The Witchling of Alsira

Skaldt Tales 1 - The She-devil of Tarenhulf Rise

“It seems the Vhollen has gone all quiet and morose on us!” The voice belonged to that of a scraggly and brown-haired man. He had turned on his feet to walk backward at the pace of the rest of the warriors marching forward. In between his dark-brown mustache and beard, both in frazzled lack of upkeep, he gave a toothy smile.

“Perhaps he’s morose for your sake Rhalchet.” The second voice that broke in belonged to a blond-haired man from upwards and to the left of the marching horde of warriors. “He’s sick with grief, realizing this is the last mission you will be alive enough to be an annoyance on.” The blond-haired man gave a chuckle and shirked the weight of his bags on his shoulders.

“Pay him no mind, Amsthyn!” A third voice cut in from far up at the front of the group. “Rhalchet can’t help but watch our Vhollen, every moment of the day.” The voice grew louder, so as to be heard clearly over the ambient noise of the many warrior’s armor clanking and groaning as they walked. “Ever since Ylethus bested him in Jhulko’s Maze, last night, he’s developed a bit of a crush!”

“Is this right, Rhalchet?” The blond-haired man jumped on the words quickly. His blue eyes glinted with the morning’s light as he turned back. “Do you bend over and spread for every person that bests you in a children’s game?”

“Watch yourself, Amsthyn.” A surly and bald man far off to the side of the group quickly cut in. His voice sounded raspy, dour, and not at all acclimated to sarcasm or jest. “Ylethus takes the game quite seriously. I’m sure if he wasn’t so quiet, he’d lecture you on the intricacies of it.” The orange light of the second sun made the man stand out with a shiny halo of light across his sweaty scalp. “Besides, I heard the Vhollen likes his conquests, frisky and tight. Like that little blood-hair, he keeps for his training sessions. He’s not into the old, limp, loose wretches like Rhalchet.”

“I take it, you’d know this quite well Buethom.” The blond man cut in once more, turning his head towards the bald man. His voice was held in mock-concern, which was quickly betrayed by another chuckle.

“Oh, so that was you back in the barracks a few nights hence.” Rhalchet swiveled his head towards the other warriors but continued to walk backward on his feet so as to face Ylethus directly. “I was wondering who that was that smelled of rancid herdsmoll shit, and kept whispering apologies into my ear as they caressed me in a drunken stupor!”

Ylethus continued to move forward, every stride of his huge body kicked up the dust and sand of the Jolash Plateau as he walked. He rolled his eyes at the childish banter that his warriors were giving into at his expense. He’d let them have their fun for now, as the banter would settle their nerves before the carnage of the siege would begin once they arrived at their destination. He had trained them well; each of them were devoted to him and to each other. Once the blood would begin to run, and the metallic thunder of swords would echo throughout the city of Haaken Vaulthaen, he knew that his men would smarten up. Before that would happen, though, he might need to punch Rhalchet in the face for his apparent insubordination. That, and for walking backward while in the middle of a forward march.

The upwards incline of the ground was beginning to peak, and on either side of the path, the rocky ridges began to narrow. Ylethus could see the crest of the rise a few hundred feet further, after that area it would be a downward march for only a half-dozen leagues until they were at the city gates. The march would get easier, but the cover that the rise provided would be gone. They would need to move forward quickly and decisively. There was no turning back now.

Ylethus turned his eyes back to Rhalchet, still walking on his heels and blathering on about something to several of the other warriors. He was heedless of realizing that the path was narrowing and he would soon walk into an outcropping of sharp rocks. The rest of the warriors were aware of this and had changed positions to tighten up. It wouldn’t do to have him hurt himself, but Ylethus would wait a few more moments before alerting the annoying scoundrel. He took in a deep breath to bellow out to the idiot but never got to say the words he had conjured up in his mind.

It occurred in a moment of waning light and the hazy blur of quick motion. A shadow fell upon the face of Rhalchet as he continued to walk backward. He quickly lifted his head up to see what was casting it, but it was too late for him to react. The body that had leaped from the edge of the ridge, down on top of him had already made contact with his shoulders. The weight and force sent him sprawling forward, his eyes wide, his mouth gasping. He wasn’t able to catch himself and both of his arms became pinned beneath his own weight.

Ylethus instinctively took a single step forward readying himself. He drew both of his hefty wavecleaver blades, downward and forward, from the scabbards on his back. He looked at the crumpled body of his subordinate, giving a large puff of sand as he exhaled. Ralchet’s face was shoved directly into the dirt. On his back was the hunched form of Ylethus’ current student. One of her hands was shoving Rhalchet’s face into the dirt, the other had a short blade at the ready to slice his throat if he tried to get to his feet. Every muscle of the young woman’s body was tensed in preparation for battle. Her wild and piercing blue eyes — the same color as the sky — looked straight to him. The brilliant white of her skin, marred only by occasional blotches of freckles shone in the morning light, revealed beneath torn clothes and no armor at all. Her scarlet hair trailed upward on the breeze, making it look like she was some feral monster whose head and shoulders were wreathed in bloody flames.

Ylethus used his previous inhalation to let loose with a challenge towards the interloper who had taken down one of his warriors. “You thaekkuz-damned she-devil!” He took another two steps forward, beginning to close the distance between him and the young woman. He pivoted the hilts of his blades from a fencing posture to a charging attack.

She simply looked up at him and smiled. Her’s was a cruel and sadistic smile that looked almost like the snarl of a wolf mixed with the mad grin of an insane, old hermit. Ylethus had seen that same smile on old and grizzled warriors who had lost their minds in the blood-lust of battle. Those mad dogs who would have to be put down, often violently, as they had grown to enjoy killing beyond all other of life’s pleasures. Those that didn’t murder on the behalf of others during war, but would torture and kill the innocent or the weak, simply for their own amusement.

It took several moments for the rest of the warriors to react to the situation unfolding before them. Several gave shouts of alarm, others dropped their bags to reach for their weapons. Some rushed heedlessly forwards despite being unarmed and others took up preparatory positions on the outside of the group to watch for any other attackers or the presence of archers on the ridge. Ylethus had trained them all well, some more than others.

Before any could react, Ylethus had finally closed all of the distance and gave the first slash of his blades at the blood-haired woman. As both of his hefty blades sliced through the air at severe angles, he noticed a half-second too late that she had jumped from Rhalchet’s back into a partial back flip. As her feet trailed upwards, his blades passed through nothing more than air. Through adrenaline-heightened senses, a barely perceptible ringing was heard, as small rocks and grains of sand grazed or impacted the metal, kicked up by the force of her legs.

Rage began to boil up within him, even before his blades had finished their movement. He looked up to her, watching closely her boot-clad feet as she fully arched her back in mid-jump. She used her free hand to push on the gritty side of the rock wall behind her, and as she began to fall back to the earth, Ylethus soon realized what she was preparing for. Her legs were drawn up to her chest, and using what little force she could gain from the wall, she gave a hard outward kick with both legs to his chest. That same sadistic grin was still held upon her face and the blue of her eyes remained wildly vivid.

Ylethus was no small man, he towered above all the other warriors of the lands he protected. At seven feet from toe to head, four feet wide at the shoulder, and a weight exceeding twenty stones made from nothing more than pure muscle, he was easily spotted among the warriors upon any battlefield. Even as a young man he was often called “the Herdulth of Alsira Thaenat,” an unflattering nickname, remarking on his size, his stubbornness, and with how hard a single punch or kick from him hit. This being known to him over the course of his long and arduous life, it was surprising now for him to find that his youngest student’s kick had set him reeling back, knocking the wind right out of his lungs.

Ylethus could feel his face and neck grow flush from lack of air. He gave a cough and inhaled deeply as he let his right foot trail behind him, pointing outwards to provide him some support should the little harlot give another kick again while spinning in the air. The impact wasn’t enough to cause pain, but it was enough to cause him to drop his guard for a split-second. He reaffirmed his grip on his blades, pushing the left in front of him for protection, and swiveling the right to point downwards in his hand, like an assassin might clutch a dagger.

In the moment he was off-guard, the blood-haired woman had already impacted down onto Rhalchet again, sending another hard puff of air up from him. At least he was alive, although he might be sore and useless in the siege after this. She was now doing a sideways push, a sort of half-cartwheel, off of his body and getting to her feet. Every movement she performed was calculated, graceful and cat-like. The muscles, sinews and orchestrated parts of her body moving in a symphony of predatory carnality, slowly building up towards violence. Her left hand, holding the short blade close to her chest was still prepared, the muscles in her arms tensed to spring into an attack at any moment.

Ylethus could feel movement to his left and he allowed his eyes a brief flicker in that direction. He could see one of his warriors, a tall and robust woman with raven-black hair named of Nhulmyra move forward, preparing to strike with a halberd. The woman dropped to a crouched stance, keeping the weighted and vicious end of the pole-arm in front of her as if she were a hunter ready to spear a wild animal. Ylethus held his own stance and allowed the woman beside him to cautiously move forwards. Nhulmyra hesitated for only the briefest of moments, then charged forward with her teeth barred and her voice ringing with a howl of anger.

The blood-haired woman stood her ground for a moment, making eye contact with Ylethus. She seemed almost oblivious to the woman charging at her, but her sadistic smile grew a hair’s width larger. She broke eye contact and began to charge at Nhulmyra as well, giving out a similar howl, not so much in anger as in mockery. The blood-haired woman left herself open as she ran, the short blade in her left hand lowered to her side, still held downwards and at the ready. To all but Ylethus it would seem as if the young woman were acting foolishly, headstrong, filled with emotion and heedless of the strategy that was needed in heated combat. Ylethus, being her tutor and having to deal with her since she was but a babe, knew better.

Nhulmyra was skilled in her choice of weapon, Ylethus knew as much, which is why he selected her for this siege. She moved forwards with the halberd at the slightest of inclined angles. She remained crouched to preserve her momentum as she ran forward and lowered the haft-end of the pole-arm a mere inch, allowing it to graze the muscled thews of her thigh. Ylethus knew what she was doing, preparing herself both to lance forward with her weapon using the strength in her arms, but giving herself the option to use her own body as leverage for a slashing attack if the blood-haired woman veered to one of the sides. She pressed forward, the penetrating point above the halberd’s curved blade was leveled mere inches away from the blood-haired woman’s face, at this, any normal warrior would flinch or freeze up, and this would be their doom.

The blood-haired woman was not a normal warrior, she still had that damned smile on her face as she allowed her right foot to carry ahead of her while her left began to drag on the dirt. She lowered herself just a finger’s width down and to the right side of the halberd’s head. The blood-haired woman had seen a flaw in how Nhulmyra held her pole-arm, one that Ylethus himself hadn’t realized until he now saw it playing out before him. Nhulmyra favored her left hand, angling the head of the halberd to her right a slight bit. This allowed the more agile and younger blood-hair to push her head and neck past the pole-arm’s threatening blade, closing into the other woman’s threatening arc on her left side. If Nhulmyra pulled her polearm into a swing, she would only press the side of the polearm against the younger woman with the flat edge, with hardly any room to gain momentum. Her weapon was pinned and the blood-haired woman slid into a lower stance to get under any area of threat the other woman posed.

Ylethus had to move forward and to his left, taking advantage of the few moments he had while the blood-haired woman was going in for her kill. He bounded forward and spun his leg around in a wide arc, using the momentum of his great weight to steer him behind the blood-haired woman. A rock gave way beneath his feet, causing him to sprawl out farther than he wanted to and his face almost met with the bladed end of the other Nhulmyra’s halberd. He ducked under the head of the pole-arm and used the tip of his downward-pointed blade to slow himself.

The blood-haired woman was focused on her prey, sliding down until her legs were almost spread on either side of her body. She forced them back together, propelling her upwards, the blade in her left hand rising up from her chest in a quick slash that tore through leather straps and grazed at the other woman’s flesh. It could have been a killing wound if she had aimed for an exposed area, or chose to penetrate her blade rather than slash. She impacted against the muscled body of Nhulmyra, wrapping her own lithe body around her and pushing upwards until they were face to face as both women fell backward. The short blade was now held above Nhulmyra, able to be brought down in a single stroke towards the back of her exposed neck.

Ylethus raised up his downward-clutched blade, hard to his left, higher than the height of the two embracing women. He aimed carefully as the muscles in his arm and wrist began to twitch under their precise strain. He had to separate the two before the blood-hair could make her final stroke, while still preserving Nhulmyra whom he wanted to save. He lifted his blade high, using it’s curvature to pull between them, the dull end of his blade hitting the collarbone and neck of the blood-haired woman, his blade-end held towards the other. He pulled backward towards him with all of his force, using the blade as a pry-bar.

It worked, as the thick, dull edge of his sword impacted the soft flesh of his student. He leveraged all the strength in his arms to pull her away from Nhulmyra and downwards toward the ground. The younger woman was caught unawares, still focused on her kill, and hit the rocky plateau hard.

Ylethus had to press his advantage fast, using the sharp end of his prying blade to impale the ground beside the blood-haired woman and holding fast to the hilt. He used his right elbow as well has the robust girth of his own form to limit the space she could use to roll, jump or deflect herself back to her feet. He then dropped his left blade in mid-air, curling his fingers into a fist. The younger woman instinctively raised her head and neck upwards after the impact, readying herself to get back up. The hammering fist of Ylethus’ left hand impacted her straight in the face, driving her back into the rock beneath her with a thunderous boom.

The rest of the warriors around them froze all at once. Those that were running to assist stopped dead in their tracks. The archers nearby who had plucked from their quivers in case they might be of assistance held their arrows half-notched in their bows. Nhulmyra knelt beside Ylethus, using the haft end of her pole-arm for support, while her other hand felt the exposed and grazed skin of her chest. The only movement came from Rhalchet, who had gotten to his knees and proceeded to dust the front of his armor off while shouting out a stern “Fuck!”

Ylethus hadn’t restrained himself, but he hadn’t felt a hard cracking of bone, or the satisfying gush that often came from caving in an opponent’s skull. Part of him, the sappy and empathetic side that he often tried to drown in booze, whores, and further violence made him fear that he had finally ended the life of his student. He pulled back his fist, still prepared to be thrust forwards once again if need be. He looked down to his student, the blood gushing from her nose and bottom lip matched the same as the brilliant scarlet of her hair. He held himself on top of her, fist at the ready, analyzing her. She didn’t move or twitch her body at all, and he leaned in closely to her.

That is when she spat blood in his face.

“For the love of Tole-” Ylethus blurted out and without thinking had let the grip on his blade loosen as he used both hands to wipe the blood from his eyes and face. It had only taken a moment and he soon realized the young woman had already managed to squeeze by him and carried her legs into a spin, using the momentum to get back to her feet.

“I’m ready to fight, you old drunk!” The blood-haired woman still held her blade in her hand and stood just an arm’s distance from the hulking warrior. “I told you over and over again. I want to go on this siege!” As deadly as she was, she still held the impatience and temperamental ties of youth. It was almost as if she were throwing an infantile fit.

Ylethus gave a long sigh and lifted himself to his own height, dwarfing the younger woman in his shadow. He opened his fists, his arms held at his sides almost in supplication. He took a deep breath in between sore ribs to speak to the young woman.

He was greeted by another batch of blood and saliva propelled into his face. The little bitch was good at that and he was now growing tired of it.

“Fuck you to Gehemol, on a scalten cat’s bladed lhipossa, you useless old bastard!” She held her ground, her arms still at her sides, the dagger didn’t seem like a threat anymore. “I have the right to a Kollishi Thaulp just like anyone else!”

With the brutal power of blind rage, Ylethus brought his right arm up and out towards the young woman, hitting her full force with the back of his huge hand. He sent her flying backwards and into the chalky and rough wall of the path. He noticed Rhalchet scramble out of the way now that he got to his feet. Ylethus took a single step forwards, pinning the disoriented woman between the rocks and his chest.

“I am not just your mentor, you little shit!” He pressed forwards further. “I am your Vhollen. I am your master. I am your father. I am your fucking god!” He punched the rocky face of the wall and sent chunks of rock splintering in all directions. The blood-haired woman winced, but could not raise her arms to shield her face. “I say who goes on sieges!” Another punch with the other hand. “I say who gets their rite of adulthood!” Another punch. “I say who lives and who dies!” Both fists impacted the wall at the same time as he loomed over the young woman.

He stood over her, making a contest of wills with direct eye contact, his teeth showing from between his lips. She looked up to him, her eyes wide and dilated, the vivid blues fading to deepest blacks. Despite the blood across her face, she looked up at him from beneath the hair of his beard and something pulled at his heart for a single beat. The same kind of look she gave him when he picked her up from that cave all those years ago. Moisture came to his eyes, but for the love of all the gods, old and new, he still wanted to rip her limb from limb for her insubordination.

He took a step back, holding his eyes with her. He lifted his right arm and she flinched at his action. He pointed back down the ridge, back to the canyon city of Alsira Thaenat. He leaned forward, pressing his bloody face against her’s.

“Ghelta! Get your scrawny arse back home. Now! You aren’t an adult. You have no glory to gain for yourself.” He took in stuttering breaths. “You are a disgrace to the vhulkovyr caste, and I will deal with you personally when I get back from Haaken Vaulthaen. You better pray to Olthenna that I die this day, for if I don’t, you will wish that I had.” He held his stance.

She continued to lock eyes with him for a moment, moisture creeping into her eyes as well. She gave a hard sniff and raised her hand to her face, whipping a mixture of blood and snot away from her. The blood was beginning to clot and cake around her features. He began to feel sorry for hurting her as he did. He was proud of her spirit, she had always been fierce, even as an infant. He had to remain commanding and in control for his warriors. He had to show how displeased he was with her sabotaging of his plans. One day, maybe soon, she might realize her folly, hopefully before she killed him from stress.

“Yes, my Vhollen.” Her voice was quiet and like a breeze as it passed by Ylethus’ ears. She pressed against the rock to get past him. Taking one more look up into his eyes before turning to walk away. “My apologies to all you honorable warriors from taking you away from your work!” She gave out a yell to the men and women still frozen on the ridge. She continued her walk past the frizzle-haired man who gave a snort at her. “All except you Rhalchet. You’re a fucking weasel.”

Ghelta then ran off, throwing her blade to the ground. She ran like the wind down the path that led to Tarenhulf Rise. Ylethus turned around, walking calmly back to where he had dropped his blades. He picked them up and sheathed them, then stopped and stared to the gathered warriors around him.

“Are you all going to stand there like Alwhedein consorts? Slack-jawed, dumb-founded, and eagerly awaiting some sloppy lord’s lhipossa to fill your mouth?” He strained his body and gave a hearty bellow. “Or are you all gonna get back to marching forward so we can kill some Veshkoldan Delathi scum and take a fuckin’ city?!”

The warriors around Ylethus gave out two loud vhulkovyr battle-cries and went back to their march. Ylethus continued stride with them. He let his mind wander one more time to the past, as he took his first steps over the ridge and could see the Jolash Basin below, the city of Haaken Vaulthaen sprawling out by the edge of the Jol River. Perhaps Master Toulam was right, all those years ago. The gods help him, that blood-haired little she-devil would be his burden unto death.