One of the men across the field from him looked toward the West and pointed, causing the others with him to stop. Even from this distance, Enaros could see the displeasure on Khormash’s face. He too looked westward and saw the figure, wearing telltale feathered armor, quickly approaching. It was Hameia. Puzzled at his niece’s appearance, he held up his hand, signaling his party to relax and wait. A few moments later, she arrived.

“Do not continue this, Uncle!” Hameia said in a clear voice. Nodding only briefly to Enaros out of respect, she turned and strode purposefully to the middle of the field and stopped, her eyes riveted on Khormash.

“What is the meaning of this, woman?” Khormash asked, his voice betraying his ire.

“It is not for you to ask anything of me,” Hameia said, standing proudly. “Go, and return to your lands. Do not come back to this place again, neither you nor any of those with you for if you do, you will surely die.”

“This is madness!” Khormash nearly screamed. “I have brought you into my home and have treated you fairly. Look, even my son is going to marry you!”
“I will not marry a traitorous hound such as he,” she snarled, briefly glancing toward his son, Kharath, as she drew her swords.

“I am here to speak to the High King, not his niece,” Khormash growled angrily, his son kept in check by a brief wave of his hand. “I am here to discuss a peaceful union between our peoples that you were to be a part of. What madness has brought you here to say these things now?”

“I speak the truth always,” Hameia said, turning her head slightly, indicating what she said was also for Enaros to hear. “I know you have your army just over that rise behind you, lying in wait to pounce as a pack of villainous hounds. You mean to betray Enaros and kill him, then take what is his for yourself so that you may be High King. I say this now: not one of you will near Enaros without passing me… deshe tabatalar.”

Khormash’s face turned purple with outrage.
“I did not come all this way to be denied what is mine by a woman who speaks to animals,” Khormash spat. “Very well, then, bitch.”

Khormash nodded sharply. A moment later, six warriors in the trappings of king’s champions stepped forward and surrounded Hameia, clearing their swords of their scabbards and taking up defensive positions. Hameia stood calmly, her eyes scanning those around her a moment as they settled into place, then returned her gaze to Khormash, nodding once in acceptance of the challenge.

There was no warning. Instantly, the champions leapt forward as one, swinging their swords in savage blows at Hameia. With lightning reflexes, she caught the first blows on her swords and kicked sideways into the midriff of a third warrior, then spun gracefully away, slicing with her weapons at another. The forth man stopped short, dropping his sword to clutch at his belly, blood already leaking freely through the gash in his armor and between his fingers. She danced back toward him, evading a blow from another man and, in a single swift strike, beheaded the wounded champion, once again dancing away to attack another. With a twirl, the man she had kicked also lost his head. In another few steps, only two remained of the six champions.

The remaining warriors knew she would not be easy to kill when they had approached. Now they knew she was a great deal more deadly than they had expected and sought to keep her off balance with alternating cuts and thrusts of their weapons. Much to their dismay, the warrior huntress easily parried their attacks and danced tauntingly back and forth between them, quickly taking control of the fight. Unable to merely back away or make a definitive strike, the champions continued their attacks, hoping the woman would tire before they did. Then, one of them swung forward too forcefully and overbalanced. In an instant, his headless corpse collapsed to the ground and the wing-helmed Hameia unleashed on the last man. It was over in no more than two swings of her swords. As the last man fell, she turned and stood defiantly, her gaze once more riveted to Khormash.

“You send children to do the work of a warrior,” she said contemptuously. “I should have known you would do such a thing. It is the act of a faithless coward.”

“I’ve had enough of your mouth, girl,” Khormash roared, all sense of control gone.

“Then find one amongst you man enough to silence me,” she said in a voice just audible from across the field. “King of emptiness…”

Enraged beyond control and feeling whipped by her insulting words, Khormash strode forward, drawing his own sword.

“I am man enough to rule, little girl,” he sneered. “I will be man enough to silence you!” Without further words, Khormash charged and swung a deadly blow toward Hameia’s head.

Hameia waited until the much larger man was committed to his motion then stepped sideways, bringing her knee up hard into his abdomen and slamming her pommel into his ribs. She danced away as Khormash nearly buckled at the knees and began stalking around him like a taunting cat, just out of easy reach of his sword.
“You plotted treason against your king and came to make good on your scheming,” she said, her voice filled with disgust. Khormash, opting to save his breath, lashed out, only to be met with a block and swift flurry from the woman’s swords which rendered his off arm exposed and bleeding from a deep gash.

“You deceived me with the promise of marrying your son,” she spat, leaping forward to strike again, easily deflecting his weapon away and slicing across his upper thighs, severing the strands of his war kilt and slicing into the softer flesh beneath.

“You planned with your son to poison me then kill me and claim I had left the very night I arrived,” she said as she attacked again, this time cutting into his sword arm beneath the bracer and nearly knock his sword from his hand with her second blow. Khormash now realized he was facing a superior enemy, one the tales of her did not come close to accurately describing. As he looked into her cold, unfeeling brown eyes behind her feather-winged helm, Khormash felt something he had never truly felt before in his life: absolute fear.

“This is what reward you will have for your efforts, deshe tabatalar!” she snarled as she drove forward, dancing and slashing faster than Khormash could counter. Feeling his life draining from him through several wounds, the King of Lobathrad leapt forward with the last of his strength, bringing his sword down in a high arc meant to cleave Hameia’s skull. She easily spun away from the blow and, when the sword tip struck nothing more than soil, she spun back and eviscerated him in a single slash then kicked his sword from his faltering grip.

Khormash fell to his knees, too weak to stand any longer. He looked down at his entrails draping out of his gut then up into Hameia’s eyes once more. Time seemed to stand still, each warrior looking deep into the other’s eyes, their souls face to face. Then, without another word, Hameia brought her swords up like a pair of lethal scissors and took his head, kicking the body backward so the spray of arterial blood pointed toward those who had come with him. As his lifeless body hit the ground she looked up and addressed Teroth, the dead king’s brother.

“Take this filth from the eyes of Enaros,” she said, her voice yet stained with contempt. “Such as he will never find rest on the Mountain.” With that, Hameia turned and walked away with her characteristic strut.

Filled with emotions and driven by rage, Kharath gripped his spear and stepped forward, intending to hurl it at her back. He had barely raised the haft when his brother, Merad, put his hand up preventing him from raising it further. Hameia paused. Turning her head slightly but not looking back toward them.

“No, Merad, let the coward throw his spear at a woman’s back if he thinks he can hit me,” she said, the tone of her voice clear that she was amused with the threat. Without another word, she turned her gaze back to Enaros who stood staring at her a few yards away and resumed her return across the field. Merad watched her for a moment then turned his head to look at his brother who was now seething with hatred for his once betrothed. Merad lowered his hand and Kharath stepped forward, raising his spear at the same time then hurled the deadly projectile with all his might.

Instantly, Hameia turned and dropped to the ground in a split. Pivoting her torso to face back toward Kharath, she threw the sword in her right hand, piercing her attacker midriff. The spear sailed over her head toward Enaros who easily deflected the missile away with his shield to fall harmlessly to the ground a few feet away. Hameia never broke eye contact with Kharath as she pushed herself up into a crouch then stood and walked across the field to her now kneeling attacker, the sword buried to the hilt in his belly.
She said nothing as she stood before him, her eyes and visible face void of emotion or expression. After a moment, she calmly reached down and yanked her sword free, nearly pulling Kharath forward onto his face. Once free, she wiped the blood on the blade of her sword on Kharath’s shirt sleeve, resheathed her weapons, and turned, crossing the field again with her tell-tale sassy strut. As she began walking past Enaros, he ordered her to stop.

“Yes, my Lord King?” she asked almost cheerfully.

“You saw me standing there in front of you, Hameia,” he said, seemingly unsure of whether to be angry or amused with her. “You knew where that spear would go if he threw it.”

“Yes, I did, Uncle,” she smiled, reaching over to rap his shield with the back of her hand. “And I know who made you that shield and how well you use it.” With that, she grinned and continued walking away, now accentuating her femininity more dramatically.

“There was nothing to worry about,” she called back over her shoulder. “Deshe Bea’anakh!”