Freed from the Orcs' Hands

Chapter 6: The Scent of Prey (Part 4)

It came from the darkness beyond the firelight, a slim shaft of pale wood that appeared as if conjured from the shadows themselves. It punched through the chieftain's neck with a wet, crunching sound, and he dropped his cup and staggered backward, both hands clawing at the protruding shaft. Blood poured between his fingers, black in the firelight. He made a gurgling noise, took one more step, and collapsed.

For one frozen heartbeat, no one moved.

Then the second arrow struck---the young orc with the missing ear, catching him in the chest and spinning him around before he crumpled---and the camp erupted into chaos.

Orcs scrambled for weapons. Shouts rang out in their guttural tongue. Someone kicked over a stack of supplies. The fire flared as a log shifted, sending a shower of sparks spiraling into the night sky.

And through it all, Lyra hung from her post, helpless, as a silver-haired figure dropped from the branches of an overhanging oak and landed in the center of the camp with the silent grace of a falling leaf.

Aelindra.

She moved like water---no, like lightning. Her bow was already slung across her back, and in her hands were two curved blades that gleamed with a faint, bluish luminescence. She spun, and an orc that had been charging toward her went down with a gash across its chest. She ducked under a wild axe swing, came up inside the attacker's guard, and drove one of her blades up under its jaw. The orc gurgled and fell.

Three of them were down. The rest were hesitating, caught between the instinct to fight and the sudden, visceral knowledge that they were facing something far more dangerous than a lone elf.

Aelindra did not give them time to decide. She was already moving toward Lyra, her blades singing through the air, and the orcs that stood in her path either scattered or died.

"Hold still," she said as she reached the post---as if Lyra had any choice in the matter---and one of her blades flashed upward. The rope binding Lyra's wrists parted with a single clean stroke, and Lyra's arms dropped, numb and useless, to her sides.

She would have collapsed if Aelindra hadn't caught her. The elf's arm slid around her waist, pulling her upright, and Lyra found herself pressed against the cool leather of Aelindra's armor, gasping for breath around the gag still stuffed in her mouth.

Aelindra glanced at the cloth, made a small sound of disgust, and hooked a finger under the knot. "Spit it out," she said, pulling the gag free, and Lyra did, gagging at the taste, her jaw aching from being forced open for so long.

"Ael---" she started, but her voice came out as a croak.

"Later," Aelindra said. Her pale green eyes swept the camp, counting the remaining orcs. Nine of them still standing, but they were backing away now, clustering together near the far palisade. "Can you run?"

Lyra's legs felt like water. Her arms were tingling with the return of blood flow. She was still naked, still shaking, still reeling from everything that had just happened. But she looked at Aelindra---at the blood on her blades, at the fierce, steady light in her eyes---and she nodded.

"Good," Aelindra said. "Then run."

She grabbed Lyra's wrist and pulled her toward the gap in the palisade, and together they plunged into the darkness of the forest, leaving the burning camp and the shouts of the surviving orcs behind them.

They ran until the sounds of pursuit faded, and then they ran some more.

Dawn was beginning to grey the eastern sky by the time Aelindra finally slowed, her breathing ragged but controlled, her blades still drawn. Lyra stumbled to a halt beside her, bent over, hands on her knees, her whole body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline and the lingering terror of the past few hours.

She was still naked. Of course she was. The thought almost made her laugh---a hysterical, broken sound that she choked back before it could escape.

Aelindra sheathed her blades and turned to face her. In the pale grey light, Lyra could see the tightness around her eyes, the tension in her jaw.

"I woke up and you were gone," Aelindra said, and her voice was quiet in a way that was somehow worse than anger. "Tracked you to the camp. Saw them tie you to that post." She paused. "I should have heard him. I should have---"

"It's not your fault," Lyra said. Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "You saved me. Again."

Aelindra looked at her for a long moment. Her gaze flicked down---just for an instant---to Lyra's bare skin, the gooseflesh rising along her arms and thighs in the cold morning air. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"We're still half a day from Thornwall," she said instead. "We need to keep moving before those orcs decide to track us." She glanced at Lyra's bare legs, her bare feet. "Can you walk?"

Lyra felt the chill on her skin, the roughness of the forest floor beneath her soles. She was naked. Still naked. But she was standing, and she was free, and the woman in front of her had just cut down half a dozen orcs to make sure of it.

"I can walk." She straightened, testing her weight on the cold ground. "I can do anything as long as I'm not tied to that post."

Aelindra's mouth quirked---not quite a smile, but close. "Good answer."

She turned and started east. Lyra followed.