Romancing the Rogue

by Kim Bowman

  “We must get this bridge down… we are running out of time.” Marek directed others to line up the horses, ready to pull when given the signal. The dangling men finished their work and motioned to be brought up. They cleared the bridge, and Marek gave the subsequent signal to move. “Go!” he shouted, slapping the rump of his horse.

  Four steeds pulled in unison at the command of their owners. Snorts and grunts mingled with excited cheers, infusing together to make a joyful praise as the beams started to moan. Marek gripped the rope and dug his heels into the soft earth, tugging with his horse. “Again!”

  The beams let out a cry, giving way to the strain. “Come on lads, pull!”

  Men scrambled to their horses, doing whatever possible to join in the effort, grasping on to whatever they could in the combined effort to destroy the bridge. The wood groaned as the planks loosened. With a few more heaves, the rope frayed and the wood gave way. Planks fell into the void of the ravine as beams swayed freely, bound by the twisting of the ropes. A swift sawing with a blade freed the wood, and they, too, disappeared into the nothingness below.

  Marek allowed a brief celebratory round of hand clasps and shoulder slaps with his men before refocusing on the task at hand. The bridge was down, but the hardest part was still to come. He now had to lead his brave and seasoned — but perhaps too few — band of brothers into death’s own territory, where superstition and fear were additional but unseen enemies. Keeping them all alive would prove to be his greatest challenge, one he knew he was unlikely to accomplish.

  Marek pulled his horse to a sudden halt. The animal tossed his head, rearing slightly at the unexpected jerk. The edge of the White Forest stood steadfast, just a stone’s throw before Marek. His surroundings were eerily quiet, and he motioned his men forward with caution. “Stay focused, we know not what evil lurks before us.”

  A frigid dusting of snow coated the narrow path leading into the depths of the forest. The beauties of the once lush terrain dwindled into an unbearable solitude. The horses picked their way over rocks and gaps with an uneasy carefulness. Skulls from those who had succumbed to the perils of the forest dangled from barren branches. Splintered bones crunched under the weight of the horses as they dutifully pressed forward.

  A terrifying screech from an unknown being echoed through the trees, and Marek’s mount let out a snort, his ears flattening against its head. Marek reassured the animal by rubbing his palm along the gelding’s neck. Easy, Cyran, I need you strong now.”

  The men followed one another deeper into the bowels of the wood, making an easy escape less than likely. A cold panic seeped amidst the group. Marek shut out the whispers and the unsteady breaths of his comrades, closed his eyes, and listened. A stoic silence blanketed the air like a wall of stone, heavy and thick. Leather creaked and bits of metal clinked as the horses moved, but no natural sounds were heard. No birds, no wind rustling in the pines — no life at all. An unnatural quiet loomed over them.

  A shadow darted across Marek’s path, and he stopped short, the rider behind him nearly crashing into the backside of his mount. “Did you see that?” He spoke the words so quietly he might as well have been talking to himself.

  Blackness flitted in the corner of his eye, and Marek turned toward it, only to find nothing. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a shiver crept up his spine when a presence grazed his shoulder. He swallowed the lump in his throat and gave Cyran a nudge with his heels, but the horse wouldn’t move forward. Rather, it took several steps backward. Marek reined him in, turning the horse full circle. Cyran pawed at the ground, tossing his head, and violently strained against the bit as the forest began to stir.

  Inaudible whispers ricocheted through the trees, and the horses pranced precariously on the thin walking path. Unexplainable children giggled in the distance. More shadows appeared amongst the men but vanished when touched by the tiny slivers of sunlight flitting across the forest floor.

  Gaining control of Cyran, Marek redirected his eyes to his men. They were no longer in a tight formation. Some had dismounted, others strayed into the forest with dumbfounded looks on their faces, oblivious to the surroundings. Something was amiss — they were being lured into the darkness. The whispers, the shadows, the faint sounds of children — Marek and his men were walking straight into some kind of unearthly trap.

  A scream in the distance set Marek galloping from the footpath and into the thickness of the wood. He and his mount moved as one, dodging branches and weaving through the endless maze of impassable thickets. It was as if the forest knew he was coming and purposely blocked his path. When he finally reached his man, Marek rushed to his side, only to find him dead. A look of sheer terror still masked the man’s face.

  Marek drew his sword.

  In a bout of panic, Cyran tugged the reins from his master’s grasp and cantered from sight. “Damned horse,” spat Marek, gathering his wits. His boots sank in the fresh layer of powder as he pressed onward, retracing his steps to the trail and, hopefully, his men.

  The sweet smell of summer flowers overtook his senses. He inhaled deeply, veering from his path to follow the intoxicating aura. No smell was greater than the fragrance of a woman. He rounded a tree, clearing a path with a swing of his blade. He stopped mid-stride, overwhelmed. “Nya?” He called out to the figure, his voice cracking. She stood in the distance, her smile beaming her love for him. “Is it truly you?”

  “Hello, my love!” The figure waved excitedly at him, beckoning him closer.

  Marek took a few steps forward. His chest rose and fell heavily. His own eyes deceived him. His beautiful wife stood before him, her essence radiating light. “It cannot be,” he gasped. His sword arm went limp, the steel falling to the snow.

  “Well? What are you waiting for? Aren’t you joining us, Marek? Supper is ready.” She giggled, her attentions focused on the emptiness beside her. She knelt to the ground and held out her arms, waiting. A swirl of snow appeared at the tips of her fingers and in an instant, a boy formed from the fragments of ice and earth.

  Marek dropped to his knees. His boy, his little Ewan, was wrapped in his mother’s arms only paces away. Tears dampened his cheeks as Marek regained his footing and started toward the pair.

  “Da!” the little boy greeted, his auburn curls bouncing atop his head. “Wait till you see the fish I caught! Will you not come home?”

  “I’m on my way, son!” Marek choked on a sob. His family stood before him, awaiting his return. He would give everything just to hold them again. He would go to them and never let them go.

  He almost reached happiness when a force from behind knocked him to the ground. Marek wrestled with the beast, attempting to claw his way free, but the figure locked its strength around his middle, pinning his arms to his sides.

  Ronan shoved his brother against a nearby tree, his grip unwavering. “They are death walkers, Marek! Do not believe your mind, they are not real!”

  “Release me, Ronan, before I kill you!” Marek’s hissed, rage boiled to the surface.

  “They are dead, Marek! You need to remember!” Marek kicked back against the hold, but Ronan only tightened the cage of his arms. “They take the shape of your greatest anguish to use it against you. Listen to me, Marek!”

  “No! You cannot keep me from them!”

  Without hesitation, Ronan released him, pulled back his fist, and punched him square in the face.

  The blow jarred Marek enough that it took a moment for him to recover. He rubbed his jaw and blinked, confused. “Why the hell did you hit me?”

  “You were walking to your death, and it was the only way I knew how to stop you.” Ronan backed away from Marek with caution.

  “I saw Nya and Ewan,” Marek told Ronan. “They were here.”

  “I know.” Ronan cast his brother a sympathetic glance. “In this forest lies a realm between the living and the dead. It will try to overcome your soul — you must not let it. Look.” Ronan pointed to the two figures evaporat
ing before their very eyes.

  The figure that had once been Marek’s love grew dark and lanky. The shape hovered above the ground as it formed into a hazy mist. It paused over his sword for a moment, released a shrill scream, and then disappeared into the forest.

  “Remember why we are here.” Ronan gave Marek’s shoulder a tight squeeze before fetching the discarded sword. “You are going to need this, aye? To save your current wife, if I recall correctly?”

  Marek managed a lopsided grin. “You are an ass.”

  Ronan nodded, accompanied with a slight bow. “With pride.”

  ~~~~

  Shadows lurked in every corner. It was as if they could read her thoughts, so Brynn focused her mind on only the happiest of memories. The horses were spooked by the noises of the forest, forcing many soldiers to walk beside their mounts. Trudging through the snow made for a slow journey, but the party came to a complete stop when they reached a ridge.

  Julian peered over the edge. “We will have to circle back around and find a way down. I see a clearing.” He pointed below, kicked the snow with his boot, and turned just as an arrow hissed by his ear. Startled, Julian blamed one of the soldiers next to him, but when the Engel stammered that it had come from afar, Julian dropped to a defensive position, barking out orders to his men. “Secure this ridge! Find out where that arrow came from!”

  The Archaean ambush seemed to materialize before her very eyes. Her horse reared, and Brynn could no longer steady herself in the saddle. She tumbled backward and landed in a windswept drift of snow, narrowly missing the plummeting hooves of her mount. Brynn rolled to the side, rising to her feet before the confusion could engulf her, too.

  Michael seemed too preoccupied with engaging the warriors than keeping a watchful eye on her. In the midst of Engel soldiers, Brynn searched for Talon. The confusion of the White Forest and its mysteries was proving to be the perfect distraction for their escape. She found Talon still mounted and rushed to his side, pulling him from the saddle. “Come, Talon, we must hide.”

  “Where is Da?” he whined, tired and disoriented. “You said he would come for us.”

  “He is waiting for us on the other side of the forest, so we must hurry and go to him,” Brynn reassured him while urging him closer to the trees.

  “I don’t want to go in there, it frightens me.” Talon refused to follow.

  Brynn knew his instincts were correct. Only danger awaited them, but they had no choice. They couldn’t turn back. “I know you’re scared, I am as well, but we must go.”

  Talon nodded and placed his hand in hers. “Don’t let go of me.”

  Together they raced for the treeline but were spotted before they could conceal themselves in the shadows of the forest. “There they are, milord!”

  “Get them!” Julian ordered, trying to regroup his men. “Don’t lose them, you imbecile!”

  Within moments, two horses were upon them. “Stay out of the forest, Engel. Don’t let them get you,” she warned one of the soldiers, positioning herself in direct line with her escape route should an opening occur.

  “Don’t let who get me?” the soldier questioned.

  “The death walkers.” Brynn added a little laugh, hoping her warning would further the madness ensuing amongst the Engels. “They will eat your soul. You should leave now, before it’s too late. Everyone is going to die.”

  The soldier eyed her precariously but pushed her words aside. Reaching down, he pulled her into his lap. Talon was secured by another soldier, and both were returned to the Engel party.

  A firm grip locked around Brynn’s waist, pulling her to the ground. She struggled to free herself, but was no match for the strength of Julian. “Release me,” she ordered through gritted teeth.

  “The only way you are leaving my side is by death. I will not disappoint my master.” Julian’s shouts to his soldiers only added to the chaos surrounding the ridge. Men scrambled for shelter, while others tried to calm the horses. Some wandered off in unknown directions, straight into the line of fire.

  Several more arrows cleared the ridge, sinking into the snow inches from Brynn’s feet. She drew Talon to her side and pushed closer to the edge. Excited shouts echoed through the forest, and Brynn recognized several of the voices. He had come for her. She must make herself known. “Marek!” she screamed, emptying her lungs of air. “Marek, up here!”

  A gloved palm circled around her throat. “Make another sound, bitch, and I will slit your throat.” Julian pulled a dagger from his side, waving it in front of her face.

  “Hurt me, and he will hunt you down.”

  “Not if he is dead. I will pick the arrow myself.”

  Brynn stared into Julian’s dark eyes, at the man he had become. She searched for the man he once was, the charmer — full of grace and dignity, but all that remained was evil and hate. She took in a mouthful of air and called out to Marek once more. Her voice reverberated through her body.

  The dagger dipped close to her face, but Brynn drew up her hand, snaring it. Her fingers curled around the blade, and she pushed back, countering the blow. Blood circled her wrist and down her forearm, the lace cuff of her gown staining red from the flow of the gash. She fought against her attacker, straining to reach the hem of her dress. Julian’s grip on her throat tightened.

  Her fingers found the hem, and she tugged it upward until she felt the cold metal of her boot knife. It slipped easily from its sheath, and she swung it wildly at Julian. Steel met flesh, and Julian released her. She kicked at him with the fury of an untamed stallion until he retreated to cover the wound. Crimson poured from the deep laceration on his cheek. Her blade marred the handsome face she once admired.

  Without hesitation, Brynn rose to her feet and rushed to the cowering Talon. She seized his palm, snatching up a discarded bow and quiver along the route, and searched for a way down the ravine. She didn’t have to look long. An abandoned horse marked the way. She followed in its tracks, reaching the forest floor with ease.

  Hiding behind a tree, Brynn opened her satchel and pulled out a well-worn book. She flipped it open to a marked page and read the passage written on it. Her lips quivered beneath the words as she fumbled over them.

  “Ma, you’re bleeding,” Talon told her, his voice trailed behind a cry.

  “Quiet, Talon, I must get this right.” While she recited the words, Brynn removed a vial from the bag. She pulled the cork free, drank its contents, and replaced both the book and the empty vial in the satchel, finishing her chant. Within moments, warmth spread throughout her body. The aching of her wound ceased to pain her, and for a moment, she sighed in relief.

  The moment ended when she heard the order for her death from the ridge. Keeping to the trees, Brynn tried her best to stay hidden. Julian and his men held the advantage, however — she was visible through the thickets from the high vantage point of the bluff. An assault of arrows showered above her, raining death upon impact should they find their marks. The Archaeans were close — Brynn could hear their voices clearly. They would counter-fire to protect her position, but two Archaean warriors fell in the crossfire.

  “Brynn, get behind a tree!” Marek and his men took up a defensive position across the clearing from her, firing off arrows at the Engel archers.

  She did as she was told and hunkered behind a large hollow tree. Her lungs burned as she tried to catch her breath. The Archaeans would be slaughtered while trying to save her — they fought a losing battle. They would never get close enough to use their swords. She knew what must be done, but summoning up the courage to do so was proving to be more difficult than she thought.

  “Stay where you are and I will come to you!” Marek called to her.

  “Do not!” she commanded. “He is waiting for such a move, and he will kill you!”

  “I’ll take my chances!”

  “Marek, don’t reveal your position! I know what I must do — it is my destiny! ’Tis the only way we will ever be free!” She took a deep breath to calm
herself and turned to Talon. She managed a bittersweet smile, caressing his dirty cheek with the back of her palm. “I love you, my son.”

  The boy looked at her with expectant eyes. “I love you, too.”

  “I need you to do something for me, aye?” Talon nodded. “No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, I need you to run. And do not look back.” The boy wanted to object, but Brynn put her finger to his lips. “You must run as fast and far as you can, until your da comes for you, do you understand?”

  “But why will you not come with me?”

  “I need to take care of these bad men first. Stay in the trees and follow the path, all right? And don’t stop until your da finds you.” She kissed her son and wrapped her arms around him for one last hug before slinging the quiver over her shoulder and readying the bow. “Now go. I’ll see you soon.” Brynn pointed him in the right direction and watched as her little boy vanished from her line of sight.

  Arrows flitted through the forest, some finding their mark in Archaean bodies. Marek’s men were being picked off one by one, defenseless against the high advantage point of the Engels.

  “Courage, Brynn.” She rose to her feet, slid an arrow from the quiver, and stepped into the light of the clearing.

  Despite the trembling of her hands, she managed to nock the arrow and pull the bowstring. She found her intended target — an Engel soldier aiming his bow at Marek — and released the bowstring. The arrow flew like a bird on wings, plummeting into the belly of the man. He keeled forward and tumbled over the edge of the bluff.

  She reached over her shoulder for another arrow.

  “Brynn, what in hell are you doing?” Sheer terror resonated from Marek. “Get back behind the tree!”

  She ignored him, once again drawing the bow, hitting another soldier. Julian appeared at the edge of the ridge then, yelling words she couldn’t understand.

  The first arrow struck her in the thigh, sending her staggering to regain her feet. A red circle formed on her gown where the arrow hit, but Brynn pushed it from her thoughts. It brought her no pain. She was fidgeting with the bowstring when the second arrow hit. The sharpened point crashed into her chest, cracking her ribs on impact. The blow knocked her to her knees. She struggled for a breath but didn’t give up. She would put an arrow through his heart. If she must die, Julian would first.