No One's Chosen (36 page)

As she made the edge of the field, she felt it. The
wound had opened and blood was streaming readily down her calf. She
could not stop, especially not now. At the far side of the field
stood a small house and beside it a wood mill. She turned herself
at the house and forced her legs to obey. There was no smoke from
the fireplace, but it would serve her better than—

She felt a pinch in her side. It was not the feel of
her lungs aching from the work. It was sharper, smaller at first.
But it grew. She looked down and saw the thing. There was the tip
of an arrow showing itself through the leathers over the right side
of her abdomen.

Aile quickly pulled a breath to see what had been
hit. Her lungs filled with air, though there was some pain, but did
not sputter or protest anymore than she expected. It had been too
low to hit them. She could not know if her other innards were still
in such good shape, but that would have to wait. She had her
breath, and that was enough.

She turned to look behind and saw her. The archer was
walking patiently, her silver hair glinting in the sun. The girl
had lowered her bow for the moment and was content to follow Aile
at an easier pace. It was just was well, Aile thought. She was
barely hobbling now.

The house was just in front of her now. It was a
modest home, small, maybe large enough for two people to live in
comfortably. She passed by a window. It showed a small kitchen and
a wooden table. There was no one in view. She made the door and
leaned against it with all her weight, pulling at the latch. It did
not budge. Locked. She let out an exasperated sigh. An arrow
slapped the door above her head and stuck fast. Aile had thought
she had nothing left, but the sound ran through her like a shot,
her heart picking up pace once again.

She turned sharply on failing legs and forced herself
in the direction of the sawmill. There were doors along the bottom
that she figured had to be used for storage. They were a good deal
away. Her ears were full with the sound of rushing blood and ragged
breath.

Across the yard the girl began to scream at her. Her
voice was wild and scratchy with rage. "Yes! Run Drow!" She seemed
to incense herself with the words. "Cling to that worthless life!
Savor every heartbeat!"

"I will," Aile thought. "And I will stop your
bleating before I count the last."

The sawmill was farther than she liked. The rush was
cooling down and her heart slowed again. The pain returned, tearing
at her will to continue, daring her to quit. The archer drew back
her bow again. She loosed an arrow and it found the dirt at Aile's
feet. The Drow did not so much as look down. Her eyes were affixed
to the door ahead of her. There would not be much room under the
sawmill, but it would bring the girl in close if she were dumb
enough to allow it.

"It was not supposed to be this way, Drow." The
archer was lost in a blind rage. "You were meant to die and we
would have a hefty pile of gold." Her words ended there as she
silently closed on the limping Drow. "I loved them, you know? You
will suffer."

"More than this, whore elf?" Aile would have made the
words if she could, but she had long ago lost too much blood. Even
the door that marked her salvation shifted across a blurry plane.
Killing this girl really may be the last thing she managed, she
thought.

She made the door. Her mind was a mired haze and she
acted more on instinct than with any sort of reasoned thought. She
grabbed at the handle and missed. To the side the archer drew back
her bow. Aile found the handle with her second grasp and wrenched
it open. As she did an arrow sank deep into the wood, punching
through where the soft flesh of her neck would have been. Aile
stumbled forward into the sawmill's small storehouse, pulling the
door shut with her.

Aile knew she did not have long. She looked around
the room. The shapes trailed one another and she had to focus for
too long to make clear the outlines of the room. She could not
hide, though every inch of what was left of her wits screamed for
her to. She was past that now. The Drow fell to her knees. She
reached weakly with her good arm for a pouch in the front middle of
her abdomen. The arrow had missed it by only pair of inches. She
smiled to herself and pulled free a small green marble. She shoved
it into her mouth.

The door behind her whipped open. Aile could not
manage the strength to turn. If the archer wanted her dead, it
would be done.

"Little grey cunt." The elf's voice trembled. She
wanted to seem strong in the face of the woman who had killed her
lovers.

The elf walked around in front of her to consider the
Drow. She looked her up and down. Aile's consciousness was rushing
away but she saw the girl's face well enough. It was red and
swollen, her eyes bloodshot. She had been crying for some time. Her
silver hair looked a dull grey in the dark of the room. It did not
shine now.

"You stay awake, you hear me, cunt?" The elf screamed
at her, dropping the bow and stepping closer. "I will not let you
die so easy. Not after what you've taken from me!"

She took another step in, rage blistered her face.
She spit as she screamed but Aile could no longer make out the
words. Her eyes closed for half a second.

The elf stepped closer, yanking Aile up by her hair.
"Do you hear me bitch? I will—"

The thin glass crackled with sound as Aile bit down.
The green liquid spilled out into her mouth. It tasted of death.
She spit as hard as she could manage, sending the viscous bile onto
the silver-haired archer.

The elf dropped her at once, reeling back and
clutching her face. The scream was high and horrible. She clawed at
her face and flailed helplessly. It was too late for her but still
the girl sucked in breath after breath as if the air would stem the
pain.

Aile fell on her side and felt a deep burn in her
throat. Some of the poison had stayed with her. It was supposed to
have been sealed in a mucous to keep the user safe, but she had not
spit it quickly enough. Or perhaps she bit too hard and broke the
membrane. She did not know, it did not matter. She got to her knees
somehow and forced two fingers into her throat. The taste of blood
and dirt filled her mouth briefly before whatever remained in her
stomach was put onto the floor of the storage room. The retching
shifted the arrow in her gut and send raking pain scratching across
her entire torso. The pain landed in her brain and caused it to
ache instantly. It was not enough. She had to get everything out or
she would die of the poison before the blood loss could manage
it.

She shoved her fingers into her throat again, the
archer still screaming but from the floor now and weaker. Again she
wretched and again the pain stabbed at her, begging her body to
stop. She could not. Again. There was less now. Again. The fifth
time, there was nothing but a dry heave for her to offer and she
collapsed to the ground in her own bile and vomit.

The archer girl was still now. Her face was parade of
bloody ribbons, torn away by her own hands. She was still
breathing, shallow and wet, but she was no longer conscious. Her
eyes had rolled back in her head and the blind white orbs were
pointed at Aile.

The Drow smiled and the world went dark.

It was a cool morning for late Saol and the
lightening world was under a light haze that the rising sun had not
yet burned away. The air was rich with the smell of the stables.
Socair stood beside the hastily constructed stalls, waiting. She
had been the first to arrive. In truth, she'd have come earlier if
she could have. She had slept surprisingly well the night before
and awoke early. She was excited to be away from Crosta and his
influence. She would miss the noise of the camp and the comfort of
the structured life she knew there, but it was not a new feeling
and she was growing used to the idea.

Socair swung her arms lazily in the growing
brightness of the morning. The sun was rising but had not yet risen
and she knew there would be some time before her Attendants would
arrive. The camp was quiet by the stables. The patrols were light
as many of the elves responsible for them were on building crews
now and could not be expected to pull double duty. Besides, there
had been no sightings of hippocamps of any sort within thirty miles
or so.

"The nearest ones are the orphans I made," she
thought blithely. She had not loosed the arrows, fair enough, but
the weight was on her shoulders alone. She was the Bearer of the
Will.

The thought went away after a moment and the droll
silence of the morning crept back in. Socair swung her arms out
wide and let them fall into a lazy clap a few times. Had time ever
truly passed so slowly for her? She had had more downtime since
becoming the Bearer than she could remember in the whole of her
life except maybe her childhood. A horse shifted behind her and she
turned to look at it. It was a large courser, colored white and
brown. She poked at its flank and the horse stepped to the side and
snorted its disapproval.

Socair poked the horse again and wondered absently
about the girl, Práta. She did not know the girl at all but she
seemed pleasant enough, if incredibly innocent. Perhaps it was all
an act and she belonged to Crosta in earnest. Socair did not want
to believe that.

The sound of Doiléir and Silín's voices came around
the corner ahead of their bodies and Socair whipped around so as
not to be seen fretting horses. They would mock her to no end if
they saw her teasing animals, no doubt. She could just imagine
Doiléir grinning wide and telling her how unbecoming of a Treorai
such an act was.

The pair rounded the corner talking of what they
might have for breakfast after the mounts were ready. Each carried
a fairly large pack similar to the one on the ground at Socair's
feet. She could guess at what they contained. Two pairs of extra
clothes, some dried meats and fruits, field supplies and healing
poultices. Only hers had something extra. An amount of coin she
never expected she would see. The coins were freshly minted, even,
which somehow made her even more nervous about carrying such an
amount.

Doiléir threw up a hand by way of a greeting. "Good
morrow, Milady Bearer." He swung his body over into a deep and
elaborate bow. Silín snickered behind him. Doiléir stood and
dropped his pack to the ground beside Socair's. Silín did the same.
"We will eat first, yes?"

"There is apt to be time enough for food."

Silín eyed Doiléir over. "You will be a fat man in
your old age, Doiléir."

"Haha, I will die long before fat can take me."

"At the hands of some cuckold whose lover you're in,
no doubt." Socair smiled.

"So long as I die with a wet cock, I'll be as happy
as any to go and meet the Sisters." He rolled his head back and
laughed.

Silín turned the talk to why they bothered keeping
Doiléir around and the desert elf sold them his charms in a playful
bid to avoid being discarded. He had lifted his shirt to better
explain the virtues of his torso when Práta rounded the corner in a
rush. The girl blushed at his naked skin.

Before he could move to tease her, Socair waved a
hand at him dismissively. "Put it away."

"It?" he questioned, still holding the front of his
shirt aloft.

She just waved a hand and approached the staring
Práta. "Práta, you look woefully under packed for a trip to
Dulsiar."

Her eyes could not choose a focus, shifting between
Socair and Doiléir's exposed stomach. "I haven't, uh… I…" Silín
slapped Doiléir swiftly across the back of his head and he let the
shirt drop to grab the area. Práta gave Socair her full attention
after the shirt had dropped. "I have not been able to requisition
all of the things we will need. The officer assures me I will have
them by mid-morning at the latest."

"And your personal effects?"

Práta looked confused a moment and then her eyes
widened. "I… I…"

Socair laughed lightly. "Go."

Práta ran off toward the Binseman's area of the camp
as quickly as she could manage. When she had gotten clear enough
all three of the remaining elves broke into laughter.

Doiléir wiped away a tear, laughing. "She's like to
die before we make it clear of the camp."

A flap of a tent across from the stables parted and
out walked the master of horse from the day before, rubbing the
sleep from her eyes. She spotted the trio right away and walked
briskly up to them.

"Bearer, I… I apologize. I was not told you would
have need of me this morning."

"There is no hurry," Socair reassured her, "but we
are bound for Dulsiar and need the best horses you can spare."

"Spare? Do you not mean to return, Bearer?"

"We may, but I cannot say when. Our business could
well take us beyond Dulsiar. And even in the city, I do not know
how long we will be."

"I see," the master of horse replied. "Then I shall
prepare the finest—"

Socair interrupted. "No. I would not have you deprive
the stocks of the First Company of valuable horseflesh. We are not
riding to battle, but they ought to be reliable and well bred."

The woman thought a moment, a calloused hand on her
strong chin. "You need three mounts?"

"Four," Socair answered.

"I have two coursers I know… I will have to
double-check the manifests for which are away. I can have four fed
and dressed within a few hours, if it please."

"More than acceptable," Socair smiled politely.

The master of horse jogged away toward a smaller row
of tents to rouse her stable hands. Doiléir insisted they go find
food since there was time so they left the packs and wandered
toward the mess. There was sausage and cubed potatoes with onions.
The food was warm and satisfying. She would miss it. She already
missed the noise. The tent was empty aside from the earliest of
risers. Over the course of the breakfast the talk founds its way to
wistful remembrances of life in the camp. When talk turned to the
follies of new recruits, Socair remembered the pair she'd meant to
find the day before.