The paired assassins, bounty hunters, and low lives walked down the stairs from the magnificent palace. Made of limestone and marble, it towered high above the rest of the capital, its towers and banners unfolding upwards into the heavens like massive fingers. The large and luxurious capital, the trade center of Renard, loomed ahead of them on the other side of the palace's double walls and gates. They were in no hurry to leave either the palace or the capital. The threat of death not only from the Furet Emperor, but also from their new companions, chilled them to the bone. Several royal guards escorted them towards the front gate, but they did not ease the minds of the lower-class animals. To them, these guards were pussies; here to guard the Emperor while the real warriors were out dying on the battlefield, which was where they were headed. If one of the assassins decided to turn on their new companion, the guards would not be able to stop them in time. The fact did not cheer them in the slightest.In the midst of the hunters, Ange de Venger and El Cazador Invisible kept a respectful distance from each other. They were both on their guard; cautiously eyeing the other’s every move without appearing to do so.
El Cazador kept her paw near her knife the entire time. Since Ange was off to her right, she would have no trouble blocking an attack if the chance to do so arose. If Cazador saw an opening and decided to make her move on Ange, on the other hand, Ange would have to defend herself from her left, putting her off balance and giving Cazador the upper hand. The fact encouraged her, but Cazador had the feeling that despite the advantage, Ange wouldn’t be as easy to kill as she had first assumed. The view of Ange at the conference table had been deceiving. De Venger had seemed rather open and off-guard. Now, however, Cazador saw that the young vixen carried herself with agility and easy confidence, despite being surrounded by a bunch of filthy male rodents (and the equivalent). At the sight of Ange’s arsenal, Cazador saw why she was so assured. Paws tightening into fists, she looked away.
Cazador’s blood was boiling. Just glancing at the beautiful but foul creature was enough to flare her anger. After a struggle, she was able to calm herself down again. As long as her personal space wasn’t violated, and she didn’t have to look or talk to this fox, she could keep her cool. Taking a deep and relaxing breath, Cazador contemplated Ange’s weapons. From what she had seen, Ange had in her possession a short bow and a pack of arrows in a large deerskin quiver strapped over her back. In a leather scabbard at her hip was a large double bladed, double handled sword fashioned in the traditional custom of the Renard army with an emerald studded hilt. In a smaller sheath at her back was a long knife that she had been toying with earlier.
Cazador’s mind went from Ange’s arsenal to her apparel. Ange de Venger was famous for her use of black leather for attire. It was rumored that black leather was her trademark. The rumors, Cazador observed, were true. Ange wore a tight, sleeveless shirt of black leather with a V neckline and an upside down V waistline. Over the shirt was a large black leather jacket, with a shoulder protector over her right shoulder that was casually open down the front. Long, muscular legs were encased in tight leather pants, which were tucked into knee-high, two inch heeled boots with gold buckles over the ankles. Her slim hands were fitted with a pair of fingerless, black leather gloves. All and all, Ange de Venger cut a very intimidating but dangerously beautiful figure.
If the vixen was as crafty and cunning as Cazador had heard, she probably had other weapons concealed somewhere in the folds of her jacket. Perhaps even in the bottom of the skin quiver.
As she was pondering this, Cazador was struck with a thought. The sword that Ange de Vemger carried in her scabbard was a Renard army official’s sword! How could this fox assassin have an official’s sword in her possession? A haunting memory flitted across her mind, and she desperately tried to snag it, to call it up into her consciousness. Try as she might, she could not. She was so lost in thought trying to remember that she nearly tripped on the descending stairs. The jolt back to reality made her forget the memory once again.
Ange de Venger glanced at Cazador, hearing claws scrape against the marble. Cazador immediately straightened under her gaze and pulled her cloak together in the front, hiding everything but her coyote-like nose and white face. Ange frowned, the fur above her eyes furrowing. Her new partner troubled her, and the conflicting emotions emanating from the strange creature did not help, either. With a faint sigh, the vixen looked away, disturbed. I’ll have to keep a close eye on Cazador, she gloomily thought. As if assassinating a foreign king wasn’t enough, she had to make sure her own partner didn’t kill her.
The group finally came upon the giant wall that separated the palace from the busy streets of the capital. The wall was so wide that three gates were used to maintain its width. The main entrance’s innermost gate was a giant arch, containing a lowered drawbridge over a ten-foot moat and a looming portcullis that was lowered to keep all intruders out of the palace grounds. Only the privileged were allowed inside these walls.
I don’t feel very privileged, Ange mused to herself with cynical amusement. From the scowl on Cazador’s fine mouth, Ange could see that she agreed.
The captain of the royal guards shouted to the gatekeepers, who stood diligently at their positions in the gate’s massive stone towers that flanked the entrance. Immediately the gatekeepers began their tedious job of raising the portcullis, and in return the gates creaked and groaned their disapproval in their old age. After a moment the group moved forward under the looming arch. More than one hunter cast an awed and fearful gaze upward at the spikes that adorned the portcullis’s end.
The area that stood between the inner and center gates was a large water-filled moat, stretching twenty feet wide and twenty in depth. A bridge arched over the water, which was deceptively still. All four moats were connected, Ange knew, and filled with non-anthropomorphic crocodiles, alligators, leeches and other such wildlife, even a few hippopotamuses, who were very dangerous when it came to protecting their territory.
As the group trudged through the center and outer gates, the inner gate’s portcullis lowered with a thundering roar, followed by the center gate. At the outer gate, the raised drawbridge was lowered and the portcullis was raised. Over the drawbridge in the cobblestone square surrounded by high buildings awaited the hunters and soldiers non-anthropomorphic mounts.
The guards who held the mangy beasts of the hunters gladly handed them over to their owners. The third of the payment money had been put in the horses saddlebags, which each hunter checked carefully before grunting with approval and mounting. Most of the horses were dirty, looked as if they hadn’t been groomed in years, and in worse shape than the ugliest of the bounty hunters. Only a few were obviously well cared for. Two of the cleanest of these belonged to Ange de Venger and El Cazador Invisible.
Casting a careful glance in her partner’s direction, Ange took the reins of her mount from one of the guards, who stared up in awe at the huge horse. Ma Chere bobbed his massive white head and nickered to his master, who gave him an affectionate rub on the neck before vaulting herself up to the stirrup. At five six, her head just barely reached Ma Chere’s muscular shoulder, and it had taken her a while to perfect mounting him. With practiced movements, Ange squirmed herself into the saddle that stood seventeen hands above the ground and gathered Ma Chere’s reins in her right hand while scanning the crowd for Cazador. The massive Clydesdale stomped his huge hooves and snorted with impatience.
“Shh,” Ange whispered soothingly to him. “We leave soon, jamais crainte.” The big stallion blew out a breath and settled down.
El Cazador slipped around the circle of horses, looking for her own mount. If she came near the others, there was the threat of being kicked and stamped to death. She and strange horses did not get along together. They seemed to sense what animal she really was and it made them nervous.
She heard a familiar whinny somewhere among the horses and headed in that direction. Sure enough, there was her beloved mount, a sleek black Arabian, dancing on agile hooves and impatiently shaking his slender head. Cazador couldn’t help but smirk as she accepted the reins from the fox guard. The guard’s once blue and white uniform was now smudged with mud, ripped and beaten. He was also in rough shape, his red fur dark with dirt and hair matted from distress. He and the Arab had obviously had a scuffle. Cazador’s half smile was still in place as she climbed onto her tempered black mount. The stallion did not like to be handled by anyone except Cazador, and the guard had provoked his wrath. She’d trained him to do so. There were many horse thieves in the back woods and dirt paths. This was her best defense against them.
Once all the hunters were mounted, the captain of the guard moved them forward, his guards encircling the group of hunters. El Cazador and Ange urged their mounts on, keeping a significant distance between them.
As they rode down the wide cobblestone streets of Flueve des Anges, the capital of Renard and location of the Royal Palace, the clip-clopping rhythm of the horses’ hooves were a soothing sound to Ange’s ears. She purposefully blocked the mingled emotions and feelings of the hunters and guards and closed her eyes, concentrating on the gentle swaying of Ma Chere’s muscular back.
Hearing an angry snort off to her right, Ange opened one eye to see Cazador’s limber Arab snap out at one of the hunter’s horses. Immediately El Cazador sunk her heels into the Arab’s flanks and leaped ahead, leaving the vengeful words of the hunter behind. The two horses were now parallel to each, although a safe distance away. Ange smiled to herself and settled back down, closing her eyes.
The powerful Clydesdale and limber Arab plodded onward, eying the other warily.
The Arab’s glossy coat was jet black, the sun’s rays causing it to give off a blue tint. His mane and tail of fine, silky hair was well groomed, rippling in the slight breeze that blew through the city. His body was compact and well muscled, sleek with strong hindquarters and slim, muscular legs that enabled the horse to both gallop at astonishing speeds and at the same time move with agility and swiftness. Small, hard black hooves seemed to dance over the cobblestone pavement. He stood roughly at about 15 hands high at the shoulder. El Cazador rode him bareback, carrying no supplies or any kind of saddlebags.
His prancing gate soon became stiff, and the Arab slammed the ground with his front hooves in distaste at the strange company they were in and the slow rate they were moving at. The Clydesdale to his left was considerably larger and alarming, and its rider was a total stranger. Both made the feisty stallion nervous. Turning his head, he glanced back at his rider. Cazador gave no sign of recognition of his tension. Feeling ignored, he whinnied and huffed, tossing his head back.
Cazador finally yanked on his reins, and the Arab quieted down. To show no hard feelings, Cazador patted his neck. After that, the Arabian calmed down and trotted in peace.
All the while, the Clydesdale eyed the Arabian cautiously. Standing at about seventeen hands, he towered over all of the other horses in the group. His massive neck, withers and hindquarters were an intimidating sight, as were his huge hooves and muscled legs. If not for his quick, high-stepping action, he would have seemed nothing but a large bulk. His coat was blue roan, with his legs, including the feathers around his hooves, and face milk white.
After several hours, the group finally reached the outskirts of the capital and passed under the encircling wall, setting out on the main highway that ran through Renard. The highway was made of hard-packed dirt, and was busy with moving wagons, convoys and lone riders. On either side of the road, rolling hills stretched on for miles, covered in tall, green grass and patches of clover and wildflowers. Eventually the hills met with mountains, whose peaks rose to touch the azure blue sky. It was a beautiful sight, one of which the majority of hunters were ignorant of.
It was around noon that the hunters began to complain of their hunger, and so the captain ordered a camp to be struck by the side of the road. It was a welcome rest, and soon the hunters and soldiers had gathered in several groups in the grass, eating dried meat and hardtack.
Ange loosened Ma Chere’s cinch and gave him a drink from her water skin. Her back was to the camp, but one ear was turned in their direction as she idly listened to the conversations. Most were about the upcoming mission or the hunters’ new partners. When the big stallion had satisfied his thirst, Ange turned him loose to graze, confident that he would not wander too far. Turning back to the camp, Ange’s gaze scanned the hunters and finally came to rest on El Cazador Invisible. She sat away from the other hunters, her back to them, quietly munching on a strip of dried venison.
Running a hand through her unruly red hair, Ange mused over the situation. She wasn’t too keen on never talking to her partner, for partners they were, despite Cazador’s feelings of hate. Perhaps she could find out why El Cazador had these feelings in the first place. Even if they didn’t have a personal conversation, perhaps Ange could get them to function like a real team. At least then she might get rid of some of Cazador’s anger.
Her mind made up, Ange strode over to Cazador and dropped to the grass beside her. Ange heard Cazador straighten, but chose to ignore the sign of tension. Plucking up a blade of grass, Ange promptly stuck it in her mouth and laid back. “So, what is your name?” Ange’s eyes were turned on the cloaked figure.
Cazador turned and stared at her. Not angrily, or hatefully. She was trying to decide whether or not to give out her name to this... someone, whom she was sure she had met but couldn’t remember, and despised anyway.
“El Cazador Invisible,” she finally replied, hoping the vixen would leave it at that. She dismissively took her gaze off of the fox.
Ange kept eyeing her partner. “I already know what you are known as. Who does not? But since we are going to be working together, I thought we should at least know each others’ real names.”
They were both quiet for several minutes. Ange de Venger’s steady gaze pierced through El Cazador Invisible’s hood, as Cazador stared at the ground. Finally Cazador let out a sigh and answered. “Ilea.”
“Ilea,” Ange repeated so she would become familiar with it, turning the name over in her mind. It sounded familiar, but Ange could not place it and so let it go. “My name is Sella.”
Ilea, El Cazador Invisible, did not answer or show any recognition of the name, but she burned it into her memory. If that one recollection decided to resurface, perhaps with the name everything would come together.
The vixen Sella was on her stomach now, staring off at the horses. “Your horse- what is his name?” she pressed further, intent on keeping a conversation.
“Rayo,” was the reluctant answer. From the corner of her eye, Sella could see Ilea following her gaze.
“My stallion is Ma Chere.”
The Clydesdale, who was not far off, lifted his ears at the mention of his name. As if following some queue, he arched his long neck and picked up his gate, lifting his hooves high as he trotted before his master. Rayo, grazing near the other horses, noticed Ma Chere’s actions and snorted as if in annoyance. The Clydesdale ignored him and merely increased his thundering canter. Shaking his sleek head, Rayo turned his back and continued grazing.
The rest of the noon meal was passed in silence, and within the hour the group mounted up and continued on their journey. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and the fox captain was beginning to think that they would reach the border without any problem. The thought had hardly crossed his mind when trouble erupted.
One of his men, a cocky lieutenant by the name of Ralfos, had had his eyes on the slim vixen bounty hunter, Ange de Venger, since the beginning of the journey. Nudging his horse towards the big Clydesdale, Ralfos let his gaze run over Ange provocatively. She eyed him with disgust, and then began to turn Ma Chere away from him. Ralfos’ hand snaked out, grabbing the Clydesdale’s bridle. The horse, reacting to the unfamiliar and sudden touch, bolted away. Ralfos, his fingers caught in the bridle’s strap, was pulled from his saddle and sent tumbling into the hard road. The following horses reared up when his body suddenly appeared in their path, their hooves striking out as they screamed their hysteria. When the dust finally settled, Ralfos had suffered from a sprained ankle, a broken arm and numerous bruises and abrasions.
Casting a boiling look in Ange’s direction, the captain ordered his men to put Ralfos back on his horse. Ma Chere galloped in wide circles around the group as Ange watched the soldiers gather Ralfos’ crumpled and unconscious form. Her right hand rested on the hilt of her sword as her body absorbed the rippling movement of Ma Chere’s muscular back. Her gaze moved to Cazador, and she found the cloaked female watching her, a faint smile on her face. When their gazes met, Cazador looked away. Ange allowed a small smile to touch her own lips, then pulled Ma Chere up behind the group. Due to Ralfos injuries, their destination momentarily changed to a nearby city, where a doctor would be found to dress the injured lieutenant’s wounds.
It took nearly an hour to reach the small city, and by then Ralfos was in a great amount of pain. The captain and two of his men escorted the wounded lieutenant to the physicians clinic while the rest of his men escorted the group of assassins to a nearby tavern, where they would wait for the captain’s return.
Ilea pulled up with the other hunters in front of the hitching post, disgust welling up inside her. Had she not wanted to make a scene with the military escort, she would have made tracks to the inviting woods she had spotted just outside the city. Casting a glance several horses over, she watched as her partner dropped over four feet to the ground below, her leather costume creaking with her movements. Ilea felt new disgust. Why had she revealed her name to her partner, a partner she was going to kill anyway? Shaking her head, Ilea directed Rayo to the far end of the trough that stood just behind the hitching post and slipped from her saddle. Giving Rayo a pat of reassurance, she turned and mounted the boardwalk. On the other side of the tavern’s doors she could see happy customers within, enjoying lunch, the evening’s entertainment, ale, or merely one another’s company. Casting a backwards glance at her anxious, fidgety mount, Ilea gathered her cloak around her and took a deep breath before stepping into the tavern.
Winding his way through small round tables, a gypsy fox’s swift hands flew over the strings of his violin, producing beautiful, though hardly appreciated, music to ease the mood of the travelers. Heads turned as the group entered the large room, but other than mild once-overs, the customers turned back to whatever they were doing in disinterest.
Ilea walked into the two-story bar, holding her cloak close around her body. Spotting a solitary table in the bar’s far corner, she made her way to it and flopped down it the chair, letting her cloak fall to her sides. In order to keep her mind from her insecurity in these social surroundings, Ilea let her gaze scan the tavern. It was divided into two sections, one for the bar and the other for a small general store. A winding staircase at the far end of the tavern spiraled upwards to a balcony that opened up to a long hallway that led to the tavern’s numerous bedrooms.
This was Ilea’s first time in any kind of bar, or store that had walls and a roof. She sat, leaning over the table with her paws folded in front of her, letting her gaze take in the inhabitants of the lower bar. She spied Sella enter the tavern, pause to take in the surroundings, then make for the bar, her already familiar stride raking across Ilea’s nerves. Quickly looking away, she saw a plump rabbit waitress slap one of the bounty hunters from the Palace’s hand away. Typical of that filth, Ilea thought darkly before looking on. There were several drunks in the lower bar, but most were respectable citizens of the middle and lower classes.
Ilea’s observances were interrupted when the plumb rabbit waitress swaggered over to her table. In one paw was a notepad, and tucked behind one ear was piece of chalk inserted into a tube of wood, with one end protruding with which to write.
“What’ll it be?” the waitress queried. Her thick Rodent or New Yourk accent was prominent as she spoke in the Focke language.
Ilea thought for a moment. “Carne.”
“A steak.” The waitress talked while she wrote. “An’ t’ drink?”
“Water.”
“An’ how do yous want your steak?”
At first, Ilea didn’t understand the question. When it clicked, she couldn’t remember the correct term for what she wanted. At the waitress’s impatient glower, she rushed, “Uhh... rare.”
“‘kay. It’ll be done in a minute.” The rabbit turned and flounced towards the bar.
Ilea breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t spoken the Focke language in a long time. Sure, she understood almost every word, but just remembering how to say a phrase took a great amount of effort. Ilea didn’t like to talk much anyway. One reason was that her accent could be easily recognized for what it was, and another reason was that she just didn’t like to talk, period. She never did and probably never would.
While she waited for her steak and water, she noticed a group of bounty hunters out of the corner of her eye, off to her left. They were huddled in a group, grinning and conversing among themselves while they threw leering glances at Ange de Venger at the bar. Suspicious of their behavior, Ilea turned to look in Sella’s direction but quickly turned away, rubbing one of her massive paw’s against her temple. How easily that creature got on her nerves was astounding. At that moment she noticed the hunters rise from their table and swagger in her direction. At the same time, the rabbit waitress was returning with her meal.
The waitress arrived first. “That’ll be two bits, miss,” the rabbit announced pleasantly as she set the plate and cup in front of Ilea.
Reaching into the folds of her cloak, Ilea quickly produced a small pouch of coins and dished out the appropriate amount. She gave it to the impatient rabbit, who then pranced away. Ilea hardly had time to breathe a sigh of relief. The exiting waitress had given the approaching bounty hunters space to invade the area around Ilea’s table. They even had the audacity to sit down, flinging their muddy boots on the table’s surface. Ilea let out a warning growl, but the hunters ignored it.
The one who appeared to be the head of the group cleared his throat and spoke in a rough, grating voice. “So, it’s you an’ Ange de Venger, is it?” he asked as if speaking of a grave secret.
Ilea made no reply. The hunter had been at the Palace; he knew the answer to his own question. As it was, she was trying to control her temper and keep from striking out. She lifted the raw steak and ripped it in half with her sharp fangs, chewing viciously.
The hunter chuckled. “You ain’t much for small talk are you?”
Ilea declined to answer and concentrated on her meat.
The hunter began to get impatient. He shuffled his weight in the chair in order to lean closer. “Now, I gotta proposition to make. We know that you don’t tolerate Ange de Venger none, so, we was thinking about helping you out.” He paused to let the idea sink in.
Ilea paused eating to give him a smoldering glare. It was obvious what he was going to say, and she didn’t want to hear it. In return for part of her cut of the reward money (which she wasn’t about to part with) they would “help” her bump off her partner. Their reputations implied that they weren’t exactly the best at their job. The possibility that they were more qualified than Ilea to kill Sella was slim. Ilea wasn’t about to give them a chance to stick their nose in her business, anyway. Vengeance was a personal business. She would handle Ange de Venger herself.
She turned him down with an abrupt “No” and stood, taking her meal with her to the bar to eat in relative peace.
As she moved away she heard the bounty hunters arguing among themselves again. The idiots were exasperating. Sliding onto a bar stool some ten feet away from the hunters, she hurriedly wolfed the rest of her steak down in a matter of seconds. Licking her chops, she sighed in contentment of the meal before picking up the plate and licking all the blood and meat taste off. Finishing with the plate, she set it down and eyed the cup of water. It would prove to be a problem; it was tall and slender.
Picking up the cup, Ilea stared down the neck at the water inside. How could she drink out of this? It was too small to fit her nose down the inside, and she’d never learned how to sip using the rim of the cup like others did. Laughing and jeering erupted behind her, and she knew it was the group of hunters who had confronted her previously. Their taunts were directed at her.
“Hey puppy,” one heckled, “do you need a bottle to suck on?” The comment was met with peels of laughter.
The muscles in Ilea’s back bunched together as she gripped the porcelain cup, her claws digging into the sides. Then a revelation struck her. If she strained, her tongue could reach the water inside. Her thirst rising, she leaned over the cup and began to lap up the water.
Her attention focused on the chore at hand, she didn’t notice a burly looking bear stumble up behind her. He had had one too many ales that night, and swayed dangerously on his feet.
“Hey, buddy! How’sit goin’?” he slurred in good, though drunken, humor. In his awkward balance, he was able to swing his arm around and slap, or wham her rather, on the back with his massive paw.
The force of the impact was enough to make Ilea spew out all the water that she’d been holding in her mouth. Choking, it took her a moment to regain her breath. When she had recovered, she turned to glare at the bear in disgust and anger.
Gazing down on her, it took the drunken bear a few moments to realize that the cloaked white dog was actually a woman. A huge grin appeared on his face at this newly discovered fact. Quickly forgetting the previous buddy greeting that he’d given her, he decided that female companionship sounded very good right now. Winking hugely, the bear threw one of his huge arms around Ilea’s shoulders and bent toward her face.
“There’sha carriage out back” -he made sweeping gesture at the door- “if you’n me wanna blow this joint an’ see some of this town... if you know what I mean.” One of the bear’s eyelids drooped in a provocative wink.
Ilea could smell the beer on his staunch breath. Rage quickly boiled in her. With a snarl, she gripped the cup she’d been drinking out of, broke out of the bear’s grasp by twisting her upper body from under his arm, and slammed the cup up against his thick skull in one quick motion! The cup shattered as the giant stumbled backwards and fell onto the side of a table, only to flip it and all the food on it onto him.
Ilea hardly had time to recover. Another bear, apparently a friend of previous one, roared with anger and lunged for her.
Blood rushing with adrenaline, Ilea ducked under his reaching grasp and dropped, rolling on the floor out of his way to come up standing some feet behind him. The bear, unable to stop his plodding gate, stumbled headlong into a bystander on a stool, crushing him against the bar. The bystander’s friends instantly moved into action, leaping onto the bear’s back. The bartender demanded that they take the fight outside, only to have them turn against him. He was soon sucked into the fighting. Even the bouncers found themselves cracking dishes over skulls and striking out with their claws. The fight was just what the occupants in the tavern had been waiting for. With a roar, the inhabitants turned on each other, chairs, tables and fists flying. Soon the floor was littered with glass, broken seats and unconscious bodies as the fight swung into a full-flung brawl.
Ilea removed herself from the fighting and sunk into a corner that had remained untouched as of yet. Panting, her red eyes scanned the room for a way out. Her eyes narrowed suddenly when they fell on a familiar leather-clad vixen.
One slim hand resting upon her sword, Sella stood on the far end of the bar, occasionally sidestepping a falling body or flying piece of furniture. It was obvious that she was looking for a way of retreat, as well. Her eyes fell upon the spiraling staircase that led up to the second floor. It was empty. Immediately Sella was in action. Ilea watched as the vixen moved across the room for the stairs, occasionally kicking or punching a rowdy animal that got in her way. A determined expression was set on her features. More than one unfortunate fell in her wake.
Suddenly Ilea saw the perfect opportunity for revenge. Her fingers inched down to curl around her 17-inch knife, safely hidden away in her cloak. Pulling it from her sheath and moving forward stealthily on all paws except one, she couldn’t help but feel elated. A more perfect chance had never presented itself. She could kill Sella, claim her as a victim of the bar fight, and continue the mission alone.
Slipping a few feet behind the unsuspecting vixen, Ilea suddenly ducked to miss an air-born chair. By the time she looked up again, Sella was already at the stairs. Ilea sprinted forward, flying between men locked in combat, her cloak spreading out behind her. She reached the stairs as Sella reached the second floor and began opening doors, peaking her angular head into each room.
While Sella was occupied kicking in one of the locked doors, Ilea gracefully rushed up behind her, uncoiling herself for the final strike. Still silently trotting toward her unsuspecting prey, Ilea brought her knife hand back in an underhanded arch. The last blow would be quick and fatal. Anticipation rose up in her. Ilea was only two feet from freedom of her hatred!
A board beneath one of Ilea’s hind paws suddenly creaked, and the vixen whirled, her sword suddenly appearing in her right hand. Before Ilea could think about what was happening, the sword point was digging into the fur at her throat as Sella stared at her down the blade. The vixen was beyond reach of the knife, unless Ilea chose to throw it, but that would undoubtedly result in death.
There was question in Sella’s large eyes, question that Ilea wasn’t about to answer. Under Sella’s steady, masked gaze, Ilea slipped her knife back in its sheath at her leg and stood seething.
Suddenly the door behind Sella burst open, hitting her from behind and knocking her off balance. Instantly Ilea dashed away, busting through one of the bedroom doors, past the occupant’s hysterical screams, and to the window. Throwing it open, she used her arms to push herself out and to the ground landing on all fours on the soft grass of a sloping hill below. Picking herself up and shaking herself off, she bounded around the building to her waiting Rayo and untied his reins.
Meanwhile, Sella regained her balance and dashed into the bedroom after Ilea. Ignoring the frantic squirrel in her nightgown, she rushed to the window and peered out in time to see Ilea making tracks around the building. Then, putting her fingers to her lips she let out a shrill whistle. Instantly Ma Chere pulled his reins loose from the hitching post and trotted around the building toward the window.
Ilea saw Ma Chere answer the whistle and quickly mounted Rayo. Turning him towards the city gates, she dug in her heels and ordered “Ha!” Rayo half-reared and leaped forward, kicking up dirt with his hooves as they galloped toward the city boundary.
Ma Chere trotted beneath the window, waiting for his mistress to drop from above. Sella was about to comply when a meaty hand grabbed hold on her shoulder.
“Ange de Venger?”
Sella paused, one leg out the window and one on the outside windowsill, ready to leap out. Looking back with frustration, she saw that it was a band of bounty hunters. Her eyes narrowed. They were the same hunters she had seen confront Ilea, or El Cazador Invisible.
“What do you want?” she asked curtly. She didn’t have time to talk right now, much less to this scum.
The lead hunter began to speak- words that had obviously been rehearsed and spoken many times before. “We wanna make you an offer. We noticed that Cazador doesn’t like you.” The hunter chuckled gruffly. “We even noticed her trying to kill you.” The hunters laughed in response, but Sella was far from laughing.
“When are you going to be getting to the point?” Sella asked, brushing her hair out of her face. She was frowning dangerously.
“Right now, of course. See, we wanna help you get rid of her. We don’t like her just as much as you, so we figure we ain’t got nothing to lose. We can make it look like an accident, then you can go after the emperor alone. If you kill him, you get yours and Cazador’s reward.” The hunter coughed and quickly added, “Oh, yeah. And we also want one third of yer whole reward.”
Sella laughed shortly, leaning against the window and peering at the flustered hunters through narrowed eyes. “You are joking, correct?” She didn’t give them time to answer. She jabbed a finger at the lead hunter’s chest, her voice iron. “Listen you imbécile, I do not want your help. I do not want your goons’ help. I do not want anyone’s help, comprennent?” The hunters were obviously less than pleased with the answer, but Sella continued angrily. “And get THIS into your thick skulls! Just because someone does not like me does not mean that I am going to go and kill them, comprenez-vous? If I did that, I would have to kill practically everyone on the planet- INCLUDING you secousses!”
Stopping to let her words sink in, Sella gave them one last scathing look, then slipped from the window. They heard her drop to her horse, and an instant later the thundering of hooves followed.
Immediately the hunters recovered from their shock of Ange de Venger’s scalding words. They were furious. Turning to their leader, they began to spout their anger and ask heated questions.
“Shut up!” the leader screamed, silencing the whole pack. When they were quiet, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His gaze was smoldering. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll kill them both anyway!” A roar of approval erupted from his men, and he quickly ordered, “Hurry and saddle up, we’ll catch up with them in the Sequoia realm!” He paused. “But first…I need to go and speak with a friend of mine.”