Mary-Cade Mandus - Skin Deep

The stallion appeared unfazed by its dual burden, keeping up an easy clip. As they rode, Crispin kept a wary eye out for more troll scouts. He wouldn’t relax until having passed the seven miniature follies that denoted Castle White’s outer boundary.

It was noon; the sun trekked a cloudless sky and, being so unused to heat as they were, it was uncomfortably warm,. Almost immediately after departing the Wilderness’ outskirts, the castle road had become a tunnel, the huge trees on either side of the road having spread to interlock branches, and for several miles they’d had the benefit of their shelter. But the forest had eventually given way to open fields tidily divided by stone walls and, for the past hour they’d been traveling in direct sunlight. Mirella had fallen asleep, and Crispin enjoyed the feel of her slight weight resting trustingly against his back, her arms wrapped loosely about his neck. Her perfume was rich and stimulating.

Although alert to the surroundings, part of his thoughts pondered on what lay ahead. Once the trolls had been defeated and order restored, he intended to ask for an early release from the army. His uncle had bequeathed him twenty acres along The Little Spun Gold River. There was a cottage and a working gristmill on the property, perfect for making a living and raising a family.

As though sanctioning his unspoken plans, Mirella sighed in her sleep and leaned closer. He smiled and bent his head to kiss the hand riding just below his chin. Her fingers were hot from the sun, the sweat tasted pleasurably sweet. Without thinking he licked his lips and considered whistling, then thought better of it, even though he very much doubted trolls had infiltrated this far.

Suddenly, Mirella’s arms slid heavily from his neck, hands falling to flop limply against his hips. Startled he drew back hard upon the reins, causing the stallion to skid to a stop, rearing. Managing to keep a tight hold on the reins he twisted around, making a frantic grab for Mirella. Fortunately, he was able to grab her around the waist before she could be thrown. With one hand he managed to bring the horse to a quivering standstill then, freeing up his hands by gripping its sides with his knees, he swung her around his body and into his lap. Spying a wooden stile he rode over to it. Clutching the reins in one hand and Mirella against his chest he awkwardly dismounted. Laying her down in the grass beside the wall he hastily tied his mount to the stile.

He sank to his knees beside her and for the first time was able to fully take in her appearance. He was appalled by what he saw. Although naturally pale her arms and face were now abnormally so and glistened with myriad beads of sweat. Her complexion reminded him of the suet his mother used to render for candles. Unable to detect her chest rising, he laid a trembling ear against her clammy skin and sagged with relief. Although erratic, her heart still beat and her lungs were drawing shallow breaths. Shaken, he stumbled to his feet and looked wildly around for help. But there were no houses visible or farmers tilling the fields, only miles of empty verdant land drowsing under the hot sun.

The curse, it could be nothing else! His jaw clenched; he knew what had to be done. Gathering Mirella into his arms he remounted and without hesitation headed the stallion back they way they’d come; back to the Wilderness.