Page 4 of Fate

Entering the housing terrace, the true nature of the fires unfolds. Time slows to a crawl as I see Menna outside of her home, tears glacially streaking down her soot covered face, her home torched with dancing tongues of orange and red. A man stands behind her clad in leather armor black as the night. One hand grips Menna's hair fiercely and in the other, a short sword gleams.

My feet are rooted to the ground as the sword slices through the night air, razor edge biting into Menna's neck. Blood erupts into the night, acrid iron smell intertwining with the heady smoke.

A wordless, guttural scream erupts from the depths of my chest, time returning to normal. The man snaps his attention in my direction a moment too late as I thunder into him. The force of the rush thrusts us both backward into the side of Menna's home. The man grunts in pain and loses his grip on the sword. My neck and shoulders stiffen from the impact, but adrenaline is surging like swift poison through my body, instinct driving every motion.

The hilt of the sword feels foreign in my hand as I snatch it from the ground. My mind doesn’t process the arc of the blade careening toward the man's throat. My mind doesn’t process his blood spraying across me. My mind doesn’t process the warmth of his life on my clammy skin.

Stumbling away from the dying raider, my eyes meet the empty stare of Menna's head laying off to the side. I immediately vomit, no longer able to hold back. When my stomach finally stops convulsing, I start moving. The sound of fire is overwhelming, but I can't hear any screams or signs of life; there are a few bodies strewn about but not enough. Adrenaline pumps through me again, running toward the next terrace, sword in hand.

The light from the fires is enough to see by in the night as I close in on the next terrace. The cries of the villagers swell above the flames. I follow the voices and skid to a stop next to the blacksmith to peek around the corner, eyes going wide at the sight before me.

Several armed and armored men surround a cluster of villagers outside of the Speaker's house. The Speaker themself is out in front, kneeling before one of the attackers, face bruised and bloodied.

The leather wrapping on the sword hilt creaks in my hand. No one deserves to die like this. At best, I might be able to cause a distraction for the villagers to fight back, but that would have to be enough.

Rushing around the corner of the smithy, the mix of cool night air and fiery heat pummel my face, sword clutched in both hands. The ground blurs beneath me before shouts of alarm go up. The man in front of the Speaker turns, my blade piercing his armor, diving deep into his side, launching us both to the dirt.

Alarm turns to rage as the remaining attackers converge on me. I push off from the man dying beneath me, only to be held back by the sword stuck catching on his ribs. I look behind me to the villagers, any hope of inspiring them to action dying just as swiftly as the man at my feet. Despair and horror stares back at me. No hope, no urge for self-preservation; just raw acceptance of a promised death. I face the closest attacker and raise my fists. I'll be damned if I die cowering and afraid.

The whistle of a spear gives little warning before slamming into the side of the closest man with pinpoint accuracy, stopping the rest of them in their tracks. A high-pitch and undulating cry rises from the shadows and several more spears streak into the firelight, assaulting the men farthest from the villagers, with only a few missing and striking the ground. The scraping of steel on leather accompanies warriors emerging from the shadows, rushing to engage the raiders.

One swiftly makes their way over to me, naked sword gleaming in the night. They wrap a hand around the spear embedded in the man who would have killed me. With a planted foot and quick twist, the spear rips free as they survey the battlefield. The mysterious warriors quickly drive the attackers toward the edge of the terrace. Seemingly satisfied, the figure walks over, towering above me, striking an imposing and dashing figure. Their bronze chest piece gleams in the firelight, a pleated skirt laced with strips of leather protecting their upper legs, and a bronze, plumed helmet adorns their head.

They plant their spear in the ground and raise their free hand to undo clasps from their helmet, small scars criss crossing along their fingers. Carefully removing it, they shake hair free, yearning to be released from the tight helmet. Shoulder length raven black hair cascades out of the helmet and the deepest pools of emerald stare down into my core, from the woman who saved my life.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SOUND OF the fighting moves to the edge of my awareness as I drown in the sea of green staring down at me. The warrior woman stands there for what seems like an eternity, eyes flicking across my body, stopping for a split second on my throat, before nodding and sheathing her blade. Her forearm extends in greeting, hints of scars dancing along muscles in the firelight.

“Helia.” Her voice is a deep honey seeping into my ears as my arm moves on its own accord, brain struggling to focus. I grasp her forearm and marvel at the firmness, her grip protective and devastating.

“Skion.” I return her nod with one of my own, proud at my lack of trembling. “Thank you for saving me.” I glance around at the remaining villagers, the burning town, the death of my life. “Thank you for saving what you could.”

Helia loosens her grip and I immediately feel the chill of the night replace it. She sighs, raking a hand through tousled hair. “I am sorry we weren’t here faster. We've been hunting these dogs for a week across the countryside; all the way from Ionos.”

My brows shoot up. Ionos is a port town that has been growing in reputation over the past few years as an access point to trade routes in northern Thetan. It is easily two weeks away across rough countryside, one of several reasons there’s no established route between Athos and Ionos. Well, two weeks for a normal person to travel.

I make to launch into a slew of questions, but a warrior from Helia's band trots up. They do a quick salute, tapping a fist to their chest. Helia turns, acknowledging the salute.

“Commander!” A hearty tenor barks from a shadowed face. “The remaining enemies have retreated into the valley; we have counted eleven dead.”

Helia nods again, assessing the situation while the fighter continues their report. No dead on their side; just bruises and a few shallow wounds. The village toll, however, is grim.

Half of the villagers are dead or dying and the majority of the farm terrace is destroyed. The fire in the housing and business terraces had been on the outer edges to drive the villagers toward the center. Some of the survivors started a water brigade from the well on the business terrace, but the majority are too possessed by grief and disbelief to make a difference. A small trickle of villagers stream into the terrace from the housing and farm sections, gently guided by a portion of the bronze-clad warriors.

I run a hand through my hair. What in the pantheons are we going to do? We won’t have enough food to survive the coming winter. Not to mention we don’t exactly have a large populace. Losing so many is devastating. A dark thought whispers in the back of my mind before I can shove it away. Perhaps this is the opportunity I’ve always wanted; freedom from the past and a chance to carve out what I want. Who I want to be.

The warrior hands a small metal disc to Helia, her brow furrowing intensely as her fingers run across the face of it. She approaches me, carefully tucking what I now see as a coin into a pouch at her belt.

“I know this is difficult and disorienting but”—Helia lays a calloused hand on my shoulder and draws a breath before continuing—“your people cannot stay here anymore.”

“I know.” I gesture up the hillside where the light from the fires on the farm terrace paint a ghoulish picture in the night. “That harvest was meant to replenish our stores and carry the town through the coming winter. Even with less mouths to feed, we won’t have enough. Besides, there’s not enough people left to keep the rest of the village running.” Helia blinks and cocks her head to the side with a gleam in her eyes that I can’t quite place. Before either of us can say more, Porto and the Speaker join us. The Speaker bows to Helia while a sneer covers Porto’s visage.

“Pantheons bless you stranger. And you, Skion.” The Speaker struggles to smile through a bruised and battered face. “You saved my life and those of the survivors.” They choke on their final words, reality sinking in. I nod as Porto scoffs and mutters something under his breath about letting the farm burn. The Speaker continues as though they didn’t hear. “Stranger, as I am sure you have already realized, we cannot stay in Athos.”

Helia nods and squeezes my shoulder gently. “Skion and I have been discussing that same thing. Despite his bravery, you do not have enough to stay here.”

Porto’s anger bubbles over like a pot of boiling water and points a shaking finger in my direction. I tense, though whether at Helia’s compliment or Porto’s menace, I’m not sure. “Brave?! Bullshit! If Skion hadn’t run out on me, we might have been able to save some of the harvest.” Porto advances toward me. Every step quivers with the loss of his dreams, not the death knell of the village. “You worthless, sad excuse of a man! I should never have—” Helia’s fist slams into the side of Porto’s face, a sickening crack forcing him to the ground. The Speaker’s eyes widen, but makes no move to help. Neither do I.