Remedy Maker (38 page)

Anger crashed on a wave and surged over Rhy. Uncertainty eddied in, pushing anger out. Chaotic, tumbling reactions scattered his thoughts.

Rhycious struggled to concentrate, as he struggled to battle one-armed.

With Her Royal Majesty and the Templar priest out of the way, the dynasty would weaken, disintegrating like a dandelion flower blown of its seeds.

“You will not destroy Savella’s hard won negotiations.” Rhy clenched his teeth as another bone-jarring hit slammed through his sword arm. “You would ruin the efforts of a century? Snuff it all out and throw us back to archaic times?”

A crash through the underbrush and the sound of tree limbs snapping caught Rhy’s attention. Another armed rebel stampeded into the clearing, wild red hair standing on end. He carried a classic head chopper axe with deadly intent.

Other than occasional mews of distress, Waverly had clamped both hands over her mouth, trying to keep silent so he and Khristos could fight their enemy without distraction.

Occupied with dismembering objects of his own, the priest dueled at a disadvantage with his shorter gladius sword. Flecks of blood about his opponent’s arms and thigh proved the man of religion held his ground well.

Rhycious’s sword arm grew increasingly heavy, the loss of blood weakening him. With the new insurgent headed their way, Rhy’s future dimmed. In the midst of a sinking heart, he fought for his life against Sergeant Dryas.

“Gardimar,” Dryas shouted, cleaving his double-sided sword at Rhy. “Run them through. Let’s finish the job and leave here.”

Eyes as cold and dark as death gazed upon Rhy and pierced the shambles of his soul. Dryas hammered his upraised sword, and drove him down to a knee.

Above the din, the Templar’s voice boomed, shaking the earth beneath his feet. “Fight, damn you, Rhycious. Get back on your feet and fight, soldier!”

Rhycious continued to deflect Dryas’s pounding blows. Between knockbacks, he risked another furtive glance toward Waverly.

Khristos gained the upper hand with his superior height, strength, and fighting skills, driving his opponent away from the cringing Wood Nymph. However, the stark terror on her face wasn’t directed at her champion in black. Nor was it focused on Rhycious.

The bearded mountain-of-a-Centaur bore down on the chit. He grinned with manic pleasure, swinging his wide-headed axe in an eggbeater rotation. Taking his time, he edged closer to her.

Rhy had seen such malicious attacks first hand; he had committed a few of them himself.

But that was before Patience changed the way he saw the Wood Nymph people. Even goddamn Waverly. He now considered them
his
people, too, and as long as Queen Savella lived, the mending of cultures would continue.

And peace shall reign. Patience would live a long, full life. He staked his life on it, right here and now.

Backed by the roar of a hundred ghostly Centaurs who terrorized him in an alternate reality, Rhycious heaved to his feet. With a determination that was truly the dead coming back to life, his sword cut diagonally, catching Dryas by surprise. The honed edge of his trusty weapon sliced the traitorous soldier’s thigh wide open.

Blood spurted and Dryas cried out, stumbling away. Inertia carried Rhy’s blade along its path of destruction, and then rocketed down. His single-handed grip on the sword’s leather-bound handle tightened, slicing a clean line deep across his enemy’s cheek.

Stretched to their limit, the ligaments in his shoulder burned as he cleaved the hefty sword. Additional ground became confiscated in his favor with two powerful forward lunges. Spinning on the ball of his foot, he streaked for the screaming Nymph.

Rhy shouted at her. “Waverly, shimmer!”

Anchored where she stood, the girl could only stare at the monster approaching, shaking her head in utter denial.

Gardimar’s axe blade swung upward, the pendulum arc within striking distance of Waverly. Anger inside Rhycious boiled toward the cowardly Centaur. There was no honor in attacking an unarmed opponent, especially a female. He’d have no part in the deaths of Nymphs any longer.

Knowing what he did would forever seal his fate, Rhy silently said good-bye to Patience. Their future had been bleak at best, and impossible in the end. His heart cracked, splintered apart, weeping from within. The love she had shown him these past few days was a fair trade of his life for a Nymph’s. He only hoped his actions here would live on past this moment in her memories. The memories of Patience and their time together would warm him through his afterlife in Elysium.

Two hundred mythological years of warring against the Wood Nymph people—ironic he  would die trying to save one of them in battle. He wished he’d told Patience that he loved her in a language she understood.
Coward.

Resolved to destiny’s decision, and strangely comforted by the verdict, Rhycious kept a firm mental picture of Patience and threw himself over Waverly’s thin body, shielding her from the fatal blow of Gardimar’s axe.

Twenty-Nine

Heart pounding and legs pumping, Aleksander’s hooves tore into the soft loam, kicking out dirt in his haste. With a huge head start, Dryas had vanished moments after entering the forest. Alek lost considerable time backtracking, trying to pick up the
sonofabitch’s
trail. He ground his molars until his jaw hurt.

Behind him, a crash came barreling through the brush full speed, sending grouse flying up in panic. The first patch of cover Aleksander found barely hid his equine body. He ducked behind a boulder and red berry thorn bush as far as he could without folding his legs completely beneath him.

None the wiser to Alek’s presence, the burly musician streaked past.

The gods must have smiled down; the racing man would lead to where he needed to be.

Aleksander ran between trees and jumped logs, exiting at the edge of a meadow. Cramped of space, the clearing quickly filled with fighting men. Additional revolutionary civilians filed in from the far side, reminding him of a firing squad.

What was the world coming to when Centaur fought Centaur? Heavy betrayal filled his heart, and he shoved it aside.

The human’s Civil War had affected the United States with a ripple effect, shifting perspectives that led to lives forever changed. Whereas the war of 1861 had moved the Americans onward toward a new century of progressive thinking, the conflict escalating before Alek would not.

 Trade and prosperity flourished since the end of the Great War. Could the Centaur supremacists not see that? A new surge of anger raced through him, his hooves slamming the ground hard.

Aleksander swung his narrowed gaze across the clearing, never breaking stride, taking in the whole scene at once. To the right, Dryas struggled to regain his hooves. Blood ran freely from a wound to his upper front leg.

Straight ahead, the musician stalked toward a terrified girl plastered against a tree.
What the fuck and who the hell?
Deadly axe in hand, the hypnotizing blade rocked from side to side. In the cruelest manner possible, the warhorse taunted the cowering female.

Aleksander pushed to lengthen his stride, galloping full out toward Rhy and the heat of the fight. He lifted his sword when he neared Dryas, who staggered up from the ground on shaky legs. Hard as the steel that forged it, the flat of his blade clocked the sergeant in the head with a satisfying smack, tumbling Dryas into the dirt.

That would put the kid out of commission for a while.

Rhycious heaved to his feet, and lunged to throw himself between the female and the guitarist who played a mean Les Paul. Lines of determination etched Rhy’s face, his two human legs spread in wide stance. The approaching Centaur’s steel axe head flashed in the sun, glinting fireballs of immaculate evil. Its oak stalk held in both hands only magnified his ominous approach.

Blood covered Rhy’s left shoulder. Though he held the sword with his good hand, he struggled to maintain a defensive posture. He was weak without the use of both arms.

“Gardimar—behind you!”

In the midst of his charging gallop, Aleksander flipped his grip on the sword’s hilt. Counter balancing weight by raising his other arm straight forward, he drew back his arm. In a practiced move perfected by centuries of war and training, he threw the heavy weapon like a javelin.

A warning shout from an advancing rebel brought Gardimar’s body around. There was no time to think about what Alek had to do. Sharp enough to shave the whiskers on a Minotaur, the sword’s tip plunged into the attacker’s chest without error.

The guitarist with the wild red hair, who strummed like a Spanish virtuoso, dropped harder than a granite boulder. His legs folded under his immense body, axe head imbedded in the dirt. Only inches from where Rhy stood sheltering the Nymph, Gardimar bought the farm.
And he’s still out of uniform.

A bittersweet victory.

 “Rhycious.” Alek strained to catch his breath, hurriedly working his weapon out of the Centaur’s dead body. The crimson tip slid out with a gush of blood that created a stream to the ground, turning the soil dark brown.

Alek tried not to think about the life he’d taken, or the fact that brother Centaurs were fighting each other. Mourning would have to wait.

Alerted by the angry approaching voices, Aleksander spun around, double fisting the sword hilt. Just like old times, he’d have Rhy’s back.

Alek spoke over his shoulder. “How badly are you injured?”

“I took a slice to the shoulder, it needs to be bound,” Rhycious said. “Nothing life threatening.”

“And the female?”

“Uninjured.”

There came a sound of material ripped in sporadic wrenches. “Wrap it tight.” Rhycious spoke through clenched teeth, blowing out his breath. “Tie a knot above the arm band—just like that.” He grunted. “Perfect.”

Alek wondered fleetingly about the girl, but time had run out. Scrub jays and quail twittered in fright as they flapped out of the brush, taking to the sky, sounding an alarm. Less than two heartbeats later, three true form Centaurs in civy dress stormed the meadow and into the melee.

Knees and hocks bent, Aleksander kept a fast pivot to his advantage.

Though he wore a brutal mask of fury, Khristos spared Alek a glance. He assessed Rhycious and the girl, then turned to address the helmed soldier who’d backed away, waiting for reinforcements. Blood trickled from the priest’s hip wound, leg lifted in pain. The open gash gleamed raw against an ebony backdrop.

Admiration for the Templar’s bravery grew to replace the contempt he had carried for the man. Unable to bear full weight on his injury, Khristos held the decorative sword out in front of him. Half the length of Alek’s own weapon, he readied his stance the best he could manage on three legs.

Aleksander managed a wry smile. Templar Khristos, arrogant and cocky until the bitter end.

One renegade down.

One dead.

Four more to fight.

He took stock of his companions: two injured loyalist Centaurs standing and prepared to fight. One whimpering female, whom Rhycious demanded repeatedly to shimmer away.

 Wood Nymph.
Who the hell was she?

Aleksander rolled his shoulders in an attempt to keep them loose. He stepped forward until his hooves were even with those of Khristos. They aimed their battle swords at the advancing agitators—points out, tips up.

Intent on murder, the rebel extremists fanned out to surround them in a shrinking semi-circle.

Alek moved to place his equine body in front of the priest. “Khristos, your Gladius is best suited on your hip, and Rhycious can barely raise his sword arm.” He reworked his grip on the weapon and eyed the advancing rebels, calculating which one to take out first. “Take Rhy’s sword and do your best to hold off the ones that slip through. I’ll do what I can.”

Khristos hesitated, and Alek thought he’d refuse. Then with a curse, the priest took a step to the rear.

“Bacchus and Pan protect us all.” Khristos limped backward and accepted the sword a sagging Rhycious reluctantly offered. Aggravated, the Templar growled out, “Would you leave us, young lady, if I said
pretty please
?”

Aleksander missed Plain Jane’s answer. From opposite sides, first one, and then another Centaur came at him, weapons swinging wildly.

*    *    *

Despite his situation, Rhycious sucked a deep breath of clean forest air, grateful for another five minutes of life. Gods what he wouldn’t do for a pistol.

“Waverly! You have to concentrate. Get the hell out of here.” Chilled to the core, Rhy shivered.

“I . . . .” Her hyperventilating lungs pumped air in and out.
Damn quaking aspen. Can’t she hold it together long enough to shimmer, something she’s done all her life?

Khristos attempted a valiant effort to guard them. “The crust of the ground is breaking. Rhycious, watch out for yourself and the Nymph.”

Facing the tree, protecting Waverly, Rhy twisted to stare over his shoulder. Lush carpeting of grass and tiny wildflowers separated them from the new arrivals crossing the meadow. He eyed the surrounding forest like an extreme cage fighter. Except—this was no sporting event.

Creaking sounds of splintering wood tore into the air. Dirt threw about the field and billowed in a brown smoke. Gigantic moles tunneled beneath the surface while the ground swelled and moved. Mounds of earth rose in irregular patterns of engraved wakes.

For an instant, Rhycious held his breath.
Reality or fantasy?
He prayed his eyes weren’t lying. Waverly tapped his chest and he spun to face her.

“They’re here.” Relief relaxed her facial features and she offered a small wobbly smile.

Khristos tracked the underground movement with the sword’s tip, trusting only what his eyes fed him. Like himself, the priest had lived through the Great War. “How do we know they won’t kill us all?”

In Waverly’s steady gaze, Rhycious discovered his answer. “Because for the first time, we fight on the same side.”