One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

~ One Step Forward, Two Steps Back ~

If any Goveknights showed up or she made a treasonous move, she was gone. No one had slept a wink — except for Rik, exhausted as he was — with Sheila around. Even if she had her eyes closed for hours at a time, both Irinee and Manwel were prepared for some sort of ambush, the latter considering the former’s anecdotes about her past encounters with Sheila. When they shared time in the forest, Irinee had mentioned the massacre on Palan, Commander Staur’s home planet. Frustrated as he was at her outburst, Manwel began to understand why Irinee was fighting and what she thought she stood for. I too once thought I was fighting for the right things.

It had been a while, but she spoke again. “Rik shoulda made me a weapon earlier… I’d finish off that royal latchbitch with no remorse”.

She hadn’t used her nickname for Rik. Manwel sighed and replied bitterly. “You’ve made that clear”. Wind from the billowing snowstorm outside permeated the cave once again and Sheila jolted awake before groaning and falling over on her side. She looked like she abhorred the uncomfortability of the icy walls and scratchy ground.

When it seemed like Sheila was asleep — or at least faking it — Manwel found himself talking again. “I just don’t get how her and the knights got overwhelmed by yakkals when we were able to fend them off. Especially with you lacking a weapon”.

She clearly felt the slightly vengeful jab. “Not my damn fault it ain’t rainin’ arrows”. She uncorked a vial and rubbed more syrup on the gashes tearing through her side, arm, and calf with a grimace before offering the vial to Manwel, which he accepted. “Hate to say it, but y’all mages kinda saved our asses in that battle”.

“Having light and wind on our side surely helped”. He too grimaced at the feeling of ointment on scars.

“Yeah. Thought I could bring some fire, though”. Her head was turned away now. He scoffed. She curled up more.

They exchanged no more words the rest of the night as the storm outside only worsened. Manwel, being used to the feeling of uselessness, felt slightly guilty at not even trying to reassure Irinee. She can figure it out herself, right? If she’d abandon her temper for one minute, she could find a way to help fight the frost dragon.

Truth be told, Manwel didn’t know for certain if they needed to fight the dragon, but seeing as its massive, feathery wings could barely be seen shifting around on the snowy horizon, he assumed the worst. It would be easier to ascertain danger with the binoculars, but someone had gone and fed them to a yakkal.

Manwel remembered the aftermath of the battle — how he had clearly seen a gaudy bounty hunter in the forest. As he reentered the cave to question Sheila about the group of mercenaries, he heard shouting like the night before.

A familiar scene. ‘Rini was trying to stab or otherwise harm Sheila and Rik was holding the archer back. The threat of wind whirling through the cave quickly resolved the incident. A month — no, a week ago — Manwel would be prone to avoiding confrontations, but he couldn’t help but chase the feeling of usefulness now. Even if they didn’t appreciate it, both Irinee and Rik now seeming somewhat frustrated at Manwel’s blustery mediation, he knew the team needed to set aside differences now more than ever.

Manwel carefully made his way over to Sheila and inquired about the mercenaries he saw earlier, citing her words about Goveknights being with her as well as the classic phrase: “The flashier the ware, the dirtier the fare”.

Surprisingly, her response was barely cryptic, confirming there were hired mercenaries, yet laughing at the idea that said mercenaries would’ve gotten tripped up along the way as her squad had.

Demanding an extra knife from the huntress, he gave it to Rik under the direction to give it to Irinee when they were on their way to the dragon’s den — when she had cooled off. He really did feel like a Sergeant again. Not that this mission was comparable to fighting for the freedom of all Latchgovenites and offworlders facing crackdowns, but he still believed Maddy. This would at least free her.

Would it really only take one chance encounter to sway Manwel? Push him to become the Manwel Skylon his parents wanted him all along to be? It remained to be seen, but with each trial he endured, his mind raced back to his parents’ words and their cause.

He walked outside again in preparation to head onwards. There was a break in the storm that likely wouldn’t last for long, revealing some hints of sunlight scattering chaotically off the various prisms of ice. Before the others exited the cave with only their most important gear, Manwel squatted down and etched the number 6,496 into the ice with the tip of his scimitar.

They set off.

…

Run. Run from the fight? From the people she trusted? Well, maybe used to trust. She obviously didn’t trust someone. No shit. At this point, fleeing felt right. She had done spark all this whole damn time without a proper weapon.

As soon as the injured latchbitch had initiated combat, Rik and Manny had struck from behind. At least Irinee had a knife to defend herself with; despite not being able to directly attack the dragon, she could block its talons should they come at her. The frost dragon wasn’t the only foe they had been up against. The knife had come in handy more so when she found herself in a scuffle with bounty hunters that appeared out of nowhere.

One had been shocked when she quickly retrieved half an arrow and stabbed at his unprotected neck with it. Why those bastards had the confidence to go on the battlefield with no mail and flashy clothes baffled her. They had clearly been trained in combat for years, however, and Irinee became overwhelmed. One thought had been stabbing at her worse than any foes present. They’re taking on a whole-ass dragon and I can’t even fight off some glitzy govies.

So she ran. She wasn’t going to die there of all places. With visibility growing worse by the second, she just hoped she could back it back to the cave and recoup.

She hadn’t needed as much of a yakkal coat as the others had, mainly due to the layers she was already wearing. But, minimizing her visible presence was the priority with one or two mercenaries probably still tracking her. She threw off the magenta poncho and hung her head of ashen-blonde hair as much as possible as she ran, the ice beneath her making concerning cracking sounds.

There it is! She thought she spotted the cave off in the distance after minutes of running. It was one step forward and two steps back as the ice around her caved, the glacier swallowing her. Dammit.

…

The bounty hunters were doing their job and the dragon was much too armored to quickly slash through it. Sheila couldn’t quite let herself smile, though she knew this may be the perfect opportunity to come out on top.

But she was weak. Injured. She went over to order the mercenaries not to kill the dragon and just focus on the others. It’s all Rik’s fault. He did this to himself.

Although hired by her discreetly, the mercenaries revealed they had allegiances to the king alone. One of his orders — apparently also discreetly — was to focus her as well.

Two of the most renowned hunters in all the worlds — known as Ghallanger and Grep — approached her explaining their secret orders all the while before entering their patented dual dueling technique, the halfling Grep having leaped onto his orc comrade’s shoulders.

Sheila just glared and clenched her teeth. If she had just made a move for the throne sooner, she may not have been in this predicament. No matter. She was an heiress of her own making.

Grep hurled makeshift explosives as Ghallanger circled Sheila. She managed to avoid the first few impacts and the subsequent pitfalls that were created from the tough ice giving way. The hue of the ices shifted around from soft blues to pastel purples and oranges, almost as if it was reacting to the battle above. Confident screeches from the frost dragon could be heard as Sheila used the low visibility to her advantage and managed a hit or two on the orc’s coarse skin with her kunai. Various footsteps could be heard scrambling and cracking the ice off in the distance as well as just before her.

Sheila howled as her leg twisted and she fell sharply to her knees. A blast from the halfling sent her further groundward and sliding across the sheet.

Barely conscious enough to roll out of the way of a stomp from the orc, Sheila groaned as she turned to look up at the giant creature. Ghallanger’s foot was lodged in the ice. While the halfling jumped off his shoulder perch towards her with a shrunken dao in hand, Sheila painfully but swiftly drew her blade and blocked the falling attack before cutting Grep’s stumpy leg.

With Grep tumbling aside, Sheila had enough time to fling her last two kunai at Ghallanger’s bumpy, scarred face as he freed his equally misshapen foot. She tried crawling away on the ice as each took their time to react to their injuries, putting forearm before forearm to pull herself away.

The orc’s cursing and stomping indicated she had hit one of his three bulging yellow eyes. This tantrum hid the sound of the halfling scurrying towards her, however, and at once her ankle exploded in pain as the reinforced dao stabbed through sinew and bone, pinning her to the ice in sheer agony. The creature removed his bloodied blade and was likely prepared to stab her again as he peeled apart and threw away her bent and weathered backplate. She couldn’t even look.

Wind washed over her as she imagined nearby clouds of snow and smoke dissipating. She kept her eyes glued shut. All the fights she’d ever been in had led to nothing.

More agonizing groans, but not her own. Her eyelids lifted and her neck craned slowly to reveal the halfling flying through the air just to be impaled through a rugged, serrated katana the orc had drawn from his belt. The orc fell backwards from the immediate impact of the other’s dao being sent through the air straight into his heart.

What. The. Hell.

Sheila strained her neck to look in the direction of the gusts to see the boy Manwel running towards her with an outstretched hand, her brother just behind fending off a hunter who looked like Rattattar the Youthful.

An overwhelming backdrop was even further beyond. The frost dragon was virtually unscathed and in ground pursuit. At least it was slippery for the beast.

Sheila rolled her eyes at the thought of those two coming to help and crawled painfully towards the lump of skewered corpses. She braced her efforts to stand with the crude katana — which she removed from the innards of Grep with a disgusted grimace — and began to limp away in the direction she recalled the cave was.

Clearly the others got caught up again; no efforts were made from across the ice to reveal her location via wind manipulation. I hope they survive. That thought surprised her, but she knew her worries were substantiated with the scene she had just left behind.

She came across a familiar magenta poncho and figured she was close. The ice kept crackling and crunching beneath her as she slid the tip of the katana along and forced her good ankle to carry most of her weight.

Crack. What a cruel fate. With a thud, she landed underneath the vast sheets of ice and slid some 15 meters further into the depths — clutching the two blades she had left to her armored chest with all her might — just to smash into yet another person who wanted to kill her.

Her mutilated ankle somehow avoided impact, but Sheila still couldn’t help but let out an undignified groan. She panted and held up the katana shakily to create distance between her and the archer, whom she noticed hadn’t employed archery at all against the frost dragon. Why is she out here anyway? That fire that was in her eyes on Farrowep… it’s been frosted over.

“Put it down, latchbitch. Reckon I’m better off than you and your fancy murderin’ ass down here”. She waved her hand around in indifference.

Sheila heaved and coughed out blood while still maintaining her shaky hold on the rusty blade. She sounded like her father.

“Why… the hell… are you here?” Sheila managed to gasp out between bouts of violent coughing, each one worse than the last.

The Fifth Fang officer took an awfully long time to respond. “I don’t know,” was all she came up with.

Unable to properly formulate a response in her condition, Sheila just waited, bloody hands unable to let go of the blade she knew she wanted to give up.

“I think,” the girl beside her began again with hardly any traces of hostility in her wavering and defeated voice, “I think I’m over these damn fights”. Shuffling noises followed.

Sheila scoffed and coughed.

“Over the fight? You tried… to kill me… multiple times last night”. She was going to continue but was startled by the archer’s outstretched hand, which quickly tossed over a vial encased in a bloodied rag.

“Aren’t ya lucky I don’t wanna right now? It’d be a damn treat to see ya grovel, but it’s far too dark here to see your sparked up face anyway”. Her voice was still uncertain. She clearly had given up.

Sheila picked up the rag next to her with her free hand and asked about the vial. Ah, she intends to kill me with poison most likely. After hearing about the ointment inside, she became even more suspicious and thought about attempting a Hail Atch maneuver by lunging at the girl with her katana.

Just this once, she let her guard down. As far as she knew, there really were no immediate threats besides the archer, who likely only had her confiscated knife. Why am I doing this? She went beyond. She began to reason. She began to understand.

As she lowered and secured the katana beside her mangled body, Sheila smelled the syrup — confirming it was the substance as had been claimed — before applying it mainly to her ankle, but also to gashes and bruises on her shoulders, between her knee pads, and on her neck. It was the slightest bit soothing.

“Don’t think imma give your knife back, though, dammit!” The girl across the way began to lay prone as she huffed and crossed her arms. “Now think about how to get out, aight?”

Sheila reached for her communication gem, only to find the entire brooch structure shattered, likely from one of her various falls on the ice. He told me it was the hardest of minerals in all the worlds. Damn jeweler. What a snake.

“What, no gem? Hah!”. The girl was still watching carefully. “Shit, mine won’t connect to nobody here ‘cept maybe Velsoth if ya hadn’t killed the sparkler”.

“I… didn’t,” she paused to cough out blood into the rag, “I didn’t kill him nor was that my intention. It’s likely that since the bounty hunters I hired betrayed me, the ‘esteemed’ Goveknights had different orders than what I gave them as well”.

The archer chuckled a little. “Betrayed ya, huh? Serves ya right. Thought you said the govies knew their orders, though, yeah?”

“Yeah… their orders to capture Velsoth. The king ordered us to leave no survivors… and none of them knew based on the orders I gave them… but I wanted to trick the old geezer… into killing the king when I brought him before the throne”. Her voice was also wavering now, realizing the full gravity of her situation and apparent current lack of any power. It had all gone wrong.

The girl sat up again. “Likely story, latchbitch. You’ve been followin’ his damn orders every damn second of your miserable life, haven’t ya?”

She had been. She thought it would get her the throne once destined to belong to Rik. He clearly didn’t want it. Her armor was on a crash course, the enemy before her being the architect of this long-awaited trajectory.

The girl delivered the nail in the coffin in a much softer tone. “I’ve been fightin’ the govies since I was five, dammit”. She scoffed after a moment of reflective silence. “Haven’t amounted to much, so why don’t ya just make me eat shit, huh latchbitch? Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout over there?”

Sheila thought long and hard about how to respond, especially out of fear of breaking down in front of someone who had tried to kill her not too long ago — multiple times even. She hadn’t been honest to her brother. Her feelings were supposed to be neglected; she was an "exemplary huntress”, after all. Despite everything that puppeteered her life and decisions over the last few decades, she decided to tread the path of peace.

“I may not value the lives of terrorists… but I recognize… that for a subset of them… the warpath is all they’ve ever known”.

Sheila’s surprisingly softening gaze met Irinee’s as the knife that the archer had apparently been holding out of sight fell to the floor with an unceremonious clang. Sheila continued, “You don't deserve that".

There it was. Looking into the barely illuminated eyes of someone so young, imagining herself at that age again; the knife’s edge was in the past. Regret swelled to a flash flood, the long-imminent waters sweeping up recently broken branches of guilt and torpor as they came crashing down cathartically against the callused rocks she knew as her knuckles.

“You- You don’t deserve… to suffer as I have”.

The girl — whose life was relatably defined by her ability to bring violence — was too stunned to properly speak. All that could be heard through the sound of Sheila’s own crying was the whisper of one word.

“Damn”.