Page 18 of Artemysia

“Love is deadly.” - Delphine

T he only way to kill a Syf is to decapitate it.

Since Riev has gone as silent as a graveyard and Throg and Ivy haven’t stopped talking to each other since my no-talking ban was lifted after midday, I’ve been left to my own musings. We approach the sheep and wheat producing village of Limingfrost just as the sun is about to set.

Right on time.

Decapitation. Otherwise, Syf heal from wounds that we cannot. I’ll never forget this, because the first one I ran all the way through with my sword got back up on her feet, pulled out the blade from her belly, and tried to slice off my leg with it.

I dodged in time, but there’s a long, raised scar on my calf.

Throg had to sew it up for me right there on the field.

His patch job stopped the bleeding, and the wound didn’t get infected, but let’s say his suturing skills aren’t as detailed as the work he puts into his own hair and nails.

On longer rides like today, the scar aches when it rubs against my stirrup leathers, even through my high boot.

It reminds me that I can never let my guard down.

Not even when the last few hours were a dull, long ride through farmlands until a wooden sign announces Limingfrost, the last Academy outpost village closest to the woods. Our stop for the night.

At this time of year, after harvest, smoke should be curling out of the chimneys, but the silhouettes of the village roofs are stock-still in the peachy-pink skyline of a late autumn sunset. No smoke, no sounds or signs of human life.

Right away, my instincts tell me something is terribly wrong.

I turn over my shoulder to the others. “Split up. Ivy, you’re with me. Throg and Riev, circle east and come around the river’s edge of town.”

Riev bends his elk right, turning her at the shoulders. “It’s too quiet. No one’s come down the road for a while.”

His first words in the last three hours.

I nod once. “Exactly.”

South, back toward Stargazer, is where Limingfrost villagers would head for travel and trade. It’s also their direction of evacuation and escape if attacked. North is all farmland, half a day away from Artemysia, and to the west the settlements are scattered and tiny.

My blood runs cold.

The only escape is south, and we saw no sign of evacuation.

Ivy splits off from Throg and steers her bull elk alongside me.

Throg and Riev peel away from us toward the river on the horizon to the right.

There’s no need for words. We all recognize the likelihood of disaster in a settlement within reach of the Syf forest. The agricultural villages are constantly at risk.

But the most fertile farmlands are out here, and it’s not possible for our entire civilization to crowd into the gates of Stargazer.

At this time of year—late autumn—wreaths of fruit and bread are hung on doors in the month leading to Winter Carnival.

Ivy and I approach, still mounted on our elk. The wooden doors of the thatched-roofed cottages hang open, some broken off their hinges.

The wreaths are torn off. Some appear to have been chewed.

No villagers. Eerily, there are no signs of life, but there are no dead either. At least, no blood or bodies in view yet. What happened here?

A typical Syf attack would mean mangled bodies strewn about.

My mother was slaughtered on our porch steps.

I found her after a morning ride. I’d left to train a pair of new elk with my father and the hired farmhand, who was twelve, like me.

Mom was scheduled to help that morning, and I was supposed to stay home and study.

But I’d begged to take her place because I wanted to see the new elk, and… I adored the farm boy.

I insisted that I was in love with him and pleaded to go instead. So Mom relented, yielding to my wishes because she loved me —and off I went.

Love is deadly.

When I returned, the doors were ajar just like this after everyone ran for their lives.

My pulse drums loudly in my ears.

This is too familiar.

My mind reaches for calm, for control.

Violet, blue, green, gold, crimson…

Except the crimson that day was my mother’s blood, pooling around her, soaked into her dress of violet, blue, green, and gold stripes.

The crimson was my selfishness. The crimson was my fault.

The crimson was because I chose love over duty, and there was no way I could ever take that mistake back. I gasp for a breath.

Never.

But here, there’s no blood splatter, no body parts, no dead children, no burnt homes. Only broken doors. My spine straightens, bone-chilling dread lifting the tiny hairs on my neck.

One second, I’m creeping along the path between cottages. The next, an ear-splitting shriek from behind launches me into action. I whirl my elk around, blade drawn.

At first I think several tall, long-haired people have barged out of a large cottage. Some are dressed as farmers, in trousers and shirts, but others are more ragged, bare-chested and bloody. Both male and female.

But then the last of the dusky sunset glints on their gorgeous wings, the iridescent panels rippling behind them like silk banners.

A band of Syf .

“I count seven of them.” I tip forward in my saddle to sweep my right leg behind me, over my elk’s hindquarters. Landing on both feet, I charge the Syf, pounding over the sparse grass between cottages.

Ivy does the same. We don’t give them a chance to control the elk.

“I’ve got your back, Ivy,” I holler. “Stay together, talk to me.”

The Syf run at us wildly. They lack formation and coordination, as if competing against each other to see who can kill us first. None speak, but some scream.

I duck and twist, a blade in each hand. Rising up, I lop the head off one.

Ivy holds her own beside me, gutting one, then beheading it while it writhes in the dirt.

They’d do the same to us if given the chance.

“Behind you, Captain!” Ivy shouts.

A dozen more Syf rush out of the cottages. What they were doing inside, I have no idea, but they wield weapons in each hand. Some swing blades, while others grip farm tools or kitchen knives, seemingly taken from the cottages.

I unsheathe my second longsword and organize my stance to fight in all directions. Instinctively, Ivy and I circle back-to-back.

“Stay close. Don’t let them separate us,” I warn. “I’ve got you. We may be outnumbered, but we’re not outmatched.”

“Got it, Captain Fancy Bird. You and I are badass.”

I trust Ivy to guard my rear. She takes down the first Syf with vicious confidence, and we destroy Syf after Syf, swords clanging, tangy metallic Syf blood spewing. I take a second to wipe my eyes clean of the dark spray covering my face from the last one I slashed.

More Syf surround us, seemingly out of nowhere. We’re boxed in.

Ivy falls to one knee beside me and swings low, taking out their legs. I use my height to hack at their heads, but one knocks me back into Ivy, and I stumble.

“Push them back. Use me for footing,” I holler. She presses a heel against my calf and leaps off me while I spin around to back her up with my blade. With a double kick, she hurtles through the air, thrusting her broadsword in an arc that drives them back. She lets loose a wild screech.

We parry the swords that swing at us, but there is a momentary pause as a wild roar and the stomping of hooves turns all our heads.

Throg charges on his elk, and Riev sprints to us on foot, breaking up the ring of Syf around Ivy and me.

They’re hounded by other Syf chasing them, and we regroup.

I’m familiar with Throg’s fighting style.

He’s reliable and sturdy—methodical in his strategy.

What he lacks in speed, he makes up for in planning his next move, as I taught him.

I can trust him to cover my blind spots.

Riev is the killing machine he claimed to be.

He fights like he was born with blades in each hand, dealing death swiftly with awe-inspiring movement.

His cloak whirls around him in an uninterrupted swirl of gray and black, billowing after him like a second shadow.

He drives the Syf back, handling himself with a precision I’ve never seen before.

It’s as if he doesn’t think at all and has fallen into a fever madness of massacre.

The Syf go down like wheat stalks at the mercy of a scythe.

Slicing the air with two strokes, he takes out four Syf in the time it takes most to eliminate one. The look on his face is inhuman and frightening, except that he’s on our side, thankfully. He kills so many, there’s almost nothing left for the rest of us to do.

There’s one last injured Syf left alive.

He swings a hand axe weakly at my throat, but misses. I plunge a dagger in his chest to hold him still as I behead him.

I’m about to heave a sigh of relief, but a Syf next to Ivy catches my eye. He isn’t fully decapitated. He spasms once, sprawled on the ground. In the blink of an eye, he draws a curved blade from his belt and launches it at Ivy. At the same time, it catches Throg’s attention, too.

I can already see what will happen.

But I’m fast. Without thought, purely instinct, I dive for the trajectory of the dagger to knock it away with my sword.

At the same time, Throg lunges forward and yanks Ivy to his side, exposing himself to the blade.

The spin of the curved blade is slightly erratic, and I miss within inches.

I’ve already twisted into a spin to rebalance myself.

Instead of the dagger hitting Throg in the chest through his heart, it plunges through my leather armor into my back with a sickening thud. At least that’s what I hear. The thud could also have been my knees hitting the ground.

“No, Captain!” Throg hollers with Ivy tucked safely under his arm. I look at him with pleading eyes, because the words are stuck in my throat. Help me.

The pain blinds me. Flashes of white light overwhelm my vision. I’ve been knifed before, but this has hit deep. I fall onto my hands and knees, trying not to panic because my world is narrowing to the crimson pooling below me.

Gasping in a ragged inhale, I have no idea if the knife has hit my spine and I’m dying or if I’m reacting to the agony of steel jammed between my shoulder blades. Hot blood pours down my back, my arms.

I barely register Riev’s look of horror as he races to me.

Opening my mouth to utter my final words that never come out, I collapse face-first into the dirt.