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Warhammer (CH12)
🕑 Added 2024-08-15 16:26:29 +0000 UTCI decided to change Beatrice's name to Cathlyn. No particular reason other than me not liking the original. Thalion's too. It's now Eltarion, one that's perhaps too similar to the high elf from the fantasy setting, but I like it. I doubt he'll show up anyway. And Alastor is now just Alastair.
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“Curse these traitors!” A green skinned elf hissed, gnawing on his lip with sharp teeth. His crossbow twanged, a bolt whistling through the air to pierce the eye of a horse-like creature. The beast yowled, flashing a maw of jagged teeth before toppling over, crushing its rider beneath it. “Damn it, we need to get out of here, Kate!”
His words reached Cathlyn’s ears, but there was no time to respond. Her foe’s blade had already drawn blood, finding a gap in her armor. Using one of the sorceries she’d learned over the years, fire sparked between her fingers, a lance of white-hot flame shooting toward the aggressor. His pained growl gave her some satisfaction, but she didn’t let her guard down. He was warded.
Pressing her advantage, her longsword arced toward him. A feint. The slash-turned-stab caught him off-guard, clanging against his own blade before finding purchase in his shoulder. Jerking her wrist, she opened the wound, off-colored blood streaming down his arm.
He growled, his curved sword flashing, going for her neck.
Catching it on her vambrace, she strained against him, close enough to feel his hot breath. A few agonizing seconds passed before Cathlyn shoved him away. His wound wouldn’t be fatal, and she could feel him trying to trap her blade in the rings of his mail. He was a tricky opponent. And strangely familiar.
Having created some distance, she flicked her blade, splattering blood onto the soil. She circled him slowly while he did the same, each looking for vulnerabilities. A high-pitched scream from behind signaled his assault, one Cathlyn couldn’t afford to investigate.
Despite his injury, he was energetic, his blade clashing against hers in a furious storm. “Flynnoré.” She said, forcing the word out between her teeth. He was helmeted, and it had been a while, but his sadistic combat style wasn’t one she’d forget.
He cackled, his crescent sword slamming against hers, wrapping around her hilt. “Mutt.” He said, slicing at her wrist with a clever maneuver.
Cathlyn grit her teeth. They continued their dance, probing and retreating, striking and deflecting. This skirmish had lasted for hours, and she’d cut down many, but the sounds of battle starting to die down. She knew her side was losing, but retreat wasn’t an option. They had been ambushed, and were surrounded.
She whirled, his sword whistling above her head before biting deep into a tree trunk. She came round the other side, weapon-tip aiming for his visor, energy crackling in her fist. He dodged, but her wrist shifted, tilting the blade away and driving the pointed pommel through a gap in his mail. Not deep enough to do much damage, but it created a weak point, a chink in his enchanted armor. Her magic followed, her fist hammering into his torso, power surging, pouring into the wound.
He screamed in agony as he was all but cooked alive, turning berserk in his pain and desperation. His helmet smashed against her head, gauntleted hands punching her, grabbing her, his wildness that of a cornered beast.
‘Strong.’ She thought, through the haze of blood, and the buzzing of her magic. Full-blooded fae always were. She vaguely regretted not bringing a buckler, since their earlier exchange had fractured her forearm. Mentally adding a broken nose and a few broken ribs to her list of injuries, she swung her sword. Her focus sharpened by a surge of adrenaline and sorcery, it bit into the side of Flynn’s knee. A springlike release of force, sourced from the wound-up muscles and tendons around her waist, carried it all the way through. A gush of blood followed, his limb giving way under him as he lost his balance, collapsing to the ground.
Face tingling and swollen, and eyes burning from her own blood, Cathlyn stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, piercing his thigh, stomach, chest. It wasn’t enough, not even with his guts fried and the scent of burnt pork hanging thick in the air. She knew highborn were tough bastards, and incredibly difficult to kill.
She yanked his scimitar from the trunk, her power flowing into the blade. Turning it molten-red, the air shimmering around it, she brought it down. It went through his arm—raised to protect himself— like a hot knife through butter, cauterizing the stump in the process. With her other sword skewering his hip, nailing him to the ground, she went for his head. This battle was over.
Except it wasn’t.
Something approached her from the side, a long, hard blunt object, cracking her in the ribs. Having already been broken, it was adding injury on top of injury, turning her vision white. For a moment, her clarity left her.
“Enough!”
She barely registered the voice, rolling on the ground while clutching at her abdomen, trying and failing to draw a breath.
“They’re all dead, Cathlyn! You’ve lost! It’s over.” The voice approached her, hands touching her face, her body. “It’s over. He’s dead. Gaeleth is dead.”
Disbelief cut through the pain, the lack of air. She rolled her head trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker’s face. She didn’t need to. She knew who he was. It was Alastaïr.
“Heal her!” He said, his tone carrying the authority of someone who was used to being obeyed.
A snort sounded from somewhere nearby. “This fool is teetering on the edge, and you want me to heal her? Pardon me for disobeying your orders, ‘Highness’.” This voice was female, seductive and soft, with a subtle hissing undertone. It was Maeve.
Alastaïr growled. “Fine. But make it quick.”
Cathlyn tried to get away, but he didn’t let her, one hand gripping her shoulder, the other, her leg. “…think…you’ll…get…away…with…this?” She asked, each word spoken testing her tolerance for pain.
“Oh, I’m prepared for the consequences” He said easily. “I wouldn’t have done it if I weren’t. Besides, he got what he deserved.”
She batted feebly at him, trying to free herself. It had been the butt of his spear, she realized. The filigreed, silver weapon leaned against him, passed through the crook of his arm.
He sighed. “You were his right hand for near two-dozen years. You knew him, Kate. Gaeleth the noble. Gaeleth the just. Gaeleth the good. It was all a façade.”
Cathlyn threw her head to one side, breathing slowly through her nose. She said nothing.
“He made you swear. He trapped you in a geas. You’d never have done this otherwise. You’d not have thrown away your life for his worthless cause.”
“…I…did…it…for…myself.”
“He tricked you. He turned you into a slave.”
She was quiet for a while, as was he. Until Maeve returned, having stabilized Flynn’s condition. The dragonling, not having aged a day since first meeting her, leaned over Cathlyn. She flashed a mouthful of sharp teeth. “Don’t worry, I’m quite good at this. It’ll only hurt a little.”
It was, of course, a lie. Cathlyn knew that and braced herself, but it didn’t make the feeling of her bones melding and her flesh knitting together any more pleasant. By the time it was done, she gasped and heaved on the soil, her face wet with sweat, tears and blood.
Maeve chuckled. “I didn’t lie, you know? It’ll only hurt a little compared to what you’re about to experience. Isn’t that right, prince?” She glanced at Alastaïr, as if expecting him to mirror her sadism.
“No.” He said after a while. “If I say it’s over, then it’s over.”
Maeve blinked. “You can’t be serious. She killed more than a dozen of yours. She was about to kill Flynnoré!”
“Did you miss the part where I said she was under a geas?” Alastaïr asked snappishly. He stood, stretching himself to his full height, silver hair hanging to his waist. His engraved spear and armor were covered in blood, but none of it appeared to be his.
Maeve laughed in disbelief. “Did you miss the part where she entered it willingly?” She looked first at Cathlyn, then back at him. Her lips curled into a sneer. “Elric died today. I couldn’t save him, but I can avenge him.” Her claws scraped against each other, sorcerous power flaring behind her eyes. Among their generation, she was peerless in the arts.
“How tragically noble.” Alastaïr bit out. “Too bad I don’t believe a word of it.”
The dragonling held his gaze. Then she giggled. “You’re right, I don’t care. But that doesn’t make her any less deserving of retribution, now does it?”
“I said no.”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I’m not one of your subjects. That won’t change, even if you become king.”
“You’re going against me, now?”
“So what if I am?”
The tension brewed in the air for a long moment. Then Maeve smiled prettily, tilting her head. “Just kidding. No need to be so serious, right?” She walked away laughing, her tail swaying back and forth. She left Flynn there unconscious, still bleeding on the soil. At least his arm and leg had been reattached.
When she was gone, Alastaïr sighed, turning to look at Cathlyn. He found her staring at him. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to retrieve her sword and drive it through his guts. “I just saved your life, you know.” He said matter-of-factly.
“You almost killed me.”
He snorted. “I stopped you from doing something foolish.”
“We are enemies.” She said. “Was I supposed to roll over and die?” Flynn was the Grand Marshal’s only son. They both knew he wouldn’t let his child’s death go unpunished.
Alastaïr shook his head. “Were. You were enemies.” He pushed his cloak back, showing the trophy hanging from his belt. It was a silver-haired and eyed, grey-skinned head. Gaeleth’s head. It bore a striking resemblance to Alastaïr. The biggest difference was his elder brother’s having short hair.
Cathlyn looked at it with distaste, the blood dripping from the severed neck, staining Alastaïr’s clothes.
He chuckled. “Careful, Kate. That’s not the look of a knight mourning her liege.”
“Don’t.” She said with distaste. “Don’t call me that.”
Alastaïr rolled his eyes, putting a hand on his hip. His other hip. “You never give up, do you? Here.” He said, offering her a hand. Then he realized it was filthy, and quickly wiped it on his cloak. “Let’s go. There’s no point in hanging around.”
She stared carefully at the proffered limb, but then she strained with hands on her knees, getting up on her own.
Alastaïr’s arm hovered there for a second, but then he dropped it to his side. “We have much to discuss.” He said, gesturing in a certain direction. A mossy, cobbled path snaked through the underbrush—the same one Gaeleth had travelled with his entourage.
“No.” She said, turning and heading in the opposite direction. “We don’t.” He may have spared her life, but Kate still didn’t trust him farther than she could throw him.
“Your brother.” Alastaïr said suddenly.
Cathlyn halted.
Seeing he had her, he smiled. “Like I said, we have much to discuss. Perhaps you’re fine doing it here, but I certainly am not. Come.” This time, he didn’t wait to see if she’d follow.
Her posture stiffened. She was annoyed at him for having hooked her, but more so at herself. Still, she followed after him. She knew he couldn’t be trusted, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t hear him out. She’d simply check the information’s veracity later.
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A while later, Cathlyn found herself sitting in a small tent somewhere in the dark, endless forest. They were far from civilization—Gaeleth had been out on a hunt to subdue a hive of monsters before being ambushed. As a knight, she was used to roughing it, but she was secretly glad she’d been allowed to retrieve some supplies from their temporary camp.
Staring blankly ahead, she chewed on some dried provisions. She suddenly felt lost. She’d calmed down in the hours since—her blood no longer boiling from battle, and her nerves no longer stinging from pain. The reality of her situation was sinking in. Gaeleth was dead. Her years’ efforts had died with him.
She had no idea how much time passed when the curtain rustled, admitting the now bathed-and-clothed Alastaïr. He wore a simple shirt with trousers. It went without saying that, with him being a prince, the tailoring was immaculate. Short sleeved, his corded arms, muscled in a graceful, feline manner, were on full display. His collar was open, almost to mid-chest, a sapphire amulet on a silver chain hanging from his neck.
Despite herself, Cathlyn found her gaze lingering. He’d always had that effect on her since first meeting him. More so even than his brother. She hated him for it. Hated herself for even thinking such thoughts.
“You didn’t bathe?” He asked, taking a seat on a short stool. He crossed one long leg over the other.
She grunted. “Blood and sweat offends you, your highness? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I imagine you’re not used to getting your hands dirty.”
“Yours doesn’t.” Alastaïr said, studying her as she studied him. His gaze travelled from her booted feet upward, along her legs, stopping briefly around her waist and chest before resting on her face. “And I’m quite used to that, by the way. Gaeleth would’ve been able to attest, but, well…”
‘Bastard.’ Cathlyn thought. She fought off her rising blush with thoughts of punching him in his handsome face. Her filthy state was embarrassing, but there was simply no way she’d discard her weapons and armor in the middle of an enemy camp.
“So.” He said eventually. “I hadn’t really expected a thank-you, but you could be a tad less frosty.”
She growled. “What exactly do you want from me? Just get to the point already. If you know something worth knowing, I doubt you’d tell me for free.”
He exhaled, quicksilver eyes shifting to look at a corner of the tent. “I suppose there is something I want.” He played with the ring on his index finger, bearing a blue gem similar to the one in his amulet. “Something we’d both want.”
Cathlyn crossed her arms, staring at him with suspicion.
“Your brother.” He said after a while. “My late uncle’s son. My cousin. Hawke. Lord Eltarion wants to make him the next High King.”
Her eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.” She said, her tone colored with disbelief. “That doesn’t make any sense. He’d never agree. Why would my father even-…?” Her mouth opened and closed. She had so much to say, so many questions.
Alastaïr chuckled. “What other reason could there be, Kate? With a puppet on the throne, he’ll finally be able to seize power.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She blurted out. “The struggle for succession is one thing, but the High King would never allow this. Not while he-…”
“Still lives?” He asked with a strange smile. He let the implication sink in.
Cathlyn’s expression was shocked. “You think my father would assassinate the High King?” She asked in a loud whisper. “Eltarion watched him grow up, he’s served him for centuries, he-…” She froze, the emotion suddenly draining from her features. “This is ridiculous. Whether you’re trying to manipulate me into something, or if it’s another of your sick pranks, you’re wasting your time.” She stood.
“I have proof.” Alastaïr said before she could take a single step.
She scoffed. “I’d barely believe your words as it is. Even less so now.”
“Hurtful.” He said. “But expected. What about my mother’s words?”
Cathlyn stiffened. “This-… the First Lady-…I don’t-…” She tried and failed to get her thoughts out. “Why? Why tell me this?” She asked after regaining her composure. “Even if it’s true, why come to me?”
“I could be mistaken.” Alastaïr said slowly. “Perhaps you’ll go to the Chancellor with this information, but I don’t think you will.” He gave her an inscrutable look. “Hawke wouldn’t want to become king. His identity has always been a source of discomfort for him.” He waited for her to offer protest, but she didn’t. They both knew it was true. “You wouldn’t want him to become king. Not if you care for him at all, which I know you—despite your prickly exterior. As a puppet, he might be able to avoid the position’s responsibility, but not its dangers.”
She considered his words. He wasn’t wrong, but still. “Why now? Father’s been content with his position for ages. I don’t see why he’d suddenly develop power hungry, regicidal tendencies.” She said, tapping a finger against her arm. “And he cares for Hawke as well. He’d not place him in a dangerous role against his will.” Her better judgement told her to leave, to not listen to what was clearly a bunch of hogwash.
Alastaïr shrugged. “Lord Eltarion and my mother are of similar ages. I can’t begin to understand her, but I’m to understand him? I only know what I know.”
“Then what?” Cathlyn asked with some frustration. “What do you want from me?”
He stood, towering over her by a head and a half. She barely came to the middle of his chest. “You served my brother. You’d have helped him become king.” He said, his voice low. “But your loyalty wasn’t enough for him. He made you a slave.” He took her wrist—she tried to remove it, but he held firm—bringing it up to her face. “You’re competent. Strong. An excellent knight. I understand your misgivings, after everything.” He hesitated, suddenly seeming unsure. “I’d still like to ask. Ask. I won’t make you swear anything. Not even to keep secret what I’ve told you.” He drew a steadying breath. He slid the ring off his index finger, putting it in the palm of her hand. “Become my knight, Kate.”
She looked at it, then at the ring she already wore. It was Gaeleth’s. A symbol of her loyalty to him. “You say I’m allowed to refuse. That I’m not to swear secrecy.” Her green eyes met his, narrowing. “But you never said I could leave.”
Alastaïr’s lips curled into a smirk. “Perceptive. I won’t let you leave, but not for the reason you think.” He reached for her finger, removing Gaeleth’s ring and dropping it in her pocket. “What an eyesore, that thing is. It’s bothered me for years. The color doesn’t suit you at all.” He smiled again, softer this time. “The subjugation hasn’t ended. It’s not safe to go on your own. I won’t let you throw your life away. I have my faults, but I’m not like him.”
Cathlyn stared at him. She had no clue what he was thinking. “And your… friends would be fine with that?” She asked, fully knowing the answer was no. “Me becoming your knight?”
He grimaced. “It will take some time for them to acclimate.”
She tilted her head, waiting.
“Alright, it might not be that simple. But it will work out.” He said somewhat sheepishly.
“How?”
“You’re still Lord Eltarion’s daughter. If they killed you, retribution would be swift.”
She scoffed. “If what you tell me is true, he’s your enemy. If something happened to me, you wouldn’t inform him. You have your faults, as you said, but you’re not that stupid.”
“Thank you for the compliment.” He said with a smile.
“It wasn’t one.”
“Look, Kate.” He said, his hand tightening around hers. “You know your own value. I want you to be my knight. Trust that, if nothing else.”
She pulled her hand out of his, dropping it to her side. She contemplated returning his ring. Some part of her didn’t want to. “It won’t work. We can’t work together if we don’t trust each other.”
“Just give them time. They-…” He hesitated. “We’re not that bad. Really.”
Cathlyn laughed caustically. “You’re right. You’re no different from any other fae. I learned that a long time ago.”
He sighed, taking a step back. “It’s-…” He started, his expression turning unreadable. “Late. I should… let you get some rest. No need to answer me immediately. You have until the expedition ends.” He turned suddenly, stepping out of her tent. His hand lingered on the curtain. “Goodnight.” He said finally, letting it fall closed behind him.
She listened as his footsteps grew distant, soon drowned out by the nightly sounds of the soldiers camped around her. “What do I do now?” She whispered, the ring digging into her palm.
