The Spires of Dasny

Callie raced through the sparse forest, her mantle catching upon the briars and pulling her back. She wrenched free and kept running seeking shelter or at least a place where she could draw her sword freely.

Horse hooves beat like the pounding of drums, pursuing her even in the trees. She knew by instinct, if they caught her, they would do unspeakable things. She had heard the rumors and saw the graves. Knights rode hard and fast to slaughter any persons of affiliation to dragons. A new battle raged from kingdom to kingdom and protectors of dragons were to be eliminated.

She, however, was no protector of dragons. If only she was, she thought. Her misdeed was in speaking of them, of wishing the stories of dragons were true, of hoping someday she would see such a creature she could only piece together in her imagination. In her mind, the dragon she saw was as fierce as a sleuth of bears, with sword-sharp teeth and talons that could rend bison with a flick of their forearms.

She was Callie of the Fire, she reminded herself, the name her father gave her from their hearth. She was a master of weapons' daughter. The best in both Dugan's Pass and Midpoint. Her flame red hair escaped the hood of her mantle, making her an easily seen target for the men approaching. Their shouts came closer as she pushed out of the tree line and unsheathed her sword.

There had been rumors of this great uprising and rumors of dragons, too. She had always hoped for the latter, as she felt this was their only hope of protection. It did little now for saving her father. He was sought out as he was known to be preparing the townspeople in the event of battle. Callie's only comfort was in her father's constant training of her in all weapons and making her wear the heavy coat of mail under her clothing. At least it would buy her time in her demise or in those leering eyes seeking their pleasure at her expense.

Bile rose to her throat, threatening to spill out, but she allowed her anger to rise and crest. Only the fire of her anger could help her fight this battle. Five men to one. She frowned not liking the odds, but the gods had seen fit to place this burden upon her pallid shoulders.

One man lunged. His sword clanged against hers, metal glinting in the hazy sun. Shouts rang around them as the other knights goaded him on, telling him she was an insignificant wench and should be easily tossed to the ground and made ready for their growing pleasure.

She roared an unworldly yell and charged into the first knight, running her blade through his chest. She quickly pulled it out and waved it menacing in front of her. The knights grew quiet for a heartbeat. She could only pray they turned tail and let her be. That was not the case.

They fanned out to surround her, their leers displaced with sheer hatred. She took a deep breath and prepared for the inevitable. Two knights charged her front and back. She whirled and met their blades, ringing loudly in her ears. Two more joined the fray. She spun and spun, meeting blade after blade until one sword slashed through her mantle and the cloth of her dress, extracting hoots and hollers from the knights. One knight slipped in behind her and grabbed her by her hair, twisting and jerking her as the others laughed and approached her.

Her lungs burned from the exertion. She had hoped to take at least two more of the knights down before being killed. Her father would have been proud of her and her fight. She would not cry. No matter what they did next.

She screamed at them, a blood curdling yell but was met with laughter... until the sky filled with roars not of her own.