Owain & Quinn

            The forest is thick with silvery fog. A gentle breeze drags the clouds of mist across the underbrush and deposits them in torn, tangled masses at the base of the trees.  The sky is shot with the golden rays of early morning sunlight which trickle down sparsely to anoint random patches of grass or long stretches of bark covered trunk.  Eventually, the sun will burn off the heavy moisture.  For now, though, it cloaks three hunters in a dewy blanket as they each crouch at the foot of a separate tall conifer.  The two smaller figures, boys who have reached that gangly awkwardness of impending manhood, wear soft leather pants and heavy woolen jackets tailored in mellow browns and greens.  The third member's larger, far more muscular frame is clad from head to toe in velvety black.  As he hulks five spans behind the boys, clinging to the shadows, it is difficult to make out any particular feature.   A pointed beard mirroring steeply arched brows melts into the mist.  An errant ray of morning light lands on craggy features, the sharp bones casting angled shadows on the plains of his ruddy face.  And although the boys are focused on the beast they have been tracking, the man's dark eyes never leave the young pair.

           

            Their quarry is a mere thirty spans upwind.  A mature hart, sinewy neck angled down as it nibbles at the grass, has no idea he has been stalked for the better part of the morning.  The two young hunters are very adept at tracking and following any number of creatures which call the Voldaar Forest their home.  They have worked hard to perfect their skills.  Over the past six cycles, they have tracked, trapped, hunted and fished, and at the young age of sixteen, have spent as many nights under the stars as under a roof.  Today will prove to be the culmination of all their training, for never before have they taken down anything larger than a boar.

            His cheeks flushed with cold and heart hammering in anticipation, Quinn, the larger and darker of the boys, curves a steady hand to the quiver at his waist.  Quietly, with as little movement as possible, he raises a tidy crossbow to his chest, silently locks the bolt in place, and expertly takes aim.  He does not blink.  He does not breathe.  Focusing every cell of his being on the vulnerable spot at the animal's chest just behind its foreleg, he visualizes the energy of the great beast's heart as it pounds out the primal rhythm of life.  With the gentle, steady pressure of his finger against the trigger, he begins the simple motion that will end that cadence.

            "Quinn!" Partially muffled and eerily falsetto, the shout has him randomly firing the bolt as he whirls toward his companion.

            The sight that greets him curdles his blood, and the bow falls from his numb fingers.  Owain, Prince of Voldaar and lifelong friend, is on his back where he must have fallen, placing himself in the most vulnerable position possible as his shadowy assailant advances dagger point first.  Initially, the scene makes no sense.  What in the Greenfather's name is Cathal doing?  Why would their hunting and tracking trainer draw a dagger and move in on Owain? Quinn pans his eyes around the forest, eliminating any other menace, before the truth can be forced on his mind.  Catching the telling green glint from Cathal's dagger, everything falls into place, for there on the flat of the blade is the King's mark.  Not the crowned Lion and Shield of the rightful bloodline, of course, but the Snake and Spike of Hamish the Usurper, the putrid animal's evil eye set with a green gem, as is commonplace.

            Quinn does the only thing he can think to do to when confronted by an opponent three times his size.  He runs.  Straight at the aggressor.  Head tucked, shoulders rounded, and knees bent, he hits the man hard and low, like a small boulder, knocking him to the ground.  Bouncing off the solid man he rolls agilely to the side and up to his feet.  Being smaller and younger has its advantages, and Quinn knows each and every one of them.  More importantly, he knows how to use them.

            Owain has taken the opportunity to right himself, pull out his meager belt knife, and is ready to enter the fray.  Quinn cannot let that happen.  One or more of them will die today in the thicket, and Quinn will not allow the Heir Apparent of Voldaar, brother of his heart, to become a casualty  in this skirmish.  Already, the wolfish, leering assassin has turned himself again toward the Prince. 

            "Owain, no!  Be gone from this place."  Quinn's order brings Owain's furious purple eyes to lock with his.  With a small shake of his delicate head, the Prince readjusts the knife in his palm and lowers his stance, readying for combat.

            "Owain!  You must not stay!"

            The assassin's cruel bark of laughter breaks in on their battle of wills.  "Yes, Owain.  Run away.  I'll make a quick job of your confident little friend here and be on you soon enough, no matter how far your spindly legs carry you.  So run, and make my business here with this bothersome pup all the easier!"

            On those words, Cathal turns, redirecting himself at Quinn.

            "Your Highness.  For all that is sacred, run!  Flee!"  Surprisingly, Owain does.  With one last angry look into Quinn's black eyes, the prince turns and runs.

           

            Twisting to look over his shoulder, the assassin rumbles with derisive laughter.  "Well, would you look at that!  The little rogue left you to me.  I was sure he'd come in to try and poke me with that little toy of his if I gave him an unassuming target like my back."

            "You'll never know what it took for him to do that.  He is honest and true through to his royal soul, everything you can never be.  Which is why I will not let you have him.  One day he will be King.  And his kind heart and keen mind will bring Voldaar to new heights.  It will be a reign unlike any other.  So, do what you will.  I will not let you leave this forest today with your black blood still beating in your hollow heart." 

            "You will not let me leave?"

            "That's right."  Making those his final words, Quinn pulls his short sword from the black leather scabbard at his hip and commits himself mind, body, and soul to his first and last battle in this lifetime.

            Cathal cackles at the ludicrous sight.  Quinn, one third the size of the assassin, cannot possibly think he will win.  Nevertheless, he has his feet planted as firmly as any warrior, grips his sword as steadily as a veteran, and the determination on his face surpasses any the blackguard has ever come across.  Cathal believes it will come down to size and last only a few moments.  So, tapping the flat of his dagger blade against his open palm, taunting Quinn with his easy, casual stride, he slowly advances, hoping to drag out a few more moments of tortuous pleasure.  Two cycles of training these boys in the mundane have worn his patience thin.  He seeks revenge for that boredom as much as for the audacity of surviving the coup perpetrated by his lord and master, the Voldaar bloodline living on as an inevitable threat to the usurping king.

            Quinn waits, sword at his side, giving no sign of the cool thoughts flowing through his heated mind.  He waits while the overconfident assailant brings himself inside the range of his sword arm.  He waits while the dagger bounces loosely in a careless rhythm against the assassin's meaty palm.  He waits until the devil is close enough and sure enough and yet still unprepared enough to react when Quinn tosses his sword from his far right arm into his close left, swinging his right leg in an arc to land against the dagger, inappropriately gripped, and thusly dislodged to fly with a clatter against a nearby tree.  Quinn spins through the kick and brings his sword to slice violently, unexpectedly, against the monster's ribs.  Just as quickly, he ducks and reverses his momentum, placing his back in front of the wounded man, to strike again. This time he swings low as he rolls past the man and takes out the well muscled thigh encased in vulnerable black wool.

            Howling in anger and pain, the wounded man presses a hand to his thigh.  A greasy spot spreads across Cathal’s black shirt under his arm.  His vile fluids drip from his leg to land on the ground cover in an angry red trail as he lumbers awkwardly after Quinn.

            In the trees beyond Cathal, Quinn spies the flutter of Owain's green cloak.  Rather than moving from the battle, as would be the wise and proper move for a threatened member of the royal bloodline, Owain has returned with the misbegotten notion of aiding his adoptive brother. Quinn watches in horror as his stubborn friend advances, quickly and stealthily, upon the unsuspecting man.

           

            Cathal catches the odd shudder of fury that passes over Quinn's face.  He turns at the last possible moment to knock Owain's knife out of an over handed grip.  The prince's arm, which had been confidently hurtling toward the assassin's back a mere second before the stunning blow, now hangs useless and weaponless.  Cathal, on the other hand, has managed to move surprisingly quickly for one of such size and leaking so much blood.   He reclaims the prince's small knife as his own.  Freshly armed and grinning the feral grin of a cat right before it sinks its jagged teeth into a defenseless mouse, Cathal closes the two steps needed to bring himself within striking distance of his original target.

            Time thickens and spreads out on the heels of panic as it floods Quinn's mind.  He watches Owain, helplessly rooted by terror, close his eyes as the assassin's arm begins the arc that will surely cut the Prince's throat and end his life before his rag like body hits the ground.  Quinn has one opportunity.  The battle has shuffled the players so that Quinn now stands adjacent to Cathal and the Prince, who face each other in the final steps of this deadly dance.  With each tic of eternity, Cathal's weapon comes closer to ending the Lion's reign forever.  Quinn launches himself and matches that countdown beat for beat, so that when the assassin's blow finally lands, the knife burrows deep in his tender chest, missing the Prince altogether. 

            All three are stunned and stand for a moment, their harsh panting the only sound in the forest, before Quinn falls first to his knees and then his side, the dull handle of Owain's knife protruding from his chest.  There are no words of undying friendship as Quinn takes his last breath.  In the time it takes for his heart to pound out one last beat, his eyes glaze over in death.

            Dropping to his knees, the prince sobs one word, over and over, at first so quiet it doesn't part the air, turning into a scream so violent it shakes the forest at the roots.  "No.  No, no, no!"

            He is filled with anger that burns to fury, first consuming him and then feeding something primal deep inside his soul.  He can feel every hair vibrating, every inch of his body burning with an icy power, building and filling him so full he will surely explode.

            Cathal decides the game has gone on long enough.  Spying his dagger lying at the base of a nearby tree, he retrieves it and returns to carry out his villainous task. 

            He takes three steps before Owain turns and looks at him.  The prince's mouth is gritted tightly shut, etching a grim line beneath his furiously glowing purple eyes. As his young fingers ball into fists on his thighs, Cathal is abruptly halted by an unseen force and chained in place.  A burning agony begins in his heart and resonates through his chest.  The icy heat fills him completely, ever expanding, stretching his veins to capacity until they wriggle like snakes under his skin.  His mouth opens in a silent scream as the air is crushed out of his lungs by the pressure of his own fluids.  Blood drips from his nose.  When he brings his hands up to cradle his head with swollen purple fingers, he finds a sticky, wet trail leaking from each ear.  A humming begins and matches the tempo of his rushing blood.  He has no time to determine if the noise is originating inside his skull or without.   Before he even has time to complete the thought, his body explodes, landing on the forest floor in a gruesome puddle of death.