He was scared.
He didn’t want to be; he wished he could’ve been stoic and brave, or at the very least presented himself in such a way. But as he walked into the valley’s entrance, his entire body was shaking. He had been drafted, as all the men of fighting age from his village had been. The difference, though, was that he had arrived hours earlier than the others; he was alone for the time being. He had woken up very early in the morning, had gone to the well to get some water, and thus had been the first in the village to see the pile of draft notes in the village centre. He had found it far too easily, the same piece of paper that now sat within his pocket. It should’ve been near weightless, but it felt heavier than a hammer within his coat. Such weight had only felt more and more wicked with every step he had taken, wanting to show the others of the villagers that he was no coward by being the first to arrive at the meeting point.
He wasn’t surprised that there were no soldiers waiting for him; they probably wouldn’t arrive until noon. They wouldn’t know he was the first to arrive unless he told them, which, depending on how his fellow villagers treated him when they eventually got here, would be information he would either speak of or remain silent about.
As much from a need of duty as distraction, Gelp began preparing a fire, right in the centre of the valley’s entrance. There wasn’t much on the trails that led here that could be used for kindling, so he had to rely on the sticks he had brought with him. That was fine, although having more tasks to kill time with would’ve been helpful. With the kindling set up, he took in hand his sword, a relatively short piece of steel, that was well enough made to cut meat and vegetables, certainly sharp enough to cut through skin, the several scars on his hands and forearms were proof of this. It wasn’t the kind of weapon that soldiers sang war warbles about. This bothered him more than he felt it should. Gelp grasped a simple whetstone he had brought and slid it down the blade, summoning sparks healthy enough to make a fire bright and hot.
Normally he would’ve been impressed with himself, able to summon flames in a single try; it normally took at least ten. But all that meant was that there was now little for him to do but sit and wait and, most terrible of all, think. He tried to focus on food; he was not yet hungry, but before long he would force himself to cook something, even if he didn’t eat much of it, he wanted to show his fellow villagers he had been waiting a long time for them, that he had come here far earlier than they had, because he was brave.
He wasn’t, of course, but he did want them to think that.
He found himself looking upwards at the narrow walls of the valley entrance, and how the fire’s light filled them. Allowing it to be seen for miles around. This would allow both his fellow villagers and soldiers to see where the meeting point was. But it would also be further proof, not of his punctuality, but of his lack of fear, that despite being drafted into war, he had been the first to show up.
Gelp knew he should’ve been thinking about the war, where exactly he was being sent, who he would be fighting and how long such fighting would be. But he wasn’t. All he could think about was that damn dog, the miniature mongrel, so old, so small, so malnourished it couldn’t have bitten through butter and whose growl had sent him scurrying like a scared cat. All the men and, worse, the women of the village had laughed at him about how this tall, well-built man had fled in fear at some mongrel that couldn’t hunt mice, let alone men. Gelp hated how scared he had been by its growl, and even considered catching the bloody mutt and killing it. But doing so would simply remind them all he had run away from something so meek and miniature.
Gelp was still shivering, and he still hated it. As he sat there staring at the fire, he seriously considered putting it out. Still hoping that the air would get colder without it, coldness was a good enough reason to shiver, but cowardice never was, at least in his mind, at least in the minds of his fellow villagers. But he knew they would be aware that a fire had once been burning; the air would carry the aroma for the rest of the day. Gelp had no problem lying when it came to this, but it had to be a believable lie. The idea of not appearing intimidated infected him so much that he seriously considered placing his hand into the flames, letting it turn his skin into boils and blisters, so that he could tell them he was shivering because of the pain. A part of him knew how stupid self-harm was, but another part of him, much louder than the other, considered it a worthy, if not cunning, plan. To the point that he even found his fingers reaching out to the fire, getting closer and closer to it. After all, a few blisters were worth the price to prove he was brave, or at least not cowardly.
The heat of the flames had just begun to harm his fingertips when he heard something, a sound strong enough to still his hands and turn his head. He could see in the dim distance of dawn’s light, a figure slowly approaching from one of the other trails. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who had got up early, found the draft notices and decided to come here before the others. He was still the first, his mind reminded him over and over again. Perhaps though this person wasn’t from his village, but one of the neighbouring ones, perhaps he was coming early for the same reasons as Gelp was, perhaps that miniature mongrel had made it to another village and had growled from the shadows sending another man scurrying. Apart from Gelp hoped so, perhaps he wasn’t the only one who knew cowardice, perhaps they could even speak to each other about their worries, and when the rest arrived, they could pretend together they had got here early because of bravery. That or Gelp could practise what he was going to say or how he was going to act when the rest arrived to this audience of one. He hadn’t decided yet; he would wait until the figure arrived at the fire before making up his mind.
He watched and waited for the figure to draw closer until his gaze shrank down to a more sensible shape. Gelp was quite aware of the tricks shadow and distance played on the eye, especially in such early morning dim light. Just as he was aware the figure should’ve taken on a small shape by now, but it hadn’t; it remained dark and ever so tall. He had seen bridges that were narrower than the breadth of its shoulders. The tops of hills sat lower than where its head was. But still, as it got closer and closer, its sheer size didn’t change.
For reasons he couldn’t speak of, Gelp soon found himself standing up, but staying near the fire, no longer wanting its warmth to wound him. Something was wrong, very wrong, but Gelp couldn’t place exactly why. The figure was still too far away, and yet he could hear its footfall ever so clearly, as if its feet were somehow damaging the dirt it was walking across. It was close enough now to hear Gelp speak, if he chose to, but he didn’t. He could feel his throat tightening as if it were smarter to be strangled than to speak right now. The figure drew closer, close enough to hear the heavy breaths he was unknowingly taking; he had seen huts that weren’t as wide as this huge figure. It was not just its sheer size that struck him; it was the fact that the figure was standing close enough for the campfire to reach, yet it remained cloaked in darkness, as if even flames feared it. Gelp could see the figure’s nose; it seemed something too sharp to be found on a face. Even in the dim dawn light, he could see that the skin of such a nose was a very dark green, the colour of a leg too wounded ever to be walked on again.
‘Only one?’ the figure spoke, and its voice filled Gelp like venom.
Such an infection immediately told him it wasn’t human; no mere man had a voice so deep, so dark, so dangerous.
‘Pity I wanted more,’ it said. Gelp felt wounded by its whine.
Gelp watched as a hand, too huge and horrible to be a human’s, reached up out of the cloak and clasped the material upon its massive chest.
‘Oh well,’ it continued. ‘A snack is better than starvation.’
With these words, the wicked thing whirled off its own coat, revealing it definitely was closer to a demon than anything from the human domain. Its skin seemed a patchwork of red and green, colours that were neither like blood nor leaves. Its features were sharp, its horn-shaped ears seemed like they could gore through mountains and meat with equal effortlessness. Its crescent eyes were the colour of a storm cloud, one from which rain would rather run away than descend. Gelp had seen boulders that were smaller than its biceps as one of its wicked hands went to its belt. The putrid thing wore simple dark pants, and from it swirled off what looked like string, redder than any sanguine, brighter than any sunlight. There was something at the end of the string, something oval, which could have been a stone or an egg. Gelp didn’t know; he hadn’t taken time to examine what it was before he had begun running into the valley.
‘Oh, don’t run,’ the figure said all too calmly. ‘All that does is spoil your meat.’
The terrible thing didn’t laugh at its own words, but there was an evil eagerness to its tone, as if it actually would enjoy catching up to him and swallowing him whole, like some malicious mudslide.
Gelp heard the figure as it walked through the fire, the weight of its feet causing the flames to scatter, the heat making a high-pitched sound as if the campfire was screaming from being stomped. That wasn’t the only thing Gelp heard; he could hear the string and stone or egg or whatever it was whirling around. It sounded like it was whistling, a serrated wind that could cut him in half. What he couldn’t hear were further footfalls coming from the figure. Even though Gelp knew its weight wounded whatever ground it walked on.
This bothered him, bothered him more than if he could hear it chasing after him. An image of a sling infected his mind, and he had no choice but to look back, fearing the figure was about to cast the stone from the string where it would strike him on the head, it would explain why the figure wasn’t moving from the spot.
As he looked back, Gelp still didn’t know if the string and stone were preparing to be a projectile. But he did know that the figure was so wide it filled the entrance of the valley entirely; not even a gust would be able to get past it. Something silent told Gelp that the figure wanted him to observe this fact, even though he didn’t know why. What he did know was that the figure had begun moving once more into the valley, hence Gelp turned his head and continued running faster than he ever had before. Frantically, he looked for a boulder or something big, big enough to hide behind or under or, hell, even over, just as long as it was somewhere he couldn’t be seen.
Gelp no longer cared about being a coward; in fact, he actually loved being one. If bravery was standing still in the presence of this beastly being, then no man he knew would ever want such a thing, would never admire it. His eyes felt as though they were moving faster than his feet in their search to find somewhere to hide. But there was nothing; the valley floor was painfully free of any such forms.
Soon the only thing that haunted his ears more than the wicked whistle of the spinning stone and string was his own heartbeat. It was beginning to feel bigger and bigger in his chest, as if his own heart was trying to grow huge enough to simply burst out of his chest and bounce away from him. Like a lizard willingly letting its tail off to be torn apart. More than once Gelp had fallen, more than once awkwardly, agonisingly. For all he knew, both of his ankles could’ve snapped, and he would still be running on them. Hell, even if his legs somehow found a way to separate from the rest of him, he still would be fleeing the figure. He actually found himself cursing his own mind for ever hating fear; he loved it now more than his own mother because it was keeping him alive and away from the abomination that was pursuing him.
So much so that he found himself looking back over his shoulder. Whether the figure was far or close, the sight of it would fuel his fear and make him faster. It was close, closer than it had any rotten right to be, but its presence did indeed make him swifter.
As soon as his head had turned, his feet shifted severely, but they didn’t stop. He was running sideways now, like a crab that could outrun the rain. His subconscious had enough sense to change directions before he had barrelled into the valley wall, not to save him from a broken nose, but just so he could keep moving. He was running so close to the valley wall now that he felt his fingers reach out and touch it, running across its edges, hoping to find a hole, or something else, anything else that would let him escape this valley. He could feel blood wetting his fingers as he did so. He was running so fast that his fingers were being ground against the wall. It hurt, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t stop until he found some way out of here, somewhere away from the terrible thing pursuing him.
He would’ve kept running until his entire right arm had been ground off his body. But no amount of fear could make him small enough to squeeze through the gap in the valley wall he had just run right into. Fear was not enough to overcome the onslaught of steep, sharp stone that smacked into the entire right side of his body. His feet were not formidable enough to make him simply run straight through the rock wall now blocking his path. He had no choice but to turn back around now and see just how close the terrible, tall thing was.
That wasn’t all he saw, viciously from where he was standing, he could view the entire valley now, could see that there was only one way in or out of this place and it was far away, it was behind this demonic dangerous thing coming ever so closer. That explained why the figure wanted him to see it standing in the entryway, wanted him to know there was no way out of here. Gelp breathed so hard it actually hurt his chest, felt his ruined fingers actually grasp the sword from its sheath, and hold it before him. The sword wasn’t steady, of course; it seemed engulfed by earthquakes. This had nothing to do with how much it hurt to hold such a thing with injured fingers; he was scared, more scared than any man or mongrel could make him.
The figure wasn’t breathing hard at all; there was no exhaustion within its evil existence. The stone and string it held didn’t even seem to be whirling the way a weapon would. It was more like it was twirling, the way a sweet-toothed gentleman twirled a cane when coming close to candy. Without looking away from the figure, Gelp could see the dim sunlight and how it bounced off his shaking blade. Which meant the monster could see it as well. Clearly, the creature didn’t care that it was sharp enough to summon a campfire with a single stroke. Gelp tried to get himself to threaten the horrible thing, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t so much fear that stopped him, just the fact that not even stone would be stupid enough to say anything to this abomination. He had a better chance of becoming a bird than of scaring this terrible thing off. The best he could manage was to move his sword up, ever so slightly, and hold it ever so sternly. Just enough to stop shaking for a second and let the dawn light cover it completely. It was clear the figure saw his sword, just as it was obvious it didn’t care about the cutter at all.
It continued spinning its string and stone, coming ever closer. Close enough that the stone actually struck the sword, causing it to soar right out of his hand, while the stone didn’t slow down in the slightest. Gelp gazed as the blade flew higher than any bird he had ever seen. It was the first time he had ever been so jealous of a length of steel. He screamed then, not just because his shoulder had been dislocated by the blow. Hearing him seemed to carve a smile onto the creature’s face, a scarier show of teeth Gelp had never seen before as the figure raised the twirling stone above its own head.
Gelp didn’t have to wonder why; he was well aware this was the beginning of a fatal attack. As soon as it lowered, he shut his eyes, no longer caring if this was due to cowardice or something else. He could feel the wind welt his skin, no doubt being made by something moving very fast, something that could smash his skull as easily as an egg. He could feel himself being moved from where he was; he could hear the spinning stone smash into something as loudly as lightning striking, but a step away. He could also feel something on parts of himself. But what he couldn’t feel was pain. Something was holding him, something that wasn’t warm and welcoming of heaven, nor was wrathful and wounding like hell. Whatever it was, though, held the same kind of power.
Gelp knew he wasn’t dead but couldn’t bring himself to believe he had survived the abomination’s attack. Hence, when he opened his eyes, he had to see where he was now. He could still see the figure, although it was now a good fifty feet away from him, its back facing him as a mist of massacred earth erupted all around it. How this had happened he wasn’t sure, so he looked down to see that he indeed was being held by something.
Not something, but someone.
He could feel the bulge of her sizable breasts on his stomach. Could see her long hair, blacker than any shadow he had ever seen. Yet the colour was maddeningly familiar to him. He could see she wore a long cloak of a colour caught between white and grey. Again, such shading seemed terribly familiar. He could see her pale arms that had wrapped around him; they seemed to possess a strength neither snake nor spectre could ever know. She wasn’t squeezing him, but he somehow knew she could, as if she had the power to mould a mountain into a marble between her thumb and finger. There was a power to her presence he couldn’t quite describe, only feel, like the moon itself had been moulded into a maiden and had moved him.
As she raised her head and he saw her not quite yellow eyes, it sent a sensation through him far too severe to be a shiver. It was as if even his gut was gasping under her gaze. Slowly she rose up before him, and the power of her presence seemed to overwhelm the whole world. She wasn’t as tall as Gelp was, yet her presence was like a sea’s shadow upon a single pebble. She moved her hand from his waist to his upper shoulder for a shard of a second before she turned around. In that shard he saw that under her cloak she was wearing a skintight garment, one whose skirt was so short it might as well have been a leotard. It wasn’t the sight of her lovely legs that captured his gaze, but the colour of her clothes, the same not quite grey not quite white shading. He had seen it somewhere before, but never on her. She was a stranger to him, although he knew even if he lived for a million millennia he would remember this maiden.
The power of her presence was diminished only ever so slightly by the fact that she wasn’t watching him anymore. Just enough for him to look away from her and towards the figure, who still seemed in the final fractions of the moment, of moving the stone and staring into what should’ve been his skull. Gelp wondered if he had looked as puzzled as the putrid thing appeared, its grey eyes gazing across the ground, as if thinking it had hit him so hard that Gelp had become nothing more than dust. It seemed this idea wasn’t satisfying enough, for the figure raised its head, turning around when it noticed that Gelp was in fact still alive and far away.
Soon its stare found the female, and even without pupils or irises, it was clear the creature was infected by the power of her presence, almost as much as Gelp had been. Gelp also noticed that, despite the world being windless, the maddeningly familiar garments she wore were fluttering as if caught in a breeze. Even though her long black hair, again, a shade that seemed so familiar to him, sat as still as any shadow. More than that, Gelp noticed how she wasn’t shivering in the slightest; she stood more motionless than any mountain.
The figure stood staring for a moment, its string and stone no longer twirling, looking like the line of a fishing rod foolishly lowered into an entirely dried-up lake.
‘What’s this?’ the figure asked, with neither annoyance nor apathy. ‘They didn’t tell me any warrior women would be coming to this place.’
The figure smiled, a sight that was too eager and evil ever to be enjoyed.
‘That’s great with me; female flesh tastes ever so fine!’
Gelp should’ve been struck more by the figure whirling its weapon above its head once more. But it was the figure’s words that wounded him the most. Someone had told of this terrible thing to come here. Earlier, it had seemed surprised to find only a single man in the valley. It clearly had expected more. His fingers felt the draft notice in his pocket as Gelp realised he and the others had been specifically sent to this valley. Clearly, this creature had; there was no other reason to venture into such a barren place. He wanted to think more about this, but he couldn’t, for the creature was moving again, raising its other hand and slowly clawing a finger in the air, silently telling the woman to get close, close enough for its weapon to smash through her skull.
Before Gelp could even look at where she had been standing, she was no longer there, as a coldness cut through him, like air rampaging through a gap in a wall. He only knew where she had gone when he heard the sound of a great collision, had seen the creature being cast off its feet, like it was no more sizable than a stone being skipped across a lake. Its body didn’t bounce, but it was flung far into the valley, landing so heavily it caused a shallow crater to be created. Somehow, she had struck the figure. Gelp didn’t know with what specifically; all he knew was she was now standing a kick’s length away from where the abomination once stood. Her familiar clothing continued billowing as if being fondled by a fine breeze despite any wind having deserted the air.
The figure got to its feet without grunt or groan, without bloodstain or bruise. In fact, the freakish thing was still smiling, showing off its terrifying teeth.
‘You must feel horrible,’ it said alarmingly, without anger. ‘Being fast enough to hit me, but not strong enough to hurt me.’
It kept its smile as it looked towards the lady, who noticeably still wasn’t shivering. Something Gelp or anyone in his village would never blame her for doing. Once again, the figure began whirling its string and stone, sending its wicked whistle into the air once more.
‘Go ahead,’ it began without bitterness. ‘Try and prove me wrong.’
Gelp saw the whirling weapon lower slightly before he saw her, smashing into the figure, but she was fast enough to strike the fiend before either string or stone could land a blow. Once again, the abomination was taken off its feet, causing a crater where it landed, and once again it got back to its feet without grunt or groan, without blemish or blood. More than once its whirling weapon got close to wounding her, but she remained fast enough to avoid the attack, fast enough to take the figure off its feet. But before long, Gelp felt as harmed as he was helpless by the fact that the figure just stood back up without weeping or wounds.
Soon a whole collection of craters, at least half a hundred, had been cast upon the valley floor, the wicked whistle of the whirling shape only interrupted slightly as every time the figure got back onto its feet, neither bleeding nor bruised, hell it wasn’t even breathing hard. Neither was she, but that didn’t comfort Gelp as much as he wanted. With a good sixty feet of distance between them, the demon continued whirling its weapon over its head; the smile hadn’t left its horrible face.
‘Do you know,’ it began, again with appalling calm. ‘That despite what you may have heard, tired meat can still be quite tender. So go ahead, keep striking me if you like. I assure you, you’ll be weary enough in time, and my stone will shatter your skull. Or if you’d like you can try running away, you seem far better at it than that one,’ it paused simply to point a finger at Gelp. ‘Try as you might to hide it, your clothes are shivering because they are scared, not as much as the coward over there, but shivering all the same.’
To this the woman didn’t respond; her clothes remained billowing. It was clear she had heard the creature, just as much as Gelp had. The difference between her and Gelp was that he was now showing his own teeth, not because he wanted to eat something, nor was he smiling. He was seething. He was so sick and tired of being called a coward. Even though it made perfect sense to be scared of this demon instead of some dog, that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that he had had enough of being called something he wasn’t, or at least wished he wasn’t. Courage wasn’t the absence of fear; it was action in spite of it. It wasn’t stupid to survive; he knew that. But that didn’t stop him from moving.
He was running now, but no longer away. He was running right at the abomination, something no one could call him a coward for. Stupid, yes, suicidal perhaps, but not cowardly. In that moment, that was all that mattered. Rationality rushed through his mind; it told him he was actually doing this to distract the demon. To give the woman a chance to run away, either get help, a hundred armies would work, or at least warn people to get away from the valley. His fellow villagers to start with. Perhaps in part he was doing this for that reason.
But the words that left his lips were, ‘I am not a coward!’
He didn’t know exactly what he was planning to do to the demon. He no longer had a sword, or any weapon for that matter. The fingers on his right hand were so ruined he couldn’t even form a fist, but none of this made him slow down. He bellowed, perhaps not a sound of bravery but not with a scared song. He saw the demon keep its smile, turning its head ever so slightly towards him. It was obvious the demon saw him coming, just as it was obvious the demon wasn’t doing anything to avoid his attack; it certainly wasn’t shivering. Gelp was, but this was due to anger, not the cold or cowardice. He was certain of this, and to make sure both the woman and the wicked thing knew it, he was ready to bellow such words.
But before he could, he reached the tall, terrible figure; apparently, his subconscious had decided he would try to harm it with a headbutt. His brow certainly struck its belly, and he felt for himself just how hard the creature’s flesh was. He would’ve had a better chance of butting through the valley wall than he had of wounding such sinister skin. Even as pain plagued him. He kept his eyes closed; his ears haunted by the wicked whistle coming from the figure. His imagination was infected by what he would see when he opened his eyes. The figure staring down at him with its wicked smile, still whirling its weapon high above. His ears further seemed to prove this, considering how they remained haunted by a whirling whistle. He did feel very stupid then and there. He didn’t want to die, but couldn’t see how he would be able to survive being struck. He had got himself into this situation to prove he wasn’t a coward. There was no turning back now, so he forced himself to open his eyes, face his death without fear, or at least look like he was doing so.
Gelp’s eyes opened, and he gazed upwards, his ears still being stung by the spinning whistle. Except neither stone nor string was moving now; they weren’t even still above the abomination’s head. The figure’s mouth was still wide, but it no longer appeared to be smiling. Its grey eyes didn’t appear to be staring at him, simply left in such a direction. And through it all, the terrible tune continued cutting into his ears. Gelp felt his own gaze moving downwards, the mystery of why the melody was still being made, mighty enough to make him search for its source.
He soon found it, although the answer felt as strange as the question itself.
There was now a hole in the figure’s chest, one too high up to be a result of his headbutt. Though it was there anyway, and it was getting wider, as a wind appeared to be blowing through it. Gelp sensed he had felt this wind before, the way someone who has held a grain of sand knows the breath of a beach. The wind was whistling, but it was also whittling through the figure’s flesh, and before the moment was even finished, blood began billowing out of the wound like bad ale from a vomiting mouth. Before a speck of sickening sanguine could touch him, Gelp was moved away. He didn’t move. Something moved him so fast that the world was nothing more than a blur for a bit of time.
He became still once more, feeling someone holding him, someone who had held him before. As he watched the figure’s bleeding body fall forward, the dead weight of the demon would’ve been enough to squash him like an orange. He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened, but the figure definitely was now deceased. Its body billowing out blood by the bowlful.
Gelp glanced down at the woman who still held him for a moment, watching as she calmly moved away from him. Noticing that this time she didn’t touch his shoulder. Which he only now realised was no longer dislocated. She did touch his chest for a brief moment, and he knew her simple touch was the reason why his heart was no longer beating as if it wanted to burst through his chest. She didn’t turn to face the demon, as if well aware it was no longer alive, as her clothes continued billowing, despite there not being any wind.
‘You provided an excellent distraction,’ she had spoken, and her voice stirred his ears, as much as it did his skin, stomach and spine. ‘Gave me a chance to deliver the wind right through the creature.’
‘The wind?’ Gelp gasped.
‘It is that thing you think is invisible that you can sometimes feel on your body when you open a window or walk through a field,’ she replied.
‘I know what the wind is,’ he replied. ‘I meant...’ he paused then, even Gelp wasn’t sure what words he should use. ‘I meant, how could you possibly make wind do that?’ he finally settled on saying.
To this she seemed genuinely puzzled, as if they had been swimming, and he asked her what water was.
‘You do know what you have in your pocket?’ she asked.
‘My...’ Gelp forced himself not to finish, partly not needing her to explain what a pocket was, but because of what he felt inside it.
Still, he took the piece of parchment out and held it in his hand, noticing how it was the exact same shade between grey and white that she was wearing.
‘What does a draft notice...’ again he paused, as his own mind answered his question.
The word draft meant several things, including being called upon for military action, but it also described the fluttering of wind. Gelp found himself gazing at her clothes as they continued to flutter. He wasn’t as startled by this as he thought he would be. He had heard stories of the magical mercenaries the capital could hire to help fight wars. Perhaps she was one of them.
But that didn’t explain everything.
‘That creature,’ Gelp began, ‘said it was told to come to this valley. Why?’
‘Bandits,’ she replied. ‘Thieves in these parts are getting more sophisticated. They forge draft notices, get all the men to come to a place like this, tell creatures like that where to find a bunch of firm flesh to feast on. Takes care of the men of the villages, leaving such places vulnerable to raid.’
‘What?’ Gelp gasped, even though he had heard her clearly. ‘You mean bandits are going to attack my village?’
‘Not anymore. I managed to get all but one of the draft notices out of your village before they could be found, which means all the men are still there, and in my experience, bandits are indeed cowardly. Something which you are definitely not.’
Hearing this, Gelp felt his spine straighten, not because he was scared, but because he was proud.
‘I’m not,’ he found himself saying, loving how the truth tasted on his tongue. ‘Still,’ he said with a heavy breath. ‘I know it is petty, but I wish I could convince my fellow villagers of that.’
‘Cutting off that creature’s head and bringing it back to your village would probably go a long way as proof,’ she said.
Gelp glanced towards the terrible corpse, and while neither a butcher nor a braggart, he seriously considered finding his sword to start cutting. It was sharp enough to forge a fire with a single strike after all. He found his hand resting over his heart, feeling how calm it now was. He didn’t know how, but knew it was because of her.
‘My name is Gelp,’ he said, looking back into her not quite yellow eyes.
‘Sanel,’ she said simply.
Her name was as powerful as her presence, but this time Gelp found himself smiling.
‘Thank you, Sanel, for being here, for saving my village.’
‘You are most welcome, Gelp,’ she replied, and hearing her speak his name was a sound he would never forget.
She then leaned in slightly and spoke in a softer tone.
‘By the way, you were right to be scared of that dog growling. I’ll leave you to the cutting,’ she said, turning around and walking before he could reply.
As she did so, he noticed that her hair was finally swaying slightly, the black of it looking very much like the fur of the dog he had once feared. He agreed with what she had said, overwhelmed but at least not afraid of this fact.
