Black Arrow (chapter one)

Dorian peered through the swirling fog, trying to make out the path ahead.  Mist filled the spaces between the trees, muffling the world in a blanket of chill silence.  She had already slipped past two outer sentries.  The next part of her task would be the hardest.  This far behind enemy lines, they wouldn't care that she was a woman.  Her pale hair and light eyes would mark her enemy as surely as the symbol of her father's house sewn into her trappings. They would be on her before she could speak a word in her defense.

Sliding from Shadow's back, she stilled the gelding with a whispered word and he stood, head down, waiting obediently for her command.  The rags looked ridiculous tied around his massive hooves and the saddle looked no better.  She had wrapped every bit of metal that might make a sound that would betray her.  It wasn't a neat job, but it had sufficed so far.

The gray destrier blended in with the dim, roiling mist and Dorian made sure her sword and bow were securely strapped to the saddle.  They were.  She was stalling for time and she knew it.  If only her father would listen to her.  If only there was some other way to end this war.  The ghostly tang of wood smoke drew her, reminding her of her task.

Pulling her hood lower to conceal her face, she took a deep breath and headed down the path toward the war camp.  There would be at least one more set of sentries.  Keeping her hands visible, she walked steadily, her heat pounding as she waited for the shouts for her stop and present arms.  The small dagger in her belt at the small of her back would be expected.  No one went anywhere these days unarmed and the small bit of steel went a long way to settling her skittish nerves.

All the information she had been able to glean from passing conversation and what few vague questions she had managed to slip past her brothers said that this was the Northern invader's main camp.  This was the place she would find the man she was looking for.

If the enemy didn't kill her, her brothers would when they found out.

The trees thinned, vanishing into a wide meadow trampled flat.  Tents sprang up like ungainly flowers across the expanse and she could smell the grassy odor of horses and the bitter tang of human sweat.  Two men stood guard, one with a short bow and the other with a bared sword.  Dorian paused.  They hadn't seen her yet and she hung back, her courage faltering.  She couldn't do this.  One look at her and they would slit her throat.  But she couldn't bring herself to walk away and abandon her task altogether.  Still, there was no point in revealing the truth until it mattered. 

With a quick twist of her fingers, she wove a bit of mystery around her, blurring her features and disguising the feminine curves of her body.  A bit of not me with a dash of harmless went a long way.  The guards would see what they expected to see and nothing more.  With a silent prayer to Ura, the protector of fools, she stepped toward them.

They guards caught sight of her, weapons coming up, and she stopped, hands wide, and waited.  Her heart pounded against her ribs.  The urge to turn and run was strong, but she stayed her ground, waiting for them to come to a decision about her.

"State your purpose, crone."

They thought her an old woman.  That was harmless enough.  Dorian lowered her hands and bobbed a curtsey.  

"I'm here to see your commander, good sirs."

"It's about time you got here.  You were sent for three hours ago."  The shorter guard lowered his bow and scowled, motioning her forward.  "The commander is in the red tent over there.  Get your bones in a hurry and get there."

It wasn't exactly a welcome, but at least she was still breathing.  With another curtsey, she hurried toward the large red tent that had been set up in the center of the camp.  She avoided meeting anyone's gaze.  Whispers abounded as she hurried through the camp, worry that had nothing to do with a strange old woman in a flapping gray cloak.  She caught the words "black arrow" and "commander".  Breaking into a run, she pelted toward the red tent, her mission forgotten in her haste to avert disaster.

She ignored the two men who rose, hands on swords as she neared.  Darting through the flap of the tent, she stopped, taking in the scene with wide eyes.

A man lay on the narrow cot, a thin blanket tossed over his legs for warmth.  A black arrow stood out from his shoulder, the flesh around it already red and angry.  An older man stood beside him, dagger drawn, facing off against two soldiers who bore the gilt trappings of Northern lords.

"I've had enough of this bickering, sirs," the man with the dagger growled.  "The crone's been summoned.  By the commander's orders, we wait for her."

"Don't touch it," Dorian blurted. 

The three men turned to face her, suspicion dark in their eyes, but Dorian ignored them. Hurrying, she crossed the room to drop to her knees beside the bed.

The arrow's song was ugly, cutting through the silence like a rusted, jagged blade.  She winced, but forced her fingers to wrap around the bloodstained wood.  The mystery that tangled about the shaft seeped through skin and chilled her bones.  Dorian gritted her teeth and began the laborious task of unwinding the spell.  Words, ugly and hateful, whispered across her mind. Useless.  Hopeless.  Incapable.  They were words she'd heard many times in her life, so she did what she had always done, shunted them away to a corner of her mind to be disposed of later.  For now, only the untangling was important.

The tangle came free, wrapping barbed tendrils around her hand and Dorian hissed at the sting.  Still, she held onto the arrow, focusing her will on the last remaining threads.

"Cut the head from the arrow," she ordered between clenched teeth.  "Then step away.  You cannot get caught in the backlash."

The older man knelt beside her, working the blade of his knife around the head of the arrow until he could snap it away cleanly. Dorian blinked rapidly, panting as pain washed through her, a ghostly echo of the agony that currently twisted the man on the bed.  The older man paused, glancing at her, but she shook her head.

"Move away.  I have to do this alone."

"You aren't strong enough to pull the arrow out alone."

"I'm the only one who is strong enough," she whispered.

She could almost taste his reluctance as he stepped away.  She didn't give him the chance to change his mind.  Gathering her strength, she wrenched the spell-cursed wood from the man's shoulder.  His scream ripped through her, fell from her lips.  She crumpled, clutching the arrow, as death wove gray strands through her being.  It touched her power, and she felt the light within her falter.  

Distantly, she was aware of the older man lifting her, trying to pry the wood from her fingers, but she couldn't let go.  Delving deep, she called on every last ounce of light she held and sent it burning through the spell.  Death gave way, retreating, but she followed it, refusing to allow it to escape.  In her hand, the arrow caught fire, flaming to ash in seconds.

The death spell vanished and Dorian released the last vestige of her power.  Dimly, she heard a clamor of voices in surprise but she was too tired to care.  Exhausted, she slipped into sleep where she sat, still clutching a handful of blackened ash.

*****

She woke to utter darkness.  Shifting, she tried to ease the ache in her shoulders and discovered that she was bound hand and foot. She sighed.  She should have expected as much.  The spelled arrow had taken everything she had to unravel which left nothing for her disguise.  Perhaps it was just as well.  At least now they knew who had aided them.  Maybe saving a life would in turn save her own.  She desperately hoped so.

The air was chilled and she shivered, curling into a ball to conserve body heat.  Her stomach growled.  It was still night and no one would bother with her until morning.  She had hoped to be long gone by now.  There was no possibility left that her absence wouldn't be noted and word sent to her father. 

Outside, she heard horses stamp and blow and the jingle of harness and buckle.  An early morning patrol, most likely.  Men whispered and grumbled.

"But you shouldn't even be out of bed," a man barked.  "This can wait until morning, you damn fool."

There was no reply.  The flap to her prison was thrown back and Dorian cringed from the torchlight that seared her eyes.  Men came in, one with the torch and an older man supporting a third dressed in loose breeches and an untucked shirt.  As her vision cleared, she recognized the older man as the one with the knife from before. 

The one he was supporting was much younger, dark haired, and his eyes fixed on her with unsettling intensity.  Black, like his breeches and boots, they bore into her with palpable force.  Blood stained the shoulder of his shirt.

Dorian shook her head.  "He's right.  You shouldn't be out of bed."

A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth but did nothing to alleviate the intensity that rolled off him.  "And you should be here?"

"If I hadn't been, you'd be dead," she pointed out, ignoring the fact he was right.

His smile vanished.  Minutes dragged as he studied her, taking in her plain gray cloak, worn leathers and the long, silver blond braid.  There was no hiding from him.  She didn't have the strength left to try and she had the feeling it wouldn't do her any good anyway.

"Why did you help me?" he asked finally. "Why aid the enemy?"

"Because it's a bit difficult to speak with a man once he's dead." She shrugged.  "It's less aggravating, to be sure, but one gets no results that way."

He seemed a bit taken aback by her manner.  She might have been more deferential, but having grown up with seven older brothers had effectively killed any sense of proper feminine submissiveness she might have ever possessed. 

He wobbled and the older man tightened his grip on him.  Still, he didn't take his gaze from her.  Dorian met his eyes evenly, hoping he couldn't see the fear that gripped her heart and the faint, fool's hope she clung to with every ounce of her being.

She kept her voice soft.  "You're tired, Commander, and so am I.  As things stand, a few hours of rest will not cost lives and would do both of us good."

"I'm not resting unless you're under hand, so to speak."

She lifted a brow, trying to hide her nerves with bland surprise.  "If you are suggesting I share your bed, Commander, I'd be forced to point out that you're in no shape and I'm not so inclined."

His laughter broke on a rasping cough, but it didn't dim the humor in his eyes.  "But you're in shape to indulge me and I am definitely inclined.  Don't you want to prove your good will?"

"I did."  She couldn't keep the tart note out of her voice and watched his grin deepen.  "I saved your miserable life so you may indulge in your prurient pursuits at a later date.  That's as much good will as I am offering."

"Even so, I want you where I can keep an eye on you."  He turned away, leaning heavily on the older man.  When she made no move to follow, he looked back over his shoulder at her.  "Well?  Come along."

She held up her bound hands, her smile falsely sweet.  "Commander?  As much as you might appreciate the sight of me at your feet, I will not flop about like a fish out of water for your amusement."

"Cut her free."  He ignored his companion's sharp look.  "Just so you understand, woman.  Your aid has bought you courtesy and an hour of my time.  It has not bought you trust."

"Courtesy is more than I expected.  Thank you."

He likely thought her sarcastic, but it was only the truth.  He owed her nothing.  In this time of war, even saving his life could be but a ploy to get under his guard.  She understood that.  His courtesy had bought him more than he knew.  She couldn't deny a grudging respect for him and that would likely earn him more of the truth than she had intended to give.

A soldier slid past to kneel at her feet.  He watched her with flat, hard eyes as he cut the ropes that bound her ankles, but when he reached for her hands, she held them out of reach.

"Trust hasn't been earned," she reminded him softly.  He looked startled and then glanced back over his shoulder.  She looked over his head to meet the commander's dark eyes and something in her belly shivered.  "Courtesy is to allow me the dignity of walking instead of crawling.  Freeing my hands smacks too close to trust.  I wouldn't want to make a liar of you."

He said nothing but turned his back and continued his limping way to the red tent.  Dorian shoved awkwardly to her feet.  The soldier offered no assistance and she expected none.  The feel of death spelled into the arrow still ached under her skin, unnatural and twisted.  Her stomach churned, both hungry and nauseous.  A good night's sleep would go a long way to restoring her.

The commander sat on the edge of the bed and looked up as she ducked into the tent.  The soldier was dismissed with a wave of a hand and the older man followed suit, his lips tight with displeasure.  Dorian ignored him.  The man on the bed held her attention. 

He looked exhausted.  His tanned skin was pale and the blood that stained his shirt was fresh.  He watched her, eyes curious and wary.  Standing, he would stand a hand or so taller than she and with those wide shoulders and powerful chest from wielding a sword, he would be imposing no matter the circumstances.

"What are you called, woman?"

The question startled her out of her daze.  "That depends on who you ask. My father calls me precious and my brothers call me pest."

"And your suitors?  What do they call you?"

She shook her head, amusement trickling down her spine at the game of words.  "Nothing at all since I have none."

His brows rose.  "I find that difficult to believe."

"It is the truth.  No suitors or husband, only a house full of brothers and a father who will strip my hide if he ever discovers I've been here."  Seeing his exhaustion, she relented.  "Those who aren't related to me call me Dori."

"Then make your pallet beside the bed, Dori.  No one will trouble you tonight."

She did as she was asked, kneeling beside the bed at his feet.  He gazed down at her and she could see the gray of weariness weighing on him.  Reaching out, she laid a hand on his arm.  The trickle of warmth was all she could manage but she gave him the comfort willingly.  The light flowed through him, warming sore muscles and slowing the loss of blood from his reopened wound.

"Sleep, Commander," she whispered.  "You can do your best to discover my secrets in the morning."

"Will you still be here?  Or is this just a dream?"  He touched her cheek, a strange half-smile on his face. 

"Unfortunately for you, I am very real and so is the matter I must discuss with you.  Sleep." 

Taking her own advice, she lay down on the thin rug and closed her eyes, tucking her bound hands under her cheek.  She heard the thud of his boots being set aside and the rustle of blankets as he finally gave in.  The torchlight guttered in the light breeze, dancing over her lids.  A warm blanket dropped over her from the bed.

"There.  Now, be silent and be there in the morning or I will be highly perturbed."

Dorian pulled the blanket around her and fell asleep with a smile on her face.