Incendiary Ch 02

He was halfway across the first floe when he saw her. A storm was rolling in, but the weather hadn't gotten too bad yet--that is, the cold was nearly unbearable, but visibility was still quite clear.

The paths out of the forest were limited. Most large groups chose to use the Berry Breeze Pass -- a name that had deeply confused Clay when they'd used it to come in as a logging crew because it was neither breezy nor full of berries. It was safer than the other options, and the path was wide and well-kept. The disadvantage to that trail was that because it was so friendly for groups, it was unlikely he would be alone on the path -- and he needed to get Juniper alone. So, he'd been left with the two remaining options: go back into the caves and hope that the exits hadn't been sealed with ice, or that he'd get lost, or run out of water before he was able to get through, or end up in a dragon's lair... or, to attempt traveling the other way, his last and final option, affectionately referred to as "Devil's Clouds" by locals.

Devil's Clouds was a floating field of drift ice. Clay noted with amusement that the drift ice did look like clouds -- enormous, chunky, primarily flat slabs of ice that had shifted and then broken off from a larger isle of ice, contrasting just like streaks of white stratus clouds against the icy blue water below. The water on which the ice floated was an enormous saltwater lake, hundreds of miles long. At different seasons, the water moved more rapidly, causing the floes to break into smaller pieces, making it impossible to traverse by foot. But this time of year, the floes were barely moving.

There were gaps between some of them, but it would have been possible for Clay to get all the way across the lake... would have been possible, if not for the furious Salamandrine warrior staring daggers in his direction as the wind kicked up, causing her cape to flap dramatically. He rolled his eyes -- she'd probably planned that.

"You don't look happy to see me," she called across the ice.

"On the contrary," Clay shouted, "I grew tired of waiting. My patience has grown thin over the years, Juniper. I am weary of this game."

"The only way this ends is with one of us dead," snarled Juniper.

"... So be it." Clay drew his sword.

The blistering cold seemed to intensify the sound of the blades colliding. Clay could not tell if the clatter was actually louder, and sounded more lethal, or if it was because he was so determined to end this here and now. The wind roared around the two of them, and the slightest powder of the snow kicked up could create a dust that flew into both of their faces, blinding them. He moved quickly, steadily moving forward, step after step, strike after strike, defending and then gaining ground to lose it again.

Not much had changed about the way Juniper fought, Clay noticed quickly. She was still exact, methodical, and by-the-book -- she was also brutal, willing to put herself in danger to gain even an inch of ground. It wasn't that she was reckless. It seemed more the two sides of her personality -- a strong sense of honor and a passion for the fight -- were at odds. Clay intended to use that to his advantage. He knew if he could tip her hand by getting her talking, get her distracted by her own habit of lecturing him, getting her thinking more with her gut than her head, he might stand a chance to win this. So, he started taunting her as soon as he could.

"You're slipping up," he said, forcing himself to laugh, even as she drove her sword dangerously close to his left arm.

"Is that what you think?" she asked, instantly scampering up the side of a nearby floe to fling herself off the small ledge, apparently hoping to tackle him from above. He quickly dove forward, rolling on his side and back up onto his feet.

"Yes, I do," he said, filling his voice with as much vitriol as he could, "Unbeknownst to you, I am capable of critical thinking."

"Ha! Is that how they described you in class?" she asked -- a quick parry, parry, thrust, and she flipped backward. It was an impressive move that showcased her flexibility, but it was still functional -- and it got her away from his sword. She wasn't reckless enough yet. He kept pushing.

"Maybe. I wouldn't know. I rarely showed up to class."

"Oh? Was it too beneath you, as a royal's son?" she snarled.

"Bastard son," Clay reminded her through clenched teeth as she got too close for comfort.

"Ah. I always forget that part," she said, her golden eyes narrowed. "So... you got all of the inheritance and none of the responsibilities of royalty, is that it?"

"Yes, that sounds about right," he laughed, but it came out as a wheeze as she kicked his feet out from under him and pinned him to the floor of ice, rearing back to stab him. He found steady footing against the base of her tail and kicked, shooting himself out from beneath her and across the slick ice a moment before her blade came down.

She howled in frustration and slowly got to her feet again. "You would not have been worthy of the titles, even if they had been offered you," she snarled. "You would not have been worthy of the riches, land, or prestige... you may have been born a bastard, but your destiny as a worthless fool was sealed when you chose to be my enemy." She unclipped her cloak, and in the swirling wind, it was quickly carried away. It looked like a flag as it flapped away in the wind -- a red flag -- a declaration of war.

Finally, Clay thought. He tried to ignore the cold seeping into his hands through his gloves. His grip on the sword could not slip -- he could not afford for it to slip.

"Am I not a worthy opponent?" he asked, quickly advancing toward her as their fighting became more animalistic, more lethal. She blocked him again and again, but she was distracted, he could tell -- her attention was divided between the fight and the speech she had prepared in her head.

"It is not a question of whether you are worthy, Mr. Breton," she snarled, her forked tongue flicking out as she tasted the air. "You caused me a great embarrassment once, but that is ancient history. It was not your carelessness that offended me. It was your confidence -- unskilled, unfounded, unearned -- the confidence that afforded you to walk into that ballroom with a smirk on your face and a tankard of ale in your clumsy hand. You have never been honorable -- but you came to that gala expecting all the accouterments of a scholar. You waltzed into a celebration of an end to a great war, but it was a war you had no role in."

"You didn't have a role either," he said flippantly -- and it was as if he had ignited her.

Gone was the methodical fighter -- the skilled fighter -- or even the honorable fighter. In another moment, Clay was fighting for his life against Juniper, the warrior of Salaman, a woman scorned, hell-bent on ending his life. She slashed his right arm in a stroke that tore through his thick leather jacket and then chopped again, in a blow that he assumed would have quickly taken his head -- but this was all part of his plan. He doubled back, and back again, drawing her out further onto the shakier part of the floe before daring to turn his back (knowing his pack would act as a shield if she would strike) and leaping from that floe to the next, a much thinner, much shakier piece of ice that was only about fifty yards across.

He turned to face her again, wielding a cross-bow. He blinked in the wind, now peppered with the beginning flurries of the oncoming snowstorm. He didn't see her. He blinked again, then whirled back around to see if perhaps she'd snuck up behind him. She wasn't there either. So where --

Her feet connected with his backpack, and he was nearly airborne. He hit the ice so hard the wind was knocked out of him, and the crossbow was knocked from his hand -- damn slippery gloves! He slid across the ice and then, to his horror, found himself trapped beneath the weight of his own pack. He struggled to find the latch to unhook it from his back as she approached. Through the snowy wind he could see her boots approaching slowly.

"How dare you," she said, her voice soft and cold. "You saw the war of my people as a series of headlines -- a farce to observe or to bet a few gold on. But I had countrymen die in that war. I rose through the military academy ranks at the top of my class, praying I could get on the field and help win the war. And then I heard, the war is over -- blessedly over -- and I was given the honor of a Valedictorian speech. A peacetime speech that was meant to unify my people. And I received humiliation at your hands instead of unity -- instead of honor."

She used the toe of her boot to flip him upside down and bared her teeth at him as she put her boot heavily on his chest. "I was sure you would challenge me to a duel quickly -- it would be a chance for me to show my strength as well as set my allies at ease about where I stood politically. I hated outsiders vacationing in Salaman, eating our food, and trashing our land like spoiled teenagers -- I hated you."

With a jolt, he noticed that she seemed to be sweating. Panic set in. This had not been part of the plan. The reference to his philandering youth, the honor he had cost her, the years of torment she'd endured after he had refused to duel her -- all of that was fair game. But if she was excreting her neurotoxin, he'd be a dead man if she touched his skin for even a second.

"I know now why you didn't challenge me to a duel," she said. He huffed in air, looking around him. His heart slowed as he realized the snowy powder had settled, but the ice they were on at that moment was thin -- in fact, much thinner than he'd realized. If he could just get her sword into the ice, she'd be defenseless, and he'd be able to take her down. "It is because," she said, just as his shaking hands found the clasp on his backpack around his lower waist, "You knew, Clay Breton... you knew you would lose!"

Three things happened in rapid succession: first, Clay unclasped his backpack as Juniper took her foot off of his chest, presumably to stab him through the heart a moment later. But she never got that chance - with the backpack off, Clay could roll out of the way of her deadly blow. Clay went one way, the pack the other. So the ice got her deadly swing instead of his chest or even the backpack. The surface of the floe was lower than Clay had been only moments before, and Juniper lost her balance. She had put all of her strength into the blow, and now her sword was lodged deeply into the ice. Clay skittered backward, then quickly crawled towards his crossbow a few yards away. He grabbed the weapon and turned back to Juniper... but never got to fire the bow.

That was because, an instant later, the ice beneath Juniper's sword cracked loudly and shattered, collapsing inward and sucking Juniper down into the deadly cold water below.