by Sever Bronny
“Not at all, Sergeant, I just can’t seem to sleep tonight,” she replied, walking back.
“Aye, I know how that feels. Miserable cold …”
Augum slithered back to the orb, worried something happened to the girls. “Hey, can you hear me?” he whispered. “Unlock the orb—!”
Finally, he felt it loosen in his hands.
“Sorry!” came a tinny voice from within.
He didn’t bother replying, just happy to be able to crawl away. He swung southward in a wide loop, dragging himself across the path Tridian arrived and departed on. Luckily, no one saw him, his movements disappearing amongst the undulations of the grass. Eventually he stumbled upon Bridget and Leera’s crawl-tracks.
The sky to the east continued to brighten, the night retreating westward. The stars would soon disappear, leaving the crescent sliver of the new moon, until the sun made its inevitable appearance, outshining everything. He had to get to Bridget and Leera before it became bright enough for the watchtower guard to spot him. Taking a risk, he decided to double-time his crawling, the Orb of Orion secured tightly under his arm.
Suddenly there came a piercing whistle. He froze, only feet from where Bridget and Leera had to be. His heart threatened to punch a hole through his chest. This was it, they had been spotted. He expected the entire camp to be running his way, until someone shouted, “Fire to the north! Fire to the north—!”
Against the Odds
It’s begun, Augum thought with nervous excitement. He crawled forward the rest of the way, taking advantage of the confusion erupting in the camp, stumbling upon Bridget and Leera nestling behind a black tent. The trio exchanged suspenseful looks as they heard the shouts of commands, the whinny of horses, and the hustle of men rushing to get ready.
“You okay?” Leera mouthed.
He nodded, handing the orb over to Bridget. She stuffed it into the rucksack, retrieving the Slow Time scroll.
Leera peeked around the north corner of the tent. Her head bobbed a bit as she counted the horsemen that rode off to investigate the fire. “Only fifteen gone,” she said finally, meaning twenty-five still remained in the camp. Disappointing, since they’d hoped to be left with around ten or so. “There’s too many walking around, we can’t move yet …”
Augum had an idea. He slowly lifted the bottom of the back of the tent, peeking inside. “It’s empty.” He lifted the canvas so the girls could sneak through. Bridget crawled in first followed by Leera, lastly Augum.
Inside was a neat cot, simple folding chair, and a small trunk. A thin layer of hay covered the ground.
Leera rushed to the door flap, taking the tiniest peek. “Ms. Jenkins is out there shooing them along. If we can get to the next tent, the one after is the prison tent. We’re going to have to time it,” and, without taking her eye off what was going on outside, gestured for them to get ready to dart across.
Augum nodded for Bridget to go. She tiptoed up behind Leera, breath steaming in rapid bursts.
“Hold … hold … ready … and … now!” Leera yanked open the tent flap and Bridget raced forward, braids flying and rucksack bouncing.
“She made it,” Leera said, checking for guards.
Augum grabbed the flap. “You go next,” and kept a steady watch. Bridget peeked out from the tent opposite, eyes darting rapidly to the left and right. She gave a wink that it was clear from her perspective. He waited another moment until a nearby Black Guardsman with an axe turned his back.
“Now—go.”
She bounded across to the other tent. He was just about to jump out to take his turn when two burly men walked by, swords and armor clanking. They entered the next tent over.
“What do you think it is?” asked one.
“Couldn’t say,” replied the other. “There’s nothing there, not even a farm. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Probably some deserters lettin’ a fire get out of hand.”
“Well then it’ll be the last thing they ever do.”
Augum was forced to wait. It was too risky to go right then. Bridget, whose face peeked out from behind the opposite tent flaps, raised her eyebrows.
“One moment—” he mouthed. The bustle of the camp slowly died down. One particular man who was removing his breastplate, headed directly for him. Augum immediately realized he was standing in the man’s tent and dived under the cot just in time for the flaps to shoot apart, a weary sigh escaping the man’s lips.
Augum held his breath watching the soldier’s mud-splattered boots. The man sauntered over to the trunk, threw something inside, slammed it shut, and sat down on the cot. The wooden bed-beams creaked as he proceeded to pull off his boots, throwing them aside. Then he fell back onto the bed, almost crushing Augum’s head in the process.
Augum lay motionless underneath, cursing himself for not running to the other tent sooner. He couldn’t imagine what Bridget and Leera were thinking just then. There was nothing to do but wait for the man to fall asleep now.
His heart never ceased its pounding as he lay there, feeling stupid. Every time he thought the man was finally asleep, the bed creaked with movement. At last, after what felt like forever, the man settled into the steady breathing of sleep. Augum gently wiggled his way from underneath the cot. The camp had fallen quite silent by then, amplifying every movement.
Just as he was going to pull his legs out, the man suddenly turned on his side, his nose a hair’s breath from Augum’s. The soldier blearily opened his eyes, looked straight at him, and closed them again.
Augum held his breath. He expected the soldier to bolt upright and sound the alarm, but amazingly, the man’s steady breathing returned.
Must have thought he was dreaming …
He waited a little longer before finally mustering up the courage to tiptoe to the tent flap. With one final backward glance, he peeked outside, spotting a relieved Bridget staring at him from the tent opposite. The morning sun brightened her face, having risen in the time he was pinned under the bed. He took the first opportunity to tiptoe across. When he got near, Bridget yanked him inside.
“What happened?” she mouthed. The camp was so quiet now communication was reduced to hand gestures and unspoken words.
“I hid,” he mouthed back, making a motion like diving under a bed.
A patrol passed by the tent. They froze, listening to the footsteps fade away, watching each other with wide eyes.
They were now one tent away from Haylee.
He wondered how much time they had. The soldiers that rode to investigate the fire must have reached it by now. The question then was, would the soldiers be on their way back, or had they gone on to search the wood?
The tent the trio stood in was near identical to the last, except there were two trunks and two cots. Augum tiptoed to the far end, lifted the canvas bottom, and peeked out. The prison tent was less than five paces away. To the left were bales of hay, to the right, a wagon filled with oaken barrels. The tower loomed overhead and this time, because the tent they occupied was a lot closer, there was a direct sightline between the guardsman occupying it and their position.
This was going to be tricky. Not only would they have to sneak across unnoticed but also hope there wasn’t a guard actually inside the prison tent.
He gestured to the girls about the tower guard then signaled he would go first, hoping they understood. Maybe that’s something they should have practiced—hand signals.
The tower guard spent most of his time looking north toward Mr. Goss’ fire, using a spyglass like theirs. Augum steeled his nerves, made one final check for anyone walking by, and scurried over to the prison tent. With one swift movement, he lifted the canvas and rolled underneath.
The tent was stuffy and relatively dark, the walls glowing from the diffuse morning sun. There was hay everywhere, along with post after wooden post embedded into the ground, manacles hanging from each. A lone figure hung from one.
Bridget crawled in followed quickly by Leera. Upon seeing what was
inside, Leera stiffened, while Bridget put a shaky hand over her mouth.
He made to go to the figure but Leera grabbed his elbow, gesturing a reminder there was a guard standing directly outside the entrance. He nodded and the three of them crept forward.
A voice sounded from outside. It was Ms. Jenkins striking up a conversation with the guard. Did she know they were inside at that very moment? There was no time to dwell on it. As Augum approached the figure, he recognized the long blonde hair and his chest tightened.
Haylee’s condition was dire. She was unconscious and scratched all over, her hands manacled above her drooping head. Her bloody feet were bare, her frame covered by a muddy burlap dress, cinched at the waist with rope.
Leera inspected the clunky lock and shook her head. They exchanged an ominous look acknowledging there was going to be no way to open it without using loud brute force or stealing the key, two scenarios almost impossible to pull off successfully under the circumstance.
Bridget placed a hand on Haylee’s cheek, pushing aside a lock of muddy blonde hair. Haylee started awake, shriveling away from Bridget’s hand, moaning loudly. When her eyes opened though, there was shock and hope there.
Bridget only gave a loving smile and placed a finger to her lips.
“Damn her, always moanin’ about this an’ that—” said the guard outside. The tent flap wavered and the trio stiffened.
“Oh never mind her,” Ms. Jenkins interrupted, evidently staying the guards’ hand. “Let me shut her up this time, you’ve been out here all night.”
“That’s most kind o’ you, my dear.”
The tent flap opened and in walked the bulging figure of Ms. Jenkins, her eyes taking in the scene as if it was exactly how she had expected it—the trio huddling near Haylee like rabbits ready to bolt. She walked up to them and started talking in a loud, threatening voice, all the while searching for something within her robes.
“I do not want you making any more noises, girl, or we will send in the brute, is that understood?” Haylee took her cue and moaned a supplicating response. Meanwhile, Ms. Jenkins finally found what she was looking for—a large iron key, promptly handing it to Bridget.
Augum wondered how she got it.
“Good, now keep your mouth shut,” Ms. Jenkins concluded with a wink. She turned and walked right back out.
The trio exchanged surprised looks before Bridget readied to unlock the manacles, waiting for the conversation outside to start up again to cover up the noise.
“The prisoner needs to be fed,” Ms. Jenkins said to the guard. “Let me send for a girl. I can make sure she brings you something, too.”
“That would be fine, Ms. Jenkins, just fine.”
Bridget finished unlocking the manacles just as Ms. Jenkins walked away. The lack of outside conversation forced them to be still.
Haylee couldn’t stop shaking as she rubbed her wrists. Black circles ringed her eyes, cheeks red as if recently slapped. Suddenly she enveloped Bridget in a hug, shoulders quietly heaving. Bridget squeezed her and patted her on the back. Then she did the same to Augum, who whispered, “We’re getting you out of here,” into her ear.
Leera, who was edging away, was saved from a hug by a gaggle of footsteps outside. “What a treat,” the guard said. A moment later, the tent flap opened and in walked Ms. Jenkins, followed by Mya carrying a tray.
Augum immediately felt a familiar tingle in his chest and gulped. Mya nervously smiled at them—Ms. Jenkins must have told her about their presence.
He kept staring stupidly before Leera elbowed him. Mya bent down and put the tray aside. They were readying to huddle and conspire the next step when a familiar voice crowed outside.
“Guard, I can’t sleep, there’s too much excitement in the air,” Robin said. “I’m going in to talk to my friend, practice my skills.”
Augum realized Robin was intending to put Haylee to the question, maybe even torture her. Ms. Jenkins seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion, sprinting for the entrance just as the tent flap rose.
“Now that won’t be necessary—” Ms. Jenkins said, catching the flap just in time and stepping outside.
“Excuse me—?”
“The prisoner needs rest.”
“Do you know who I am, woman? I am the favored necrophyte, soon to be training personally under the tutelage of none other than the Lord of the Legion! As well, I am the Blade of Sorrows’ apprentice—Commander Tridian, to you—and that means that I am expected to put prisoners to the question in my spare time to advance my skills—”
“—that is all very well and good, young man, but this camp is responsible to Commander Canes. Further, I am the camp healer and I am afraid my authority in such matters is unquestionable.”
There was a spitting sound as Robin marched off.
“What a rude little brat,” the guard outside muttered.
“Never mind him, just enjoy the pastry.” Ms. Jenkins soon returned, wiping her cheek.
“Another close one,” Leera mouthed, reaching for a piece of bread. Bridget gave her a stern look though, staying Leera’s hand.
Augum tried to make eye contact with Mya, passing on how good it was to see her, but she was too busy smearing a clear balm on Haylee’s puffy face. Then he remembered what he had to ask. He tugged on Ms. Jenkins’ fur-trimmed robe and gestured the symbol for a triangle, then held up his hands as if to ask, “Where is it?”
Ms. Jenkins replied with a leaning hand, symbolizing the rock. She pointed to her palm, meaning the symbol had to be on its underside.
He gestured his thanks just as the side of the tent suddenly rose, revealing a malevolent pinched face.
“I knew it—!” Robin said gleefully. Before anyone could react, the canvas dropped. “Guards! They’re here, they’re here in the tent! Guards, come quick—!”
Ms. Jenkins’ arm immediately rippled to life with white rings climbing up just past her elbow. Augum, Bridget and Leera followed suit, each summoning their one and only ring, its light shining around their respective wrists. Haylee, too weak to stand on her own, hung on to Bridget with shaking hands, while Mya stood protectively in front of the pair.
The tent was quickly surrounded, the shadows of soldiers splaying on the canvas walls.
“Trapped—” Leera said.
A huge shadow loomed behind and over the tent, crisply defined by the rays of the morning sun. Long strips hung from two oversized appendages, stretched by the angled light.
The wraith hissed like a monstrous snake and the girls screamed.
Augum, forcing himself to do something—anything—snatched the Slow Time scroll from Bridget, opened it, and began reading aloud. He focused on the words, grateful they had practiced reading the spell, and began speaking them aloud.
Suddenly everything happened at once—Ms. Jenkins cast her own spell, Robin streamed in through the entrance with countless soldiers, and the wraith slammed its giant arms down on the back of the tent, collapsing it on top of them.
“Muerto tempus ideus deo didaeiee!” Augum shouted just as the canvas roof was about to hit him.
Everything slowed dramatically, including sound, which deepened and lengthened. Wood chips from splintered tent supports cartwheeled in slow motion. Dust glittered in bright morning light that streamed in through the rear of the tent. Robin’s scowling face froze, shouting something indiscernible at this tempo. Augum looked down in real speed and watched the scroll evaporate, misting into a smoky cloud.
He knew the spell’s duration. Under influenced time, he couldn’t spare a moment. There was only one thing he needed to do, the only thing that could possibly save them—he needed to get to Hangman’s Rock. Without another moment’s hesitation, he bolted for the canvas door, pushing by Robin, who seemed to weigh as much as a horse. Robin’s eyes tried to follow him, but they were far too slow.
He must appear a blur to them, Augum thought, crawling through a pair of Legion legs as if playing a game of Piggy Run. Everything seemed d
ifficult to move—canvas felt like soft iron; his feet met the hardiest resistance from the smallest piece of snow; edges were unusually sharp and crystalline. Even passing through a cloud of dust was like swimming against a strong current of water.
He easily side-stepped a soldier drawing an enormous double-sided axe, dodged around two more soldiers running after the mob, and sprinted straight for the underside of Hangman’s Rock, the watchtower sitting on top like an oversized mantis on the back of a bull.
As he passed a cooking fire, he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful and otherworldly the flames appeared when slowed down. In fact, everything seemed strange, twinkling and glittering, vying for his attention.
In his blind rush to reach the Rock before the spell timed out, he made the mistake of thinking he could whip through a line of hanging linen, something that would have been completely normal in any other circumstance. Under the influence of Slow Time, however, the usually soft cloth felt like weighted leather hide, slapping him down to the muddy snow. The ground itself felt hard as steel, gouging into his back.
It cost him a moment to regain his composure, a moment he knew he couldn’t spare. Fumbling forward, soldiers slowly turning his way, he jumped between the wooden log scaffolding of the watchtower, bracing himself against the icy surface of Hangman’s Rock. There was a thin layer of frost along the entire underside. He thought it’d be nothing to pry the icy crust off with his fingers—until he actually tried, its hardness magnified by the spell.
He began stabbing at it with the only thing he could use—One Eye’s tooth amulet. It, too, proved nearly futile, the many particles of ice not even clearing aside fast enough for him to be able to see.
Just as quickly as it started, the sound and movement sped up, and sped up rapidly. Suddenly everything moved along at impossible speed and he felt so slow, even though he knew reality was as it was before. He paid no attention to what was happening around him, returning to stabbing at the icy underbelly. Relative to before, striking the ice now felt powerful, like slicing through butter with a hot knife. A giant sheet gave way, cracking up the middle and falling on him. Almost unconsciously, he summoned his hard lightning shield and the ice plunked off harmlessly.
