Anya

(this is my first tentative foray back into the realm of classic fantasy. please leave comments on the work :) )

Bright vermillion eyes scanned the horizon for the messenger. He had been gone for too long, thought Anya. Her eyes blinked and in that brief moment, an arrow whizzed past her hair and sunk into a dark tree. She smirked and stepped back into the shadows, snatching the arrow from the tree and taking off in a run towards the settlement. She was the fastest runner the unit had and in these times not even the knights could turn away the help of witches and women. She bounded over hills and took no rests on the five mile stretch back to the army. She burst through the gates, headed straightaway to the hut step up as command central. Anya stopped briefly in front and straightened herself, wiping the sweat from her brow as best she could, and took a couple deep breaths before walking calmly through the tent flaps. She bowed low, not daring to look up until she was addressed. The king sat on the other side of the tent, pipe in hand, looking over maps and arguing with the one general he had left. Anya remained looking down for near a minute before she coughed roughly, nearly throwing up in the process. She held it back and gulped, not realizing the king had bid her to stand during the coughing fit.

“Anya, what is it that you have to report?”

“Your grace, I bring an arrow from Armand. Attached to the shaft is a note.” She held it out and walked towards the king and his general in the horned helmet. She didn’t know his name but it mattered little. She wasn’t even sure if he was from the kings original ranks. She bowed her head as the king took the arrow and unfurled the note attached to it. His brow knitted up and he frowned.

“Thank you Anya.”

“Anything for you my grace, my king.” She bowed again and exited the hut, her long sinewy legs bringing her out into the twilight’s cool air. The witches gathered, preparing weapons, laying in them runes and acidic curses for those struck by them. Anya walked over, watching them work, silently. She knew nothing of magic but the way they seemed to know exactly what would happen and know just the curse or blessing to place on each weapon fascinated her. They insisted they could not tell the future, for they were not fortunetellers; or so they told the king. The king was more wary of the star watchers and fortunetellers than the withes. Anya was sure that the witches had at least one star watcher with them. It would be impossible for them not to. They would be as clueless as the knights that forged ahead unwittingly to their deaths.

“Little Anya, what is it that clouds your eyes this evening?” The eldest of the witches, cooed, gesturing Anya over. Anya looked a bit sheepish and walked over, her vermillion eyes indeed clouded by something, though right now she was sure it was just confusion. Her cheeks and face flushed as she made her way over, taking a seat next to Grenda.

“Nothing, grandmother Grenda. I fear the battle that looms ahead with the Night Walkers.” Grenda was not her grandmother but all the children she had grown up with only knew her under that title. In truth Grenda was childless and had been barren since accepting the magic into her body. She still baked little apple pouches for all the children and helped the mothers in the village. Anya had learned form a very young age that witches were incredibly and terrifyingly powerful, but in the same breath as sweet as the sun on a spring morning.

“Do not fret my dear. You will be safe.” Grenda said softly and clasped Anya’s hands in her slender bony hands. Grenda smiled softly and held out a blade she had been working on.

“Here. This is a light blade. Made for a runner. Her name is Amyrl. Treat her well and she will undoubtedly save your life one day.” Anya blinked at the brilliant steel blade, and grasped it’s handle. A handle she had had never gripped but it felt as if it had been crafted specially for her. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt and the blade seemed to glow in the fire light , the runes taking on a life of their own. Anya couldn’t help but smile. The scimitar fit so comfortably in her hand was was so well designed that the blade practically sang.

(to be continued...)