The river’s gentle pulse very nearly drowns out the small clacking of the prayer beads. Tk-tk-tk, they are chiding. The Mitran – Cleric, more technically – intently regards the archer bathing there in shallows. She has gone under thrice now and for a third time she rises up from the water, head flung back and then forward, sunrays catching silver strands of riverwater thrown in lazy parabolas from her cropped dark hair.
These Stygians are an odd bunch, the Cleric thinks. An Aquilonian or Argossean woman this age would be long retired to a manor or school or convent, swaddled in loving family or attentive pupils, eyeing with satisfaction the slow advance of her dotage. But this archer is of different stuff entirely. She shakes out her hair once more and pulls herself to her full height. Tk-tk-tk. Water droplets bead her midsection, a shimmering constellation of them. Nut-brown skin nicked with scars and pulled taut over sinew, solid cords of muscle shaped still into a hint of nubile curve. Tk-tk-tk. Her form is a testament to a vagabond outdoor life. Firm. Lithe. Tk-tk-tk-tk-tk.
The archer turns a half turn and now strides out of the water and diffidently towards the Cleric, river-slick and luminous. He averts his eyes but she seems not to have noted his staring. Tk-tk-tk. The Cleric is purposely studying the loamy bank where he sits. Her shadow falls over him. Tk-tk-tk. The clacking of the beads and the rush of the river and the arterial pounding in his head now a cacophony of panic. Tk-tk-tk. He works the beads intently between thumb and forefinger but the shadow stays rooted in place. Finally he looks up, eyes dragging across the solid curve of brown thigh, the slight swell of hip, arc of breast, at last alighting on the drawn, lined brown face staring down at him. Tk-tk-tk. The snake tattoo crawling down her face accentuates the sharpness of her mien. Tk-tk-tk. Her face is framed with a blazing corona of noonday sun.
I will be your plaything, she says matter-of-factly. Tk. A droplet of water falls from her hair onto his brow, a faint kiss of ice. He squints up into the face. The snake tattoo has the appearance of laughter. Her narrowed eyes are locked on his.
His mouth drops open and he is silent a moment. Plaything how? He at last replies. Do you mean like my partner or opponent in sporting contests or games of chance? Or do you mean –
* * *
I awake from the dream with the archer’s knee in my chest. Shh, she spits. There is trouble about. I reflexively reach for the prayer beads at my waist as I cast my eyes around the clearing. The genial Cimmerian is nowhere to be seen.
I have learned to trust this brown archer in these matters, as she has an almost psychic ability to sense impending danger. Since we began traveling together a month ago she has, in fairness to her, pulled me from more than a few tight spots. Blundering into that party of Ymirish shaman, or tumbling from that bridge in the Zelatan wilds, or being hunted for sport by that adolescent Setite in Conall’s Valley, or that unfortunate bit with the scorpions in Kopshef. On each occasion her bow has sung out at the opportune time, her traps held fast, and we have endured. Yes, I owe her my life many times over.
And yet I am certain she means to kill me.
You see, the archer is inscrutable; she speaks in riddles. Make for yonder peak, she hisses.
And this is precisely what I mean. What peak, woman? And in what sense? Do you refer to the icy high-point of the slate-grey ridge stretched out and looming before us? Or is it a metaphor: a dictate to seek some climax or pinnacle of experience? Oh, I have turned from my God and now in foul recompense I have been sent this mystery of a murderess as traveling companion!
I begin to seek clarification on this, her latest rhebus. But before I can she claps a leather-gloved hand over my face and shoves me rudely from the clearing of our encampment into the surrounding bramble. Twigs and thorns dig at my face and shoulders. Shut your damned mouth, she warns again, and turns her face to me. Creased with concentration, jaw set, eyes mere slits set off by the black snake winding down her face.
Oh, fine! This is no time for questions. So on faith I surmise she refers to the mountains ahead and begin to move. I can make out the lumpy shadow of the Cimmerian pagan some distance ahead, creeping forward with surprising grace and silence. Behind me I hear the twang of her string and the hiss of her arrow. A small cry of surprise. Then another of pain. Then the sound of a great weight hitting the forest floor.
I press on through the underbrush. I am not certain of her motives, though her aim to murder me is quite clear now. Why save a man so many times over just to do him in later? Surely she has her reasons. But like the woman herself, they are unknowable.
Nevertheless, I am alive for now and I am wise to her. I will make my escape in due time.
