Yrba's Travels Pt. 05

Mirca gazed up at her, begging mutely with tears in her eyes. Red sighed, bent down and ruffled the white-golden mane. Her voice turned soft again. "Okay. All except you. You stay here, guard the house and warm up again. You helped her as much as you could already. Best you could do. Yrba, you coming?"

The witch gently freed herself from Mirca's grip. "Of course."

The door closed. All alone, Mirca huddled deeper into the corner, shivering now and then in her blanket, and stared at the tiny candle on the kitchen table that flickered for a while in the disturbed air and finally burned quietly again.

~

Mirca's gaze wandered to the spare weapons left on the table. The candlelight gleamed red on the edge of a hatchet.

Not bleeding to death from a sword to the neck, alone with the wolves, mumbled Berry's voice again and again through Mirca's mind. Outside, a gust howled by. She shuddered and shrank even more against the wall.

Oaf. Klutz. Bonehead. Moron. Scaredy-cat. Down, girl!

Another memory. The smell of rotting leaves, her face diving into them, again and again.

I don't want to be a warrior. I'm sorry!

The image of a small, wise woman looking up at her, her ageless face beaming with teacher's pride, with a wide grin and a blackening eye.

No sorry! Doing good! Good fight!

But I don't know how I did—

That is right way of doing it.

And the fluffy blanket fell down and curled on the floor as something rose to its feet in the empty kitchen and reached in one swift, fluid motion for the axes on the table...

~

The fight was short and violent. In the dark of the forest and the few spots of light from the flickering torches, swords and axes collided. Crossbows were fired blindly. It might've ended badly for the women, outnumbered as they were, until Mirca showed up, roaring like a wounded bull, tears of anger running over her face, and raged her way through both twenty years of cowering and the ring of robbers. She didn't fight; she didn't even think for a second. She just clutched the two hatchets in her hands and weeded out anything in her way that she could not immediately recognize as a friend.

In less than a minute, the woods were silent again save for the fleeting sounds of fleeing footsteps. Several shapes laid on the ground and didn't move any more. Some of them gave the impression that they'd match up well together, like jigsaw pieces.

~

"Are they — gone?" whispered Berry.

Jean coughed and lowered the club she had been wielding. She shook her head and stared at Mirca who stood, steaming with sweat, her skin glistening in the torches' light, her clothes ripped and spattered with blood, in the clearing. "Oh gods, I hope I'll never end up on her wrong side. That one, with her bare hands, she tore his—and then she — and his — ummggl—"

Her stomach heaved.

"Jean, are they all gone? I can't see a thing."

Jean wiped her mouth with trembling fingers. "Yes, they're either gone or dead. Just us around. Why—"

"Good." The brunette stepped out of the bushes. The big knifes slipped from her dangling hands and clanged down on the frozen ground. Yrba was the first to see that the bolt wound in Berry's leg suddenly was the least of their problems. She jumped to catch the swaying woman, but by then, it was already too late.

Berry fell forward, flat on her face. With an ugly sound, the crossbow arrow sticking deep in her chest was punched right through her and poked out of her back.

"Berry! No! Nooooo!"

The flock of soiled doves huddled around her, gently rolled her on her back and cleaned the snow and dirt from her face. Mirca knelt down and propped the limp body up on her thighs.

"Can't feel a — a thing. Legs cold," Berry mumbled. Her shaking hand reached for Mirca's shoulder. "Wronged you. Good friend, you are. Good fighter, damned good fighter... "

Her hand slid down slowly, tracing the shape of Mirca's round orbs and adding another smeared, red streak. She rested her head against the warm pillows. "My girl. So proud. My... wonderful boobs," she rasped.

Mirca choked up and couldn't speak a single word.

Berry nodded. "Just... wanted you t'know. You did good. Came back... for me. 't's okay."

"You'll be all right! Don't worry. You'll see! We'll put you on the cart and bring you home and patch you up and—"

Jean bit her lips and glanced at Yrba. The witch almost imperceptibly shook her head.

"Talk — bullshit." Berry tried to laugh; it ended up as a horrible gargle. "I do — know where — a hit becomes — a kill." The brunette coughed. More blood ran from her lips. Her voice was barely audible now. "Am home. Got my... warrior's honor... back. To die — in battle... for family. You're my family. My girls. My... daughters. Never really had... but now... not... alone..."

She breathed in against the fiery pain, one more time, one last time, her face contorting even more. She had to tell them. Had to, before the darkness encroaching upon her, eating away at her, was too close —

"Rock. North. Crooked oak. Dig under. All yours! Split among you — except — shield. Bury... forgive me... I lied... I hid..."

Her voice faded as the darkness embraced her gently with the promise of peace. Her contorted features smoothed, and she almost smiled again when her eyes closed for good.

Her hand slipped off Mirca's waist. Her arm dropped down, and her head rolled to the side. A small, red trickle emerged under her and ran steaming down the ice-covered rock face.

Mirca's howl rang through the nightly forest. It descended into gargling sobs as she curled up over Berry's motionless body, clinging the cooling, limp form tight.

The others knelt in shocked silence while, one by one, the dropped torches around them fizzled out in the snow. The pale moonlight remained, draining all color from the scenery.

Finally, Mirca's upper body rose again. She cleared her throat.

"Uhm, should... should we now say a prayer for her? I mean," she wiped at her tears, only to smear the blood on her hands all over her face, "you know... w—which gods she believed in?"

Yrba's voice was hoarse and flat. "It doesn't matter. Don't bother with the damned gods. They don't care for us either. Whatever prayer you choose, say it to honor her memory. Gods? And they let this happen? Then to hell with 'em all! The only things worth believing in are — are friends like Berry." Yrba gulped and looked up. The others nodded, tears running down their faces too. Her own cheeks were cold and wet as well. She didn't care.

~

To Be Continued...

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