“It is said that the Vaettir came in great ships across the sea. When the Plague struck their empire many thousands of years ago, they sailed across the turbulent waters in fleets and landed on the coast of what is now called Lydi. The ships returned for another convoy of survivors. They returned again a third time, bringing tens of thousands with them to safety. Alas, when the ships returned the fourth time, the empire was full of rotting corpses and abandoned cities. It is said that the deaths of so many, millions even, upset them such that the Vaettir swore an oath never to kill. They treat life as sacred, in memory of the forgotten generations that fell. They erected a temple in the mountains of Lydi—a place where they could pass along the traditions of their people. They named it Shatalin.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Hettie lunged at Paedrin with the dagger, aiming for his abdomen. The fading sunlight glimmered on the sharp edge of the blade. As Paedrin pivoted on his heel to let it pass by, he recognized that it was just a feint. Her arm never reached full extension and suddenly the dagger blade was jutting up to his neck. He accelerated his pivot, swinging away from her and then jumped high, bringing his leg around in a high circle, directly at her temple.
She ducked, of course, as he expected her to. His foot met nothing but empty air where her dark hair had been a moment before. With a quick sip of breath, he remained in the air, poised like a leaf caught on a draft, gazing down at her mockingly, as she was abandoning the leg sweep she had just commenced.
Snuffing out his breath, he dropped on her leg like a rock, pinning her to the ground. There was the dagger again, aiming for his back. He blocked her forearm with his, slid down to her wrist and closed his fingers around her hand. His eyes gleamed with triumph.
Her eyes glittered with fury. With a momentous pull, she jerked her arm backward and hoisted him, trying to offset his balance. She lifted at his body with her pinned leg and Paedrin felt himself overcome by the act. He would have sailed over her shoulder if her leverage had been better. Instead, she managed to pull him right on top of her. The scratchy meadow grass crackled around them, leaving little burs in her hair. He sprawled on top of her, face hovering above hers. He still controlled her wrist with the dagger.
“That did not work out the way you intended,” he observed dryly.
She squirmed beneath his weight, trying to get free. “Don’t say you’re not enjoying this, Bhikhu. I see it in your eyes. Get off!”
“Drop the dagger before I make you.”
“What are you afraid of more? That I’ll kiss you or stab you?”
“I’m not sure which would be more painful to endure,” he shot back. “To be honest, the thought of the former hasn’t once entered my mind.”
She squirmed harder, trying to wrest him away with her leg. Then she tried to smash him in the nose with her head.
He jerked back in time, but kept her pinned. “Now you are trying to kiss me! Shameless, Hettie.”
“I could really hurt you right now, if I chose,” she said back through gnashing teeth.
He pressed his thumb at a spot near her wrist.
“Owww!” she groaned, wincing with pain.
“I’ll wait you out. How long have your fingers been tingling?”
“How long has your brain been tingling?” she said, bucking harshly on the grass. Her fingers shot up to his face, hooked like talons.
“Tsk, tsk,” he clucked, forcing his elbow around to intercept the strike and used his weight to push her arm back down. Now both of her arms were above her head. She tried to lash out again, but it was pointless. He could see her chest heaving with lack of air. Her fingers opened and the dagger thumped to the grass.
Submission.
Paedrin inhaled, smelling her sweat and the wonderful scent of the dried prairie grass cushioning them.
He lifted off her slowly, hovering in the air, and gazed down at her, hair sticking to her face, her black tunic slivered with grass. His heart ached with suppressed emotions. He would not give in to them though. Their friendship had expanded since leaving Kenatos with a whirlwind of seek and chase.
“You tend to slip back into insults when you realize I’ve won,” he mentioned.
She stared at him, eyes narrowing with thought. “It’s the anger of the moment. Sometimes you just aggravate me.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Back to the mistake,” he said, brushing his hands. “Your leg was trapped over here.”
She stared at his face with a look impossible to decipher. Women were too complex to understand. He dared not even try. She snatched the dagger in the grass and rolled up to the crouching position. He set himself on her leg again, caught her arm as it plunged toward his back and gripped her wrist.