Prompt: Write a story
about a warrior that doesn’t want to kill the dragon.
Nerine sat cross-legged in the shade of a vast evergreen
upon a bed of perfumed needles, her yew longbow resting across both legs. She was
atop a massive column of rock capped with conifers – one of dozens like it. She
absently ran her hand across the shallow notches in the bow, like one would caress
a cat. She been atop this cliff for six hours, keeping vigil over the vale – her
back was starting to ache.
A hundred feet below, nestled in a trampled mess of pine
needles were three perfect eggs, glimmering like sapphires in the fading light.
They were the last of their kind – which made them even more precious. Men had come
from the wet land seeking them, vying after power and affluence. She’d killed
six since being appointed Den-Warden, one for each etching in her bow.
There was another Den-Warden, though Nerine had never met
them – her father had told her so. Tonight would mark one month since she last sat
watch with him, she missed the sound of his low voice and his fantastical
stories. He would be leagues from the Vale now, fighting the Grey Men somewhere
down the coast, driving their vile influence from their ancestral lands.
A flicker of orange drew her gaze. She rocked forward into a
crouch and slunk to the cliff’s edge, still hidden in the shadow the tree. She
held her breath as listened intently, eyes scanning the thicket below. She
pressed her palm against the ground.
She closed her eyes with a soft sigh and let her heartbeat
steady. Her hearing dimmed as she bonded with the earth. She felt the
scuttle of insects beneath the bark of the trees as if they were crawling on
her own flesh. She could feel the forest stirring in the wind, like they were
the hairs on her head. She could sense the Grey Men who hacked their way
through the brush with axes – each fall of their axe felt like a needle
pricking into her skin.
She breathed again, pulling her palm from the ground as she broke
the bond. She shouldered her bow hastily and slid off the cliff face,
allowing herself to plummet for a moment before seizing a handful of rock to arrest
her fall. She scuttled down the rock with the ease a man would climb stairs, a path
she’d climbed a hundred times.
Nerine set off in the direction of the Grey Men at a light
sprint, with silent, soft footfalls. She considered returning to the grove for
reinforcements, but she couldn’t risk losing the eggs. As she drew closer, she
could hear them now – their harsh rasping breath and weary footfalls. She dropped
to a crouch and skulked into the dense foliage.
She saw them now. There were four in single file, dressed in
tired leather jerkins with thick black belts and cuffed leather boots. The lead
soldier – a red faced man with a thick moustache, who was drenched in sweat –
swung his axe at the brush to clear the path. Nerine had smelt him before she’d
seen him – his stench clung to the breeze.
They were a scouting party, lightly armed, each man carried
only a bush-axe, knife, and short bows. They were hardy for Greys, clearly
seasoned soldiers well versed with survival.
Nerine stepped into the clearing behind them, planting her
bare feet at shoulder width, digging them into the fresh grass. She felt the
cool night air washing across her body, she bonded with it, allowing it to sharpen
her senses. She could feel the movements of the men without having to
see them directly. She notched her bow and drew a slender arrow across it,
training it on the leader’s back.
“Halt.” She commanded.
The soldiers jumped like rabbits, whirling in place. One
instinctively reached for his axe, freezing as he saw the arrow. The commander made
his way around his men, feet slipping in the muck. His axe was wet with dew and
speckled with flecks of wood. He stood protectively in front of his men, holding
his axe at arm’s length. She felt his eyes scan the clearing, then fall back
upon her.
“We mean no harm, nymph.” He spoke with a trace of
nobility. “We’re merely passing through.”
Nerine shook her head slightly. “Go back the way you came.
You’re trespassing.”
He licked the corners
of his mouth, letting his shoulders relax. “You’re alone here. Think about this,
girl. We must go this way, with or without your blessing.”
He flipped his axe in his hand, watching the girl for a
flinch that never came. She could feel his muscles tensing in his shoulder.
“Very well.” She said curtly.
She let loose the arrow. It whistled through the air,
striking the leader through the eye with a wet crunch. He swayed in place,
mouthing soundless words in shock before crumpling to the ground. His men shouted
in terror, drawing their axes.
She felt an axe spin through the air, predicted its
trajectory and gracefully twirling beneath it. She felt her hand encircle its
haft and completing her spin, returned it to its owner. He stumbled backward,
his face caved in from the axe, spurting blood across the dirt.
The others had charged, axes raised. She redirected the first
swing with her axe, hooking his arm through the eye of the bow and yanking it
hard to the side. He stumbled, rolling with the impact. His comrade had reached
Nerine now, swinging wildly at her. She ducked beneath his wide arc and seized
his knife, yanking it from its deerskin scabbard. She pirouetted, thrusting into
the small of his back. He gasped as all the air was driven from his lungs and collapsed.
Nerine spun to face the last man as he clamoured out of the
brush, still holding his gleaming axe. His breathing was rapid and his eyes wide
– he already knew he was dead. He charged in a desperate attempt to overpower
her with sheer weight. She stepped backward, thrusting her knife forward and
allowing him to barrel face first into the blade.
They tumbled together into the bush, his twitching body
ending up atop hers, dripping blood from the wound. Nerine kicked him off of
her with a grunt – they were even heavier than they looked. She stood and
retrieved her bow. She unbonded with the wind, allowing her senses to shrink
back to their normal levels.
Nerine left them where they laid – nature would take care of
them eventually – and returned to her perch atop the cliff. The eggs were still
mercifully intact and undisturbed. She sighed and crossed her legs. More would
come, they always did.
