---- They slept like dogs, each and every one of them, drooling and retching as they lay. Though dawn had long since crested, and daylight held in its full majesty, it seemed hours were yet to pass before the first might rouse.
A dark will within the huntress demanded she slaughter them as they slept, but some naive little voice still stayed her hand.
The world seemed so terribly quiet now. No birds chirped their morning songs. The pyre wall had hushed from its nighttime roar and the autumn rains gave way to gentle winds. Only the screaming was she glad to be rid of. The gargling, the dying, the fire drowned crying.
Her quest was done; her foe was slain. She might have returned to the village, but she knew the threat still persisted. The lieutenant, the man-made in the image of a mountain. He would take over the battle and he would see to the slaughter.
It wasn't hard to find him. His tracks were buried deeper into the dirt than any other.
He sat in a ragged old tent amongst his drunken fellows. The beast sat amongst his men like some kind of holy figure. A dozen soldiers collapsed at his feet while he sat upon a throne of meat and mead, sharpening a blade that was made to look small within his hands.
"Vehma," he breathily whispered. It carried on the wind and hit her hard. His breath was mint and garlic in combat for dominance. It was fresh and putrid; a perfumed corpse must have lay in his belly.
Ash had hoped that he too might have slept. It didn't matter. She would not hide from him. Stepping into his tent with little regard for her own life, she readied to finish her self-imposed quest.
"Taqe ovoh?" the behemoth whispered as she drew her spear.
"This is your chance to live. Leave and do not return," she said breathily. The tip of her spear fell to the floor and the chink of steel on stone accented her order.
"Aven dorot," his gravelly voice croaked.
"Will you leave?" she asked as calmly as her shaking voice would permit her.
"Yes, he answered. The mountain rose from his lecherous throne and plucked his war spike from beneath a sleeping reaver. "When you are a pretty little corpse."
---- His throat, his thigh, and his heart. She struck out in a single vicious flurry. He didn't care. Metal screamed against metal as his little blade dashed away the strike. His free arm curled like a python around the shaft of her spear, and with a single squeeze, the ironwood shattered, fragments splintering across her face.
His hands, which seemed larger than her entire torso, wrapped around her neck and threw her back before she could bring her boot to his groin.
She was sent coursing through the air and landed heavily through a mound of empty crates and barrels. Ash lay amongst the splinters and rubble begging for a single breath.
Ash struggled to force down half-breath after half-breath until she couldn't breathe at all, and the mountain buried the sun. He stood over her, his hands back around her throat and squeezing.
He tore her from the boxes and lifted her a foot from the ground. He choked and choked until there was little left to choke away.
"Little girl should have stayed home," he mocked as he lifted her even higher.
"Y- You-" Ash spluttered.
"I, what?" he smirked, loosening his grip just barely enough to let her choke out a final plea.
"Your breath... fucking... reeks." She rose the dirk from her boot and slashed it through his wrist. The spurt of blood blinded her for a moment, else she'd have rounded on his throat.
Oh, but the burn of bruised breathing had never felt half as good. The ecstasy of that first breath through her quickly swelling and blackening throat granted her the will to fight a hundred more battles. The pain started quickly, though the adrenaline kept it numb for now.
"Ah, davi pari!" He screamed. She worried it would be enough to wake his men, though they still seemed purely interested in their beauty sleep.
A moment, brief but enough, arose from his pain. Ash crawled towards a sleeping warrior and drew from his belt, an ornate blade. A skinny little thing, ill fit for a grown man. It felt too small even for her admittedly meagre stature. It would have to be enough.
Little noise rang out as she charged forth, thrusting and slashing a dozen times before the mountainous man could recover from his initial wound.
Finally, and with a flurry of feints, Ash leapt over a sleeping man and thrust her full weight behind the blade as it plunged into her foe's shoulder.
Though blood seeped like a fresh spring, and she could have sworn she felt a lung pop beneath her, the creature didn't falter. With barely a flick of his arm, she was sent reeling backwards as he stood to his full and massive height.
Channels of crimson snaked down his cobbled breastplate. All but the hilt of the blade was buried within him. "Prevat," he hissed.
"Your chances are spent," Ash panted. "You're going to die."
"Witch," he grunted with a bloody spittle. "I will die if I must. I will do what it takes to lift this spell from my men."
-- "Spell?"
-- "The fire... The sleep... These are no tactics of a warrior, but vile magics. I pray that in your death, shall the curse be lifted."
Steel scraped along the slate floor as he dragged his war pick forth. The sound of it was drowned quickly by his thundering charge and his hawk-like screech. He barrelled towards her with a crazed wrath, his pick swinging out for her head, but she danced away and placed her dirk in his path.
It struck first at his groin, but his momentum carried him further than her reach and the dirk dragged across his thigh. She pulled it free and plunged it deep again, and again, and again.
It struck, and struck, and struck until all that remained was a mound of quaking, bleeding flesh, and the lone victor above.
"Messy," she thought. "Will it always be this messy?"
---- Red and grey poured over her hands. She wiped away the meaty chunks, but her skin was stained in sanguine hues. She used the cloth from his skirts to wipe away a chunk of flesh from her armour. Then he did what fresh corpses do, and she was nearly grateful for the smell. At least it masked his foul breath.
Every instinct within her cried out for rest. Each burning breath drew just a little too shallow. Each movement of her ribs shot bolts of lightning down her spine. Had she been one for prayer, she might have asked to be placed within the same dreams as the bandits, if only for a moment.
Then a horn sounded from afar, and her belly dropped faster than the lieutenant's corpse had.
Caro had told her, "Thrice for blood," but only twice had it bellowed. "What could that mean?"
She stepped over a couple more sleeping bandits as she left the tent behind. Then nature mourned again as the sound of marching men in marching order came with marching drums. They were far from her but getting nearer. It couldn't be the bandits. She ran faster than she had ever run before to dive into her little tunnel and crawl on home.
Then the horn sounded twice again, only it was much closer. She crawled along as quickly as she could, though it felt much too slow. There was dirt in her teeth, blood was drying in her eyes, and death rang in her ears; but she carried on.
The marching came over head and the dirt caved around her. The tunnel collapsed behind her and the light dimmed ahead of her; but she carried on.
The air garnered a tinge of smoke and burned her blackened throat. The corpse of the smith's youngest son lay over the tunnel's entrance. The clash of steel rang through her skull; so she carried on.
Three corpses, or parts of them at least, were sprawled across the elder's home, identifiable only by their cobbled armour. Blood pooled where her mother had stood, and a full corpse lay at Caro's doorway with his throat slit. Ash pried a shoddy looking spear from his cold grasp.
She charged through the great round door and found the field of conflict.
Six bandits remained. Twelve corpses lay. One man fought on.
"Champion!" An old voice called from afar. She didn't notice for a moment, then realised he meant her. The Elder sat atop the roof of a far home, with the women and children in tow. "Help him! Please!" He called.
She dashed to the half dozen bandits and whirred her spear around like a typhoon. She parted them long enough to stand at the lone warrior's side. Ser Carolet was unarmoured and seemed to hold a stolen blade in his blood-soaked hands.
"Is that your blood or theirs?" Ash asked with genuine concern.
"Much of both," he called back. A bandit struck at him, but he parried the strike away. He was moving too slowly; blood loss had him. The huntress raced to his aid, thrusting her spear out at Caro's attacker and coming to rest within his thigh. She tore it back and felt the bone snap through her spear.
Ash planted the spear down and vaulted atop it. She glided through the air and landed atop a bandit, dirk in hand.
Carolet slashed and tore away at a pair of bloodied attackers, though his movements were sluggish and weak. His reduced state proved too little to save his foes. Caro managed to finish the men while Ash harried the rest.
Ash thrust beneath Caro's legs and managed to pin a bandit to the floor. She dropped her spear and moved to fight with her dirk. She dashed and dodged around every strike and blow the bandits could throw at her. She rolled past one man and snipped behind his knee as she went. Her leg slipped in the mud as she exited her roll.
The ground proved too slick with rain and blood for her to recoup her footing. She fumbled for a moment before a bandit seized her vulnerability and thrust his blade high, plunging it down towards her.
She wasn't fast enough. The blade tore through leather and chain alike before sinking deep into her shoulder. It stopped only when it met the ground through her, and then he tore it back out.
"Fuck!" she snarled. The bandit didn't waste time gloating. He all but dismissed her, rounding back on Carolet as she lay bleeding out in the mud.
It grew so dark that the dawn might never have come at all. So cold that the sun might never have kissed her skin.
All that is to say, she could scream out no final word before a deep, dark sleep gripped her heart.