Xelha Taylor
The pair watch from the spiraled castle of Cotheport, a wrung-out building made from stone thick as bone. The Slayer Queen, once thought dead, felled by the blades of her allies, twists, much like a dancer, between the bodies of her enemies, her gilded sword the perfect partner. She graces across the field, a canvas for her body to paint. She spares the horses, for they are to be hers, and the healer so foolish to stumble before her, as her last is somewhere far off now.
Her men, those remaining faithful, cry behind her, roar as the wind does. An arrow fired at her back, is taken through the chest, and the man grins, bears bloody teeth, as he dies for the Queen, with the knowledge she will not mourn his loss.
She catches a soldier from his horse, with her arm that holds too many joints, pulls him to ashen ground and places her sword against his neck. He spits at her, to which she responds to his gift with her blade through his throat.
Across the valley, the Slayer Queen hears the siren call of her lover, a woman-creature dressed in self-sewn feathers, as she rakes her talons across the stomach of a former trusted friend. They see each other, grin a greeting through the gore. The two met in battle, courted through much the same, and now love deeper with every heart slain that is not one of their own.
Tall sighs, wishes to be elsewhere, but the creature they seek lives and dies the moment a battle breaks, and now they are stuck, albeit safe, until the valley is cleared.
Blue is excited, for while the wild is their comfort, they have always enjoyed the sight of battle. Not for its gore or its violence, but for the acts within it. The small kindness that one may bestow, friend or foe, wounded upon the battlefield. Even if that kindness is death.
And the Slayer Queen, leading her men, her armies, far greater than any man, cuts through the last, and declares herself leader of this valley, as is her right, as she has been for a decade before, and will be for decades more.
* * *
They meet her at the entrance of the castle, as she, in her strength, pushes through the door. She reclaims her throne, sits heavy in the seat, overlooks the hall, filled with humans, with witches, with whatever Blue and Tall proclaim to be.
‘Bard, song.’ She calls to the boy, signalling the merriment to begin. With only a note of hesitation, he sings, a story of the Queen’s oldest conquest, the day of her coronation.
Blue dances among the crowd, spins the bard as he plays, links arms with the witches. The soldiers, weary, allow them to lead a dance across the carpet. They take the hand of the Slayer Queen’s love, who dips them in a bow.
Tall watches on, stands beside the Slayer Queen, a woman, while present in body, is elsewhere in mind.
‘What a life you must live, dear friend,’ she says behind her ale, no mocking, no resentment, only a bittersweet slump to her shoulders.
Tall doesn’t respond, but inclines their head, and extends their hand. The Slayer Queen snorts, but accepts, although she will lead the pair in dance.
It is to a song of her lineage she continues, for only Tall to hear her.
‘Do not mistake, my body is battle, my blood slaughter. I have not earned my title to discard it callous.’ She spins Tall, a pointed feat.
Tall raises a hand, stops their dance. Blue pauses too, the human now in their arms poised low to the floor.
Like the rush of battle, it arrives, crashes through the doors, bellows with the collective voice of the fallen. The Slayer Queen draws her sword, never from her side, a companion met in childhood.
Tall lays a hand across the blade.
‘You have already won, dear friend.’
And the Queen, not often quelled, lowers her sword and allows herself to watch, as the result of her battle, like an army, sweeps through the hall. But it cannot destroy, for she, victorious, has weaved its life, its story, and dictates its death, with her blade.
It dies, shrivels at her feet, the last breath of a soldier. The hall is quiet.
Her soldiers roar, a triumphant chant to their Queen. With them, her voice joins.
Blue slips besides Tall, as the celebrations resume.
Tall regards them. ‘It’s not what I hoped.’
‘It’s born of blood and battle, I’m not sure what you hoped.’
‘Not the creature, Blue.’
And Blue looks upon the dancers, the Queen surrounded by her men, hand upon her love’s waist, the other around her sword.
‘The Slayer Queen, Tall, has seen this creature in many forms before, one more will not change her.’ They take Tall by the wrists. ‘Now, care for a dance?’
Xelha is a 25-year-old woman who lives in NSW. She has an interest in abstract and surreal horror, but also enjoys more lighthearted fantasy. This is Xelha’s first time being published! She has no real aim with her writing, just to create things she and others can enjoy.
More amazing stories are waiting for you…
Return to Issue 1
Claws Out Literary 