Lost in the Light Ch. 05

Author's note: The juicy bites are a long time coming in this one. Think of it as excessive foreplay.

*

The Mischevious

The dawn began with the clack-clack of sparring warriors. The elite guards were warming up with hard fought duel matches. Mock spears, swords, short blades, even a knife -- all rang out loudly amid grunts of exertion and drops of sweat. Eight of them in all: six men sat and watched while two fought their hearts out and never pulled a strike unless it was to the head. They wore only cloth shorts that came to their knees. The morning dew moistened their skin and made sweat all the more prominent.

They saw her coming and paused in their routine. All eyes watched her sultry, playful gait as she walked boldly right towards them. She mimicked the brown shorts they wore, but covered her front in a tightly fitting strap of blue cloth that held her bosom squished to her chest. One of the men snorted derisively and shook his head. Even her shoulder length blue hair had been tied behind her head.

"Looks like the deadly rat has come to play boys," he scoffed. Of all the men there, he was the only one that looked like a hardened combatant. A pale scar ran down the side of his face from his eyebrow to his chin; his square jaw and pronounced jowls were always locked in a menacing grimace.

"She's not a bad work out." Mero commented and stood up from his sitting position with a lazy stretch.

"But is she a good work out?" Another of the guards snickered. He was the only one that held a mock spear. He also looked to be the youngest with a baby soft face, clean shaven, and bright blue eyes. The bawdy reference wasn't missed and a few other voices chuckled at that.

"Care to find out?" Mero jibed back.

"Aye, I'll take first licks." The young man smirked and took a step back to get in a few practice strikes with his long spear.

"Any wager?" One of the others commented in a low voice. He had twin sticks like Mero's tucked under his arms and sprouted a full red beard, but a bald head.

"Two strikes and she's down," one of the swordsmen snorted

"No, I've actually danced with her before..." Mero said thoughtfully. "She's good, but not that good. I say eight."

"I'll take it." The betting swordsman said. They all parted ways as she came up to them. Mero bunched his sticks together and tossed them to The Mischevious. She caught them together but didn't take them apart -- a single arched eyebrow voiced her question.

You'll need them this time. But you'll have to earn your own." He snorted and took a step back. Half the group shrugged off the newcomer and left the courtyard -- they were done with their training for the morning. Four guards stayed to watch the fight and all four sets of eyes never left the Zecarin elf as she took measure of the sticks with a few practice swings.

"I hear your race likes to drink blood," The blue eyed man taunted her. "Come for a taste?" The Mischevious looked at her sticks then at her opponent.

"Bleed for me, and we'll find out." She retorted with a coy grin. Her opponent stopped his practice bouncing and laughed.

"I don't know, I mean she's so sma..." He started to say before she came at him suddenly. The words ended as he brought up his spear to parry her strike, but it wasn't the sticks that connected but her foot to his arm as she swung her leg out at the last second into a roundhouse kick. Although she scored a hit, it was woefully underpowered and she practically bounced off his chiseled bicep. It wasn't the reaction she had hoped for, and the moment of confusion gave him time to circle around her and put some distance between them.

"Nice." He applauded her and took a step back to reflect. "But we're not initiates..." His voice dropped low, and so did his stance to favor his back leg. He took a short breath, stared her down with those wolfish blue eyes, and then unleashed a flurry of impossibly fast strikes with his wooden spear tip. She blocked and parried one after the other and was forced to retreat as the kept coming straight for her face. Each strike made her grunt with exertion to match his speed, and she drew in a sharp hiss of breath as she prepared for the next. But suddenly as she moved to step back again he struck low for her solid footing. The Mischevious flipped backwards to avoid the strike that would have taken her feet out from under her. Halfway through her acrobatic ploy, the spearman threw his shoulder into her backside and slammed her to the ground.

As the Zecarin elf collided with the earth, her opponent roared as he spun on one foot and flung his spear out wide for an overhead, extended swipe. Mero closed his eyes in a grimace of pain when he saw the beginning footwork -- he knew what was next. The wooden weapon came down with a loud thwack, and splintered in half over the woman's back.

The Mischevious screamed in surprised agony, and rolled away. She tried to stand but the muscles wouldn't work properly anymore. She got to her knees before collapsing to the ground with a face full of dirt as her trembling hands clutched her back.

"That was twelve," The swordsman snorted. Mero just covered his mouth and shook his head in masked amusement.

"What?!" The spearman moaned. "Strike of the Pack counts as one!"

"You named it?" The bearded man scrunched his face up in disgust. All four had turned their backs to the beaten elf to argue over the match. Only Mero gave her the occasional glance as she rolled around sluggishly on the ground in intense pain, unable to decide which side eased the agony. The blow hadn't broken her back; she was lucky...or tough.

"And the Full Moon Fang!" The spearman continued, "If Razj can have his Panzkit-rit. I can name mine too."

"The Panzkit-rit is hundreds of years old, and is more than just a technique or maneuver," Mero cut in coldly. "It's a weapon in of itself, regardless of what tool you use it with, Wolfe."

"Fine! We both lost the wager." Wolfe grunted, as the exertion started to catch up with him, his breaths came heavier and heavier. He looked back to the Zecarin on the ground. "The Zek has some ability, I'll admit. Enough to be a spear, but she plays around too much."

"Bleugh!" The swordsman wretched, made a face, and turned away to dismiss them all. The bearded man just shrugged and meant to follow before he was plowed into by Wolfe who had been shoved out of the way.

Twin wooden blades clacked together where his neck would have been had Mero not shoved him. All of the elites staggered back and now gave her their full attention. The Mischevious was up and turned on Mero with a roar and unleashed a vicious flurry of stabs and slashes. It was all he could do to dodge and get out of the way -- she had gotten in too close for him to be effective, and she stayed close as he tried to distance her. Every time he tried to grab her arms, or block her wrists with his hands and grapple, she pulled the strike short and scored a nasty hit with the stick on his forearms.

"Oh shit, you pissed her off," The bearded soldier mused. But it fell on deaf ears as their eyes were locked onto the one-sided fight as she continued venting her rage on Mero's forearms. Each strike he had to take caused more and more of a pained wince in his expression. It was obvious he didn't have the hand to hand training to fend her off with just his bare arms.

"Mero!" Wolfe shouted and tossed him what remained of his spear. Before he could catch it, The Mischievous cut it in half mid-air with a scissored strike.

"You're fucked!" He called out instead.

Mero didn't respond. His eyes were fully dilated in the grey morning sun as the adrenaline from fending off such ferocity flooded his brain. His Zecarin playmate had become a completely different combatant -- and person. Her irises had turned scarlet red, and her jaw locked into a perpetual toothy growl. As his stamina waned from her onslaught, hers never seemed to end. As the pain and bruises mounted he caught the opportunity to retreat and ran hard. The Zecarin chased him down across the courtyard.

"Let's play this game again." He grunted and vaulted off a stack of food crates near a building, up onto the low rooftop above. His footing never missed and he kept running along the roof's crest towards the next nearest one. He felt the thud through his feet of his pursuer landing on the structure, but didn't look back to check. The next building came up and it was very far away. But the speed Mero had built up was enough to carry him across the open air and into a rolling tumble that almost sent him off the short far edge. With no time to loose he reversed course and charged towards the leaping Zecarin as she flew after him.

The two collided in mid-air and crashed nine feet to the ground. The man managed to secure her arms in mirrored arm-locks and her body with a full leg grapple from behind. There he sat with his prisoner and winced as his battered muscles locked up the struggling woman tight. The other elites came over to watch the results of this match -- and take out the crazed Zecarin if need be.

"Fuck! Look at her face!" Wolfe said aghast. "What the hell is wrong with her?" The seducing visage of the grey skinned woman was now a snarling, slobbering, animal that tried to bite anything that got too close.

"Calm the fuck down or we'll crack your head open!" The swordsman shouted and aimed the butt of his weapon at her forehead. The Mischevious hissed and roared at him like an animal.

"Any fucking time now!" Mero grunted through gritted teeth. His face was beet red from the strain and the veins in his forehead were protruding up from the skin. "Knock the bitch out gods damn it!" he shouted. As the swordsman reared back to crack her on the temple, she slammed her head back at the last moment and cracked Mero in the forehead instead with the back of her head. He went limp immediately.

"Shit!" Wolfe shouted and backed up just as she leapt at the swordsman with her bare hands and teeth barred. He swung at her head with the blade end of the weapon and missed. Her nails raked his face and her teeth sunk into his shoulder.

"FUCK!" he shouted and spun around in a panic. The Zecarin still clung to him trying to bite a hole through his shoulder. He roared against the pain as he rammed her against the building wall, again and again, slamming her head against the stones. When her hold started to loosen he flung her off him to the grass below. His shoulder was a bloody mess, but she hadn't managed to sever any meat. The Mischevious wobbled to her feet, panting heavily.

"Get your steel. If she gets me, kill her." Wolfe snarled as he leveled the splintered spear. It was less than half the length it once was, but his hands choked up on it, and he knew just how to make up the difference. The other two ran off in separate directions.

"Here, kitty kitty kitty..." Wolfe taunted her. The Mischevious paused to pick up her sticks. Her movements were getting more and more sluggish. "Oh? You think we're still sparring now?" He sneered. There was a questioning glance in her face -- the snarling seemed to come and go. Fresh blood flowed down the side of her neck coming from some unseen wound on the back of her head.

"Fuck..." she muttered and lumbered toward him before collapsing to one knee. Wolfe kept his distance. "me..." she muttered again and got up. The fierce red of her eyes was gone. But that sinister snarl kept coming and going amid labored breaths. On the third step she lost it and collapsed to the ground on her side. A shaking hand went to her head and came away covered in blood. Wolfe finally lowered his weapon, but didn't come to her aid.

"Wise choice, lad." A gruff, grizzled old voice said behind him. Wolfe turned, startled, and immediately went down to his knees before The Father. The old man came to the panting girl and touched her neck near the throat. Her eyes didn't seem to see him, and so she didn't seem to care. His hands searched through her head and examined her scalp. The bright red blood showed brightly against the silver roots of her blue hair. From somewhere in his grey robes he produced a powder packet and sprinkled the contents into the wound. There was a sizzle and a small wisp of smoke. The incoherent moaning and ramblings of the girl died off with a sigh. Her rapidly panting chest stopped instantly.

Wolfe thought he had killed her with that poison, until he saw the slightest movement in her from shallow breathing. Long, slow breaths said she was still alive. The father caressed her head once softly.

"I was too rough. I see now." He said with a hint of remorse, as he caressed her head absentmindedly. The bleeding had stopped -- the wound had been chemically clotted.

"Lad, carry her to my study." The Father said. "Call on Siles to tend to your fallen brothers first then ask him to come to my study with his medicines." He stood and turned, folding his hands behind his body. His fierce, disgruntled, dark expression finally returned.

"Then get back to your training," he snarled. "You never wound your prey. That was your folly. Come to me this evening for penance."

"Y-yes Father." Wolfe replied reverently. He hefted the elf girl up in his arms being careful of her head, and followed The Father.

His comrades returned just to see them walking away, but when they approached, Wolfe nodded them back towards the still unconscious Mero. The walk was silent and uncomfortable. Wolfe's mind was racing with all kinds of questions to ask The Father, but his embarrassment kept him quiet.

*****

The Father's study was simply a small room with a humble bed and three long tables up against the walls scattered with books. The old man sometimes spent entire days and nights here reading this bit of literature or that ancient bit of parchment. A solitary bay window of frosted glass took up the far wall above the single cot.

"Put her there," The Father said. "Send for Siles, clean yourself, and change into your initiate robes." The Father commanded. Wolfe balked at that last instruction, and was about to protest, but when he saw the old man pause he hurried out the door.

The Father locked the door with a latch and sat at one of the tables. A cold cup of tea still awaited him from this morning. He picked it up with both hand and drank deeply. Bitter tea was made even more so from the cold, and yet he drank it all. A small stoneware teapot held more and he refilled it once and finished that cup as well. His dark brooding gaze settled on the Zecarin girl and he watched her with a far off look in his eyes.

The moments disappeared in his thoughts until there was a soft knock at the door that broke him from them. The Father rose and unlatched the door. A short rotund man entered and bowed reverently to him. Unlike the servant's solid blue monk robes, this man's maroon robe was hoodless and seamed down the middle. One side folded over the other and belted in the middle, but the man's enormous girth kept the halves of the robes from meeting. He wore a plain cotton undershirt and shorts to cover the exposed areas.

"Lock the door Siles." The Father commanded as he returned to his chair to brood, and the man did so behind him. "You did not bring your herbs." He declared.

"I could not bring all of them, Holy Father," The man protested with a coddling tone in his voice, "I need to see the patient first. Ahh," He breathed and walked over to the sleeping girl. Thick, stubby fingers parted her hair and he examined the wound on her head. Then he placed a meaty hand on her chest, felt her labored breaths and then her heartbeat. "I heard there had been a bit of a ruckus." He commented during the examination. With a fat stubby thumb he peeled back an eyelid and examined her eyes. They were rolled back, and she was in a dazed state. "I heard she had devil eyes of blood, but I see none of that."

"I have." The Father muttered.

"Oh good," Siles commented with an eerie glee. He lifted up her bare arms and examined them, followed by her legs. "Some slight scarring on the upper thigh here." He noted.

"I made that wound two nights ago." The Father muttered.

"Reeaaally?" Siles said with glee. "The muscles seemed to have healed nicely, and so quickly!"

"She uses magic to heal." The Father grunted, and poured another cup of tea. Siles' joyous expression melted to a fat lipped pout. The physician removed her shoes and examined her feet, but found nothing interesting. Then he placed her hands above her head and pulled her blue top off over them. The Father did not object as she was stripped. Siles caressed her breasts and gave special attention to the nipples. His face leaned in to observe the hardening buds and the gooseflesh reaction in the skin. His mouth opened as his breathing grew heavy with concentration and the exertion of leaning over.

"All in all, she seems to be very healthy. Mind the nasty crack on the head, and the clotting medicine has knocked her out cold, but her nerves respond and she should recover. What caused this berserk rage I heard about? Hmm?" Silas finally diagnosed. "I see no poison entry points, nothing we grow here could have caused it. What could it be perhaps?" He said with a sly grin.

"You know damn well." The Father sneered. "Its gods damned distilled demon blood. They weren't supposed to make that." The old man clenched his fists and stared down the fat friar. Silas was all grins, but no sign of surprise in his face.

"I had wondered what they wanted it for." He cooed gleefully. "I thank them for showing us this little secret. Now if we can just persuade her to share its recipe and distillation."

"No..." The Father let the words grind out of his throat and fixed Silas with his dark brooding stare.

"Ah, yes. I meant purely for medicinal study. I cannot help her if I do not know its formula." The man quickly recovered.

"I know damned well what you want to do with it Siles." The Father barked. "Do not presume to play innocent with me."

"Yes, I apologize." The man sighed reverently and bowed his head. "Forgive me,

I am just so overrun with scientific glee I forgot myself. I only want to make our soldiers stronger. We have so few..."

"This girl lost all sense of self preservation," The Father sneered at him and leaned forward to stare Silas in his face. "What good are disruptors that do not come back? Hmm? If they leave their bodies behind as evidence, with their blood full of an elixir that could be harvested and studied? The world would go mad."

"It seems the Zecarins are already doing that." Silas replied cold faced.

"Faugh!" The Father spat. "Only because we sold it to them!" he snapped under his breath. "Now there are Eltharians outside our walls staring at us from afar. If they learn of this we'll have an army on top of us, and we'll be dust. Centuries of hard work will vanish."

"They wanted the Zecarins chaotic and savage," Siles argued as he sat in reflection. "We have provided that."

"I have provided that," The Father snapped back. "The King of Elthair wanted his sibling's meddling stopped, and I saw an opportunity. Already we've seen fewer and fewer patrols on their borders; something has happened recently. Liam must have succeeded. This... This wasn't supposed to make them stronger."

"He has never failed." Siles agreed with a sigh. "But he is too valuable to use recklessly." The Father gave him a dangerous look.

"We should learn as much as we can from her." Siles changed the subject quickly. "We can learn what side effects there are, and how to cure them or exploit them. If the Elths ask, we say we just now stumbled upon this elixir with her."

"I think we learned a big damn important one today - don't piss them off." The Father snorted. Then his angry gaze melted almost instantly, and he looked more the grieving grandfather. "I can teach her some techniques; I should have done that to begin with." He sighed. "I should have realized exactly why Liam sent her here to begin with. He sees things so much farther ahead than I can."