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Abigail's Choice
((This is a one-off story, so feedback is welcome. Always looking for tips to improve my writing.))
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She had known better than to cross orc country alone, yet still her footsteps fell heavy in the thick earth, swiftly stepping through the rough-cut forest trail. The wind howled at her back in the brisk night, and the soft glow of the half-moon lit her way. The gates of Sundren were not far now, only a few scant leagues; she should see welcoming civilization by dawn's break. It would be a welcome reprieve from the wilds that now surrounded her.
A gentle break of a distant twig gave her heart a half-second pause, though her stride never faltered. She had suspected for some time she was not alone, but dismissed her fears. Surely, it was some animal or common beast, moving in the underbrush. But doubt crept into the base of her skull, as all her instincts cried out in protest.
She was being hunted.
Her pace quickened as she picked her way through the underbrush; too quick to spot the half-buried tree root in the pale moonlight. She tumbled forward and fell sharply upon her knee, the breath rushing out of her all at once.
"Gods be damned," she muttered, righting herself with a stagger and a sharp wince of pain. Fresh blood oozed from her wounded knee, caked with dirt and sand. She placed one hand over the torn flesh, and gave herself a moment's rest to gather her bearings.
***
The old man blew softly on the young girl's knee, where the skinned flesh was stained with blood. She winced and bit her lower lip; though barely ten, she would not let herself cry out. A white ribbon rest in her wild red hair, half-undone, and she was covered in new bruises and scuff marks.
"So, tell me what happened?" the older man asked, staring over his wire-frame spectacles.
She hesitated. “Derrick Teagan was pushing around another boy. I…I hit him in the eye.”
“You hit the Teagan boy? He’s twice your size.”
The girl mumbled softly, “He’s not so scary.”
The old man simply chuckled at that, and pressed a fresh bandage around the girl’s knee, binding the wound. She gave a sharp hiss of pain and squeezed her eyes shut.
“You’re not mad?” she asked a moment later.
He sighed and plucked his glasses from his brow, gently cleaning off the lenses with the edge of his shirt. “It’s complicated, Abby. What I do know, is you could have walked away. Most kids would have. Would have kept their heads down, lest they be the next victim.”
“Would have been easier if I had,” she whispered.
“Abigail; sometimes in this world, you must choose between what is easy, and what is right."
***
Abigail knelt in the cool water of the forest brook and rinsed the blood from her aching knee. Much of the pain had now subsided, and she counted her blessings that she’d not broken anything. A broken limb in the wilds, so far from civilization, could mean certain death for even the most resourceful of woodsmen.
A shuffle of leaves was all the warning she had before her attacker came upon her, axe raised high and bellowing a war cry that echoed through the trees like the roar of a great bear. The orc was dressed in the brown and red war paint of a tribal scout, the rich earth tones blending him with his surroundings even as he charged his startled prey. Her hands snapped to the hilt her blade reflexively, and she yanked it from its scabbard in a wide arc, cutting through the air before her as the attacker fell upon her. Iron fell upon iron and a terrible clash rang out in the forest night as their mutual blows met. Abigail felt herself stumble back from the sheer force of the blow, her wounded knee buckling beneath her as she threw her weight upon it.
Seeing his opening, the orc surged forward with another mighty swing the woman could just barely bring her blade up to counter. Abigail was thrown to the hard earth by the force of the second attack, and the salty taste of blood filled her senses. Her blade clattered to the ground beside her, abandoned. Heavy steps fell behind her as the orc triumphantly strode up to his downed quarry, no doubt preparing the final blow.
She clenched her eyes together to blink away the stars, and reached out a desperate hand, which fell upon her blade. With a last, defiant roar of her own, matched perhaps not in volume but in equal measure for sheer ferocity, she leapt to her feet, throwing her weight forward upon her wounded leg. The surge of pain only served to fuel her rage as she slammed into the orc shoulder-first, throwing all of her body into the blow to unbalance her surprised opponent.
She followed her rush with a high overhead slash, and then another; her blows rained upon the orc with renewed vigor, to which the beast barely had time to parry each incoming attack. One slip, one off-balance counterblow, and she struck soundly upon his axe and sent it careening from his hands to fall harmlessly to the ground.
The orc fell back to his rump in shock as this tiny, human creature towered over him, fire and rage burning in her eyes. She fell upon him with a shout to the Gods, gasping her sword’s blade in her free hand and making to thrust it deep within her opponent’s chest to pierce his beating heart.
She hesitated, however, staring at her now-helpless victim through the haze of blood and the shooting pain in her leg. A memory echoed through her mind, fighting past the fear and anger and blood haze, holding her killing stroke in reserve.
Sometimes in this world you must choose between what is easy, and what is right…
With a great exhale, she lifted the edge of her sword to rest cold steel under the orc scout’s outstretched chin. She stared firmly into her opponents eyes, and spat her words with more than a little exasperation.
“I have beaten you, Orc. You will let me pass. And if you or any of your tribe attack me again, I will not hesitate to kill you!”
Whether or not the Orc understood her Common tongue could not be known, but her implication was clear in any language. He narrowed his eyes slightly, but made no motion toward the woman as she sheathed her blade, and slowly backed away.
Abigail turned at last to continue on her way, and did not hear the orc attempt to follow. She became keenly aware of the sad state of her wounded leg, and a limp began to form in her stride as she trudged onward. She did not dare stop to rest, however; not until she had cleared the wilds and come again upon the main road.
Sundren’s great gate loomed on the horizon. It was there she would find rest and respite.
______________________
She had known better than to cross orc country alone, yet still her footsteps fell heavy in the thick earth, swiftly stepping through the rough-cut forest trail. The wind howled at her back in the brisk night, and the soft glow of the half-moon lit her way. The gates of Sundren were not far now, only a few scant leagues; she should see welcoming civilization by dawn's break. It would be a welcome reprieve from the wilds that now surrounded her.
A gentle break of a distant twig gave her heart a half-second pause, though her stride never faltered. She had suspected for some time she was not alone, but dismissed her fears. Surely, it was some animal or common beast, moving in the underbrush. But doubt crept into the base of her skull, as all her instincts cried out in protest.
She was being hunted.
Her pace quickened as she picked her way through the underbrush; too quick to spot the half-buried tree root in the pale moonlight. She tumbled forward and fell sharply upon her knee, the breath rushing out of her all at once.
"Gods be damned," she muttered, righting herself with a stagger and a sharp wince of pain. Fresh blood oozed from her wounded knee, caked with dirt and sand. She placed one hand over the torn flesh, and gave herself a moment's rest to gather her bearings.
***
The old man blew softly on the young girl's knee, where the skinned flesh was stained with blood. She winced and bit her lower lip; though barely ten, she would not let herself cry out. A white ribbon rest in her wild red hair, half-undone, and she was covered in new bruises and scuff marks.
"So, tell me what happened?" the older man asked, staring over his wire-frame spectacles.
She hesitated. “Derrick Teagan was pushing around another boy. I…I hit him in the eye.”
“You hit the Teagan boy? He’s twice your size.”
The girl mumbled softly, “He’s not so scary.”
The old man simply chuckled at that, and pressed a fresh bandage around the girl’s knee, binding the wound. She gave a sharp hiss of pain and squeezed her eyes shut.
“You’re not mad?” she asked a moment later.
He sighed and plucked his glasses from his brow, gently cleaning off the lenses with the edge of his shirt. “It’s complicated, Abby. What I do know, is you could have walked away. Most kids would have. Would have kept their heads down, lest they be the next victim.”
“Would have been easier if I had,” she whispered.
“Abigail; sometimes in this world, you must choose between what is easy, and what is right."
***
Abigail knelt in the cool water of the forest brook and rinsed the blood from her aching knee. Much of the pain had now subsided, and she counted her blessings that she’d not broken anything. A broken limb in the wilds, so far from civilization, could mean certain death for even the most resourceful of woodsmen.
A shuffle of leaves was all the warning she had before her attacker came upon her, axe raised high and bellowing a war cry that echoed through the trees like the roar of a great bear. The orc was dressed in the brown and red war paint of a tribal scout, the rich earth tones blending him with his surroundings even as he charged his startled prey. Her hands snapped to the hilt her blade reflexively, and she yanked it from its scabbard in a wide arc, cutting through the air before her as the attacker fell upon her. Iron fell upon iron and a terrible clash rang out in the forest night as their mutual blows met. Abigail felt herself stumble back from the sheer force of the blow, her wounded knee buckling beneath her as she threw her weight upon it.
Seeing his opening, the orc surged forward with another mighty swing the woman could just barely bring her blade up to counter. Abigail was thrown to the hard earth by the force of the second attack, and the salty taste of blood filled her senses. Her blade clattered to the ground beside her, abandoned. Heavy steps fell behind her as the orc triumphantly strode up to his downed quarry, no doubt preparing the final blow.
She clenched her eyes together to blink away the stars, and reached out a desperate hand, which fell upon her blade. With a last, defiant roar of her own, matched perhaps not in volume but in equal measure for sheer ferocity, she leapt to her feet, throwing her weight forward upon her wounded leg. The surge of pain only served to fuel her rage as she slammed into the orc shoulder-first, throwing all of her body into the blow to unbalance her surprised opponent.
She followed her rush with a high overhead slash, and then another; her blows rained upon the orc with renewed vigor, to which the beast barely had time to parry each incoming attack. One slip, one off-balance counterblow, and she struck soundly upon his axe and sent it careening from his hands to fall harmlessly to the ground.
The orc fell back to his rump in shock as this tiny, human creature towered over him, fire and rage burning in her eyes. She fell upon him with a shout to the Gods, gasping her sword’s blade in her free hand and making to thrust it deep within her opponent’s chest to pierce his beating heart.
She hesitated, however, staring at her now-helpless victim through the haze of blood and the shooting pain in her leg. A memory echoed through her mind, fighting past the fear and anger and blood haze, holding her killing stroke in reserve.
Sometimes in this world you must choose between what is easy, and what is right…
With a great exhale, she lifted the edge of her sword to rest cold steel under the orc scout’s outstretched chin. She stared firmly into her opponents eyes, and spat her words with more than a little exasperation.
“I have beaten you, Orc. You will let me pass. And if you or any of your tribe attack me again, I will not hesitate to kill you!”
Whether or not the Orc understood her Common tongue could not be known, but her implication was clear in any language. He narrowed his eyes slightly, but made no motion toward the woman as she sheathed her blade, and slowly backed away.
Abigail turned at last to continue on her way, and did not hear the orc attempt to follow. She became keenly aware of the sad state of her wounded leg, and a limp began to form in her stride as she trudged onward. She did not dare stop to rest, however; not until she had cleared the wilds and come again upon the main road.
Sundren’s great gate loomed on the horizon. It was there she would find rest and respite.