A Bunch of Lesbians Fight the Demon Queen, and also Kill God, Maybe? - Chapter 2

Few words can accurately describe just how disorienting it is to awaken somewhere, head pounding and consciousness begging to be undone, without a hint of memories from the night before to provide explanation or context. In some ways, it may be akin to being born, only with a—theoretically—fully developed brain. The developed brain part ostensibly only makes things worse, however, as, in such a situation, the subject in question has the presence of mind to truly grasp the full extent of how utterly lost they are. It is not unlike spending an afternoon canoeing down a river, only to blink and discover that what one thought was a canoe was actually a bathtub, and that said bathtub wasn’t located in a washroom or anywhere else it might belong, but actually in the middle of a bustling marketplace. To add insult to injury, a cursory look around would reveal that there never was a river, only cobblestone streets, and that one’s paddle had actually been a very angry weasel all along.

To say the least, it’s a damn confusing experience. None of that held a candle to what Byron was going through, who just so happened to not only lack the slightest idea of where he was or what had transpired to lead him there, but also couldn’t for the life of him remember who he was. In fact, he wasn’t even entirely certain his name was Byron. Or that he was a he. Byron didn’t exactly feel like his name—though it was the only one which came to mind—but the other part was surely self evident, wasn’t it? The groan which had emanated from his lips as soon as he was conscious enough to become aware of his ear splitting headache had certainly sounded masculine.

Regardless, he had bigger problems to consider than his name and identity. Even problems bigger than the fact that he seemed to have no memories of any life at all. What happened to actually be chief among his problems was the group of strange, armed men who were milling about around him. There appeared to be around five in total, two keeping watch while a third picked through a pile of what must have been his belongings. Most concerningly though, were the two in the process of digging a hole. One which really seemed to be the makings of a shallow grave. Compared to all that, pretty much every other problem seemed trivial. Honestly, what a life, waking up with not even a sliver of memory only to die before getting the chance to make any. For what hopefully were obvious reasons, Byron wasn’t particularly keen on that.

Doing his best to avoid drawing attention to himself, Byron flexed his muscles for what may as well have been the first time in his life; he found power in them, rippling strength, and beyond that, perhaps something else lurking within. It was faint, a flicker of something, of power. What that was or meant was anyone’s guess, and since the only other people around didn’t seem particularly friendly, Byron would have to rely on instinct. That instinct was telling him ‘Five bandits? That’s it?’ Which, admittedly, sounded like an awful instinct to trust, but since it was that or wind up buried alive, Byron decided to give it a go.

Wasting not a second longer on deliberation, Byron allowed his fingers to slowly, meticulously explore the soft earth around him. After a few moments, he found what he was looking for; his hand closed around a nice and jagged stone. With a low, guttural grunt he put his whole upper body into the throw, casting the stone directly at the head of the nearest bandit. It sailed through the air, connecting with his leather headpiece and sending him staggering to the ground. Seizing the moment, Byron leapt to his feet and lunged for the axe that his target had been clutching; in a smooth motion, Byron snatched the weapon from the downed bandit’s loose grip. Hearing the sound, the second on-watch bandit whirled around. “The fuck? He’s alive?” Apparently the mere shock of seeing Byron breathing and on his feet was enough to send his target staggering backward as he clumsily fumbled for his sword handle. He wasn’t enough; a split-second later Byron’s axe was buried in his chest, splitting the chainmail as blood flowed around the entry wound. Before he had the chance to wrench his embedded weapon from the wounded man’s chest, however, the largest of his newfound enemies tackled him to the ground.

Crushing pressure against his throat roused Byron from his daze; a meaty, dirty hand had found his throat. A sudden shimmer of light flashed across Byron’s vision as the bandit’s dagger caught sunlight. The blade plunged downward directly toward Byron’s face; instinctively, both his hands shot out to catch the man’s thick arm, but it was a losing battle. His opponent was strong, and without air Byron’s strength was failing fast. In a desperate, all or nothing maneuver, Byron removed one of his hands from his assailant’s wrist. Immediately, he felt his strength slipping and, with a frantic jab, Byron plunged his thumb into the man’s eye. Howling in pain, the bandit’s grip loosened as he collapsed backward, but not before managing to slip his knife-hand free of Byron’s grip, and plunging the blade into Byron’s thigh. Pain ripped through him, radiating out from the entry wound to travel all up and down his leg in little spiderwebs of burning agony. To make matters worse, the two remaining bandits were encircling him, each pointing a spear toward him, all while the bandit he’d struck with a rock, and the one who’s eye he’d just jabbed each stood shakily, readying themselves for another round. So this was it, then. Four on one while unarmed and nursing a knife wound; odds like that weren’t winnable.

A lanky man with dark greasy hair and beady eyes approached, he’d been the one sorting through valuables. His spear inched closer, then pressed lightly against Byron’s throat, it’s point grazing and cutting at the flesh. The man’s lips curled into a sneer, then parted, likely to say some gloating line to drive the fear home before cutting Byron’s life short. He never got the chance, though. Blood poured from between his lips instead of words; a crossbow bolt jutted from his neck. Dead where he stood, the man collapsed, while a bewildered Byron followed the trajectory of the bolt to its origin.

Behind his assailants, and a ways to the right, standing just on the side of the road was a woman. Unsurprisingly, the aforementioned new addition to the fight held a crossbow—more specifically a hand-crossbow—its string still vibrating from the momentum. She was dressed like some flashy noble, with a dark maroon vest covering a ruffled, cream-colored button up. She wore tight, wood-brown trousers, with an ornate silver-handled rapier tucked into her belt. Her dark hair draped forward over her shoulder in a thick, rope-braided ponytail. Scanning the scene, her eyes briefly met Byron’s, and she winked, flashing a cocky smile before her hand flew to her belt. As she drew her blade with her right-hand, her left slid three well-balanced throwing daggers out from her sleeve, then tossed them with a smooth, arcing sweep of her arm and flick of her wrist. They lacked the same deadly accuracy of her crossbow, but they served well enough to halt the advance of her opponents long enough to settle into a proper combat stance. With that, the fight began anew.

All three men charged her, splitting off to pincer her from three sides. Undaunted, the newcomer held her blade aloft and leapt forward in a sweeping slash; the sun glinted off her blade, creating a momentary flash of brilliant light. All of a sudden there were three of her, each bearing down on one of the men charging her, who in turn stumbled and rushed to parry. Only the bandit on her left flank met solid steel. He bared the brunt of the blow with ease, but the flinch of surprise at her aggression created all the time she needed. The mystery woman was already past him, twirling behind him and bearing down upon him with a second strike, which he just barely succeeded in deflecting. Deflection or no, she had easily put him off balance and, with the grace of a dancer, she tripped him to the ground and spun again into a pirouetting parry of his errant flail of a falling strike. She had no time to finish the downed man off, as a fraction of a second later, his companions were bearing down upon her.

Again, she lashed out with her blade, and again, her newest target—the big one whose right eye was likely still quite bloodshot and blurry—moved to deflect the blow. Yet his mace met nothing as the phantom image faded to reveal the young woman in the midst of a lunge forward with a curved talon-like dagger. It pierced his flesh with ease, but, before she had the chance to pull down and gut the man, he swung the back of his hand, connecting with her jaw and sending her stumbling backward. She managed a quick parry as a followup strike chased after her, but the force of it rattled her, knocking her onto her back as the two men advanced on her, all while the third pushed himself back onto his feet. Another false projection lashed out, but this time all three men simply ignored it, stepping through it and thrusting their weapons downward, forcing her back further. Byron watched on with conflicted apprehension. It had all happened so fast, her confidence and poise evaporating in the afternoon sun.

In that moment, Byron asked himself what sort of man he was. This was, understandably, a difficult question. As far as he was concerned, Byron may as well have been literal minutes old. And each and every one of those minutes had only been characterized by some mixture of confusion and life or death strife. He didn’t have much in the way of experience to tell him what he could or would or even should do in a situation like this one, or any situation. If he wanted to, Byron could seize this moment, take the opportunity this stranger had given him, and flee. There was a city close by. He could literally see its walls. If he ran off toward those walls, crying for help, would a small group of injured highwaymen really give chase? Probably not, they had plenty to deal with already; not only that, but a brand new source of valuables to plunder from their newest victim. But was he that sort of person? The sort of person who would leave a woman who had come to his aid to die? There was a fire in his gut which told him no.

Those instincts, the ones he’d felt before, that surged with confidence and strength and perhaps some other echo of power, they came to life in that moment. They took control. And then, perhaps from adrenaline, perhaps from something else, his pain vanished. Byron stood. The knife embedded in his thigh slid out; no, it was pushed out. Deep inside Byron, something was waking up, something powerful. With waxing confidence, he charged, and with each step that strange feeling of power swelled and surged. He roared, deafening and primal; the men before him shuddered and turned in terrified bewilderment. The first man, the one who Byron had struck with the stone, screamed; a clawed, dark purple hand, sizzling with energy, slashed across down his outstretched arm and along his torso. Next, the one whose eye Byron had jabbed raised both arms, and swung his mace with all his might. Catching it was trivial. Those clawed hands sizzled, and from them lept a glowing ball of crackling energy; it struck the bandit square in the chest, sending him flying, likely killing him.

One man remained, quivering in place as he gazed up at Byron in terror—had Byron always been taller than him? There wasn’t time to consider that question, as, instead of making any attempt to resist, the man dropped his spear and fled, running full tilt into the wilderness and away from his would-be victims. After a moment’s deliberation, Byron decided to let him go; he had taken no joy in the violence he had inflicted, and so no reason to seek out more of it. With the danger gone, that sizzling, bubbling energy within him dissipated; exhaustion kicked him like a mule as his knife-wound screamed out a painful reminder of its existence. Grunting and wincing at its sudden agonizing return, Byron toppled forward, narrowly avoiding landing atop the woman whom he’d just saved—and who had saved him.

“Whoah, shit!” she cried, scrambling backward. “Stay with me, friend.” In the blink of an eye she was hovering above him—literally. Byron blinked a slow, weary blink only to open his eyes and see her face. Lightly, she slapped his face, he flinched and grumbled, weakly shooing her away. Somewhere out of sight, he heard the sound of cloth ripping as two hands prodded and gripped his thigh. “Dammit, you’ve lost a lot of blood. That was a nice trick, and it's not that I don’t appreciate the assist, but this cut is deep, looks like moving around may have made it worse too. And who knows where that dagger had been; risk of infection seems pretty high.” Her face came in and out of view with another slow, heavy blink. “Hey, keep those eyes open. Look at me.” He did as he was told, her face coming into focus. She really was quite pretty, with a sharp, mischievous face utterly unsuited to the concerned look of concentration written across her furrowed brown and tight lips. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Byron, I think,” he slurred.

“You think?” Squinting, she peered into his eyes intently, perhaps checking to see how dilated his pupils were.

“Y-yes. Can’t remember much of anything. Even the name is just a vague notion, and it’s basically all I’ve got.” Giving a thoughtful look, the woman sat back on her heels, scratching her chin.

“Alright then, Byron. Well, I can’t exactly leave you out here to bleed to death on the side of the road on good conscience. Plus it would make all that risk I just took to save you amount to absolutely nothing.” Something tightened around his leg, bandaging the wound. “This ought to keep your heart beating for now. I have some friends back in town who can patch you up and maybe speed along the healing with a bit of magic.” A pensive look crossed her face as she bit her lip, appearing conflicted. “They’re not going to like this, but oh well. You at the very least seem trustworthy enough to risk your own skin for someone else. Just know that if you fuck with us, you’ll find we don’t go down as easily as common highwaymen.” Momentarily, Byron wondered for himself whether or not this woman was to be trusted. After some brief deliberation, he decided she’d risked her own life to help him out of a jam, and also seemed to be his best chance to get his leg fixed up so he could continue living.

Her arm snaked under his as she braced her shoulder against his underarm, while the other arm wrapped around his waist. “Okay, work with me here.” She groaned with exertion as her legs strained to lift him, Bryon doing his best to lift with his unwounded leg. With a bit of effort, the two righted themselves, and set off toward town. A few steps down the road, a realization struck Byron’s newfound companion. She offered a sheepish, sidelong glance. “By the way, I’m Nina. I’d say it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but these aren’t particularly pleasurable circumstances, are they? Plus you’re bleeding all over my good clothes.”