Dockalfar Page 6

  They were pale as night, as a whole, with hair that flowed and tossed about their shoulders and backs. Their eyes were huge and luminous, like moonlight. Their faces rapt and smooth. Some saw her in passing, smiling. They beckoned her with eyes. Some danced close to her, whipping past, trailing a nebulous hand across her arm, her cheek, her hip. She hardly flinched. The music sang within her.

  Joyful and eager to match the chorus that echoed around her.

  She wanted to cry. It felt so right.

  Like her sometime dreams of visual poetry and haunting melodies. The sprites buzzed her gleefully. The dancers caressed her, urging her to join in their celebration. The music in her swelled and she stepped forward. Into the circle and the dance. Her soul cried with the unmatched joy of something long bound being set free.

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  Part Five

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  The forest was not quite as tropical as those he remembered from his term in the Pacific, but it still brought back memories of trudging through a hostile jungle that housed an enemy that knew it considerably better than himself. He felt uneasy, even in the company of the dark assassin, who moved like shadow itself and only stayed visible to Alex to keep him from blundering blindly through a forest he had no sense of direction within.

  It was an unexpected consideration.

  The climb up the cliff had been hard.

  Dusk found an easy route that was still steep enough to have Alex sweating and gasping by the time they reached topside.

  They were far enough from the bridge to be unobserved.

  Alex was all for rushing back and finding Victoria. Dusk just shook his head, still unhooded and still a little pale and started for the edge of forest. Alex had no choice but to follow. They avoided gnomes. When they did not, he either dropped to the forest floor when Dusk so signaled and waited for the creatures to pass, or waited while Dusk disappeared to silently and efficiently dispose of the enemy. Dusk was appallingly concise.

  Dusk wasted nothing, be it words, movement or chance.

  Once, Alex was a tad too slow in taking cover and a band of gnomes had roared outrage and attacked. The assassin had merely melted away from Alex and appeared in the midst of the gnomes.

  Before they suspected he was among them, half their number had fallen, and when the others realized what had descended upon them, no blade or blow even came close to threatening the dark assassin. Alex watched in awe. He had time for all of five breaths before it was over and he was being beckoned to follow. He ran to catch up, skirting gnomish bodies. All neatly dead. No gaping wounds, no severed limbs. Hardly wounds at all that he could see. He took a few backwards steps, gaping.

  Like he had never seen a body twisted in death before.

  Like his dreams were not full of them.

  But not bodies like this. And not killed with such efficiency.

  “How do you do that?” he could not help gasping. Dusk had his hood up, his features hidden within its depths.

  “It’s what I am.”

  Alex continued to stare at him, feeling a bit pale in the memory that he had thought to subdue this. This creature that thought it was death. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  The hood swiveled and the eyes, fathomless and inky with night stared out at him. “Why?”

  “It sounds… hard. If this is what you are. I got tired of killing real fast. It hurts too much.”

  Very slowly the eyes blinked, then turned back to survey the wood. The night birds cried. The wind whispered in the leaves.

  “You have a soul.” It was coldly said and final. Alex shivered. He did not know if it was a comment on his state of morality or a comparison of something he possessed that Dusk did not. He did not feel inclined to speak further.

  Dusk disappeared on several occasions, while Alex waited impatiently, returning without word to motion him forward in another direction. They went like this for much of the night. Alex was beginning to feel the non-stop travel in his muscles and bones. It was becoming hard to lightly step over snaking roots in his path, to catch limbs that his companion pushed past before they smacked him in the face. He thought, deep down in the sensible part of his mind, that it would be wise to sit down for while, to close his eyes for just a bit and let his body rest. He would never ever ask it. Not from Dusk who did not seem to tire. Pride would keep him on his feet and worry for Victoria.

  They did stop momentarily, by a small glade with a pool no bigger than manhole, to drink. Or for Alex to drink.

  Dusk stood and scanned the forest.

  There was not exactly impatience in his stance, but there was some stiffening of the fluid lines of him that hinted at tenseness. On his knees by the pool, Alex looked into the blackness of the wood and saw nothing.

  “Is there something out there?” he whispered.

  “No,” the assassin said.

  After a long while of travel the assassin very matter-of-factly stated that there were nighthorses ahead. A few steps more and Alex could hear the low guttural tones of an angry conversation. And then the night black bulks of two horses and the mismatched forms of their riders on the ground before them. It was Alex that made the noise that alerted them. Ax and knife were out and threatening before he had taken a step into the clearing. Coal black eyes blinked warily at him, then the ogre was lumbering across the small clearing towards him with something akin to murder in its beady orbs. Alex had a none too gentle hand laid on his arm and he was jerked closer to the ogre than olfactory senses found comfortable.

  “Where you been?” Zakknr demanded, looking past him uncertainly.

  His gaze registered nothing, so Dusk was still playing at chameleon in the wood.

  Alex tried to disengage his arm. The ogre was having nothing of it. He dragged Alex towards the horses and the bowlegged figure of the spriggan. There were no other figures to be seen.

  “Where’s Victoria?” He was shaken and starting to develop a nausea born of premonition. He repeated the question, shriller, desperate.

  Zakknr and Bashru exchanged quick looks. Almost guilt. Most certainly relief.

  With a frantic twist, Alex was free of the ogre. He glared about the clearing wildly.

  No goblins. No girl. No damned assassin either, for that matter.

  “What’s happened to her?” he yelled loud enough to momentarily quiet the night birds.

  Zakknr waved a fist at him. “Gone.”

  Simple. To the point. Devastating.

  “Gone where?”

  The spriggan shrugged. “Wandered off. Lost her. Not my fault.”

  The ogre nodded assent. “Didn’t need female anyway.”

  Alex gaped at him, past him to the spriggan. Neither looked particularly sympathetic. Where was the cursed assassin?

  “Dusk, God damn it! Get out here!”

  He was in no mood for shadow games. If these two idiots had lost Victoria, he damn sure trusted the assassin’s ability to find her. Surprisingly obedient, Dusk stepped into the clearing. Alex stabbed a finger at him.

  “Did you hear that? She’s lost. We’ve got to find her.”

  “No time,” Zakknr declared.

  “Master’s expecting us.”

  “The hell.” Alex whipped around.

  “I’m not going anywhere until she’s safe. Your master can just rot.”

  The ogre’s face twisted into a snarl.

  The weaponless hand snapped out and struck a glancing blow. Alex’s world reeled. He did not quite fall. He staggered and fought for vision and balance and found no support save for his attacker. The same arm that had struck him wrapped about his waist and drew him in, half fainting. His feet left the ground as the ogre hefted him easily and turned to stride back to its nighthorse. Adrenaline born of panic brought his senses back in full force.

  He started to struggle. The first real and desperate struggle he had put up since he had been brought to this place. He kicked and hit and used every dirty trick he’d been taught in the navy and all to no avai
l.

  What held him was in no wise human and had no human weaknesses. All he achieved was a grunt and a tightening of the arm which threatened to cut off his breath.

  The ogre hooked his ax to the saddle and mounted, swinging Alex in front of him. The spriggan was muttering something about stupid bakatus as he mounted his own horse. Neither one listened to Alex’s pleas. Desperately, with no other hope or option Alex twisted his head and yelled out to the unseen assassin.

  “God damn it Dusk, I know you can hear me. You owe me your life! Find her for me and the debt’s even. Understand? Find her!”

  The ogre snarled at him to shut up.

  Followed the command with a vicious tightening of its arm. There was silence in the forest, as if the whole of its inhabitants were shocked quiet. Nothing from the assassin. No sight, no sound. No promises to find Victoria and bring her back, safe and unharmed. But the silence was too complete, almost empty of presence around them. The ogre and the spriggan were nervous because of it. Perhaps that meant something too.

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  Part Six

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  She had never been so free. Never had her spirits soared so high or so long.

  The joy burned her soul like blue white fire and sent its flames searing through her limbs. Her mind, mortal thing that it was, could not comprehend the never ending climax. It just accepted. And swayed with the rhythm and the glory of the dance, as did her body.

  She knew them, her dancing partners.

  Lithe, graceful beings who welcomed her with unabashed glee and warmth. She was one of them, irrevocably joined in the chain of their motion. They seemed happier by her presence than they had before she came. She blossomed under that acceptance. They loved her. They wanted her. They cared not a whit about her shortcomings or her unfounded fears, or the regimen of morality and status that had been drilled into her since her conception. She was neither dominant or dominated here. Meek woman nor forceful man.

  She simply was. She sang with them and they praised the sound of her voice and the clarity of her soul. She never wanted to leave. They told her she did not have to. She was comforted by that.

  They had soft, silken hair. Sometimes curling, sometimes straight, sometimes sweeping up and standing on end on their elongated skulls. Their faces were long and elegant. Large eyes and tiny chins.

  Small, pursed mouths that hid pearl white teeth. Their limbs seemed devoid of cumbersome muscle, slender and supple, longer than a human eye found comfortable. But beautiful. The females had small budding breasts, hardly noticeable mounds on smooth, narrow chests. The males, and she found she had no inhibitions at staring, had organs that were tucked up between their legs in a sheath, very much like an animal.

  The moonlight and the sunlight were all the same here. The glade was cool and shadowed and never changing. Eternity could pass here with the none the wiser for its departure. The only sense of change was that the sprites faded to nonexistence when the sun dappled the leaves and did not return until the moon once more smiled down. One hardly noticed.

  She had shed her robe at some point and danced in the silk of her nightgown, her arms and shoulders bared to the cool air. Her skin refused to work up a sweat, which somewhere inside her she found curious. Her feet and legs did not tire. She tingled each time a slender hand brushed her breast, or child soft lips grazed her skin. They, who were as elegant as porcelain sculptures, found her beautiful.

  She shed tears at their kindness, that they found her worthy.

  She whirled into a pair of soft arms, whirled away into the hands of another dancer, then another who put hands on her arms and swung her close and would not let her pass on further down the circle.

  She laughed at the variation and stared into the face, which was conspicuously higher than her own and sufficiently breathtaking for her to forgive the transgression. She laughed and pulled away, but her arm remained trapped and she found herself being led away from the circle. Her body strained to continue the dance. She was being taken from it. Her fellows seemed hardly to notice.

  Panic overtook her. She tried to break the grip, but it was resolute. Not hurtful, merely unbreakable. She looked to her offender and saw a cloak the colors of a forest pallet, many layered and light as sea froth. The hand that gripped her arm was dusky, almost olive. A good match for the cloak.

  She screamed. And began to struggle in earnest. The dancers faltered. Great luminous eyes stared at her. The music hit a distinctly sour chord. She cried for help, reaching out her free hand to them. The sweet faces turned vaguely feral. The eyes blazed indignantly at the interruption of their dance and she knew relief. They would take her back.

  They moved with grace and speed towards her, clutching her, clutching at what held her. The first of them fell.

  Without sound, without reason that she could see. Cries came from those who followed. Wails of grief and anger. And of fear. The hand that held her arm shifted and went about her waist, swinging her around and off her feet. He began to move swiftly through the wood, no longer pursued. She cried and beat against him with her fists. The music was fading. It was fading from her memory and its loss was more than she thought she could bear.

  She cursed him who had done it, exhausted and grieving.

  “I hate you. I hate you,” she cried. He made no comment, save to put her back on her feet and drag her along under her own power. The forest was too quiet. Too still.

  She wanted to dance.

  There was a crash of brush and her captor started, swinging her around and behind him, releasing his grip on her arm.

  A small, tawny shape blundered towards them. A name came to mind, just out of reach. She crouched down to welcome the creature anyway. A rough tongue washed her cheek and prickly claws kneaded her knees and thighs.

  Phoebe. Phoebe was the cub’s name, given to her by herself… who was she?

  Victoria. Self realization dawned.

  She beamed with the knowledge. Then frowned with further knowledge of what stood behind her. She knew him. Dusk.

  Assassin. These things that were concrete before her, that she could touch and feel, she knew. They willfully pushed the music from her head and made her think of other things. Other things lost and loved. She squinted up at the assassin. There was patience on his face and endless calm. He reminded her of a haunting, beautiful melody. Elusive and heart wrenching. She thought nastily that she would like very much to shatter the calm and break the patience, for what he had done to her. She might never find the music again.

  She sat down with the cub, feeling stout little ribs under the thick pelt.

  Coolly, stubbornly she said. “Phoebe’s half starved again. Fetch her something to eat.”

  She dared not look up, continued to stroke the cub. The silence was too much.

  She turned and found him still there, staring at her. He made her nervous and self conscious. She was dirty and robeless, her night gown too revealing for modesty’s sake. An hour ago she would not have cared.

  “Well?” she snapped, angry with herself and the loss of her uninhibited state. He acted so swiftly she almost missed it. Something fell out of a tree across from him. He moved like melting shadow. She had to concentrate to see him once he was in the deeper brush. He stooped and picked up a small, striped creature, laid it on the ground before her and backed away. She forced her mouth closed.

  Phoebe devoured the creature, skin, bones and all and sat licking her lips afterwards in satisfaction. Dusk did not bother to ask for Victoria’s hand, merely reached down and latched onto it and pulled her to her feet.

  She lifted her chin and glared at him, useless effort that it was, for he was paying no attention to her as he pulled her into motion. They walked and Phoebe trailed behind, quiet when she wanted to be, disastrously clumsy when she did not.

  The assassin occasionally tossed what might have been disgusted looks back at the cub when she was at her noisy best.

  Not that Phoebe cared. She had t
aken a liking to the source of her feeding. She wound about his legs, rubbing against them and though he showed not one trace of emotion, Victoria just knew he found the attention disconcerting. Even though she was a bit jealous at the shared affection, Victoria felt a great deal of satisfaction over Dusk’s discomfort. It was hard to be particularly graceful when a hefty gulun cub wove constantly before one’s feet. He did admirably well, she conceded, in not resorting to violence that she knew very well he was capable of.

  A light flared in the shadow that Dusk did not see. Victoria knew it. A sprite. It flared again and was gone. Victoria felt disappointment. So far away was her dancing and music.

  One moment they walked in shadowy silence and next the air exploded with light and white noise. A thousand tiny forms buzzed between her and Dusk, a wall between them. She could hardly see, so sudden was the transition from dark to light. They pulled at her and urged her to flee with them. She did so, casting one frantic look back at her captor, who was cocooned in a thousand points of light and fighting it madly and she thought, blindly.

  She fled. Into darkness, which was just as abrupt as the light had been. She stumbled and arms considerably larger than those of a sprite caught at her, helping her keep her feet. A murmur of music touched her mind. It awoke the music in her, and she could begin to see the soul brightness of the fairy folk who guided her. Each brightness varied, in tone, in color, in size.

  They were souls, she thought, that she was seeing. Each of their inner sparks.

  Their selves. They were minutely different from the inner lights she had known when they danced, more direct, more forceful in their efforts to free one of their own. They considered her that. She realized it suddenly, as she looked upon the soul sparks. One of their dancers, a singer of some quality. They wanted her back. She wondered if they saw in her, the same spark of light she saw in them.