Work Text:
“Alright, coast looks clear,” the memoriate whispered to the other two guards. Raising a leather gloved hand, he signaled to the ornate carriage a few yalms back. The coachman flicked the reins and proceeded at a cautious pace as the one guard returned back to the carriage and the other moved to cover the rear. The memoriate, Zante, was left alone to continue scouting out ahead, a task he was more than happy with, especially given the sluggishness of this leg of the journey. Frankly, he mused, his current task was essentially to take a nice leisurely walk down a spacious path and look at the lovely trees and peaks that dominated this particular stretch of the mountain range. Perhaps if he was lucky, he would see some interesting manner of mountain beast.
It was an odd change of pace from the beginning of the job. The carriage’s initial journey had been extraordinarily fast-paced, for reasons that had not been disclosed to him, forcing the entire escort to ride next to the coachman or in the carriage with the passengers. The employer had evidently been in quite the hurry to leave, or perhaps to arrive, but the moment the mountain range had come into sight, Zante had heard a bout of frantic, panicked yelling from within the carriage, followed by an argument between its occupants. After drawing his sword and hopping back to check that his charges were alright, he was told, along with the coachman, that there had been a change of plans and that they would be traveling as quietly and slowly through the mountains as they possibly could.
As far as Zante could ascertain, something in these mountains had clearly frightened his employer, and while he questioned the wisdom in favoring stealth over speed when traveling in a gilded carriage, his place was not to question but to serve his patron, and regardless it seemed that her companion (Assistant? Servant? The man’s role was unclear) had already brought up the same sentiment to no avail. So here he was, walking as slowly as he could for miles on miles on end.
A lesser man would have found guarding a carriage moving at a snail’s pace in a completely uninhabited mountain range to be dreadfully boring, but Zante was no ordinary man. He was a memoriate, a hero, as he was fond of telling the tavern crowds during his downtime excursions, and every challenge was thrilling for a hero when it was in service of protecting the innocent. Especially an innocent such as her.
Zante could not pretend that his employer’s appearance had not played a role in his decision to accept this job. He could have sworn his heart had somersaulted when he had seen her for the first time, hurriedly but elegantly marching into the guild hall and up to the front desk. He first noticed her long chestnut hair, which even in the dim lighting of the guild hall seemed to possess an absolutely enchanting shine. Her fair skin, seemingly untouched by a day’s labor, contrasted beautifully with the dark red of her lips, deepening the beauty of both. The elegant emerald of her eyes was matched perfectly by her elaborate green dress, and, along with her towering height and pointed ears, gave her the air of one of the captivating, otherworldly queens he had read about in the books of his childhood. There was also a great sense of sadness and age about her, especially in her tired, ever-so-slightly wrinkled expression, and despite the apparent lack of physical strain in her life, he could sense that there was much emotional strain she had been through. This all only furthered her resemblance to Zante’s storybook queens, who always seemed as full of ancient secrets and dark, mysterious pasts as they were full of beauty and kindness and magic. In that long instant Zante became absolutely convinced of two things: this woman was in trouble, and he would stop at nothing to protect her.
Idly twirling his trusty dueling saber as he glanced about some nearby treetops, Zante wondered what his childhood self would think of himself now, playing the gallant knight to the lovely queen. Of course, she was not a real queen. As he had learned earlier in the trip, she was in fact a noblewoman, widowed some years back in a tragic incident she was loath to speak of. But he was not a real knight either, having never been formally knighted. Still, a memoriate and a noblewoman were close enough. He was a hero either way.
As he rounded a corner in the mountain pass, he took a careful look around. There were tall cliffs on either side of them covered in large rocks. Theoretically, a handful of people could hide among them, but-
"AAAAAA"
High pitched screaming from the direction of the carriage sent Zante sprinting back around the corner at full speed, sword readied as he came upon a terrifying scene. Huge streaks of blood covered the gilded decorations of the carriage, which had one of its doors wrenched open so hard that one of the hinges had broken off. The coachman and the companion were both dead on the ground, blood splattering away from their bodies as the two brigands assaulting them continued to slash and slice with their swords, desecrating what at this point were certainly corpses.
The guards remained standing, but their attention was focused on a third brigand: a tall, muscular woman with a head of long, striking, pale yellow hair that danced wildly through the air as she effortlessly parried the guards’ blows, pushing them back step by step with her massive longsword. Her appearance seemed vaguely familiar, but he was too focused on the immediate situation to think much on why. The noblewoman was the only person Zante could not see, and the hope that she was still in the carriage, saved for last by the brigands, was the main thought keeping him going as he closed the distance.
The first two brigands noticed Zante and stood up to meet him, only for one to immediately fall to a single twirling slice of his saber. The other one stood dumbfounded, only to find his courage again a moment later and charge forward, matching Zante’s movements for a few strikes before the memoriate knocked him off balance and finished him with a swift, clean stab to the heart. Their deaths were quick, each breathing their last before they reached the ground.
Zante turned his attention to the third brigand, only to widen his eyes in horror. One of the other guards was already dead, the brigand’s sword having broken through the top of his shoulder and cut a massive gash down the upper part of the chest, through which he had swiftly bled out. The other guard’s sword was locked with hers, but his weak stance and his strained groans made it clear he was losing. Badly. Zante moved to join the fray, but before he could reach them the woman pushed the two swords to the side and delivered a powerful knee to the guard’s groin. The guard let go of his sword as he keeled over in pain, leaving him helpless as she brought her blade down over his head, firmly silencing him. The woman’s bright green eyes met Zante’s as her blood-flecked features twisted into a grin of violent delight.
Zante’s blood ran cold as he realized why she had seemed familiar. He had heard stories of the savage mercenary with luscious blonde locks. An unmatched swordswoman who wandered from battlefield to battlefield, as free from duty or creed as a wild bird of prey. One who had slain as many men and women as she had enthralled with her beguiling charms. A wild, untamed spirit, beholden only to herself. There could be no mistaking it. This bloodthirsty monster, it was her. Barbariccia.
Zante spared a glance at the open door of the carriage, where he saw the noblewoman, her fair skin turned pale white as she cowered in the corner, mouth agape but too terrified to scream. But alive. The memoriate steeled himself as he glanced back at Barbariccia. A bead of sweat trickled down his back.
“Have at you!”