“We have to go,” Cano told her, taking her by the arm to pull her out of the water.
She was shivering and her eyes darted around fearfully as he led her through the water. When they came around the jutting rock, and she saw the men watching her approach, and the two dead bodies on the ground, Cano felt her begin to tremble. She took death hard, as if each casualty affected her personally.
Ignoring the words of Mueller, Peters and Jerron, Maehril pushed past them and fell to her knees beside Wasdin. She took his head in her hands, twisting it to see his face, before gently placing it back on the ground. Tears erupted in her eyes. She hugged her arms around her waist and leaned forward with her eyes tightly shut. Then she began to rock back and forth, weeping quietly to herself.
“Maehril….” Mueller began to say, but a sharp look from Cano cut him off.
“Give her a minute,” Cano whispered reproachfully. He wanted badly to put his arms around her. Her tears rent his heart.
Mueller looked around to Peters and the two guardsmen who had come with him, but they just solemnly looked down at Maehril, content, despite the urgency to leave, to allow her time to mourn.
Cano watched Maehril with a heavy heart. Wasdin and Dauber hadn’t necessarily deserved death, but the circumstances demanded reaction. The two soldiers would have stood in opposition or provided a loose end that might have sealed their capture at a later time. Maehril had such a pure heart. She didn’t want the burden of anyone's death on her slender shoulders.
Light began to glow faintly around her as she wept. It held steadily, an aura forming to her figure like a loose fitting dress. Then she reached out a hand and touched Wasdin, transferring the light to his lifeless body. The earth beneath their feet started to gently shake, and the dirt around Wasdin began to cave in, swallowing his body like a grave. When the body had descended several feet into the ground, the earth began to pile over him, burying his body until the surface cleared as though nothing had happened there at all. When the task was finished, Maehril moved over to Dauber, repeating the same process until his body was buried beneath the ground as well. Then she stood and faced Cano, exhaling deeply and nodding a silent thank you for allowing her those precious few moments.
“The Imperial army is after Maehril,” Mueller announced, gaining everyone’s attention. “We have to run. Here is the situation. We have no money, no food, and no direction. Once it is learned that Maehril isn’t at the manor, we will be hunted. We will be stalked as surely as wolves stalk a lonely deer. Descriptions of Maehril will be sent to every port and harbour, every town and outpost.”
“I’ve got a boat,” Cano cut in.
Mueller looked at him hopefully. “How large?”
“It’s big enough to take a few of us,” Cano replied.
Maehril walked over to stand with Jerron. The wide-bodied Massoniel bent down and picked her shoes up off the ground. He handed them to her and smiled shyly. She was still holding the pain of the men who had been slain in her name and had no sweetness to offer back. Her eyes looked slack and distant as she slipped her feet into the shoes.
“Where’s the boat?” Peters asked.
“I tied her up in a hidden cove, east of Merrame bay.” Then Cano realized that it had been a few days now since he’d last seen his boat. “I hope it’s still there.”
“We’d have to go back past the manor to get out that way,” Peters said, with a sullen shake of his head.
“We head east, to the coast. Then we’ll work our way south from there,” Mueller said. “There won’t be any towns or villages to worry about, that way. It’ll give us a chance to reach the boat.”
“We’ll have to go straight through the forest,” Peters said grimly.
“I don’t see another way, do you?” Mueller’s normally stoic tone sounded as haunted as Peters had.
“What about the forest?” Cano asked.
“Remember that forest we went through on the way out to the shraels?” Jerron asked him. Cano nodded. “The northern region of that forest is dangerous.”
“It’s thick and overgrown. The trees feel alive around you, like dark totems. There won’t be any decent roads to lead us through, and even at the height of the noon time sun, it will feel like twilight,” Mueller added.
Cano glanced over at Maehril. She wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. She stood next to Jerron with her arms hugged around her stomach, openly weeping as she stared down at her feet. As if something had suddenly startled her, she covered her mouth and gasped. Her eyes were wide and frightened.
Cano went to her, but she put her hand up to stop him. For a moment, she closed her eyes tight, and grimaced. Then she relaxed and returned to her original posture, weeping openly as she hugged her stomach.
“Are you alright, Maehril?” Jerron asked, rubbing her shoulder, fraught with concern.
She didn’t answer right away. Whatever inner turmoil or pain she was experiencing, she seemed to be gaining control. After several deep breaths she looked around at her companions and smiled shyly, embarrassed to have earned so much attention.
Cano searched her eyes and could still see that she was bothered. She sensed his distress, and acting as though it was him that needed the attention, she walked over and stood beside him, taking his hand in a gentle, affectionate way. He felt more at ease right away.
“As long as we travel with her, darkness will follow. But there will always be light to guide us. Her light,” Cano said aloud, though he had meant it for himself.
“They called her the ‘girl that bleeds light',” Mueller said, appraising Maehril with a rare smile of fondness.
As if her name had been called, Maehril looked up at them with wet eyes. Feeling the weight of everyone’s attention, she shyly wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Jerron went over and put an arm around her and gave her a gentle squeeze. She smiled then and seemed to melt happily against him.
“Are we ready?” Mueller asked.
Cano knew when he met Maehril that his life would be forever changed. Despite the perpetual feeling that he was sailing headlong into a hurricane, Cano had set his course. Wherever she went, he would follow.
Chapter Twenty Five: Without the Light of Day
The scene at the manor of Yennit Relador was chaotic. The squadron had arrived like a clap of thunder, wreaking havoc on the estate. People were rounded up into groups. Those that tried to run or resist were killed immediately. Men were separated from the women; mothers taken from their children. All were questioned. All were suspected traitors.
Yennit, like one of the figurines in his treasure room, was strapped to a chair, on display in the field overlooking his home. He watched the Truth Enforcers, a unit of men whose purpose, specialty even, was extracting information with pain. They were torturing several of his farmhands. In another world, free of Desirmor’s evil, such men would have long ago met with the headsman’s axe, but within the ranks of the Imperial Army, inherent virulence and natural enmity towards living things, were rewarded with rank and respect. They were hateful men, who seemed to delight more in the screams their torture elicited from their victims, than whether they actually found the truth.
Death hung in the air like a visible haze, waiting for innocent souls, unjustly murdered.
Beside his chair stood a man he had met many times. A man he had once considered a friend. Commander Lars watched it all with a hard, joyless face. He had been angry, cruel even when he announced the charges. Yennit was a traitor to the crown. His granddaughter, Enaya, had aided in the escape of fugitives accused of the highest crime; they were trivals, and they sought to bring harm to the king. Yennit had been soundly beaten then restrained and forced to watch the consequences unfold. He would eventually be brought to the Castle Desirmor, to be personally executed by Desirmor himself. His fortune and titles would be stripped and handed down to whomever the king chose to favor. Every member of his family -- daughters, grandchildren, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles -- would be kil
led for Enaya’s treachery. The name of Relador would become synonymous with treason, disloyalty and shame. Stories of their fate would be told to the children of nobles as they were put to bed at night, a chilling example of the price of sedition.
He knew the consequences, and though it broke his heart to consider the fate of his family, it was witnessing the doom of his servants, farmhands, and guardsmen that caused the rending of his soul. They did not deserve it. Already, a pit was being dug, a massive hole that would serve as a single grave. How many would they kill? Would they allow any of the women and children to live?
So many had been killed already. Screams and pleas for mercy echoed painfully in the air. Commander Lars watched it all with folded arms, convinced that he served the cause of justice.
“Please Lars. I beg of you. Don’t punish them for the crimes of my granddaughter. They are innocent,” Yennit’s pleas trickled from his mouth in spurts, like the cough of a winded runner.
Lars slapped him hard across the face then returned to his observing pose. Yennit nearly lost consciousness.
“You served on the council, traitor. You know the laws.” Lars spit on the ground at Yennit’s feet. His voice rose into a harsh crescendo. “These people will die! All of them! Because of you!”
Yennit wanted to protest, but his resolve had been drained. So many deaths lay at his feet. His end was now forever tied to a cause. If Enaya failed, if the Harven could not succeed in stopping Desirmor, then all of it would be for naught. Every innocent drop of blood spilled on what had once been the great lawn that marked the front of his estate, would be wasted.
A young Lieutenant strode up and addressed the Commander. “Everyone has admitted to knowing about the girl, but none can say where she is, Sir. I don’t believe she’s here.”
Lars stiffened and glanced down at Yennit. “She has to be somewhere. Keep working on them. Someone here must know something.”
The Lieutenant saluted, a closed right fist over his heart, and hurried off. Lars watched him silently for several moments then turned back to Yennit. He sounded calm, almost casual.
“It is pointless to hide the girl. Tell me where she is, and I will allow mercy to the women and children that remain alive.”
Yennit weakly looked up and met Lars' eyes. They were cold and emotionless. They were the eyes of a man that had forgotten the guilt of taking a life, and lost the inherent compassion of a human being. Though Lars believed he was simply enforcing justice, his soul had long ago turned black.
“I don’t know where she is, Lars,” Yennit lied. Lars would never keep his promise. Even if he told him where to find Maehril, Lars would still have everyone killed.
“Watch them all die then!” Lars screamed in bitter frustration.
He motioned to a nearby soldier who promptly ran to his Commander. “Bring me a woman. Now!” Lars ordered.
The soldier flinched at the harshness of the command, but quickly raced off. There was a plump woman on her knees nearby, crying softly. The soldier grabbed her by the collar of her blouse and pulled her toward Yennit and Lars. It was Hollise.
When Hollise looked up, with terror all over her round, tear-stained face, Yennit began to weep. Hollise was more to him than a mere farmhand. She was a friend. And she was about to die.
Her lips quivered, and low whimpers escaped her throat. She knew that the end had come.
“If you don’t tell me where to find the girl that bleeds light, I will cut this woman’s throat. Do you understand?” Lars threatened, pulling a dagger from his belt sheath.
Yennit forced himself to look away from Hollise. Perhaps he would be labeled a coward, but he couldn’t face her. In a voice almost too quiet to be heard, he answered. “I’ve told you already, Lars. I don’t know where she is.”
“No!” Westin cried out suddenly. He was on his knees, in a line of men waiting to be questioned by the Truth Enforcers. “I know where she is! Please don’t kill my wife!”
Lars smiled briefly at Yennit then waved to a soldier to bring Westin over.
Westin clambered to his feet and hobbled weakly, dragged along by the arm. The soldier threw him down beside Hollise.
“Where is the girl that bleeds light?” Lars commanded.
Westin struggled to his knees, hampered by his bound hands, and his extreme girth. Blood caked the corners of his mouth. His left eye was swollen shut. With his right eye, he glared at Yennit with recrimination and betrayal.
“This is all your fault.” His voice was a weak, sob. An atrabilious judgment.
Lars kicked him soundly in the gut. Westin fell forward, wheezing haggardly, as he fought to catch his breath. Hollise wanted to protest, but her spirit was empty.
“I’ll ask again. Where is the girl?” Lars asked.
“The fishing hole…fishing hole,” Westin sputtered between painful breaths.
Lars looked over at the soldier for answers. The young man shrugged unknowingly.
“Where’s the fishing hole?” Lars asked.
“You’re a fool, Westin. And a coward,” Yennit told him. “Have you forgotten about Jerron?”
“Silence, old man!” Lars shouted.
“They’re going to kill us all anyway," Yennit continued undeterred. ‘You and Hollise are both going to die whether you help them or not.”
The young soldier punched Yennit hard across the face. Everything turned black as consciousness began to slip away. When he woke up, it took several moments for the scene around him to come into focus. He shook his head a few times to clear away the blur, then looked around.
Hollise was dead.
Westin was dead.
The cries and screams of his people still filled the air. Blood stained the grass at his feet. Lars stood with his back to Yennit, watching the approach of three men on horseback. One of the riders dismounted and offered a hastened salute. The crimson rope on his shoulder identified him as a low level officer.
“Report, Thackley,” Lars commanded.
“Wasdin and Dauber haven’t checked in, Commander,” the young officer answered.
“Where were they last seen?”
“Howell says they were checking the woods around a small pond less than a league north of the manor.”
“Gather a fist of riders and search that pond. We are led to believe that this girl we’re looking for was there. Bring a trival with you. This girl has some power. Everyone we’ve questioned has agreed on that much, though none can say exactly what she is capable of. Your king wants her alive. Is that understood?” He nodded determinedly. “Kill the rest. Just make sure you bring me the girl.”
The young officer saluted again then ran off barking orders at random soldiers, hurriedly executing his task. Yennit watched him with a heavy heart. The scouts had gone missing. Either Peters or Mueller had done his job. But the question remained - what would they do now?
Desirmor was aware of Maehril’s existence. He may not know the degree of her importance, but he would hunt her none the less. To the ends of the Earth he would search. Desirmor never ignored a threat, even one as seemingly minute as an unregistered trival.
They would need to get away from Merrame as quickly as possible. Every port would be on alert, every fishing village. By the morning, every inn on the continent would have descriptions of her. The outlook was bleak. Escape would be more than difficult. It would take a miracle.
But Yennit believed in miracles. He believed in the prophecies as a facilitator of fate. The world was unbalanced. It had been for a millennia. Desirmor could not live forever, nor could the darkness he represented. History was clear on that.
“Why did she do it?” Lars suddenly asked.
Yennit had been lost in his thoughts and forgotten, momentarily, that he was going to spend the last days of his life in perpetual agony. He sighed as he let go of his concerns for Maehril. She would be fine. She had to be.
“Why did who do what?” He stared down at his feet.
“Your granddaughter. Why did sh
e turn her back on her King?”
“You’ll have to ask her, Lars. I haven’t seen my granddaughter in ages.” Yennit looked up into Lars' eyes. The veteran Commander looked thoughtful, caressing his chin with a gloved finger.
“Perhaps I will, traitor. When she’s captured, of course," he smiled briefly, more a private moment of amusement then an outright laugh. "She will be captured, you know. I’m told that Navan Prianhe is leading the hunt and that they are very close.” Lars watched Yennit to gauge his reaction, then continued. “I have always been interested in human behavior. Being a leader of men, I believe it is vitally important to understand both the men in your charge and the enemy you are facing. One thing I have come to understand, through much observation, is that the old adage ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’ tends to be universally true.” Lars knelt down, bringing his face to Yennit’s level, and looked him right in the eye. “Your granddaughter learned to be a traitor from someone who raised her. Perhaps it was you, old man, perhaps it was Isagelle or Laurent. Someone along the way filled her head with these criminal ideas.”
At the mention of his son's name, Yennit felt his anger grow. He thought about Isagelle. The last time he had spoken to her, she had mentioned doing some traveling. He could only hope now that she was somewhere far away and therefore, might be spared her death sentence.
“You’re a fool, Lars,” Yennit purposefully tried to sound tired and uninterested. “She’s no more a traitor than you or I. Aiding in the escape of some fugitives? She probably fell in love with the wrong sort of man and acted out of passion.”
“They don’t send ‘Desirmor’s Hound’ after some love struck kids, old man,” Lars snapped. “I’m told that the young man she’s with is the most wanted fugitive in the world, and another in their group is Bale Farrushaw.” Lars shook his head in disbelief as he stood up. “I remember Farrushaw. Quite a swordsman he was. That was before Prianhe ran him through of course. I didn’t believe the report at first. Couldn’t be true. I was there, you know. I saw him die.” Lars clicked his teeth and whistled. “What a duel! To this day, it’s still the greatest battle I have ever witnessed. But the reports are all coming back the same. Farrushaw back from the dead and on the run with some young trival and Lady Enaya Relador. It’s all anyone is talking about.”
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