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Chapter 20. Barbarian Princess |
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here was a message waiting for you,” said Moll with a bemused grin. The woman’s petite form was swathed in furs from her short walk to Yak’s Bend. Her glossy black hair was unruffled and the chill wind coming down off the Shiverpeaks had heightened the rouge on her cheeks. Armand nodded at Moll distractedly, relieved to have a break from trying to convince Brigit that she would be okay inside the box. If she actually fit. “I wasn’t expecting a message,” he grumbled, more to himself than to Moll, “Thank you.” He felt Brigit’s eyes boring into him as he reached into his coin purse to reimburse Moll for the delivery fee. “Oh no, Master LeBlanc, it is my pleasure to do this for you,” the young woman said demurely, pressing a stiff cylinder of paper into his hand and waving away the coin. “I insist,” he said stiffly but Moll merely batted her large brown eyes at him and dashed away. Brigit drew toward him, her jealousy palpable. Armand had no clue what had transpired between Brigit and some of the other female performers, but she drove them off like a silent but menacing guard dog. Uncertain what he should say to her at that moment, he calmly broke the red wax seal of the messenger service and unrolled it to find a short letter from Mog. Armand always found it amusing that Mog’s perfectly formed letters and formal tone in no way reflected his folksy mannerisms. ****
Master LeBlanc, ****
Armand frowned, scanning the letter again to let the news sink in. Brigit was at his side now, a large pink silk curtain with gold edges draped around her shoulders to stave off the cold. “What is it?” she asked. Armand considered passing it to her but then remembered her ability to read was only slightly better than her ability to write, which as abysmal. Since they were currently going through a period of near constant conflict, he decided to do some creative omission so that they would not lose the last three hours of the day’s practice session to pointless worrying about Pendaran’s fate. He liked the man, but if the entire membership of the Order of the Crystal Palm had been unable to find Pendaran, Armand doubted there was much he could do. And if he ever had the displeasure of meeting Belenus again, he would do more than simply apprehend him. “Sounds like Pendaran left the island. Mog just wrote to let me know so that we could keep an eye our for him.” Brigit frowned. Armand recalled that for a time she had considered herself Pendaran’s personal body guard. “And Lemony thanked your for the letter and hopes you will write again,” he continued before she could ask questions. He was frankly surprised Brigit had managed to write to Lemony and was equally puzzled that she had not shown it to him for proofreading. They spent an hour each day working on her letters and her spelling was atrocious. They both looked up as daylight flared at the draped doorway to the large pavilion and Pirunel’s stout figure arrived. The owner of the circus was a dignified silver-haired dwarf who had established the troupe over a century before in his prime. Armand swallowed at the sight of his employer, for although Pirunel was a nice man, his patience for their floundering act was growing thin. “Miss Gaenor, I would prefer that you did not use the troupe’s scenery for your warmth and comfort,” the dwarf said archly upon seeing the curtain clutched against her muscular frame. Of course, beneath it she was wearing the costume Pirunel had paid to have tailored to her frame. Blushing, she folded the bright pink fabric carefully away to expose her revealing and ridiculous costume. Armand did feel pity for her being asked to wear so little cloth and so many sequins. Her powerful frame was not designed for such clothes. Pirunel must have come to the same conclusion for his lips quirked in bemusement beneath his thick silvery mustache. “I’m freezing,” Brigit complained, rubbing her pale skin to chase away the bristling gooseflesh and possibly her humiliation, “I hate these clothes.” “We can see that they… fit,” Pirunel said, “Change back into your normal clothes while I talk to Armand.” Thankfully, she did not quarrel with Pirunel and only nodded, withdrawing to the screened off changing area. “How is the act coming?” Pirunel asked bluntly once Brigit was out of earshot. “Not so well at the moment. Making adjustments as I go.” “I could ask Moll or Bethena to work with you,” Pirunel offered, which Armand knew was code for smaller more lithe and flexible women. Moll was a contortionist and Bethena was an emerging trapeze artist. They were also among those whom Brigit detested and he feared the repercussions if he dared to accept Pirunel’s offer. But he was in a bind. Pirunel would only fund their venture if he saw results, and right now, the main result was broken equipment and wardrobe failures. Sadly, Brigit’s scant costume had a tendency to break under the strain of her muscular frame and she quickly gained a reputation in each town they visited as a source of great voyeuristic amusement. It boosted sales but it also humiliated the woman he loved and she was growing increasingly angry and withdrawn. “Well, don’t mind me, I’m just here to relax for a while. Carry on,” Pirunel said as he climbed up onto one of the benches to make himself comfortable. Great, now his boss was watching him. At that moment, Brigit returned in her form fitting Charr hide shirt and knee-length trousers. She normally wore them under her armor, but they made her look like a savage, albeit a voluptuous one. When she saw Armand and Pirunel staring at her she scowled. “They’re comfortable at least,” she snapped, daring them to disagree with her. Armand flashed her a tense smile, and gestured toward the vanishing cabinet. He was now a little irritated that his precious time was being wasted by all the fuss. His escape routine was workable but he would have liked to spend more time making it flawless instead of trying to coax an angry and stubborn Brigit through her part of the performance. “How am I supposed to breathe in there?” she grumbled as he opened the door and gestured for her to go inside. “It’s not air tight,” he replied, trying to remain calm in spite of her bellicose mood, “Now we have been over this a few times, do you remember what you need to do when I say the incantation and strike the door?” “Yes,” she snapped, “Just shut me in here and get it over with.” Just as he was about to do just that, Moll pushed through the doorway, her panic washing through Armand’s senses. “Pirunel, come quick! The Stone Summit are attacking us!” The door of the cabinet nearly threw him to the ground as Brigit thrust it aside and charged past him. She bounded like a gazelle over the edge of the ring and flew through the pavilion door. Anger was replaced with fear for her and he pounded after her moments before Moll and Pirunel rose to follow him. Brigit had raced to their home, an old traveling wagon that had been granted to them by Pirunel. She pushed through the low door in its back end and emerged with her blackened axe and the rest of her Charr hide armor clutched to her breast. Dropping the bundle to the ground, she thrust her feet into the metal-studded boots and threw the spiked shoulder guards over her head. “Don’t just stand there, help me get this buckled on,” she fussed. He hesitated as her shaking hands tightened the buckles of the shoulder guards. She pointed her toe at the reinforced skirt of hardened hide and metal that went around her waist. In moments he had it secured in place and was helping to buckle the metal plates that protected her thighs. She drew the barbaric helmet down over her head, transformed into a horned snarling beast. Without a word she charged toward a plume of smoke snaking from one of the pavilions. Cursing, he fished his mask from his chest under their bed before running after her, the cresting fear of the troupe playing upon his raw nerves. Many towns did not allow the troupe inside of their gates and Yak Bend was one of them. The town had sent a small number of guards to watch over them, although Armand fancied it was to make sure they did not steal anything. It made him furious just thinking about it as he finally caught sight of their assailants. Two enormous metal-clad dolyaks towered over a half-dozen warriors and magi. He sensed the chill bite of necromancy and the beguiling taunt of mesmeric hexes. Already several of the town’s warriors were reeling in pain as illusions and curses tore at them. “Don’t fight while you’re hexed, fool!” he shouted at one of them, recognizing the incantation being shouted by the stone summit sage. “Take out their healer first!” Brigit snarled, “Army, I need you.” To his immense relief, Baltos the fire mage had arrived and was already attuned and ready to strike. He saw three warriors and a monk from Yak’s Bend and Valya, their own healer when she was not fortune telling. Caedwal the trick-shooting ranger immediately sent arrows toward Brigit’s target and the dolyak bellowed in pain as they punched through the thick iron plating of its cladding. Armand snapped a single word of power and stopped the dwarf’s protective prayer dead in its throat, lashing it with a powerful backlash of chaotic energies. No sooner had the other warriors run forth to assist Brigit than did healer and beast crash with an agonized roar to the ground. Now it was the heretic and the sage that felt their ire as the two monks worked together to drive off the hexes that plagued their warriors. The stone summit warriors charged forth to punish them for the loss of their healer, seeking to even the score by inflicting the same losses upon them. Armand hexed one so that it reeled in pain each time it struck out, and while it did not cease its foolish attacks, the dwarf died quickly when Baltos rained fire down upon them. Two were still standing, charred but mad with battle rage. There was little Armand could do to help them, his spells that day were aimed toward the menace of fellow magi and he focused there, pausing in his assault only to flee from a warrior’s sporadic attacks. He trusted Baltos to protect their healers and the smell of roasting flesh indicated he was doing quite well. To his horror, something stirred amid the blackened corpse of the warrior and the bloated dolyak. The vile construct of raw bone and sinew clacked wetly into combat, spitting bone shards at the warriors under the Stone Summit gnasher’s command. Hatred and disgust flared within Armand. How he loathed necromancers and how wonderfully slow their spells were. The vile dwarf chanted darkly to steal Brigit’s life energies only to shriek and fall back as Armand tore into him with a swiftly uttered spell. The heretic and the sage also reeled in pain and the big dolyak staggered to its knees as Caedwal’s arrows pierced the beast’s eye and punched into its skull. “I can take the necromancer,” Armand shouted, “Help the monks.” “Aye, already on it,” Caedwal responded with a fierce gleam in his gray eyes. He uttered a prayer to Melandu and noxious poison oozed from the tips of his slender arrow. An instant later Armand felt the chill of Grenth’s domain and snapped another incantation, easily silencing the gnasher before it could make another bone minion. The infusion of energy enabled Armand to throw another punishing hex on one of the remaining warriors before he focused again on the necromancer. Aware that it was the target of Armand’s hatred, the vile dwarf made a feeble attempt to feed off of his blood only to stagger back in pain as an enormous spike of chaotic energies punished it. On the point of death, the gnasher uttered a single word and fed off of one of its minions. The bone creature crumbled and the necromancer, restored, now sliced itself, its blood offering energizing it for a renewed attack. Armand swore, failing both times to stop the gnasher. The sage fell with an agonized shout beneath the blades of three warriors, leaving the gnasher to face their wrath and Armand’s alone. As a parting gift, he silenced its attempt to create a new minion from its fallen comrade and watched as the dwarf was shredded and slain. The battle was over with one warrior remaining, the other scorched and feathered with arrows. Realizing he was doomed, the axe wielding dwarf roared an oath and threw itself at the three advancing warriors. In an instant he was dead. Brigit tramped over the blood stained snow and pressed through the milling crowd of onlookers. An aura of golden fierceness limned her muscular body as he gazed upon her. At that moment all he wanted to do was kiss her and expend himself in her powerful grasp. He moved to her side and they embraced. Their lips met and they kissed savagely, the adrenalin of battle transformed into raw lust. “Ahem.” Burning with embarrassment, Armand withdrew but clutched Brigit’s hand possessively. He glanced down at Pirunel and flashed a tense smile. “Thank you for protecting us. For that alone you have earned your keep this year,” the dwarf said to both of them. “You’re welcome,” Brigit said on his behalf when he hesitated, not certain how to respond. “I was also inspired by watching Miss Gaenor fight. I believe we may have been going about this all wrong.” “Oh?” Armand said, confused. Brigit’s narrow brows turned down harshly. “Yes,” Pirunel said, pausing for a moment to gaze upon Brigit, “Yes, I think we’ve been trying to make Brigit play a traditional role for which she is ill-suited. Instead of a pampered princess, perhaps we should consider a barbarian princess.” Armand blinked. What was Pirunel on about? “Think about it for a moment,” Pirunel said with a grin, “Your daring escapes are interesting, but imagine escaping the bonds of a powerful and… if you don’t mind me saying it… beautiful barbarian princess? And if instead of making her disappear inside a typical vanishing box you devised a way to banish her with magic...” “Bwee?” Armand choked. “Think about it and let me know what you decide. I’ll talk to Farah about a new costume after things have calmed down. And take the afternoon off. I’ll cancel tonight’s performance.” Brigit chuckled as Pirunel trundled away. “I like that idea,” she said and Armand startled as she squeezed his rump, “I’d like to have a pet magician of my very own.” “Brigit!” he hissed, burning with embarrassment while simultaneously wanting her so badly it was driving him mad. Fortunately, the troupe and their encampment were too concerned with the aftermath of the attack to pay them much mind. It was then he noticed blood on her armor and saw an open wound along her ribs. Desire was replaced with fear and concern. “You’re hurt,” he said. “Yeah, it happens,” Brigit quipped, “Battle, you know.” “Go see Valya, please?” “Alright, Army,” she said, squeezing his hands, “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’m fine.” His old fears about losing her stirred and he snarled at himself to let go of the past. So long as they had each other he would protect her as he had today and as he had before. Grinning to himself he realized she felt the same toward him. She would probably laugh at the very idea that she needed him to protect her.
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