Praetorian Rising

by J. McSpadden

  "Just in case," Vesyon said with a final glance at the young woman shrouded in fur blankets. "I've given you two bullets. It's all I have left. Hopefully, it's enough for you and Lunci if our plan turns south."

  A heavy silence descended. No words were necessary. Peter understood the weight of his role in Vesyon's plan, as well as the consequences. There was no other route, no other option. They had one path: forward.

  Peter nodded. "She'll be ready."

  "Keep her safe, Peter; keep her hidden from the High Court. No one must know she's here."

  Peter stared at him, his wild caterpillar eyebrows dipping over squinted blue triangles before consenting with a curt nod.

  "I need to get back to Romeo Village before the High Court realizes what I took from them—I can't leave Phillip alone with the mess they're in right now. The poor man hasn't yet recovered from what happened in Charlie Town."

  Peter raised an impatient hand. "I know. No need to explain."

  With a quick nod of appreciation, Vesyon ducked out the wooden door and disappeared into the dark forest, not once looking back.

  ***

  The woman's eyes fluttered open, and she shied away from the intruding light and heat that assaulted her fragile senses. She couldn't place her location, and her back ached with stiffness as though she hadn't moved in ages.

  "Awake, are you? It's about time. You've been sleeping for days."

  The woman sought the source of the voice: an old, scruffy man perched close to the glowing hearth. She didn't consciously snap to attention or shove the fur blankets to the floor. She didn't feel the blade's smooth wooden handle as she yanked it from the old man's belt and didn’t hesitate to angle the freshly sharpened metal against his throat.

  "Where am I?" she croaked, her throat raw as if scratched with sandpaper. It felt like she hadn't spoken in years. But that couldn't be right, she'd just been—she paused. She couldn't remember where she'd last been. "Who are you and what do you want with me?"

  "I'm a friend, and I want nothing but to keep you safe," the old man said carefully, holding himself stiffly against the blade. "Do you remember how you got here?"

  "No," she snapped in sharp frustration. "Where am I?"

  "Sierra Village. In my home," the old man said, keeping his eyes locked on hers. "Hungry? I can make you something." He gestured to the kitchen area, but she refused to look anywhere but at his face while deciding whether he was lying or not.

  Keeping him in sight, she surveyed the small room, noting small knick-knacks, a wooden bowl filled with overly ripened apples, and a bedframe near the hearth with a feather mattress and an aged brown quilt. It wasn't a prison or holding cell. It was the old man's home—and a cozy one at that. A small, iron kettle hung over glowing coals, probably boiling water for tea. The comforting aroma of fresh rye bread wafted from the pantry and the scent of smoked turkey wrapped in salted bindings made her mouth water. She briefly eyed the nearby electric icebox. Her stomach growled.

  Scowling stubbornly, she retorted, "I want answers. I don't need your food."

  "It would seem your stomach says otherwise. I'm not a threat, child. I'm here to help you."

  The woman pressed the knife harder against his skin. "'Help me?' You want to help me? Then give me answers!"

  He stared at her blankly, and she seethed.

  "Who are you?" the woman shouted wildly, body shaking in terror. "Help me by telling me who you are!"

  "I won't hurt you," he said, raising his hands in a show of peace. "My bones are far too old and fragile." The woman remained steadfast, blade to his throat, and the old man chuckled. "My name is Peter Schroder and you've been in my care for a week. You won't remember me, but we have met before."

  His features twitched, and she sensed a deep sadness emanating from his entire being as he spoke. Their last meeting hadn't been a pleasant one, it seemed.

  "Where? How do you know me? When did you last see me? When?!" The woman's words tumbled out in rapid fire, but Peter remained calm and collected.

  "I don't have all the answers to your questions, child. But I promise you're safe in my care."

  His response failed to temper her racing heart, but she removed the blade and stepped back. She remembered nothing about herself, not even her own name. Where had she been born? Who were her parents, and where were they? This man wasn't familiar in any way.

  "I'm sorry," she mumbled, sitting on the bed and placing the knife beside her. She gathered the furs that had pooled around her worn leather boots and pulled them tightly around her shoulders, shaking her head. She'd smelled that knife, its hard steel tang, before visually locating it on Peter's belt. She'd identified every entrance and possible exit in the tiny home before her fingers had even reached the blade—they amounted to four if she counted the little window above her head. She even heard the soft rush of breath from a sleeping child overhead in a makeshift bedroom loft—all of these skills, and yet she couldn't recall anything before the moment she'd opened her eyes.

  Peter appeared to understand her fright and confusion and busied himself with stoking the fire into a decent flame as she angrily wiped moisture from her eyes. "Your name is Camille Scipio," he said, "and you were brought to me eight nights ago by a close friend. I'm to care for you until he returns."

  "Cam-EE-ill," she said, rolling the syllables of her first name around her tongue but feeling no familiarity.

  "I have no doubt you're wary of your surroundings right now, but in due time, things will come back to you," Peter added with a small smile.

  Camille looked up at him with curious, searching eyes, before staring at the skinny black and brown cat by her feet. "That's all you have to say?" Camille asked, furtively reaching down to scratch the cat's furry head.

  How curious, she thought with each stroke, that this cat's presence makes me feel—calmer.

  "I'm afraid so. I'm to care for you until it’s no longer needed. That's all I know."

  "That doesn't tell me anything," Camille countered. "Who left me here? You said it was a 'friend.' Who are they, and how do they know me?" Her bottom lip poked out with indignant frustration as she turned an icy glare on the man, hoping it would force loose a sliver of information. The man was like a new gravestone, unyielding and aloof, hiding the depth of its secrets far beneath the surface.

  "I can't say any more, child. I apologize. But I can assure you that you're safe and most welcome in my home," Peter said, moving slowly to pour Camille a steaming cup of tea.

  She accepted the chipped stone-ware mug and sniffed at the purple-tinged liquid inside. It smelled flowery. "What's this? Some sort of draught to knock me out?" Her stomach gurgled again in a desperate plea that she indulge despite her misgivings.

  Peter glanced at her with a comical expression. "It's just a cup of lavender tea."

  Camille couldn't muster the energy to question him further. Sudden heaviness weighted her eyelids, dragging her down with more insistence than her stomach’s hunger pangs. She sipped the warm liquid that tasted of lavender and mint and set the cup down as the cat jumped up beside her. Petting the cat as he cuddled against her hip, Camille slid down on the flat feather pillow and drifted back into a heavy sleep.

  ***

  The wind picked up, whipping against the ancient trees of the Dun L'er Forest like a hungry monster, every branch alive in the dance of early Fall. Despite the pounding sense of danger riding every wind wisp, Peter was relieved. The uprising was finally underway—a whisper of reckless abandon hummed through the bitter air—and this time they'd be ready.

  Peter shuffled from the kitchen counter to the whistling kettle to pour himself a fresh cup of tea before he settled down across from the sleeping Camille with a plate of turkey and cheese. Neeko was curled into a ball against her stomach, purring contently. The pair of them appeared at ease in slumber, short-lived but much needed. It had been so long since he'd last seen her, but even to his old and frail eyes she hadn't changed in the least.

  He
recalled the first time he'd seen her face, seven years before on a night chilled by the oncoming of winter. Her eyes had blazed a deadly black, and her entire body had been slathered in blood—she'd worn it like a token of achievement.

  He should fear having her there after witnessing what she'd done to the ones he loved. Almost his entire family had been slaughtered right before his eyes, one after the next, in swift slashes of metal. Whoever hadn't escaped his village when she'd arrived had died—yet she'd left him and his grandson untouched. Not a word had been expressed, not a single sound had crossed her lips, as she stared down at them, eyes ablaze with ballistic rage, before she turned and walked away.

  He didn't know then, or now, why she'd kept them alive, but it was enough of a reason to allow her into his home. Peter believed Vesyon—Camille was the key to their rebellion, and her past was not a reflection of who she was, but what she was capable of being. Aspera had suffered enough under the strong arm of the High King. Allowing this woman to sleep under his own roof was the least he could do to aid the rebellion if it kept their weapon safe from the High Court's greedy fingers.

  He'd made a promise to Vesyon, an honest vow to keep her protected and hidden no matter the consequences. Despite the truth of his word to lay down his life to protect Camille, his grandfatherly worry for the small child sleeping above their heads prickled at his conscience. But, without her help in the rebel movement, Aspera would fall, and there'd be nothing left to fight for: no viable future for his grandson, Lunci.

  "Please, Mother Ma'Nada, giver of life and protector of this land—please guard my family against evil," Peter whispered as he brought his palms together before his chest. He repeated the prayer over and over again, his words a steady stream of faith and devotion. The Mother Ma'Nada, though fierce and powerful in the many stories of his faith, had always bestowed good fortune on Peter. The loving goddess had never abandoned him through his many battles, and he held tight to his faith with white-knuckled determination.

  The storm began its rhythmic song as the wind whistled through the empty grounds of Sierra Village, picking up speed and rattling the fragile windowpanes in Peter's kitchen. His eyes flicked back over to where Camille slept, her vivid red hair cascading over her shoulders in wild curls. Though he couldn't see them now, he'd been utterly surprised earlier to learn she possessed green irises identical to her mother's. She looked so much like a normal girl of seventeen: lithe and gawky, with muscled biceps, curls that flowed halfway down her back, and a spray of freckles over her petite nose—but he knew better.

  She was their only weapon against High King LeMarc. But, if she failed to learn to control the monster living inside her, no one would be able to survive her next explosion.

  "Ad Astra per Aspera," he whispered, sipping his tea. "To the stars through difficulty, Camille."

  Chapter Two

  Hide and seek

  Eleven moons later…

  The sun hung low in the distant clouds, the branches above Camille's head heavy with the multicolored leaves of early Fall. Camille was easily concealed behind an ancient trunk covered in sickly grey moss, yet her heart pounded all the same. A small, piercing ache to broke between her lungs. How long had she been running for this time? She heard soft steps closing in on her and knew her hiding spot wouldn't last long. A twig snapped in the distance and her stomach twisted; it was time to relocate.

  She could smell the tangy scent of his sweat; he was beginning to tire, but his footsteps were nearing. She racked her brain for a plan as she pressed aside a wayward branch, crouching in a hunting stance.

  Her instincts told her to act first and think on her feet, and that innate, animalistic sense of battle preparation still startled her. How did she know these things? The storm flowing in over the Iron Mountains visible just north between the treetops and the valley twenty feet to the west had a fourteen-degree downward slope. Slight, yes—but enough to enhance her speed by fifteen percent if she really pushed herself. She never could figure out how she was able to make these automatic calculations, but they were useful in her hunting process nonetheless. Mainly when she was the one being hunted.

  Camille leaped from her temporary sanctuary and dove toward the heavy brush five feet to her left, swiftly running down the sloping valley deeper into the woods. She heard his soft footfalls turn to heavy thudding as he crashed through the dense forest, speeding like a raging bull in her direction.

  Ducking behind another large aspen trunk, Camille held her breath, forcing herself to remain silent as she dug her nails into the thick tree bark. She heard the assailant stop just behind her new hiding spot, and her heart slammed against the confines of her ribs.

  Camille closed her eyes and prayed the forest would grant her a reprieve; that some branch might fall to the earth and create a diversion, or some bird might fly past so she could sneak away.

  "Ah ha!" the little boy screamed as he jumped around the wide tree trunk followed by a mewling Neeko. "That's three for me. I found you in less than forty minutes this time, and without any help from my handy hunting partner," Lunci exclaimed happily, before performing a little victory dance.

  "You are a worthy opponent in this game of hide-and-seek," Camille said, unable to restrain the enormous smile streaking across her face. They'd been playing all day, and still, he wasn't tired of it. Nor was she, in all honesty. Camille loved the moments she shared with Lunci, even though she was almost ten years his senior. He reminded her of what it was like to be a kid again, and considering she couldn't remember her own childhood, Camille welcomed the chance to live vicariously through Lunci whenever possible.

  Lunci was unusual for a nine-year-old. He never wanted to hunt with boys his own age, and girls who glanced at him with innocent flirtation received nothing more than a sweet smile and a passing glance. Peter passed it off as nothing more than a young state of mind, but as much as Camille loved Lunci's penchant for fun, she felt his childlike demeanor stemmed from something deeper; perhaps even something traumatic.

  "Round four?" Lunci asked with a grin, one that Camille knew would disappear when she informed him it was getting too late to play in the deepness of the forest they'd migrated to.

  Although they were still within the gated confines of Sierra Village, they were far enough away to cause Peter to worry. "It's getting pretty late there, mister. I think we should start heading back. Your grandfather will have my head if I keep you in the forest past sundown."

  "Awww—come on!" Lunci whined. She feigned toying with the idea of refusing him, loving the way he stamped his feet and kept repeating, "Please, please, please!" with his hands clasped.

  "Okay, one last time. But after that we are going home," Camille said sternly, making a mental note to pick a secure hiding spot that was within sight of the village grounds. Lunci broke out into another little jig before slumping to the ground, hands over his eyes as he began to count backward from thirty.

  She ran a medium distance away, making sure to keep Lunci within earshot, taking heavy steps so he could detect her path more easily. She never dared go too far from him and held her hunting knife with her just in case any real predators decided to join the game. Despite the fact it was her day off from hunting, Camille wouldn't pass up the opportunity to bring fresh game home for Peter to sell.

  "All right, ready or not, here I come!" Lunci yelled into the thick foliage.

  Camille smiled when she heard him rustle through the same bush she'd just passed a few moments earlier. He usually spent a few moments trying to decide which direction she'd gone in, but apparently, he'd conveniently forgotten to close his eyes this time. She took extreme pride in his growing abilities to track prey. It was a small lesson she carefully explained over their months of weekly playtime, but she would let this little cheat slide under the radar.

  Camille made a quiet trek back up the sloping valley toward Sierra Village, ensuring she heard Lunci's footsteps close behind her. Her stomach growled at the idea of dinner filling her to ne
ar-bursting, but tonight's offering would only be a small plate of food despite the fact she lived with the village butcher.

  It was two days before the Moon Tax was due, and only the wealthy didn't dread the offering. The rest of the village scrounged for food to meet the High Court's demands, but luckily Camille's hunting skills and market trades kept Peter's table filled through most of the month.

  At the end of every moon cycle the buffoon Grenswald, a foul-mouthed, grubby man thicker than he was tall, came to town in a cloud of stale whiskey and body odor. He would barrel his way from door to door, collecting items he deemed "presentable" to the High King’s court. Even though Camille had only lived in Sierra Village for a year, she clearly understood what it meant to hate the High King, his cruel Moon Tax, and the disgusting people he kept readily at his beck and call to maintain total sovereignty.

  Camille led Lunci further up the hill toward the heart of the village, snapping twigs and rustling leaves as she did so. Ducking around a relatively large boulder and scurrying through a thick bush, she hid, waiting for Lunci to reach her spot. She hunched down and slowed her breath to an inaudible pace, but after a few moments realized she no longer heard Lunci in the distance.

  Her stomach clenched, a searing jolt of panic zipping through her system at the sudden silence of her surroundings. What if Lunci was hurt? Would she have heard Lunci if he screamed? Camille bounded out of the underbrush and still heard nothing but her own ragged breaths—not even a distant bird call. Something was wrong. She felt the unleashed gallop of her heart pounding out a thunderous tempo inside her chest. Usually, Neeko would bounce back and forth between her and Lunci, his tracking senses far superior to any human's. But she didn't even see his bushy black tail anywhere amongst the darkening forest terrain.

  No need to panic, she reminded herself, trying to calm the erratic burst of fear crashing through her body. Last week, Lunci had gotten distracted by a small family of squirrels in the trees, but Camille had been high up on the hill and observed him the entire time. This was different. She couldn't hear him at all, couldn't see him, and the forest's ever-present cacophony of twitters had stilled.