of horseback and fighting on foot where she was the equal of any grimm, and most warriors besides.
It was for that reason that she sat upon an old-fashioned four-horned saddle, without stirrups. It was easier to dismount that way, and with no risk of her foot getting caught in the stirrups that she did not possess. Of course, such a saddle meant that she couldn’t charge a foeman down with Thunderbolt, but as she had no intention of doing that in any case, it was little loss.
Terri-Belle had ridden from Mistral with her father’s blessing, her sister’s farewell, and three companions. Her father’s blessing had been delivered first, as she knelt before him in the throne room.
“Father,” Terri-Belle said, planting the butt of Thunderbolt upon the floor as she descended to one knee before him. “I ask your leave now to set out in search of our missing huntsmen and huntresses, to discover their fate if I may, to find them and to bring them home if they are alive, or to avenge them if they are killed. And to bring truth home to Mistral, where presently we are surrounded by doubts and uncertainty.”
Lord Diomedes rose from the Steward’s chair and descended on her from the dais. “Go now, with my leave,” he said, his voice as deep as oceans. He reached for her, and with surprising strength in one who looked so old, he pulled her upright to her feet so that she was looking at his aged face, surrounded by his hair and beard of white, “—and with my fondest hopes and fullest confidences.” He kissed her first upon the left cheek, and then the right. “Show our enemies that the strength of Mistral is not to be taken lightly.”
She had bidden farewell to her sister at the city gate, down at the base of the mountain, with the road and the many fields and farms that surrounded the city spread out before her, awaiting her departure.
“May I not come with you?” Swift Foot asked as she stood at the gate, not far from the waiting mounts of Terri-Belle and her companions.
Terri-Belle laughed. “Not yet,” she said. “You still have a little growing up to do first.” She reached out and ruffled Swift Foot’s hair with her right hand.
Swift Foot squirmed and ducked out from under Terri-Belle’s hand, running both hands through her hair in a bid to rescue it from the disorder into which it had been cast. “Would you have stayed behind because you were too young?”
“Father would not have let me go if I was too young,” Terri-Belle said.
Swift Foot folded her arms. “I think he would. He would have wanted the chance to prove that you were a prodigy.”
Terri-Belle snorted. “Perhaps,” she admitted. She smiled at her. “There was no need for you to come and see me off like this.”
“Yes,” Swift Foot said. “There was.”
There was not, but Terri-Belle appreciated it nonetheless. Shining Light and Blonn Di had not bothered to attend. They had duties, of course, especially in her absence, but all the same … she did appreciate that Swift Foot was here.
She wondered whether she ought to tell her youngest sister so, or whether that would make her soft.
She nodded, but said nothing. It was a reasonable compromise, she hoped.
“What do you think you’ll find out there?” Swift Foot asked.
A frown creased Terri-Belle’s brow beneath her guard. “Who can say what fate will guide me to?”
“You can be honest with me,” Swift Foot said softly. “You think they’re dead, don’t you?”
Terri-Belle was silent for a moment. “Some have not been missing so long, but others? Why would they not have returned, or sent no word?”
Swift Foot nodded solemnly. “Take care,” she whispered.
Terri-Belle leapt into the saddle of her horse, a chestnut mare named Oakheart. “Fear not,” she said. “I do not mean for this to be my last riding.” She looked down at Swift Foot, who seemed even smaller now that Terri-Belle was ahorse. “Your time will come,” she promised. “But you should not wish for it to come too soon.”
“No?” Swift Foot asked. “I should not wish for the chance to win great glory?”
“Times of great glory are times of trouble,” Terri-Belle declared. “I may win acclaim for hunting down this villain who stalks our land, if a villain it be, but many now in Mistral will weep over their handiwork.” She paused. “We do not rule over glory but a city of men. We do not serve glory but the Mistral over which we rule, and all who dwell in it. Remember that, little sister.”
Swift Foot nodded and stepped back. “I will remember.”
“I have no doubt,” Terri-Belle said. “Farewell.” She put her knees to Oakheart’s flanks, urging her onwards, out of the gate and down the road that led away from the city, winding through the valleys that formed between the mountains that surrounded the city. When she had gone just a little way, Terri-Belle urged her mount to half-turn backwards, and as the mare turned, Terri-Belle raised her great horn, Oliphant, to her lips and blew a long, resounding blast upon it.
And from the city walls came the answering blasts of trumpets, high and clear and bright.
Terri-Belle smiled and raised her spear in salute of the guardians upon the walls, before she urged Oakheart to turn once more and face the road.
The road down which she rode away.
She rode with three companions: two warriors of the Imperial guard, Eurymachus and Melantho, and a groom, Arnaeus, to attend to the horses. Melantho had vibrant red hair cut short around her ears and a nose that had been broken a couple of times and reset badly; she wore a dozen knives around her person: at her belt, thrust into her boots, sheathed in her vambraces, and each contained a wire that could attach around Melantho’s fingers if need be, so that she could recall them to her once thrown. Eurymachus wore golden rings on his fingers and gold earrings glimmering as they hung from his ears and bore a nasty set of scars on his neck where a beowolf had kissed him; he had a bow slung across his back and a quiver of arrows on one hip that bounced slightly up and down as he rode and a short sword upon his other hip. Arnaeus had only a knife and would not do any fighting unless absolutely necessary.
Together, they had ridden as far as the town of Shiragiku, where a merchant caravan from Manjushage should have arrived three weeks ago on its way to Mistral. The caravans maintained their own guards, hired guns to keep order amongst the passengers and deter bandits, and sometimes, successful merchants would have a bodyguard or two on hand, but wise caravaneers would always seek to hire a huntsman for a guarantee of security, and wise huntsmen would always accept caravan work.
Supposedly, when the entire system of huntsmen, academies, missions, and the job board had been established, the intent had been that each job would be rated according to its level of difficulty and then paid a flat rate according to the level. That might be how it worked in Vale or Atlas — Terri-Belle had not made inquiries — but here in Mistral, although the danger ratings remained, the fee was set by the client, and huntsmen could take or leave it. That meant that poor villages were often out of luck, many huntsmen choosing to leave the meagre amount of lien such places could scrape together to hire protection — unless the village was owned by or under the protection of a noble patron willing to step in financially or unless they could petition the Council to serve a similar role — but the Most Ancient and Honourable Company of Caravaneers had deep pockets and was willing to dip into them for huntsmen who would bring their caravans safely home, and oftentimes, the merchants travelling with the caravan would chip in as well, and even the Merchants’ Guild sometimes. All of which was to say that guarding a caravan was probably the most lucrative proposition for any huntsman or huntress operating in Anima.
This particular caravan had been guarded by two huntsmen, and when the caravan had failed to arrive at its destination on time, neither had they.
Unfortunately, the story didn’t end there. When the caravan had failed to arrive, when no one connected with the caravan had reached Shiragiku, the Company had opened its wallet to put another job on the board: Search and Rescue, discover the fate of the missing caravan; the wife of one of the missing merchants had added to the potential reward, and the Guild as well. Another nice payday to tempt the most risk-averse of huntsmen.
And, indeed, a huntress had taken the job, setting out a little over two weeks ago. She, too, had disappeared.
Which was why Terri-Belle had come; at this point, she had little hope of the caravan, but it was just possible that they might find something of the huntress who had come after. They might even find her alive, although it was an outside possibility.
At Shiragiku, they had spent the night, and Terri-Belle had questioned the innkeepers: the innkeeper at the town’s more prosperous inn confirmed that rooms had been booked for certain leading members of the caravan at his inn upon a certain date, and for a few days after, but that they had never arrived to fulfil their reservations; the innkeeper at the less salubrious inn informed Terri-Belle that the missing huntress had stayed the night there before setting out down the road the next morning. No one else, they were both agreed, had taken the road from Shiragiku to Manjushage; after the caravan had failed to arrive, and the huntress had failed to return, no one had dared. In time, another caravan would brave the route, but nobody was going to risk their necks in the unknown just to satisfy curiosity.
The town had, however, hired a huntsman to protect them, and fortunately, he was neither dead nor missing, and Terri-Belle asked him to stay put so that it might remain that way while she and her companions set out, down the dirt road, tracing the missing huntress’ steps.
So there they were, and there she was, urging Oakheart forwards, churning up the dirt road between Shiragiku and Manjushage with the hooves of her horse, her companions following behind her.
Terri-Belle’s braid bounced as she rode; she could feel it touching her cheek repeatedly. She considered brushing it over her shoulder, but found that she liked the sensation. It kept her alert.
The country through which they rode was open, green fields in either direction; this was grazing country, not farming; crops were not grown here; rather, goats and sheep fed upon the grass and the thistles and the wildflowers that grew around, and were driven into market by the poor herdsmen whom wealthier men in grand houses paid a pittance to watch their flocks and guard them from the wolves.
Of course, being men and women alone in the wilds, they were as like to run into beowolves.
All the same, this was open ground: there were no woods, there were no nearby hills; it was difficult to see how anyone could be ambushed in such terrain as this; surely, you would see your enemy coming?
Unless they came under dark of night.
The sky rumbled ominously. Terri-Belle looked up; the sky was overcast, grey clouds as far as the eye could see; it had not started to rain yet, but there was no guarantee that it would not do so. If that happened, this road would be turned to mud; not disastrous for four people on horseback, but far from ideal.
Fortunately, it was holding off for the moment; gods of the sky grant that it stayed that way.
It was not long after that that Terri-Belle saw the shepherd.
He was coming towards them down the road, leading one of the sorriest flocks of sheep that it had ever been her misfortune to set eyes upon: a dozen ewes at most, who looked half-starved, and a sickly ram who couldn’t even raise his head. Their wool looked, frankly, pathetic, barely a layer at all, and they walked like broken men down the dirt road with slow tread and hardly a whimper out of any of them. Their shepherd was a tall man with dark brown hair, worn in a long braid down his back, and golden eyes. His face was long, with gaunt cheeks, and the central strip of his chest, bearing several brutal-looking scars, was exposed by the long brown overcoat he wore.
They saw him some time before they met him, but when they finally rode within speaking distance, the shepherd bowed to them with exaggerated courtesy, placing one hand upon his scarred chest and throwing out the other hand. “Greetings, my lady,” he said.
Terri-Belle reined in Oakheart. “Greetings, friend,” she said. She could not keep her gaze from falling upon his chest. “Those are some impressive scars for a shepherd.”
“Tokens of esteem from predators,” he said. “They were strong and tough, but here I am, and where are they?” He giggled.
“You did well to fight them off without a weapon,” Terri-Belle, for she could not see a weapon on him.
“I do what I must to protect my mistress’ flock,” the shepherd said.
“There’s not much to protect,” Eurymachus muttered.
“Do you keep your flock around here?” Terri-Belle said. “Have you seen a merchant caravan pass through here?”
“A caravan?” the shepherd repeated. “No, I’ve not seen any sign of any caravan. But I did see a huntress come through this way.”
“When?” Terri-Belle demanded.
“Oh, not long ago, only a few days,” the shepherd said. “No more than a week. She headed straight down this road. She asked about a caravan as well. I hope that nothing has happened to her; she was ever so polite.”
“We’ll see,” Terri-Belle muttered. “Down the road?”
“Down this road,” the shepherd said. “Precisely.”
Terri-Belle tossed him a low value lien card, which he caught deftly in one hand. “Thank you,” she said, and then urged Oakheart on, riding off the road and onto the grass to avoid the weary-looking sheep, before rejoining the road behind the worn-out flock, and heading onwards, still following in the footsteps of the huntress who had gone before.
“Good luck, Lady Terri-Belle!” the shepherd called to her as she rode away.
By the time Terri-Belle thought to wonder how he had known her name — or even how he had known to address her as 'my lady' in the first place — he was already out of sight.
So it was a mystery that lingered in the back of her mind as she and her companions pressed on, but it was a minor mystery; perhaps he had seen her face on the news; it was not as though she was unknown in Mistral.
All the same, it niggled at her, though as a mystery, it paled in comparison to the greater mystery that was the disappearance of so many Mistralian huntsmen and huntresses.
They followed the road, with no sign of the huntress or the caravan, until they came to a hollow, a depression in the earth, a little miniature valley where the road dropped abruptly out of sight as though it were being swallowed by the earth. The road had been swallowed, but trees had grown on either side of it, rising up out of the depression to join together above like an honour guard crossing swords at the wedding of a noble soldier, their branches entangling to form a ceiling.
This was a good place for an ambush; a good place, moreover, to hide the evidence of any attack; no one would see it until they were right on top of it.
“Why did they drive the road through here?” Terri-Belle demanded. “Why not go around?”
“Maybe the earth isn’t solid enough,” Melantho suggested. “They needed to dig down to find a surface stable enough to support the weight of a vehicle?”
“Maybe,” Terri-Belle growled. “Dismount, all of you; Arnaeus, stay with the horses.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Arnaeus murmured, and as Terri-Belle leapt down from Oakheart — Melantho and Eurymachus doing likewise — he took the reins of all four horses.
Terri-Belle gripped Thunderbolt in two hands; black gloves covered most of them but left the back two fingers of each hand bare, and through those fingers, she could feel the dark blue silk wrapped around the top half of her spearshaft, and the cold, bare metal that made up the back. Strips of silk, and a pair of dark blue tassels, hung from just beneath the heavy spearpoint, fluttering gently like banners in the light breeze.
She kept the spear low, the point almost touching the ground, as she walked forward; Melantho was almost keeping pace with her, while Eurymachus hung back just a little with his bow.
Terri-Belle advanced to the edge of the hollow, the overhanging tangled trees beginning to cast their shadow over her, and at the edge of the hollow, as the road fell away, she stopped because they had found the caravan.
Between the overcast weather and the overgrown trees joining their hands above, it was a little difficult to see, but even in those circumstances, there was no mistaking it; it was not so dark below that Terri-Belle could not see the detritus of a caravan below. She could make out a wrecked wagon, one wheel broken, the cart looking as though it had been torn apart; she could see a dead elephant lying in the road, and dead horses and mules along with it. There were other carts too, all damaged in some way, many looking as though they had been ripped to shreds.
Someone was trying to get anyone hiding inside them.
Unfortunately, it was not too dark that she couldn’t make out the shapes of bodies.
A wordless growl escaped from between Terri-Belle’s lips. “Melantho,” she said, “pop a light down there.”
“Aye, Captain,” Melantho muttered as she fished a stick of fire-dust out of a pouch on her belt. She twisted the top of it, igniting the dust and causing the tube to glow an angry-looking red before she tossed it down to the hollow below.
As the red light spread, Terri-Belle could see the bodies clearly: men and women, some dressed roughly, others more richly and with more care for the outward shows of prosperity; some unarmed, others with weapons lying nearby, for all the good that it had done them; grooms, cooks, guides, guards, scouts, merchants, attendants, drovers, porters, all the small army that accompanied a caravan such as this.
And somewhere down there, at least two huntsmen, probably three.
It was what Terri-Belle had feared — it was, to be honest, what she had expected — and yet, it filled her with sadness all the same.
Sadness and anger. These were people of Mistral. These were her people, subjects of her father the Steward; these were good Mistralian men and women slain in the midst of Mistralian territory. Slain while moving from one place to another, slain while moving goods to be sold. What was that to deserve death?
These were people of Mistral. They had trusted in the protection of Mistral, in the protection of the White Tower. And the White Tower had failed them.
But it would avenge them, at the least.
“Grimm would not have killed the animals,” Eurymachus observed.
He had a point there. Grimm only attacked humans. Animals might attack them, in which case, the grimm would fight back, but would frightened pack horses and mules attack? Not likely; if they got loose, if their handlers were killed, then surely, they would run? Gods knew, the situation would have been terrifying enough down there.
But then, if this was the work of men, then why kill the animals? Apart from making it clear that this was not a grimm attack, horses and mules were valuable — to say nothing of an elephant; they could be sold, they could be used to haul goods, any bandit tribe would have made use of them to transport their ill-gotten gains. No bandit tribe would have simply slaughtered them all.
But no bandit tribe would have waited to ambush any huntsman coming looking for the caravan either.
It made no sense, unless somebody was deliberately hunting huntsmen.
“Eurymachus, stay here and cover us,” she commanded. “Melantho, with me.”
Eurymachus, an arrow knocked to his bowstring, dropped to one knee, ready to draw string if any foeman or creature showed itself down in the hollow below.
Terri-Belle descended; this was a road made to accommodate vehicles and beasts, and so, the decline was shallow; the downside of that was that it was a long depression, long enough to swallow an entire caravan. Whoever had attacked could have waited until they were all down there, down in the shadows, with trees on either side, before they attacked.
Although the road was shallow, the slopes on either side of the depression were steep; even leaving aside the trees that grew on either side of the road it would be a challenge to scramble up the slopes and make it to the open ground above, especially under attack. It would have been hard to escape that way; judging by the lack of word from the caravan, it appeared that no one had managed it.
Whatever had attacked, it had killed them all.
Down they went, Terri-Belle and Melantho; Terri-Belle had Thunderbolt gripped tight, while Melantho had a pair of knives out in her hands, the wires bound to iron rings about her fingers that could reel out the wires or retract them as needed. Down they went, until they reached the detritus and the dead.
It certainly looked like the work of grimm; the bodies seemed to have been torn to pieces; not quite literally, perhaps, but something had savaged them; the corpses were a mass of cuts and slices; something had ripped at them in a fury.
Something or someone. It would be easy to think that this was the work of grimm; it would be easy to think that such a savage, bestial attack, such frenzied wounds must be done by bestial claws. It was not so easy to think that a man had done this with a blade, but Eurymachus was right; grimm would not have killed the animals, and yet, the horses and the mules had been slashed to ribbons, their bodies mutilated just as the people had.
Whoever had done this had a lot of rage, or else they took joy in the suffering of others.
Or worse yet, both.
Melantho’s face was pale. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she muttered. “You ever seen anything like this, Captain?”
“Fortunately not,” Terri-Belle muttered. She had seen what grimm left behind before, which was bad enough, but this … this was a massacre.
This was a failure.
Their failure.
This is about so much more than missing huntsmen. They made it more when they decided to attack our people.
Still, she had to keep in mind the reason they had come. “Any sign of the huntsmen?”
“With the state of these, it’s hard to tell,” Melantho said.
“Keep looking,” Terri-Belle replied. She frowned. “I know it’s hard, and I will owe you more than a drink in Shiragiku for this, but we need to confirm that they’re dead. Their families deserve that much.”
“All their families deserve that much,” Melantho replied. “It doesn’t feel right just leaving them all here.”
“When we return to Shiragiku, we will hire labourers to return with us and bury the bodies,” Terri-Belle assured her.
“If any of them will come,” Melantho muttered darkly.
“They’ll come,” Terri-Belle said. “Once we return, that will prove it is safe, and they will come.”
They kept on searching. Melantho was right, it was difficult; some of the wounds had been dealt to the faces of the victims, disfiguring them, making them hard to recognise. Terri-Belle had pictures of all three missing huntsmen on her scroll, but sometimes, it was hard to tell what a face might have looked like before whoever was responsible had gotten to work on it.
As they searched, Terri-Belle thought that she could begin to work out what had happened, if only by the placement of the bodies, assuming that they hadn’t been staged after the event. That was certainly grimly possible, but if that was the case, then nothing could be learned from any of this, so … but assuming it was not the case, assuming that it had not been staged, then the attack had begun in the middle of the caravan; the caravan guards were all spread out from there — or moving towards the middle when the attack had started, because it was where the attack had started.
That made sense: huntsmen escorting a caravan like this would often station themselves somewhere near the middle, able to move towards the front or the rear as needed.
And lo, she found one of her huntsmen there, his face preserved, left untouched despite the brutal violence down to the rest of his body, almost like somebody wanted him to be recognisable in case anyone came looking.
“You know what I don’t understand?” Terri-Belle said. “There are two things that I don’t understand, but they both come down to the same thing: how did no one get away?”
“No time?” Melantho suggested.
“No time for even one person to make it out?” Terri-Belle said. “Even assuming people panicked, some hid in the wagons and carts and were dragged out later instead of running away, even so … not one? One huntsman should have been able to hold off an attacker long enough to buy time for the rest to run, let alone two.”
“Maybe they were taken by surprise?”
“What kind of huntsman has their aura down in the field?” Terri-Belle demanded.
Melantho frowned. “Maybe there were a lot of attackers.”
“A whole group of people psychotic enough to do this to the dead?” Terri-Belle asked. “That’s a cheerful thought.”
“Would only need one of them to do it after the battle was done.”
“Massacre,” Terri-Belle said. “This was a massacre, not a battle, and I … I don’t know; something tells me … I’m afraid this was the work of one man.”
“What makes you say that, Captain?”
“Because half the column walked right past the danger before the attack started,” Terri-Belle said. “Which tells me that they didn’t feel threatened.”
Above and behind them, the horses began to neigh and whinny in panic.
Terri-Belle and Melantho turned, looking upwards.
“Eurymachus?” Terri-Belle called.
She could see Eurymachus above them. He turned around, facing back to where they had left the horses and Arnaeus. “You?!” he exclaimed.
Then Eurymachus disappeared, snatched away by something or someone unseen above them.
“Eurymachus!” Melantho shouted as she and Terri-Belle both broke in his direction, legs pounding, racing back up the slope they had descended, racing to regain the surface.
They escaped from the shadows of the trees, with only the overcast light of the cloudy sky above them, to see Eurymachus lying dead on the ground, his throat cut.
Above his corpse stood the shepherd.
He was armed now, two pairs of claws, like scorpion claws, strapped to his wrists by leather vambraces.
He cackled with dark glee. “That’s one.”
Melantho bared her teeth in a snarl. “You bastard!” she yelled as she hurled knife after knife in his direction, a storm of blades torn from her belt and hurled through the air.
The shepherd — or whatever he was — laughed as he deflected two of the blades, dodged two of them with gymnastic nimbleness of form, his back arching backwards without difficulty; as one knife passed over his head, he smiled.
And with one almost idle hand reached out and grabbed the wire.
Melantha barely had time to squawk as she was hauled off her feet and pulled, by the taut wire, towards her enemy.
The shepherd’s hand was wreathed with a purple glow — the same regal purple to which his eyes transformed — as he slashed with his fingers at Melantho’s midriff.
Terri-Belle’s blue eyes widened as she watched Melantho’s aura part before his fingertips, the edges jagged like torn paper.
Her aura was still parted as the shepherd’s metal claws swiped left at right at that same gap her aura no longer protected. He clove through her cuirass like it was butter, and blood spilled out from the wounds as Melantho cried out in pain.
He was laughing wildly as he threw Melantho at Terri-Belle.
Terri-Belle caught her in one hand. She was still alive, but already, she had gone paler than before, and already, there was an alarming amount of blood staining her rent cuirass.
Eurymachus was dead. A quick glance confirmed that Arnaeus, too, was dead, and the horses running free — although they had not run very far. Melantho yet lived, and if Terri-Belle was fast enough getting help, then she might survive.
Of course, there was someone standing in the way of that.
Melantho groaned. “Captain—”
“Easy now,” Terri-Belle said softly as she set Melantho down upon the ground. “Rest up. I’ll get you help as soon as I can.”
The shepherd laughed. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lady Terri-Belle.”
Terri-Belle stepped in front of Melantho’s prone form. “You have the advantage of me, sir.”
“And so it shall remain,” he declared. “My name is not for just anyone, after all.”
“You’re the one, aren’t you?” Terri-Belle demanded. “You’re the reason so many huntsmen have gone missing?”
The only answer she got was a self-satisfied giggle.
Terri-Belle growled. “Why?”
The shepherd laughed. “Why? The ant might as well try to understand the boot that steps on it as you could comprehend my motives.”
Terri-Belle raised the tip of Thunderbolt to point straight at him. “You may find this ant is not easily crushed underfoot.”
“Confidence? I like that,” he replied. “I like the way it turns to fear before the end.”
He was trying to bait her, trying to make her angry, trying to put her off balance.
She knew what he was doing, but it was working anyway.
“For Mistral,” she cried, “and the White Tower!”
She sprang for him, charging towards him, spear drawn back. She still gripped the weapon in both hands, holding it close, the point not too extended.
She charged for him, and he ran to meet her, a twisted smile upon his gaunt face, a laugh upon his lips.
They closed like two bulls in the field, each unable to bear a rival for the mastery of the pasture and the cows, which made the earth shake with the thunder of their hooves as they came together with horns lowered and tempers raised.
They closed, and as they closed, Terri-Belle hit him with a burst of her semblance. Leader’s Calling had seemed a fine name when she had first discovered her semblance at Haven Academy — the ability to put courage into the hearts of her comrades by means of a burst of her aura, the amount of courage and the effect depending on the amount of aura she put into it; it had seemed a less applicable name at twenty-three when her semblance had evolved to let her strike dismay into her foes as well if she so wished. That was what she used upon the shepherd just as they came together, a pulse of aura — not too much; she might have need of it in future — to put a shiver in his heart.
He stopped, staggered, a look of fear crossing his face, a whimper falling from his lips, and while he stood dismayed, Terri-Belle thrust Thunderbolt straight for his exposed belly.
He grunted in pain, doubling over — but only for a moment as Terri-Belle brought up her spear to whack him in the face with the flat of the tip. She whirled Thunderbolt in her hands to hit him across the side of the head with the spearbutt, the blue tassels and silk strips flying like standards, before she raised the spear overhead and brought it down upon him.
He caught it in his metal claws, arresting the progress of her weapon before it could reach him. Terri-Belle pressed down, grunting with effort, but his strength was the equal to her own, and she could make no headway.
He grinned.
Something shot out from under the length of his long brown overcoat — a tail! It was a scorpion tail, and it wrapped itself around Terri-Belle’s leg before she could react. It was all she could do to keep her hands on Thunderbolt as she was yanked off her feet and tossed up into the air.
She flew, braid flying, all her hair that was not bound in braid or Mohawk streaming about her face, and as she flew, the shepherd leapt after her. He did not part her aura with what she presumed was his semblance; he simply slashed at it with his claws once, twice, three times, carving off pieces of her aura each time, before kicking her down to the ground to kick up dust as she landed hard.
Terri-Belle scrambled to her feet, expecting him to fall upon her like a thunderbolt from heaven, but instead, the shepherd landed some distance away, discarding his long coat to reveal the white vest underneath — and the scorpion tail emerging from out of the back of his pants.
A faunus.
He cackled and raised his fists to point at her. Bullets leapt for her — he must have had guns built into those vambraces of his, as well as claws — in a swift stream. Terri-Belle deflected them, or tried to, spinning her spear before her, but although the shining steel shaft of Thunderbolt beat many away, she could feel some getting through, striking her, draining her aura and forcing her backwards, step by step.
Terri-Belle groaned and broke left, still spinning Thunderbolt to ward off his fire, circling to try and close the distance obliquely with her enemy. He seemed to recognise what she was doing, even to welcome it — if that smile on his face meant anything at all, which Terri-Belle was beginning to doubt — because while he kept shooting at her, chipping away at her aura and knocking her off balance with every shot that made it through her defences, he came to her as well. They were not charging now like bulls but approaching one another like combative birds: circling one another, moving as much by dictate of the air currents, weaving indirect and oblique ways and yet always managing to close, close, close the gap between them nevertheless.
Terri-Belle thrust Thunderbolt at him. He dodged out of the way, then thrust his scorpion tail at her in turn. Terri-Belle blocked it with the shaft of her spear. She slashed at him with the heavy spearpoint, but he deflected it with one of his claws, swiping at her with the other, forcing her to leap back to avoid it.
He pursued, slashing with first one claw and then the other. Terri-Belle took both blows upon the shaft of Thunderbolt, then was just able to avoid his tail as it drove for her face. She thrust again, and he dodged again but, this time, grabbed her spear just behind the point and pulled it forwards, pulling her forwards too and off balance — but Terri-Belle had guessed he might do this and pushed herself forwards, moving past him of her own volition, on her own balance — and as she moved, she backhanded him across the jaw with one of her heavy vambraces.
Terri-Belle rounded on him, spear whirling in her hands, but he arced his back ninety degrees or more backwards — so agile! — so that Thunderbolt passed clean over him. Then he leapt, and seemed to balance on his scorpion tail for a moment as he kicked Terri-Belle square in the gut, throwing her backwards.
Terri-Belle landed on her feet, but this time, the shepherd did follow up on her, claws slashing and tail at the ready.
He got in a slash before she was ready to respond, taking another slice off her aura before she started blocking, but with his claws and his tail to contend with, it was hard to keep an eye on all of them, swift as they were, let alone to fend them all off. A blow got through here, then there. She used another pulse of Leader’s Calling to stagger him again and get in a couple of solid hits, but he recovered too fast, and she dared not put more aura into it with how much of it he’d taken off her already.
She wasn’t going to win this.
It was a hard thing to admit for the Captain of the Imperial Guard, for the Warden of the White Tower, for a Thrax descended of so many noble warriors, but she wasn’t going to win this. Whoever he was, this false shepherd, he was too fast for her, too supple of body; she could rarely take the initiative because he always had another attack coming, and even when she could take the fight to him, he was too good at avoiding her blows.
Meanwhile, although she was holding him off for the most part, she was letting his strikes slip through her defences, and sooner or later, she would run out of aura.
The fact that she wasn’t bleeding already was entirely due to his grace in not using his semblance on her.
Have I become soft and complacent, or is he just that good?
And how is it that I’ve never heard of someone so skilled?
Because no one who fights him ever comes home.
She would. She would survive this; she would survive him. She had to survive, she had to get Melantho to a doctor, and she had to bring word back to Mistral. She would not become another missing huntress. She had to survive for the sake of her people.
So, since she could not win and would not die, how to escape? How to get out of this, and get Melantho out?
The horses had not gone far. They had wandered off the road, but they stood in the grass, heads down, chewing upon it, heedless of the battle raging not far away. Of course, they were horses of the guard; gunfire and the sounds of battle meant nothing to them.
And just like that, Terri-Belle knew what to do.
She leapt back, putting some distance between herself and the shepherd. He followed, but as he followed, she put three quarters of her remaining aura — she was in the red now, no doubt — into one final pulse of Leader’s Calling. He tripped and fell, cowering before her, cringing, hiding his face from her gaze, and as he cowered, Terri-Belle ran.
She dashed towards Melantho, and as her feet kicked up the dust, she whistled shrilly for Oakheart to come to her.
She reached Melantho, and as she held onto Thunderbolt with one hand, she scooped up her wounded comrade in the other.
The sounds of Oakheart’s hooves, his snorting and snuffling, heralded his approach as he trotted towards her.
Cradling Melantho, still bearing her spear, Terri-Belle leapt into the saddle and jabbed at her mare’s flanks with her knees.
“On, Oakheart, on!” she cried.
Oakheart whinnied, and no sooner had she turned for Shiragiku, then her trot began to quicken, her stride lengthening, her speed increasing as she flowed smoothly from trot to canter. She kicked and churned the earth beneath her hooves as she ran down the dirt road, away from this place, away from the ruin of the caravan, away from the dead whom she could no longer help and towards the help that the living yet required.
“Melantho,” Terri-Belle said, “are you still with me?”
Melantho groaned. “I … Captain, I…” She moaned again.
“Don’t try to talk if it hurts,” Terri-Belle said. “But stay with me, Melantho; you have to stay with me. Don’t fall asleep. Stay awake.”
Melantho grimaced. “Did … did you get him?”
Terri-Belle might have answered that, but she was answered by the cry of rage and frustration from the shepherd behind them. Terri-Belle looked over her shoulder to see him running in pursuit of them, and for all that he was afoot and she was ahorse, he was doing better than she was comfortable with.
She rammed her knees sharply into Oakheart’s flanks. “Faster, Oakheart!”
The horse snuffled in protest, but he quickened all the same, quickening to a gallop, opening up the distance between them and their pursuer.
Once more, the shepherd snarled, and once more, he raised his fists and let fly, bullets closing the distance that he could not.
His fire was rapid, but inaccurate; Terri-Belle guessed that his guns were meant for shorter ranges. But as the rounds flew past her face, one struck her arm just above her honour band, broke the little aura she had left and rushed through her flesh and out the other side.
Another hit her in the shoulder, pierced her cuirass, and buried itself in her.
Terri-Belle reared in the saddle, crying out in pain, but she kept her grip on Oakheart with her knees; she kept her seat, and despite the burning pain, despite the blood spilling down her arm, she kept on riding.
“Captain?” Melantho whispered.
“It’s nothing,” Terri-Belle grunted. “Nothing at all.” She took a deep breath, and then another. “You … hey, Melantho, you remember Professor Laches?”
Melantho’s eyes fluttered. “Grimm Studies, right?”
“Uh huh,” Terri-Belle replied. “He had … he had that ridiculous wig.”
Melantho managed a faint smile. “Everyone could tell it was fake. It didn’t fool anyone.”
“Uh huh,” Terri-Belle repeated. “Remember … remember when Autolycus managed to steal it?”
Melantho started to laugh, though it turned into a groan of pain. “I remember … I remember how we all acted like he was the biggest hero in Mistral because of it. We were … we were kind of immature jackasses, weren’t we?”
“Maybe,” Terri-Belle conceded. “But even Professor Hermes thought it was a feat. Remember how he made Autolycus explain how he’d done it for Stealth class?”
“Then gave him detention for a month,” Melantho added.
Terri-Belle managed a chuckle. “That too. The funniest thing,” she winced, “the funniest thing was, though, that when Professor Laches came in, all fuming … it turned out that he had perfectly good hair underneath that wig!” She shook her head. “To this day … to this day, I still don’t know what he was doing.”
“Maybe,” Melantho said. “Maybe he just wanted to be different. Be someone else. I don’t … I don’t suppose you’ve ever wanted that, Captain.”
“Have you?” Terri-Belle asked.
“My family,” Melantho began. She groaned in pain. “My … family…”
“Melantho?” Terri-Belle asked. “Melantho, come on, you have to stay with me. Tell me! Tell me about your family, tell me anything you want, just talk to me!”
But Melantho did not answer.
It was dark by the time Terri-Belle rode into Shiragiku. “Help!” she called, as loudly as she could, as loudly as the pain would let. “Help! I need a doctor!”
Lights went on in the town; she couldn’t see much, but she heard the sound of doors opening, saw shapes in the darkness.
“What is it? What happened?”
“She’s been wounded! Get the doctor quickly!”
Terri-Belle swayed in the saddle. “My name is Terri-Belle Thrax, Warden of the White Tower, and in my father’s name, I command you to attend to Melantho first,” she said.
It was the last thing she said before she lost her balance. She felt herself begin to tumble from her horse, felt herself falling.
But the world had gone black before she hit the ground.