Vassal by Sterling D'Este (reading books for 7 year olds .txt) 📗

The humming persisted, and Alphonse lagged behind, trying to find the source.

It wasn’t until Delyth was about to take the turn that Alphonse realized what the sound was.

Calamity, strapped to Delyth’s back. It was vibrating excitedly.

༄

Delyth could feel Calamity’s whine against her shoulders, but for long minutes, she ignored its steady climb. She had no desire to touch it, to let it inflame the battle-lust that lurked behind the bars of her rib cage.

The sword set her on edge. Was it vibrating so out of a lack of use? Did it need regular blood-letting to be appeased? Recently, she had avoided using it even to bribe Enyo with blood. Should she have just gritted her teeth and borne the sword’s desire then?

Then again, Calamity had never had to be sated while it hung on the walls of the temple at Glynfford. It had not moved until the summoning of Enyo had sent it falling from its perch, and in the long moons since, it had never vibrated like this. Delyth alone knew of the blade’s true sentience… could it be a warning? It was her duty to be sure.

Still, she hesitated, glancing back towards Alphonse. It had been so nice, so peaceful just to walk with the healer for a time, reveling in secret touches and smiles. Calamity would pierce that simple joy as easily as it did flesh.

And yet, it had to be done. As she rounded a bend in the road, Delyth reached up to grip the sword hilt. Later, she was never sure what had hit her first: the sword singing of blood soon tasted, or the sight of the road blocked by a group of poorly armed townsfolk.

The warrior’s vision dimmed. Her very blood was a battle cry, and somehow, Calamity had become unsheathed, hanging almost casually in her white-knuckled hand. She forced herself to take deep breaths, long and shaking. No one had attacked yet. There might not be a need for battle.

❀

Alphonse stumbled to a halt, unable to stop herself from emitting a small gasp of fear. She immediately saw the armed villagers and understood.

Their traveling group seemed rich beyond compare when she saw the hungry faces and crumbling homes of the locals. Of course, the villagers would feel the need to take what Alphonse and the others had.

After all, they were not starving. Their children weren’t hollow-eyed. It wasn’t excusable, to turn to thievery and banditry, but…

She understood.

Even if it frightened her. Even if she didn’t know how they would possibly get out of this unscathed. As desperately as the bandits needed food and clothes and coin, she too relied on the contents of her pack to survive every day.

The silence grew between the two groups before a large man, barrel-chested and strong despite hard times, stepped forward.

“Put down your things and go.” The threat was unspoken, and Alphonse shivered, gripping her satchel and thinking she would do as he said.

⚄

Tristan had been near Alphonse in the back of the group when Delyth and then Etienne stopped in front of him. He stepped around the two, striding out ahead, his grin and casual demeanor unchecked.

“Well, that's a right difficult thing to ask a poor group of travelers, isn’t it?” He kept his voice light but stopped a foot away. Plenty of space to draw his daggers should the man choose to attack. “We’ve a long way to go yet, and would just as likely die to the elements as to your… eh…. fine weapons.”

Tristan made a show of looking the man over and finding the results lacking.

“Look, boys, why don’t you all head back to your farms like the nice, simple folk you are. No one need die today.”

The man said nothing but looked back at his companions. One of them nodded, put his fingers to his lips, and emitted a piercing whistle. Tristan cocked an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be some kind of agreement? The all-call home?”

Of course, it wouldn’t be so simple. Behind him, Alphonse shrieked, the sound sharp in the thin, mountain air. When he turned, it was to find her trapped in the arms of another villager, her legs flailing at his calves. At least until she noticed the blade at her heart.

Tristan’s lips tightened into a thin line. So that was how this was going to go.

There were at least a dozen more behind Alphonse, but the rogue had no intention of getting between Delyth and the man holding the girl, so he turned instead to the man in front of him.

“Let’s see what sort of dances they teach in peasant villages these days.”

༄

See? They’re listening to Tristan.

Delyth wasn’t sure if the thought was directed to herself or the sword. She didn’t have the strength to wonder. Calamity was vibrating in her hand; her blood was singing. She kept still only out of the fiercest display of will power.

And why? The sword had never been so hard to control before. Not since the very first time she had touched it.

There was no telling, no time to think. She could only breathe.

Until Alphonse’s voice cut through her already fraying grasp on reason.

Delyth swung around, her vision narrowed to the man holding her little bird. He was strong and weathered, likely from years of laboring to eke a living out of the rough mountains.

But he was no match for Delyth and Calamity.

Her fingers made irons around the wrist that held the knife to Alphonse’s breast, and with a care that belied her savagery, the priestess pulled the arm away and up.

Then she sunk Calamity to the hilt in the man’s armpit, piercing heart and lungs in a single thrust. He fell away from Alphonse like so much meat, dead before she could pull the sword free.

There was no stopping after that. A dozen or more men from the village had crept up behind them in what some distant part of Delyth recognized as a trap.

She didn’t care. They would all bleed.

The next closest bandit took Calamity in the throat,