Eleanor doubted it, but she got up, again feeling another surge of warmth run through her body, heating her cold muscles and filling her with vitality she was well aware she should not possess.
A concern for later.
Right now, this strange energy was too valuable for her to question its provenance. She gave the sword some experimental swings. She had taken some Kendo classes at summer school years ago, but the heavy metal felt very different to the bamboo ‘shinai’ swords they had used.
Standing in front of Conlan she faced the narrow entrance to the canyon, raising her weapon as the Protectors entered. There were six of them – they carried lanterns and all drew their swords when they saw her. The slick swish of the metal as they were released from the scabbards made her flesh crawl, a feeling compounded as her gaze tracked the row of sharpened steel glinting in the lantern light. One of the men was talking to her. She had no idea what he was saying, but the gestures he made and the laughing from the other men left little to the imagination. Hers would not be an easy death. Fear made her hand shake, but she fought to control herself as they fanned out around her. She swung her sword at those who moved too close. The two to the right jumped back as she came within a hair’s breadth of slicing flesh. The man who had done the talking laughed. He moved forward, casually, then twisted suddenly and aimed a hammer blow straight at her head. Eleanor reacted purely on instinct. Feeling the power surge through her, she raised her own sword to block the blow. The jarring force as it landed made her teeth rattle in her head, the sound of ringing metal momentarily deafening as it echoed around her. A look of surprise flashed briefly across the man’s face, before he pulled back and thrust at her side. Eleanor twisted and swung the sword at the back of his neck. He ducked and blocked. He was playing with her, she knew it. He brought another hammer blow down at her head again, but this time she shifted her weight slightly, allowing his blow to slide harmlessly down her blade. As his weapon cleared the tip of hers, Eleanor allowed the tension to release and the sword flicked up. Seeing an opening, she thrust her stolen sword, with all the force she could muster, into her opponent’s throat. He looked shocked, but then again, so was she. She watched in amazement as his life blood pumped out of the ruptured main artery. He grabbed the wound with rubbery, useless fingers and collapsed, gurgling his last breaths.
For a moment there was silence and the metallic smell of blood.
I killed a man
, was her first thought.
It was far too easy
, was the second. Horrified, Eleanor looked at the sword. Her hands still trembling, she tightened her grip. Then, raising the wet, glistening weapon again, she turned to stare grimly at the nearest Protector, who stared back in astonishment. The silence was shattered by one of the other men yelling at her, his obvious fury making him sound like an animal as he made his point in his snarling, growling language. She turned slowly. The fight had taken her away from Conlan’s side. Her place had been taken by the man doing the yelling – he was thin and wiry, with a nasty grin. Crouched over Conlan, he had pulled his head back by the hair and was holding a wicked-looking knife against his captive’s throat, dark malice staring at her from black, hostile eyes. The man said something, looked at Eleanor’s sword and then dragged his blade across skin to emphasise the words. A thin line of blood dribbled down Conlan’s neck. Despite the barrier of the strange language, she understood exactly what the Knife Man meant and flung her sword away from her.
So much for playing fair
. One of the other men circled behind her. She knew he was there, but there was nothing she could do about it. Forcing herself to breathe slowly, Eleanor concentrated on not showing fear. The man holding the knife to Conlan’s throat growled orders. He seemed to be in charge now. Two of the men went to stand by the only exit from the canyon.
Just in case I felt like running for it
, Eleanor thought, fighting back her hysterical panic.
Knife Man called to a younger-looking man, his features soft and frightened; the kid nodded and knelt, holding his own knife to Conlan’s exposed neck. Standing slowly, Knife Man moved towards her. He smiled and licked his thin lips, running his gaze up and down her trembling body. Death was coming. Eleanor could see it in his eyes, but first he was going to make her suffer. She had a strong flashback to another life, another man threatening her, gunshots, agony, regret. Knife Man raised his blade and gently, almost as a caress, ran it down her left arm. Thanks to the cold, Eleanor was able to control her reaction; she saw the trickle of blood before the pain hit. It was not a deep cut, but it required her to clamp her teeth together over a cry of pain. She would not give him that satisfaction. Behind them she heard Conlan struggling, yelling something in their growling language. Knife Man barked an order without turning round. There was the dull slap of fists hitting flesh, accompanied by a pitiful, animal-like whimpering and then silence.
Is he dead?
Eleanor could not bring herself to look. If he was, at least it had been quick.
Looking annoyed by the interruption, Knife Man grabbed at her chin with his free hand. Eleanor flinched away, taking an involuntary step back. The other man was there, right behind her. He reached an arm round her chest, pinning her against him. The rank smell of sweaty, unwashed man filled Eleanor’s nose, driving her to panic. She struggled, attempting to get free, but the man’s arms were like steel. Knife Man sneered at her, growling what appeared to be his amusement at her futile efforts. Anger flared, and with the heel of her foot Eleanor stomped down, hard. The vice-like grip was released and the man howled, landing on his backside as he tried to massage the pain from his crushed toes. Unfortunately, before Eleanor could take advantage of the chance for freedom, the point of Knife Man’s blade thrust at her face. Again, instinct kicked in. Raising her arms, Eleanor’s right forearm took the force of the jab instead of the eye Knife Man had been aiming for. The pain was immediate, running up her arm and filling her head, lightning flashing through her vision. Crying out, she staggered back, clutching at the injury. An alarming quantity of blood – warm and sticky – oozed between her fingers. She watched it drip, the crimson terrifyingly vivid against the snow. Her body suddenly weak, the situation beyond her comprehension, Eleanor dropped to the ground stunned, shaking uncontrollably. Knife Man stood menacingly over her. In an abstract way she knew death was imminent, but time seemed to have stopped. She raised her head. Knife Man was staring at her, horror and disgust on his face and enough fear in his eyes to reach through Eleanor’s shock.
What’s he afraid of?
Utterly confused, Eleanor looked about, wondering if the mythical help Conlan had alluded to had suddenly made an appearance.
“Harish!” Knife Man yelled, backing away – the knife held in defence now, not attack. His retreat was halted by a hollow ‘thwack’. Knife Man’s eyes opened wide, his features frozen in terror. The fletched feathers of the end of an arrow were protruding from the top of his head, like some sort of bizarre headdress. His eyes rolled back in his skull and he collapsed. Behind her, Eleanor heard another ‘thwack’ and turned as the other man, just having got back on his feet, toppled over, an arrow sticking out of the top of his head. The two by the exit fell with hardly a sound, arrows sticking out of their chests, before they fully realised what was going on. That just left the kid next to Conlan. Eleanor turned to face him. His soft brown eyes flicked around with panicked fear; he gazed at his fallen comrades, promptly flung his sword and knife to the ground and fell to his knees with his hands behind his head.
Eleanor forced herself to stand. Her body continued to shake. Conlan was lying still. She was too far away to tell if he was breathing and too afraid to get closer in case he might not be. Shadows moved across the gap above her – those who had released the arrows, she guessed – but were they friends or more foe? The pain in her wrist became an agony that overwhelmed even the pain of the injury Knife Man had inflected. She cradled it with her left hand and waited, paralysed, for whatever was coming next. Eleanor jumped when a voice called out from the canyon’s entrance.
“You must be Earth. Who taught you to fight?”
Eleanor spun round; a woman and two men were entering the canyon. It was the woman who had spoken. She was tall and willowy, with long black curls tied down her back. Cold grey eyes regarded the world from a beautiful, solemn, ivory-skinned face. The two men could not have been more different. The older one was tall and pale, blond hair and deep-blue eyes in a handsome, rugged face. He moved his lithe, muscular body with a sinuous grace that rivalled Conlan’s. The shorter, younger one had skin like polished walnut, a sturdier, stronger looking physique and closely cropped black hair over dark, almost black eyes that shimmered in the lantern light. He had an amused smile and an open, friendly face. They moved towards her with calm confidence, swords at their waists swinging against their legs as they walked. The blond man carried a bow, which he handed to the woman as he passed them, moving quickly towards Conlan. Eleanor felt a surge of relief. She was home and here were her family. She had never met these people before in her life, and yet she felt closer to them than anyone she had ever known. The pain, fear and confusion of the last few days fell away and she smiled through tears she had not realised were falling down her face.
“I’m Eleanor,” she managed between sobs, stepping over the dead man at her feet and staggering forwards. The woman almost ran towards her, welcoming her. As they touched, the pain in Eleanor’s wrist dropped immediately to a dull throb. Burying her face into the woman’s shoulder, she smelt lavender and the vague, comforting impression of incense; the woman stroked her head gently.
“I’m Amelia. We knew you were close when our brands started burning, so we came looking for you. Conlan always said this was a good place for an ambush. He’s my man, Will,” she said, nodding towards the blond man crouching over Conlan. “The other one’s Freddie.” Freddie had dragged the cowering young Protector a short distance from them, so that he would not get in Will’s way. Eleanor watched anxiously as the blond-haired man gently assessed Conlan’s injuries.
“We need to get him out of here,” he said.
“Is he going to be OK?” Eleanor asked.
Will nodded without looking up. “He’s taken quite a beating and he’s exhausted. I think there might be broken ribs, but hopefully he’ll heal.” He gently pulled his patient into a sitting position; as he did, Conlan’s eyes flickered open.
“Hi, Boss, how do you feel?” Will asked.
“Is Eleanor OK?” Conlan’s voice was a whisper, and pain danced deep in his eyes as he fought for consciousness, struggling to sit up.
“Yes, she’s fine. She put up a great fight,” Will said. Conlan stared at Eleanor, the strange look back on his face as he examined her.
“Erm, Boss, what do you want to do with this one?” Freddie called from behind them.
Conlan looked past them to where Freddie stood over the young Protector.
“Will, get me up.”
Will shook his head. “You should stay where you are, let Freddie handle it.”
Conlan glared, until the blond man sighed.
“Yes, Boss,” he muttered, hauling Conlan to his feet, watching him walk painfully towards the Protector.
“Freddie, your sword,” Conlan said softly, holding out his hand.
“Yes, Boss.” Freddie answered. He unsheathed his weapon, handed it to Conlan and stepped out of the way. The terrified Protector began to babble in his growling language. As the tip of the sword was placed against the man’s chest, his babbling intensified, tears ran down his face and he started wringing his hands. Horrified, Eleanor moved to Conlan’s side.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
Conlan looked at her, eyes dark, unreadable. “Killing him.”
Eleanor gasped and shook her head. “Let him go, he’s just a kid.”
“He knows who you are Eleanor, knows you exist – knows we exist. He can’t be allowed to live,” Conlan said, his voice empty.
“So what if he knows we exist?” she asked, angry at Conlan’s sudden casual disregard for life.
Was he not the one who was just berating me for accidentally killing people in Bremen?
“So when he goes running back he will tell the Enforcers, and we’ll be hunted. The minute the snow melts they will be swarming all over this mountain. It will make things very difficult.”
“Then it makes things difficult,” Eleanor snapped. “Let him go!”
Conlan grabbed her right wrist, giving no care to the still slowly oozing knife wound, and pushed it in front of the kneeling man’s face. He growled something at the terrified Protector in his own language. The kid looked horrified, nodded and said something back; it sounded to Eleanor like the word Knife Man had yelled,
harish
. She yanked her hand back, hissing in pain.
“What did you say to him?” she asked.
“I asked him if he knew what you were, if he recognised the symbol on your wrist.”
“I take it he did. What’s the word he used, ‘harish?’ ”
“The closest Will got it in your language is ‘abomination’,” Conlan replied.
“He thinks I’m an abomination?”
Conlan nodded. “Yes, he does and that’s why he and his kind will hunt us and kill us if they can.” As if that was enough of an explanation, Conlan raised the sword. Eleanor stepped quickly in front of the trembling Protector. Alarmingly, the tip of the blade punctured the rough material of Eleanor’s shirt, coming to a rest against her skin. It would take very little pressure to force the sword into her belly. She gasped and froze. Conlan glared at her with barely controlled fury; he did not withdraw the sword.