Going Feet First Ch. 03

Keetle continued to wonder, though, why her commander had ordered the demon and his pet to not be harmed, even after Keetle was directed to steal one of his weapons. Many humans and other races with no liking to Redding had helped out their forces before, but they had been slain for the sake of maintaining secrecy about Drow movements. What made this demon so special?

When Dreek was expected to tie up the loose end in the demon, she commanded everyone to mount up to make the ride home. And then not three zetras after that did the commandant order Keetle to break off and steal on of his exotic weapons then meet up with them later. For what reason did she delay?

Ahead of the Sun-Kissed warrior lay the battleground where she and her squad had fought off the humans with the help of the demon. The bodies of the Knights still lay dead in the red-soaked sand, but were now trampled by a fresh set horse tracks.

The group the demon was hunting, Keetle figured.

Interesting how the demon had healed that one Knight after the battle, the one who towered over all others. The demon had placed several thunderous strikes into his body, taking him to the brink of death, only to heal him right after. It had been an amusing sight, easily something her kind would have done to an enemy.

Now the monstrous human is gone, his body missing from where it once lay and one of the remaining horses was gone as well. Why did the demon save him? Why did Dreek want the demon alive? What was the importance of the Redding band that had come into the area in the first place?

So confusing was this entire situation around Keetle. The demon, the humans, the confidential letter stolen from one of Redding's outposts that the humans were so desperate to defend...

With the situations brewing on the surface and the preparations being made down below, it was guessing game as to when the "children's squabble" Redding had made with their city of Faerssune was going to turn into an actual war. She didn't know if the Sun-Kissed had the time to delay the confrontation a little longer, until her city had the strength to defend its borders or mount an effective campaign.

Perhaps Dreek had seen some potential in the demon, that he could be used as a means to help-

BANG!

The force of a steel mace slammed into Keetle's chest, knocking the Drow right off of her horse. When her back met the sand with a solid thump, her head whipping back and hitting the ground just as hard, the Drow swore she saw lights dancing in her eyes.

Her vision blurred, mind dazed while she attempted to pulled herself off the ground, only for something, or someone, to pinch down on her neck on a specific pressure point. With the blood supply to her head cut off she only had a few short seconds before she finally blacked-out.

............

"Where did you learn how to use my rifle?" a voice echoed in Keetle's mind as she drifted into consciousness.

"I remember all that I see, Galen. It was not hard to..."

That voice faded off as she drifted back into darkness, her mind bouncing through this cycle as it struggled to regain a wakened mind.

"I'll show you how later, then. Just... dammit. Look, I'm sorry for getting mad. It's just that my weapons are dangerous to those who don't know..."

Again, the voices faded for what seemed like moments.

"Do you know anything about the Dark Elves?" a male voice asked as Keetle finally began to fully wake.

"They live underground, that is all," a female voice answered.

The warrior's eyes cracked open just enough to allow her to see without the other voices knowing she was awake. Surprisingly enough, her hands weren't bound together nor were her weapons removed. She could still feel all of them in their sheaths along her waist, aside from the one she took from the demon. That one was gone.

Keetle was sitting with her back against a tree and, from the proximity of the voices, the demon was standing with one or two paces to her right. Beside him stood the black-furred, feline woman, the one who had come to his aid earlier when he had been bound to a horse by his human captors.

Somewhere close to her left, she heard the grunts and flares of nostrils that could only belong to a pack of horses. They would likely be tied to a tree, but that would be no issue as she still had her weapons. All she needed to do was pacify the demon and his pet and run for the horse.

Her head ached, though; she would have to be careful climbing onto the beast as to not further any damage that may have been done to her head. If only Dreek had allowed her to take his miserable life...

The demon and feline were speaking in human tongue, too quickly for Keetle to fully understand. She caught words here and there, sometimes whole sentences, but ultimately struggled to keep up with the conversation. She is a student of magical arts, after all, not linguistics. If there was a spell she could use to understand another language, she would use it and save the time to practice her magic.

For what she did comprehend, it was clear the demon was confused as to why she would steal his shotgun. It also became clear that he knew little of the Drow race or culture in general- another oddity. His tone was of confusion, his feet constantly shifting about as though he were going into thought.

If he had no intention of doing harm, Keetle could at least use these next few moments to think on what had happened to knock her off her horse. There was the explosion, a loud crack sounding exactly like the weapon he had used to slay the humans for her squad. And then a force had slammed into her chest like a giant's war-hammer.

Acting as though she were still passed-out, Keetle slumped her head forward so her hood could conceal her eyes from the demon's view. A stabbing pain from the intensity of the surface light stabbed at the back of her retinas as she opened her eyes completely to inspect her armor.

The Dark Elf was barely able to contain her gasp as she saw the new gash in the center of her breastplate. The experimental, enchanted steel she once thought impenetrable by normal magic, and too strong for normal weapons, had been sliced open like a paper scroll. A hole that was hand-length long and a thumb-width wide had sundered her breastplate to reveal her blackened-yellow undershirt.

"I believe she may be awake," the feline creature stated. "Her hands are in fists."

The demon's boots turned toward Keetle, stepping in closer before he kneeled down as her side. "Hey."

It was fortunate Keetle had her mask drawn up over her face; otherwise the Demon may have seen the anger upon it as she lifted her head to glare at his face with her blood-red eyes.

"What's your name?" the Demon asked.

She began to slowly chant under her breath, clenching her fists as tightly as she could while her eyes glanced down at her armor, then back at the demon. When the Demon didn't react, she again glanced down at her armor and back at him. It was then that he finally clued in.

"I'm sorry 'bout your armor, ma'am. Petra saw you with my weapon and assumed the worst. You're lucky it was a graze. Had she aimed an inch or two to the right, you'd be dead."

Keetle narrowed her eyes, her hand whipping around and producing a blade that she held right against the Demon's neck. The feline creature reacted instantly, her claws coming out as she readied to pounce upon the Elf before she raised her free hand and finished her chant with a yell. There was a blinding flash that erupted from her fingers, Petra freezing the second before she leaped as Keetle focused her attention back upon Galen.

"I had choice, you be dead. Do not follow, demon."

The Dark Elf retracted her blade, resisting temptation to drive it through his eye as she bolted for a horse. Her sword was quick to swing around and slash the rope tying the stallion to a tree before she hopped onto its back. With a sharp cry, she spurred the horse and took off into a gallop, leaving Galen and Petra behind her until her petrification spell finally wore off.

After a minute or so, Galen's hands began to move, the fingers clenching as his muscles attempted to break the spell set upon them. Suddenly his entire upper body snapped forward, as though he had broken from a block of ice, to slam face-first into the sand.

Petra's release from the magic was a bit more peaceful, the Neko gently lifting with her legs to loosening off the spell until she was able to fully stand up straight. Her throat rumbled with a tense growl as she stretched out her arms and twisted her head around until she could feel a soft pop from her neck.

"Next time, Master, we should tie our captives down," she said with that extra emphasis on "master."

"Point taken," Galen groaned as he picked himself up off the ground. "So much for getting help with Pretayus... Fuck it; we'll get Celia back ourselves."

"And bring peace to our goddess," Petra added.

Of the original eighteen horses there had been prior to the battle between the cavalrymen and the Sun-Kissed, only a pair of stallions remained. Galen took his pack and ammo bags and tossed them onto the smaller of the two, securing everything to its saddle with double knots. With his gear ready for travel, he motioned Petra toward the more muscular stallion, ordering, "Hop on, we'll ride together."

A relived sigh escaped Petra that she would not have to mount up alone. The aspect of using a living creature for travel was still an uneasy one in her mind; for her entire life she had walked everywhere she went. Even King Hector, with all his selfish ways, never used a mount.

Given her cultural bias and that it was her first trip upon a horse, there was reluctance in Petra's step as she fed her feline foot through the stirrup. Unused to climbing a saddle, she pressed her belly against the horse's side and clawed the seat as she attempted to swing her other leg over. Just as her leg left high enough though, the claws on her foot lost their hold and slipped out from the stirrup.

"Watch out!" Galen cried, darting forward and grabbing the first thing he could to stop her from falling off the horse: her ass.

Petra's eyes widened as one of his fingers pressed into her crotch, pushing upward against her sex as he said, "Up you go."

Well, I don't hate this, she thought as she managed to swing her leg over, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed when he removed his hand from her bottom.

She was barely settled when Galen placed his boot in the stirrups and hopped up onto the horse in one smooth motion, pressing up right in behind her until her entire back was firm against his chest.

There was that sensation again. An unrecognizable flare within her belly, like she first felt the previous night in the cave. Then she had thought it desire, her body yearning for a male as she watched him in his passionate moments with Celia. But here that flame came again, warming her insides as she felt the strength of his arms snaking up along her sides to grab hold of the horse's reins.

It was scary the comfort she felt to have his arms around her, have his face hovering over her shoulder.

He turned toward the pack horse, yelling out, "Comon!"

Following the order he gave a sharp whistle and a few clicks of his tongue before he spurred his mount. The stallion's sudden takeoff sent a jolt through Petra's nerves, her claws erupting from her fingers as she grappled onto its mane and her legs squeezed against the steed's sides.

"Relax, Petra, I got you," Galen said as his arms tightened up around her sides to keep her steady in the saddle.

The Neko peered over her shoulder, spotting the other horse galloping at full speed to keep up behind them. Whatever prompted the creature to do so was beyond Petra's understanding, but it carried Galen's gear so she didn't dwell on the subject any longer. They both had to focus on chasing after Celia and completing the mission given to them by their goddess.

Galen watched the trail ahead closely, focusing on the tracks left in the sand by Pretayus's group as they had moved along the river bank. Surprisingly enough they did not deviate from the river or split into groups. They remained in tight formation and only rode in one direction; west toward Redding.

.........

Sitting at a solid wood desk in the candle light of a dark room, with the smell of burning incense filling the air, was the Ra'zorlich Hunt Commander Farok. Despite the pleasing aroma of his candle, a disheartened frown dominated his feline face as he slowly unrolled a map onto his desktop and traced over the recorded cartography.

From mountain peaks in the south, to extensive expanse of forest in the north; from the stretch of Rock lands expanding far past Redding in the west, to the rolling grassland far, far to the east; the map showed the entire known world bordering their home in Atzla.

So-called "civil" provinces were written along the southern border of the map, a place never visited by the Ra'zorlichs, but still recognized by them as the Astiko region. It was the place where the Humans that founded Redding had come from, where the empires and civilizations of many different races had grown in territory, knowledge, and population far beyond anything found within Atzla.

It was a place where one could disappear into and never be seen again.

Three, heavy raps pounded on the door to the Hunt Commander's quarters, the subtle clinking of metal barely audible on the other side.

"Farok, the King sends his summons," a deep, powerful voice declared.

"Allow me a moment. Please," he answered. "To don my ceremony gear."

"You have two zetras, then you will be dragged out naked if need be."

Wasting no time, Farok folded up the cloth map and stuffed it into a satchel beside him. The silver band once shined upon his spaulders was gone, just as the red claw that had decorated his breast plate had been purposely scratched off. Pulling a brown cloak over his armor, he was sure to secure his sword at his hip and the pouches hanging off his belt.

The loincloth that once hung between his legs was now replaced by black leather pants covered in a fine steel mail, his groin area encased in a steel cup. All symbols of the Ra'zorlich tribe had been removed from both his gear and his body. Even the satchel he hung over his side had its red embroidery removed to leave nothing on Farok that would trace him back to his clan.

"The executioner's claws await you, Farok," King Hector's voice declared through the door. "Quit cowering and come out to meet your fate."

Growling deep in his throat, the former Hunt Commander glanced up to the wall above the door to his quarters, to where the large painting of the previous king hung. He circled around his desk and approached that painting, using his sword to extend his reach to pull it back. Instead of pulling away from the wall, the painting instead swung on a pair of hinges to reveal an open hole in the stone behind it wide enough for even the burliest of Nekos to crawl through.

Using everything his body could muster, Farok leapt up in his heavy steel armor, barely catching onto the lower lip of the hidden passage and hoisting himself inside.

"Rackna! We are coming in!"

Farok's feet slid into the passage just as the door to his quarters burst open, Hector and three of his royal guard storming into the room with swords drawn. As they swore and kicked over the desk to see if he hid underneath, the ex-Hunt Commander pulled the painting closed behind him, slipping away into the rafters of the warrior's barracks.

Prowling through the piles of grass and soft bedding, Farok began to think back upon the two women that once called this loft home. A knotted feeling began to wind his gut around as he did, and what may have been a tear nearly escaping his eye before he blinked it away. So many years he had known them and in a second, they were gone. And they were never coming back.

It was a life time ago now, when he was barely into his thirteenth year, that the young Petra had been selected for the Shadow Stalker training. To think that was a time now twenty-five years gone. He had watched her grow from an innocent child to a ruthless killer with flawless tactics and movements that even the most skilled of scouts could not detect. Just the same she had been with him when he walked the brutal path of becoming the greatest warrior in the Ra'zorlich tribe.

So many times he had trained with Petra and Teirie, used their skills to further his own and vice-versa. So many times he enjoyed in innocence the strong friendship they had brewed. All until he was made Hunt Commander and Petra's master Stalker retired, turning his role as head Stalker unto her.

Farok regretted now, suspending his relationship with the assassins, placing his professional life above that of his personal one. Many times did the two assassins try to reopen that door, surprising him by offering services for which he had not thought them mature enough. Yet he had stayed professional with them...most of the time.

There were times when personal desire overcame the professional discipline, when they shrugged off the rituals of their race in secret. After all there were desires the two assassins developed and that needed to be fulfilled regularly, both with and without him. But Farok had kept those times isolated and controlled; assuring the two women that with him they would never come to anything more than their casual rut.

How he did regret that now.

"Spread out! The coward is to be slain on sight! His failure will be made example of!"

My failure being my assassins unable to kill two humans with god-like powers... You are a fool and a brat, Hector, Farok grumbled mentally as he reached the far end of the Shadow Stalker's loft. There he began to feel about the wall, trying to remember where it was.

A smile crossed his face as he finally found the latch, flipping it open and gently pulling open the hidden door. Sunlight poured into the loft through the open hatch, revealing the barren training yard around the barracks that separated Farok from the rows of wooden homes fifty paces to his north. He had to move swiftly to reach the clustered buildings without being spotted. Afterward he had to race through the streets to reach the outer walls of the village, where he had to climb over them and break for the border of their territory.

Even then, he did not know if he would be safe. For him to be so, he would have to leave Atzla. He had to leave the forest completely if he intended to escape Hector's wrath.

Gazing out over the training yard, the open ground he would have to cover and the area after that through which he would need to run, Farok took in one final moment to reflect on his best memories. He took in the faces, the names, the moments of pride and honor. With this rush of nostalgia and happiness flowing through his chest, he finally leapt toward his fate.

..........

Patience is the key trait to every hunter. Without patience they may strike too soon while waiting for prey, they may leave an area behind too early and miss a chance to strike. For any event or duty, proper patience is a virtue. When the rest of his hunters' patience had waned and they left to go about their business, Huntmaster Hail remained at the front gate of the Willher village. Patiently waiting in the mid-afternoon sun.

In comparison to the muscular warriors beside him, Hail had a slim, yet defined body covered in a light brown fur. Loose, brown, felt pants covered his powerful legs, and only a thin, open-front, leather vest covered his back. Everything about his body spoke volumes of his prime physical condition, despite the years detailed in his aged face.