The creature that had just slaughtered my mother bowed mockingly before me.
“Your Majesty…”
One
Jularra couldn’t take it any longer. She shoved her finger down her throat, lurching forward and grasping for the trunk of a nearby oak. Her fingertips slipped into the ridges of the bark as she folded over, heaving and gagging, but nothing came up. She had waited too long.
Fucking wine. Never again.
She pondered her familiar promise, even as her head pounded with the realization that she had crossed the threshold between being drunk and hungover. She shushed her nagging conscience and peered deep into the forest for any hint of the solace she usually found in her coveted woods.
A breeze parted the canopy, pelting her with a soft beam of light. She squinted, but was relieved when the brightness spared her swimming head. The reprieve gave her means to lie to herself, yet again.
I haven’t had too much to drink.
The early winter weather was ideal, especially for a hangover. The cold temperature and dry air were exactly what Jularra flourished in. On days like these, unencumbered by the heat's pointless oppression, she could walk and think freely, surrounded by fragrant reminders that the forest’s life was but suspended against the promise of future renewal. Amid the peace and comfort of the bare trees, some of Jularra’s better memories of her mother sprung to life and warmed her far better than any flamboyant summer sun.
But her joy was interrupted. A stick snapped nearby; the pressure in Jularra's head disappeared, and her thoughts sharpened. Adrenaline and training replaced the soggy results of her late night.
Deep breath.
By the peak of her inhalation she had already spun in the direction of the sound and drawn her sword. Her leather scabbard kept the movement silent as she settled into a fool’s guard, blade pointed down, torso and hips turned slightly.
Exhale.
Her pulse steadied.
Leaves crunched, and the tip of a blade crept around a tree ahead of Jularra. She had already identified where it would appear from; her ears and eyes had not failed her. The blade was clean and shiny.
A pair of pristine gloves came next, followed by simple leathers and mail. The determined face of a young man was last to appear from behind the tree. The stranger locked eyes with Jularra in an unspoken challenge as he approached slowly across the clearing.
He wants room. He shall not have it.
Jularra stepped backwards and slipped behind an elder pine that wore decades of bear markings, but she was not hiding. She would deny the stranger the open area he sought until the advantage was hers. Nothing was said, and no expressions were shown as they prepared to fight to the death.
Jularra continued walking backwards while keeping both eyes on the would-be assassin, always leaving a few trees between her and her opponent. He pursued her with increasing speed as she stepped quickly, and then slowly. She wanted him—this villain, this trespasser, this filth—in just the right place so that his view of her hands would be obscured at just the right time.
Finally, when he'd closed to within a few feet, a tree blocked the stranger's view of her blade. A fraction of a second. That was all she needed. She lifted her blade.
Jularra lunged around the tree and charged towards her attacker, catching a glimpse of his eyes. They were calm. Focused. He was not intimidated.
He stepped around the tree and whipped his sword to the side, out of his plough guard, and met Jularra with a vicious middle hew. She countered precisely and deflected the soft bind. Once her sword had cleared his, she used her momentum from the block the propel herself and spun to meet him.
No more sneaking amongst the trees.
The assassin held his sword high and behind him in a modified roof guard. He stood firm and patient, all poise and silence. The queen took an extra breath to consider his discipline.
She twirled her blade once to each side before scooping upward and slicing across at his gut. He sidestepped, and met her blade with the flat side of his. He grunted.
Ah, I heard that! Weren’t expecting that, were you? Have you fought a queen before, you bastard? Or a member of Acorilan’s Spire?
Her enemy retreated from the stalemate, slicing down before stepping back to change tactics. The queen pursued him with a thrust, but was thwarted by a sweeping block in front of his chest. As he parried, the tip of his sword caught the queen high on the inner thigh. She stumbled, but used the situation to her advantage by exaggerating the contact she knew he felt and feigning a greater injury than she had.
As he finished his parry and prepared to counter, she pulled a dagger from her boot and plunged it deep into his groin. The assassin immediately dropped his sword and reached for his manhood. He had just started to scream when the queen shot up and shoved the point of her sword through his throat. He hacked and gargled and fell back into the base of a tree, jerking and writhing. The leaves crackled and crinkled as he bled out.
The queen watched the life drain from the stranger. The pain and fear left his face as his focus drifted to the afterlife. His chest stopped moving. The hand that had begun reaching for the sword in his throat fell to his side.
Jularra reached for her dagger and reclaimed it from his corpse. Her eyes remained locked on his chest. No movement. One last look to his eyes. Back to his chest. Dead.
She crawled over to the assassin with her bloody dagger and reached up to feel for a pulse. After yanking her sword from the wretch’s neck, she finally allowed herself to let go of her focus on combat. Leaning against the same tree as her opponent's body, she reached for the inside of her thigh to take stock of her wound. The sting ripped itself
