The Princes of New Avalon

Chapter 1

         The night was filled with the sounds of merriment. Lights flickered softly from the windows casting eerie shadows on the ground outside. The hazy forms of people could be seen as they passed between the smoking torches and the windows. The sound of voices raised in drinking, gambling, and carousing disturbed the otherwise silent summer night.

         Dawnfire, a small, petite woman stood within a roughly roped off arena, her silvery-blonde hair, twisted into a tight braid, brushed against her trim waist as she moved through a complicated set of motions. Her body lithe and graceful, her sword a fluid blur of movement, the ruby in the hilt glinted brightly in the soft candle light. The black leather of her trousers molded over the curve of her hips, signs of patching evident in the neat stitches holding together tears and rips. Her arms were finely muscled, and showed the signs of countless battles in the crisscrossing of faded and freshly healing wounds that marred her otherwise pale flesh. The brand of a tribal rose stood out in vivid relief, a mark of beauty on her otherwise scarred sword arm. The brand appeared to come to life, rippling and flowing with every flex of her arm. Her face, claimed by sculptors as their muse, was a study of concentration, nothing existed for her but the blade that had become an extention of her arm and the tight control of her body.

         Beads of perspiration slowly caressed her smooth brow as she moved gracefully from one form to another, her movements like a dance, her partner her own shadow. She ignored the patrons, ignored the sound of the announcer calling for challengers, ignored everything except for the feel of her body as it moved. The ritual had become familiar to her, and that familiarity had bred contempt. Her mind was a mass of hatred that she had been reduced to fighting for money in a run down tavern, consorting with the scum of the lands.

         A large, heavily muscled man wandered through the crowd, his eyes intent on the woman in the ring. A small smile breaking his otherwise stern countence, a grudging respect for the diminutive woman began to grow within him as he watched her. He motioned to the announcer that he would meet her in combat, shaking his head a bit at the shocked recognition that flared on the announcers face. He adopted a staggering gait as he stepped up to the ring, leering at the woman in what he hoped was a drunken ogling.

         Dawnfire shook her head and muttered a soft curse as the giant, obviously drunk, man entered the ring, leering at her. She sighed with disgust as he swung his club, causing the wind to whistle in its passing. Years of experience caused her gut to tighten, and instinct told her that his bumbling demenor was a front. Even though he was drunk, she had a feeling that he would give her a challenge the like she hadn’t seen in months.

         He obligingly tripped on the rope as he moved into the ring, his eyes roving over Dawnfire’s delectable body, thanking the gods he was already happily married or he might have found himself entranced by her beauty. Righting himself, his thoughts turned back to the sleek danger she presented. This was obviously a woman used to hardship and battle, as could be seen clearly in the scars she wore like badges of honor. He offered a lopsided grin to the announcer as he stood to his full height, and then turned his attention to the crowd. Swaggering around the ring he stired their excitement, hands held over his head, bringing them to a fevered pitch of anticipation.

         Moving to her own corner of the ring she shook her head a bit at the grandstanding man, once again the anger of having to fight anyone who would challenge her caused her blood to heat. She looked at the announcer with a grimace of disgust, he being the only one around her who knew of her distaste at these fights. He offered her a small consoling smile, and not for the first time hoped that she would again choose to come to him that night to have the flames of her passion spent in more intimate heat. The announcer looked away from her, he hoped that the feelings he had for her had not been in his gaze. He turned his mind back to the business at hand. He walked up to the swaggering man, and pretended not to know him.

         “Your name, good sir?”

         The large man smiled and offered an almost imperceptible wink to the announcer before raising his voice in a drunken growl.
         “Me name is Bragg!” He turned to the crowd as he said his name and raised his hands over his head yet again, thriving on the cheers from the crowd, before turning to back to face Dawnfire.
         “Remember that name, my dear, for it is the name of your better,” he smirked at her as he spoke, instinctively knowing that was the quickest way to anger her. She offered him not even a look, instead she turned to the announcer and waited for him to begin her evening trial.

          Bragg’s drunken air quickly faded away as the announcer began to explain the rules. There would be no deathblows and to hold as soon as the opponent yielded. Without speaking a word she nodded to the announcer now turned referee, the rules a mantra, she started moving to her corner, only to be stopped by the low, grating voice of her challenger.
         “Come on, lovey, lets see what yer made of,” he said with a sneer and a lick of his lips. Dawnfire turned slowly to face him, her eyes, as she stared at him, changed from a pale silvery grey to a deep steel grey, the color of an approaching storm. They were cold eyes, filled with an icey hatred. She offered no other reply, instead walked to her corner, rolling her shoulders to loosen her muscles in preparation.

          With an inward smile Bragg contemplated the look the woman turned on him. He could see just how much she hated doing what she was doing, he felt a sudden sympathy for the girl. He watched her walk away from him, the feline grace of her walk turning his mind to the other occupations she would undoubtedly excel at. Shaking his head to stop the direction his mind had begun to wander, he thought again of his loving wife. He knew that he had best turn his attention back to the fight at hand, something about the carrage of the woman opposite him, warned him that inattention could be deadly.

          Dawnfire moved back to the center of the ring, drawing her blade as she stalked to meet Bragg, a shiver of delight trailed up her spine at the angry hiss of steel on steel as she pulled her blade from its sheath. She closed her eyes a moment, savoring the sound, the feeling, she caressed the blade with her other hand, delighting in its deadly perfection. Her face took on the rapturous expression of a woman in the throes of passion, slowly she opened sparkling eyes to regard him, her opponent. Balanced on the balls of her feet, she waited.

          Her heart thundered within her chest, her vision dimmed, till she could see nothing but Bragg. The start of battle lust began to cloud the rational part of her mind. She bit down on her lip in an attempt to regain control, the lust ostensibly coming more often in these matches. Dawnfire knew that if she were not careful, she would find herself swinging from a rope, all it would take would be for her to lose control once, just once.

          Bragg, being no novice to battleground rages, watched the woman, he saw the subtle signs of a berserker in the beginning phases. He made a mental note to watch his blows, anything that would cause blood to be spilled could very well push her over the edge. His desire was to fight her, to test her, but not have to kill her.

          She took a deep, slow breath in the attempt to bring the pounding in her ears down to a dull roar, she waited for Bragg to make the first move. She watched him, her brows turned down in a small frown of frustration as he stood there leering at her, his club resting on his shoulder. He raised his hand and motioned to her arrogantly, trying to get her to attack, testing her temper. Obligingly she rushed towards him, her fist still gripping the hilt of her blade tightly, swinging at his face. At the last moment he stepped to the side turning slightly to swing his mighty club connecting smartly against her shapely buttocks, much to the crowd’s delight.

          The crowd surged to its feet, cheering wildly, excited voiced raised in betting and odds, for the first time turning against Dawnfire. With a smirk, he looked at her and blew a kiss. She narrowed her eyes at him, a low growl erupting from her throat, for the first time since coming to this tavern she was the one being laughed at.

          She felt her anger burn through her, the heat of her backside nothing compared to the heat in her cheeks. She had been the favorite here for months, she had earned the fearful respect of the patrons, she was their darling, and now they bet against her. The chants that had once been her name now sounding the name of her opponent, the name Bragg rang in her ears, enraging her.

          He stepped back from the woman, watching her, an amused twinkle in his eyes. He threw his hands up over his head, yelling loudly, inciting the crowd to greater excitement. He thrilled to the sounds, a huge smile breaking out over his lips as he turned back to look at the slip of a woman that he was fighting.

          She fought the sudden urge to impale him while his back was turned, instead she propped her fist on her hip and stood there looking at him as though he had failed his first lesson. Dawnfire managed a halfhearted smile, though sparks seemed to shoot from her angry eyes. Her voice was cold and filled with boredom as she addressed him finally.
         “Are you here to fight or to prance like a show pony?”
         With an arrogant smile, Bragg turned to look at the woman, his eyes dancing with merriment.
         “I had thought I was here tae fight, but I had also thought I had an opponent.”

          The smile left her lips, her cheeks paled and then flushed hotly at his insult. Dawnfire drew herself up to her full 5-foot height, her sword held tightly in her hands. With no more warning she lunged at him, a cry of anger and hatred spilling from her full lips. Her blade on a deadly arc towards his stomach, intent on causing damage.

          Bragg barely had a moment to move, though he had been expecting her anger, he had not planned on the savagery of the attack, nor the speed. He quickly arched his back like a cat, wincing as he felt the kiss of steel, barely a sting, and then the warmth of his blood as it flowed. He furrowed his brows in anger, not anger at the woman, but anger at himself for underestimating her. He started to slowly circle the fiery woman, looking for his best opportunity to incapacitate her, before she had the chance to kill him.

          A hush fell over the crowd as they saw the growing stain on Bragg’s shirt. Betting began anew, this time with Dawnfire the favorite. The room slowly started to divide itself into sides, people moving without realization to the side of the ring belonging to their favorite. Minor fights broke out amongst the throng, quickly and easily broken up by the bouncers. Betting continued at a frenzied pace as they waited to see what would happen next.

          A thrill of triumph coursed through her veins at the site of his blood. Dawnfire watched him as he circled, moving with him, careful to keep her eyes on her opponent. The sound of the crowd fading from her ears, consumed now with only the sound of her heart beating wildly, the sight of her opponent’s wound stirring madness within her. Her vision fading to a red blur, she crouched down more, ready to finish him.

          He watched the woman, the early warning signs of a berserker now coming to fruition. Bragg knew that everything he did from this point could very well mean his life if he made even the slightest mistake. He continued to circle her, looking for an opening, wishing for something to distract this woman from her need to see him dead, wishing now that he had not been as free with his insults.

          With a low feral growl she lunged at him, her razor sharp blade aiming for his throat, the rules of the tavern completely forgotten. She didn’t notice the crowds growing unease or the announcer’s attempts to call a halt.

          Bragg knew that his fears had come true, that he would more than likely have to kill the girl, much to his regret. He kept himself moving, his eyes never leaving the circling wild cat of a woman, he watched her every move, the slightest twitch of a muscle alerting him to the possibility of attack. His thoughts barely had time to register to his brain as she lunged towards him, her lithe body, dodging the swinging of his club as he angled it towards her, intending to incapacitate other than kill.

          She got close enough to land a forceful kick to his stomach, laughing in satisfaction at his grunt of pain. The haze that had started earlier now clouding her eyes with a red wash, her ears were deaf to the sounds of the announcer trying to halt the fight, her eyes blind to everyone, her mind closed to all but the death of the man before her.

          He stood there gasping, her heavy boot having surprised him with its force, he shook his head briefly to clear the fog, as he willed his pulse to slow. Now was not the time to lose control of himself. He kept a careful watch on the woman, as he began to move around her, trying to take control of the deadly dance. With a quick movement he lunged out poking at her with his club.

          Dawn didn’t dodge, she didn’t duck, instead she allowed the club to impact her body, grunting slightly, the sound of ribs cracking didn’t register in her mind, only the sweet agony reaching its insinuation tendrils through her mind and body. She coughed slightly, flecks of blood coating her smiling lips, she moved quicker than anyone would have thought, her hand whipping out to grasp his wrist, pulling him closer to her. Pressing a bloodied kiss to his lips, whispering in his ear.
         “Let me teach you to dance, Bragg, let me show you the dance of death.” Her voice was a rough, hypnotic whisper, filled with promise of exquisite and intimate pain. A hoarse laugh of triumph spills from her lips. Twisting the wrist more, delighting in the sound of his grunt of pain.

          Feeling his shoulder wrench he manages to twist around aiming a well-placed fist into her already broken ribs. Feeling no pleasure in the fact that his fist might very well have killed this fiery woman. He felt her grip on his wrist weaken, her breath in his ear hoarse and bubbling, choking in her throat. He wrenches his arm free, turning to look at the woman, wanting to at least give her the respect of knowing that her opponent would watch as she died.

          She feels herself slipping away, the frenzy that had sustained her, now draining away as did her life. Her breathing growing more difficult, she glances about as her knees weaken, refusing to support her weight any longer, she slips to the floor of the arena. She looks about at the quiet faces of the crowd, and sees the announcer standing there watching her, tears in his eyes. She offers him a smile, blood flecked foam coating her lips, as she coughs, trying to whisper his name.

          “Kail,” she coughed, blood trailing from her mouth, her every breath a bubbling sound, “we knew this is how it would end. Let me go.” She looks at him and unable to stand the thought of her last sight being his tear filled eyes she looks away and sees a pale of blue eyes. Eyes that had haunted her dreams for so many years, his lips moved up into a familiar smile, a smile that she echoed as her vision dimmed and faded. She didn’t fear the death she knew approached as everything grew dark, until she saw nothing but those blue eyes, her last whisper his name.
         “Kaleb.”

          His name on her lips, she sits bolt upright in bed glancing around herself, her body bathed in sweat, her heart hammering in her chest. Throwing off her covers she paces naked to the window looking out at the quiet night, sudden longing for home an almost tangible thing. Turning away from the window she looks around this small room, no ornaments on the walls, not rich carpets on the cold stone floor, no sword sitting near the bed. Runs her hands through her hair expecting to again feel its weight, instead she feels its shorter length, and glances at the dark garment thrown across the foot of the bed.

          The habit had been her only clothing for the five years she had spent in this holy place. The only words her mouth had uttered had been prayers. Prayers for forgiveness for understanding, and for an end to the life she had lived, and the memories that haunted her. She slowly slipped into the habit, tucking her hair under the hood, realizing as she did that she had spent these years hiding from who and what she was. A glimmer of her true self started to flicker within her again, a fire starting to grow.

          With determination she threw open the door to her room and marched towards the Mother’s chambers, knowing that that was where she would find her belongings. Without knocking she walking through the door, not caring about the time of night or her unexpected presence. A wicked smile comes to her lips as she sees the Mother rise up from her cot, and stare wide eyed at Dawn, before sighing a bit, and climbing out of bed.

          “My Daughter, I had expected this day to come. You were not meant for this life,” she says kindly, moving towards her desk, and offering a bundle to Dawn.

          Leaning close to the old woman, she pressed a kiss to her wrinkled cheek as she takes the bundle and opens it, finding her leather battle gear inside. She strips the habit from her body, quickly donning the familiar leather battle harness. Looking down at herself, she smiles, the fire within burning brighter and hotter, her hand trailing down to her hip, reaching for the sword and quickly looking up at the Mother in question.

          The peaceful nun watched the woman she had come to know as a sister, her eyes widening as they glanced upon the pale woman’s body, seeing lash marks, and burns, and signs of blade, crisscrossing her skin. She reached blindly to offer up the belt, the sword it wrapped around so heavy that it took the fragile old woman two trembling hands to hold it.

          Dawnfire reaches out to take the sword, drawing it with one hand and holding it aloft, letting the light of the moon glimmer off the deadly steel. A feral smile touches her lips as she places and dangerous kiss to the blade. She looks up at the nun and offers her a salute, her eyes filled with a fire of dark passion that even the nun could understand. The Mother cringed away from Dawn, looking into her eyes and seeing all that was dark.
         “Go quickly, my daughter, leave us. You don’t belong here,” she said, a tremor to her voice, her skin crawling.

          Dawnfire nods her head and spins on her heel, wrapping the belt around her waist as she ran through the halls and out the door to the stables, slamming the blade into its sheath. There she found her proud mount that had been reduced to a plow horse. Quickly she found his saddle and threw it on his back, vaulting onto the stallions back she rode out into the night, her cry of freedom echoing through the night. The thought of home so strong she pushed herself and her mount till they were ready to collapse.