Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Florine’s condition deteriorated overnight. By morning, her skin was pale and she had difficulty remaining upright in the saddle.

“We should rest,” Armaila said.

“No time.” The words were spoken through gritted teeth. “Must stay ahead of them.”

Florine had explained that she was nicked with a poisoned blade when checking on Earl and Marie’s farm—she insisted it was working itself out and she would be fine.

It was midmorning when they finally stopped in a small meadow, surrounded by thick pines that gave them some measure of privacy from the road. The branches interlocked into a giant, living fence where many birds had made their home.

“I will rest for an hour,” Florine said. She tied the horses to a tree without removing their saddles.

Armaila didn't bother replying. She unfurled her blanket and laid down, using a corner of her cloak to shield her eyes. The grass beneath was damp and soft, and it formed strange lumps under her, but she was too tired to care. She hadn’t slept well overnight, afraid of what cloaked figures might be hiding in the darkness.

Labored breathing forced Armaila to open one eye, squinting. Florine sat on her own blanket, hand on her stomach. Her skin had paled to a deathly shade of white, a striking contrast against her blue eyes.

“Do you need help?” Armaila asked.

Florine groaned, but shook her head.

When they continued, the woman’s condition had not improved. Armaila followed behind, scanning for danger. The road between Greenfields and Normar was one of the safest in Erithor, but still, there were stories of bandits and robbers, let alone the mysterious Legion.

They descended a small hill and lose rocks made the footing difficult. A small stream murmured below, a good opportunity to let the horses drink and to refill their own water skins.

Florine doubled over in her saddle, clutching the wound on her abdomen. Armaila rushed to her side, but was too late to catch her from tumbling to the ground.

“In my bag…” Florine struggled to say the words, pointing up at her saddle. “The map will guide you.”

Armaila found the map quickly. She’d only seen one other in her life, sketched in an old book in Baron Josef’s library. The one Florine had showed their kingdom in detail, and extended north beyond the wastelands to a land she had never heard of. Necd uw rli Feribwenn was scrawled in bold red lettering, followed by The Fairy Kingdom in smaller letters below. Everything was marked in two languages.

It was said the north was a forsaken waste land, barren of any living thing. The map she held showed a bare strip dividing the two kingdoms, and The Land of Ash was scrawled over it, and that was where Josef’s map had ended.

Judging from how far they had traveled from Greenfields, she guessed Stonebrook was not far, perhaps a league. It would be risky, bringing Florine into a town.

I have no choice.

Armaila stopped to let the horses drink. Water bubbled and churned over large rocks strewn through the creek bed and a thick layer of moss covered the banks, making her footing dangerous. She dipped her hands into the water and shivered from the cold.

The trees were tall and slender, but pressed together tightly, making it impossible to see more than a couple paces into the forest. The lack of vision made her uneasy.

As a child, her father taught her to avoid areas where you couldn’t see what was around you. He had warned her of bears and other forest animals, but now she was not sure if that was the only reason. Had he known about the Legion?

A hand clasped over Armaila’s mouth and a thick arm enveloped her waist. She kicked and her foot swung through empty air, sending a jolt of pain through her knee. From the corner of her eye, she saw two more men approach. Tall and heavyset, with thick beards. There was an air about them that suggested they had not set foot in a civilized town in some time.

A hard object crashed into Armaila's skull. Her vision swam and there was a metallic taste on her tongue. Darkness overtook her.

Armaila's woke sometime later with a throbbing head. She attempted to lift her arm to rub the cut on her temple, but her hand would not move. It vaguely occurred to her that both her hands and feet were bound. She blinked to clear her blurred vision. It helped, but everything retained a slight haze and the ground moved in long, rolling motions.

As the effects slowly subsided, several figures came into view. She was in a camp. A fire burned within a ring of tents and various living commodities were strewn about, an established community. The sun was painfully bright.

“She's waking up,” one of the men said. He nudged a man to his right.

“Burn, she's waking up!” the other man repeated in the direction of a tent.

The sound hurt Armaila's ears and made her head throb worse.

A tall man emerged from the tent. He had closely cropped hair and a short, well-trimmed beard. His name sounded like one from Stonebrook but he did not have their signature fiery red hair. When Armaila squinted, she thought there could be a hint of crimson in his beard.

“I apologize for the actions of my men,” he said, taking a seat by the fire. “We have been on edge since… recent events.”

“Burn,” one of the men hissed. “I say we hang her and be done with it.”

Burn held up his hand to stop any further words. “That is not your decision to make, Turoc.” He turned his attention back to Armaila. “Why are you here?”

“I believe I was hit on the head and dragged here,” she said.

Burn took a dagger and sharped it against a whetstone, but he did not speak.

These were the robbers she had heard stories of. “I have money,” Armaila lied after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. “Let me go unharmed and I will give it to you.”

The man called Turoc spat. “We don't want your filthy money, girl.”

Burn leaned forward and set the dagger aside. “I didn't think the Grisham would sink this low, sending a woman to spy on us.”

“I have never heard that name,” Armaila said. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not a spy.” She paused for a moment, trying to think how she could persuade them to let her go. “I am to be married to Sir Gregory Smith of Greenfields. His father is the baron, and I know he would pay handsomely for my return. My safe return.”

“Does Mr. Smith know his bride is so far from home, I wonder?” Burn ran a hand over the lower part of his stubbled jaw as he considered her words. “You are traveling with a fairy, a dragon egg, and a sword from the finest fairy smiths. To be in such company is no coincidence.”

Armaila’s jaw went slack. “What did you say?”

Burn seemed amused by her reaction. “You didn’t know?” Burn leaned forward with the dagger, causing Armaila to pull back and knock over a stack of cooking pans. “Hold still,” he muttered before cutting her bonds with a quick flick of the blade.

Armaila rubbed her wrists, attempting to sooth the redness. Perhaps my mother was right to secure my marriage to Gregory. Greenfields certainly was safer than the wildlands she found herself in now. Still, despite the danger, she felt more alive than she ever had.

A woman’s voice called for Burn across the camp. “If you even think of running,” he said, his expression calm as he spoke to Armaila, “my men find you.” He rose to his full height—a hand taller than most men—and disappeared into a tent some distance away.

Armaila was left to spend the rest of the day sitting by the fire. The other men wouldn’t meet her gaze, except for the one Burn had named as Turoc. He was middle-aged and heavy set with a tangled beard, and even with a few paces between them, she could smell smoke on his breath. The other men busied themselves with other tasks around the camp, but not Turoc. He waited.

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“Miss?”

Armaila jumped at the sudden speech. A young woman a year or two her senior held a large pot of stew. The girl’s hair was dark and her cheeks had a slight blush to them.

“Here’s some food,” the girl offered, propping the pot over the fire. It was large but she did not struggle under the weight. “I hope my brother didn't scare you too much, he can be a bit rough sometimes. But he means well.”

“Your brother?”

“Burn. He's not really my brother, but he’s been the closest thing I’ve had to family since I was eleven. By the mountains, that’s eight years already.” She shook her head and smiled. “I’m Clara.”

“Why did they think I was a spy?” Armaila asked.

“We lived respectable lives until Grisham became baron. He taxed us until we bled dry, then he taxed us more. The only way we could survive was by fighting back... Now we have a price on our heads. Burn, especially.” Clara’s expression darkened. “They’ve sent spies before.”

Greenfields was not without its petty squabbles, but nothing of serious consequence had ever happened, as long as Armaila could remember.

The darkness disappeared in an instant and was replaced with a smile. “Stew?”

Armaila’s stomach rumbled but she hesitated.

“You can trust Burn,” Clara insisted. She placed a bowl in Armaila’s hands and left to tend to other business around the camp.

Turoc remained, his arms now folded over his stomach as he leaned against a tree for comfort. He watched, and his eyes were not gentle.

“You're a long way from home, that's for sure.” He turned his head sideways to study her better.

Armaila turned her gaze away, hoping he would let the conversation drop. To her dismay, he crept closer.

He placed a hand on the side of her face. “You are a pretty one,” he whispered. His hand dropped from her head down to her shoulder and slowly made its way toward her chest.

Armaila swung her fist but he grabbed her arm before the blow could land.

“Don't you dare touch me,” she spat.

Turoc smiled with black teeth. “I'll do what I want,” he said, grabbing her hair.

He yanked her forward but Armaila managed a scream before he clamped his other hand over her mouth.

“Quiet.” He slapped her hard enough to send her to the ground.

The scream had been enough. Burn's tent flap flew open and several faces appeared from the sidelines.

Burn looked at the situation for a second, confusion crossing his face. Turoc stepped back, but it was obvious what he had planned to do. “She’s a spy,” he said, backing up as Burn closed the gap between them. “There's hardly any women here, and no man in his right mind would touch Clara, not with you hovering over her every sec—”

His plea was cut short with a sharp blow to the jaw. Too stunned to move, he sat on the ground. He spat and a tooth landed in the dirt, black and rotten.

“I trusted you when I let you into our home,” Burn said in a low voice. “Get out or I'll do far worse than a loose tooth.”

“She's no one,” Turoc muttered, scrapping himself off the ground. He grabbed his belongings from a tent and saddled his horse without a word. He looked back with a scowl as he rode off, Burn standing his ground until he had disappeared.

Armaila felt her face beginning to swell and could only imagine what it looked like. If my mother could see me now… The thought made her shutter.

“Come,” Burn said. “We need to get you something for that.”

“I'm fine,” she said, holding her face with one hand to lessen the stinging.

He grabbed hold of her arm firmly, but not enough to hurt, and forced her in the direction of the tent he had come from.

Inside the tent, Florine lay on a cot, sweating and unconscious. It was obvious now—her height, her weight, the delicate beauty of her features. Florine was not human.

Clara aided an elderly woman in tending to her.

“She needs something for the swelling,” Burn said, motioning to Armaila's face.

The old woman nodded and wrung a cloth over a basin of cold water.

“What happened?” Clara asked. “We heard the screams.”

Armaila accepted the cloth and pressed it to her cheek There was something in the water and the stinging went away as it touched her skin.

Burn frowned. “It was Turoc.”

The old woman stopped. “There must be some mistake,” she insisted.

“He’s been warned before,” Burn said. “It was a matter of time.”

The woman wiped a tear and tried to remain her composure. “I'm sorry.” She pushed past Burn and disappeared outside.

“How is the fairy?” Armaila asked after a moment had passed. The word was strange on her tongue.

“Not well.” Clara placed another cloth, the same as Armaila's, on Florine’s forehead. “There's a fever in her I can't get out. And these wounds… I’ve never seen any like them.”

“She was injured with a poisoned blade.”

Clara nodded. “I assumed as much. What poison?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nightleaf would help, wouldn’t it?” Burn asked.

“It might.” Clara laid more cloths on Florine’s body, focusing on her abdomen.

“What is nightleaf?” Armaila asked. She had never heard of it, but as she was realizing, there were many things her mother had kept from her.

“It’s a plant known for its ability to draw out poisons and fevers,” Burn said. “It is… difficult to find.” He took a bow hanging from a shelf against the tent wall and headed for the door.

“I will go with you.”

Burn turned to meet her gaze. He did not speak, but his eyes demanded a reason why he should allow her to help.

“My mother awaits trial for high treason.” Armaila spoke with a tone she had never dared use before and she liked it. “This fairy is my only chance to convince the king of her innocence, and you can be sure I will not leave without her. And after what Turoc attempted, you owe me.”

Burn’s expression was difficult to read, with his brow furrowed and his lips set tightly together. “Nightleaf is small with silver leaves. It smells like mint when crushed.”

They saddled two horses, wasting little time. Armaila was given her own, the one Florine had provided, back to ride. Burn returned what luggage she had—she was grateful to have her bow and all twelve arrows again.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked sourly, noticing the way things in her bag did not sit right. Her clothing was wrinkled and the parchment map she had taken from Florine had a tear in it.

“It was a precaution,” Burn said, frowning when he saw the state of it. He raised a hand and pointed at a ridge in the distance. “We will go north.”

They separated, each taking a side of the hill and staying no more than a few dozen paces from each other. Close enough that one could call out if they found something.

The area had less underbrush than the valley below, though several old trees had fallen, making it difficult to navigate. Armaila could only see a few paces before her vision succumbed to a tangle of branches. Though it was not far from Greenfields, there were many plants that were foreign to her.

She soon came to the realization that sorting through the multiple plant specimens on horseback was not easy. The fallen trees made the task increasingly difficult, and she eventually dismounted and led the horse as she walked. Many plants were still covered with dew and the sunlight gave them a silver appearance when it touched them at the right angle.

Armaila’s hands were soon stained green and her arms were cut from sharp thorns that grew close to the ground. Nothing smelled remotely close to mint. The sun dragged across the sky and soon came to the top of its peak, shining relentlessly against the landscape. Her knees and back grew stiff from bending.

Eventually, the ridge narrowed and she found Burn waiting for her.

“Any luck?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I was afraid of that.” He frowned. “There is one place I know it grows. Can you use your bow?”

“I…” The question caught her off guard. “I’ve hunted deer.”

He smiled, but it was forced. Uneasy. “I doubt there will be any need to use it, but caution is what separates living men from the dead.”

The land changed as they progressed, growing wet and humid. There scent of wildflowers, which had been pleasant, became sickeningly sweet as the forest gave way to marsh.

“Keep your eyes open,” Burn warned. Something in his voice told Armaila he did not mean for nightleaf.

Farther ahead, there was a large indent in the moist soil, followed by another. The more Armaila stared at them, the more they began to vaguely resemble animal tracks. A single hole spanned the length of half her body.

“Burn?” she said, pointing to a large bolder ahead. It lay in the middle of the water, deep gashes marring its otherwise smooth side. Behind it a mountain rose steeply, a jagged cliff weathered by years of wind and rain. Part of it split into a giant crevice, growing narrow at the top.

Burn's hand shot to his sword hilt. Not that it would do much good against whatever had made those marks.

“There’s a legend of a beast that guards this mountain,” Burn said. “I fear it may be bigger than I assumed, and not nearly as dead.”

“Is it a dragon?”

“It is called a captron,” he said. He afforded a nervous glance at the cliff ahead. “Stories say captrons were driven out by fairies hundreds of years ago. Still… we should be quick.”

A low growl broke the silence behind them. Armaila turned with her heart drumming loud in her ears. A creature stood between the trees with its hulking green body partially covered by the foliage. It stepped forward and bared giant white teeth.

“The cliff,” Burn said.

They ran.

The captron charged after them, sending putrid water flying as its paws crashed down into the swamp. It growled again, a deep throaty sound that shook the ground.

The bottom of the cliff opened into a shallow crevice. It was wide at the mouth but quickly narrowed.

“By the mountains…” Armaila whispered as she watched the creature draw close.

Its head was too large to fit more than halfway between the rocks and its paw could not reach far enough to claw them. Scales covered its body, but that was where the resemblance to dragons ended. Its neck was far too stubby and it lacked wings.

“I believed the stories to be exaggerated,” Burn said. “I don’t think your bow will be of help after all.”

After several minutes of pawing in vain, the creature gave up and wandered around the swamp, staying close to the edge where it could watch them.

“What if it doesn’t leave?” Armaila asked. She wished desperately for her father’s presence—he had been a man well-skilled with weapons, and he always knew the answer to her problems. Perhaps he had even fought captrons.

“Give it time,” Burn said. “We are not so interesting that it will wait long.”

His words brought her a small comfort. Realizing the creature was not ready to give up yet, she took a seat on the rocky floor and leaned against the crevice wall.

“Clara told me there’s a bounty on your head,” she said.

Burn’s jaw clenched, visible even with his beard. “We all have our fates.”

The captron continued to pace the length of the swamp, stopping every so often to scratch itself or stretch its paws. The scales were a deep, murky brown, but Armaila was sure she had seen green when it came out of the forest.

“And what of your wedding?” Burn asked. “I sense you are not eager to return.”

The question soured Armaila’s mood further. “We all have our fates,” she agreed. “My mother chose mine.”

He nodded, understanding. “So did my father.”

The sun was considerably further across the sky when the captron finally slinked back into the forest. They continued to wait for good measure.

“Should we go before it comes back?” Armaila asked.

“Wait.” Burn walked to the back of the crevice and pointed to a ledge a slight distance above his head. A plant with silver leaves grew from a small amount of dirt caught in the stone. He picked it gently, trying not to disturb the roots, and a slight minty smell filled the air.

“Fire and brimstone…” Burn carefully picked the leaves. “We found it."