Part One: http://laurelinarchives.org/node/36106
Part Two: http://laurelinarchives.org/node/36221
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“It's too hard! I can't do it!” Caethel wailed, almost overbalancing entirely. She stamped her foot on the ground, scowling at his serenity, arms crossed in front of her.
“Don't be so silly,” he reproved her, expression frustratingly smug. “Just stop thinking about it, and balance. See? Like this.”
“Well what's the point anyway? We have two legs so we can use both! Scouts don't need to be able to do stupid tricks!”
Her brother smiled again, and sighed, shaking his head at her. Only a tell-tale wobble as he did so revealed that his balance was not quite as good as he was pretending. “Scouts need strength, and balance, and skill. We practice skill all the time – this is just an exercise for practicing the other two.”
Unconvinced, Caethel took up a position beside him, unconsciously screwing up her face in concentration as she took a deep breath and lifted one foot.
Trying not to laugh at her comical expression, he remarked, “See, it's not so hard. You can do it!”
Looking surprised, Caethel began to relax into a broad smile, only to shriek in alarm as she toppled over once more, this time managing to crash sideways into him so heavily that they both fell to the floor. His recriminations and her loud protests were enough to draw their long-suffering mother out of the house to find out who was being murdered, and 'balancing exercises' had to be suspended for a time – at least until Caethel was old enough to manage without falling over quite so much.
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She had only been distracted for a second. One look across at a gleam of pale yellow, shining against the ground, one moment when the relief had lessened her guard, and in that second, they had caught her.
As the jaws closed around her leg, Caethel hissed in pain, instinctively slamming the end of her bow down on to the warg's head. The shock of the impact sent shivers all the way up through the carved shaft, and for a moment she feared it would shatter. But the wood knew its duty – grown in her father's favourite grove, lovingly carved with the details of the life it had become so integral to. It held, and the warg flinched backwards, jaws gaping. Quick as a flash, Caethel had wrenched an arrow from her quiver, and rammed it home between the warg's teeth. The beast dropped, and Caethel gingerly took a step forward, testing her leg. The hot rush of pain up her leg had her wincing, but she could still stand, still fight. She still had a promise to keep.
Only the first scouts from the pack had found her so far, but the woods were ringing with the howls of those they had alerted. As she sprang into action, another grey shape appeared at the top of the ridge, looking down at Caethel in the small valley by the river. Barely pausing, Caethel drew another arrow from her quiver and shot – but her balance was off, hampered by the effort of ignoring her injury, and the arrow hit the warg in the flank. Caethel could hear his voice in her head again, teasing her, hiding the fear that only she had ever been able to hear. Stop thinking about it. Just balance. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she drew again, pulled back the bow-string and shot. This time, the arrow struck home, and the warg dropped, falling forward down the slope. For a moment, all was quiet. Clenching her jaw against the pain in her leg, Caethel knelt carefully down by the tiny flower, recognising the star-shaped petals with a thrill of delight. Very gently, she wrapped one hand around its stem and pulled it from the dark earth, tucking it reverently into a pouch and into the front of her tunic.
For a moment, the wood fell quiet. The whole forest caught its breath. Caethel stood, gingerly, wheeling round to put her back to the river. Five grey shapes snarled down at her from the top of the ridge. As she swung her bow from her back, the lead figure pointed his muzzle to the sky and let out a blood-chilling howl. Then all the wargs were moving, flowing down the ridge towards the slight figure below, hastily drawing her bow-string back with arms that were already strained with weariness.
One of the wargs dropped with a yelp, Caethel's arrow taking it by the throat. Caethel drew, shot, but only managed to hit one in the leg, so that it stumbled but kept advancing. Gritting her teeth, she shot again, trying to ignore the weakness in her leg, the traitorous weariness in her arms and back. Finally she hit a second warg full in the chest, so that it rolled over, tumbling forward onto the ground. Step by tentative step she backed towards the river, managing to pin another of the wargs with a fatal arrow.
Two remained. A slight splash at her boots told her that she had reached the water, and could retreat no further. The deaths of their companions had made them wary, and they had split up, circling wide around her. One lifted its nose to the sky and let out one of their awful howls, the other, lips pulled back in a ghastly snarl, sat watching. Waiting. Caethel had an arrow to her string, but could not possibly shoot one before the other was upon her. So shoot one, and get ready for the other. A voice in her head again – his, or hers, it hardly mattered now. It was always the two of them anyway. And the wargs. They won't just sit still while you aim. Shoot now. Now!
The bow string sang, and Caethel was spinning, bringing the curved piece of wood down and out in a low, vicious arc. She slammed it into the side of the warg that had leapt at her, crouching low in the same movement so that its momentum carried it past her, knocked off balance and out of breath by the force of her blow, so that it almost seemed to be falling rather than landing. Caethel whirled, drawing the long knife from her belt, briefly relieved after all that she had not managed to persuade Eliriael to take it. Almost blindly, moving on instinct, Caethel brought the knife up and sank it into the body of the warg – once, twice, into its chest. Blood poured out over her hands, the scent of it acrid and horrifying. The creature was still. Caethel backed away, shaking her head to try and clear it, only finally pausing to look in the direction of her first shot. The lone body of a warg lay crumpled where it had stood, her own grey-fletched arrow protruding from the socket of its eye.
Panting for breath, exhausted almost beyond her reserves, Caethel mechanically slung her bow carefully across her back, before she turned and plunged her hands into the river water, sluicing the creature's foul blood from her hands and wrists. The forest had fallen eerily silent – the howls were gone. His voice was gone. Wearily, she pulled her bow forward to run her now-clean hands lovingly down its length, checking it for any faults, before she finally reached into the front of her jacket, pulling out the wrapped plant. Its pale flower glinted at her in the growing dusk. The wave of relief was almost enough to set her swaying – but the thought of the two healers, waiting for her, gave her strength to set aside the pain in her leg and her weariness once more. Instead, she tucked the flower gently away once more, and with a final glance around the scene, set off walking parallel to the shore, through the water, allowing it to wash away the last traces of blood. She hoped it would wash away any trace of her, too, at least long enough that she could help Eliriael carry Eleanias back to the camp before any serious pursuit was managed.
In the end, she did not need to worry. Tancamir appeared at their position not long after she rejoined the critically injured Eleanias and Eliriael, who had watched over her and done much to staunch her injuries. Between them, she and her fellow Arrow were able to escort the pair safely back to camp, where Eleanias could be cared for, and Caethel herself could finally rest. But as soon as Eleanias' condition had steadied, they were to remove across the river once more. She was able to send a hasty farewell to her old company, but Caethel found it far harder than she had imagined to join the others on their boat – to say goodbye to her miserable homeland once more. Watching the dark line of the trees slowly recede, the scout could not shake off the feeling that she was going in the wrong direction.
The silent forest sounded like a reproach.
