All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives".
Please read parts 1 and 2 first, or you will be extremely confused...no sex in this one, just action and plot groundwork.
The sun had burned off most of the morning mist by the time Dara reached the outskirts of town. Her exit from the keep had been rather anticlimactic, as she had simply waited until the portcullis and drawbridge had been raised, and then sauntered out, playing the part of messenger boy. By hunching her shoulders to hide her bosom, adding a typically boy-like bowlegged, elbows out gait to her stride, no one had looked twice at her.
The beautiful silver blade was wrapped in a blanket and strung over her back, attached to a light travel pack filled with bread, cheese, strips of salted bacon and pork, and other traveling necessities.
She stopped and gazed back at the keep and the surrounding city, ruminating on her life and especially her difficult childhood. Her memories of her father were dim and clouded with fear. She remembered him as a large, fierce man, who almost seemed uncomfortable in Dara's small presence. When she was just a wee child he had been conscripted into the king's army, and died in battle far away. Her mother used the death stipend to start a small chandlery, which they both ran for several years and even prospered. When Dara reached her twelfth summer, her mother contracted the consumption and died a slow, lingering death. Their entire savings was spent trying to save her, but every attempt, including leeches, prayer, holy water, and many others was in vain. Dara's mother died in her bed, with her daughter at her side, holding her by the hand.
She could still remember her mother's last dying words –
"Dara, child. You must be strong! Your destiny is to be more than a chandler's daughter -- much, much more. When you are strong enough, old enough, you must seek the help of someone. Far away, in High Reach, you must find Father Remarkus, he will help you. Tell him who you are, and that you are from Castle Olafson. He will recognize you...tell me you will do this. TELL ME!"
Weeping, Dara had promised her mother with all her heart that she would embark upon this quest, but inside she believed her mother to be hallucinating from her sickness. She cried for days after her mother passed, but then cruel fate dealt her another spade. The chandlery was seized by the merchant's guild and sold to a horrible, disgusting man. Dara's first night as his ward he tried to rape her. She fought back and cracked a crockery pot over his head and fled into the streets. For six long years she survived on her wits and daring, living in alleys and flophouses, just one of many homeless street urchins.
Dara raised a hand as if to wave goodbye to all the harsh memories, her eyes dry and clear, and blazing with purpose. In the far distance she caught the wail of baying hounds, and motion at the castle drawbridge drew her attention.
Miles away, guardsmen thundered out of the keep riding huge, black stallions. At their lead she could make out the hulking shape of Bruno, waving his great spiked mace over his head as he rode. Dara gasped and turned. The tree line of the black forest stood across several fields of crops, a good two miles away. Looking back at the keep, the guardsmen had scattered, but Bruno came on, led by massive wolfhounds foaming at the mouth.
The city was awake and bustling, with merchants heading to the market, many pulling handcarts, some with baskets on their shoulders. Few were heading out of the city, so Dara knew she might look a bit conspicuous if she sprinted down the lane, towards the trees. She checked to make sure her fiery golden hair was safely tucked under her cap and shirt, and strode quickly away from the city, trying to keep herself from running.
Casting worried glances over her shoulder every few steps, she cut the distance to the trees to about a mile. The baying and snapping of the hounds grew louder, and she could tell by their excitement that they had caught her scent.
Ahead she saw a small farmhouse built just outside the tree line. Behind it was a fenced in paddock which ran the length of the trees for a good fifty yards or so. Dara threw caution to the wind and put her head down and sprinted as fast as her long legs would take her. A few yards from the paddock gate she heard the snarling of the wolfhounds close behind her; she spared a quick look and saw the hounds coming on fast, free from their chains, with Bruno thundering on his warhorse several hundred yards behind.
She hit the paddock gate at a run, swung it open and bolted through. Seconds later the hounds, jaws snapping and snarling, leaped at her throat, barely slowing down. Dara fell flat to her belly, hounds flying past her, and rolled back outside the gate. With a loud clang she banged it shut. The giant wolfhounds threw themselves at the fencing, trying to snap and chew their way through the boards to get to her.
Dara turned and sprinted for the trees, hoping that Bruno would leave the dogs and come for her himself. As she hit the tree line at a full sprint she looked for fallen trees, thistles, anything that might slow Bruno down. Thirty yards into the forest she heard a crash behind her, followed by curses and grunts.
