Irregularly scattered about the room were pieces of broken wood. If she could make her way to one of the piles, free her hand, get a shard, and work its jagged edge at the ropes that held her, she just might be able to free herself. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was at least more than she was doing now.
Tipping over had slid her painfully to the side of the chair. By alternately working her right shoulder and right foot, she was able to inch along the floor. Each tiny slide the chair made produced an earsplitting grinding noise. If the captor was still near, he would most certainly hear it, but that didn't matter. Her best chance was to try to escape. After what seemed like an eternity of awkward sliding, she managed to reach a handful of the wood shards on the church floor.
With her hands tied firmly beneath a blanket, there was no obvious way to get at the shredded wood. An option came to mind. It was foolish, it was desperate, and it likely wouldn't work. It was also her only choice. Taking a deep breath and tensing, she heaved her shoulder down upon the woodpile with all of the force she could muster. The cruelly sharp edge of one of the pieces burst through the blanket and bit into the flesh in her shoulder. Agonizing and damaging as this was, it was the result she had been hoping for. She cried out at the savage pain of it and slowly wriggled her left hand beneath the blanket to the site of the throbbing new injury. The rope permitted nearly no movement, but through sheer effort she managed to bring her fingers to the now-blood-soaked wood. She grasped weakly the shard and worked at pulling it from its new home.
As painful as its appearance had been, the shard's removal was doubly so. With the utmost of care, she pulled the piece of wood through the tear in the blanket, out of her shoulder, and to a point just above the topmost of her bindings. A knife would have freed her with a few slices, but the jagged splinter tore only a few fibers of the rope at a time. After an eternity of patient scraping, the rope held by a tiny strand. Myranda strained at the weakened rope and it snapped. The other coils loosened and she was finally free of the chair.
The injured arm was the first to reach the floor, and she had to roll quickly off of it. All of that time bound in the same position made standing a difficult task. When she was on her feet, she looked around her and strained her ears. She was alone. Whoever had tied her up had left and all of the noise had failed to prompt a return. A sharp throbbing in her arm drew her attention. It was bleeding fairly heavily. Convinced that she was safe from her captor, at least for the moment, she decided to care for the wound. The blanket was ruined; it might as well serve one last purpose. She tore it into strips and used it to bandage the afflicted limb. The blood from the gash had seeped through her shirt and the blanket, pooling on the floor. Looking at it intensified the dizziness that its loss had caused.
With the most pressing of her concerns attended to, Myranda set her mind to the task of escaping. She assessed the situation. Of course, her pack was gone. A pull on the door revealed it to be solidly secured from the outside. The windows were all small and near to the high ceiling. There would be no escape through any of those. The sole window large enough to allow her to escape was the shattered stained glass window behind the pulpit, but it was even further out of her reach. She had to try the door again.
She grasped the heavy wooden handle and tugged it with all of her strength. Slowly a tiny crack opened, one that closed the moment she relented. It wasn't much, but it was hope. Myranda scoured the assorted piles of wood until she found a reasonably sturdy plank. Placing its edge between the doors, she used it as a lever. Even with the added leverage, the doors would only open an inch or two. After carefully wedging the lever in the opening so that all of her hard work would not slip away, she put her eye to the narrow portal to the outside.
It was night, and the perpetual cloud cover kept even the slightest hint of moonlight from reaching the snowy field. In the pitch blackness, she was barely able to make out a few coils of the same rope that had bound her securing the door. There was no way she could sever it in the same way she'd cut her own, and the harder she pulled at the door, the tighter the rope held.
"Of course!" she said, immediately clasping a hand over her mouth.
The rope! She could use it to escape. Hurrying to the severed bonds, she tied the ends, producing a strong rope of considerable length. Choosing a heavy piece of wood, she tied it to the rope. The resourceful young lady ran to the broken stained glass window and hurled the weighted end of the rope. A twinge of pain in her shoulder robbed the throw of some of its strength and the rope fell short. Shifting the rope to her left hand, she tried again, reaching the window but failing to hook onto it. A third throw held.
After testing the strength of the rope, she tried to climb. The injured shoulder again slowed her, but she refused to let it stop her. With supreme effort, she managed to pull her feet from the ground, only to come crashing down again a moment later, preceded by the subdued but unmistakable sound of metal biting into wood. She looked up from the ground to see a single throwing blade protruding from the wall. Myranda traced the path of flight back to its source, a dark form crouched on the rooftop outside one of the smaller windows.
A scraping sound drew her gaze back to the window. With nothing securing it the wooden grapple fell to the ground outside, dragging the precious rope along with it. All that was left behind was a useless length of rope no longer than her arm. By the time she looked back to find the person who had thwarted her escape, the window was empty.
"Who are you!? What have I done!? Why are you holding me here!?" Myranda cried out to her captor. Silence was her answer.
Beaten, Myranda stood the fallen chair upright and sat down, no more free now than when the ropes had bound her, and with a rapidly stiffening right arm to remind her of her defeat. She surveyed her prison once more. Tiny windows topped the sloping roof on either side, they themselves topped by a smaller roof. Above the entrance was a small room that once held the church bell. The hole that had been made for the bell pull to hang through now showed a few dry, rotted strands. A plank with some stray rungs dangling from it was all that remained of a maintenance ladder.
She trudged to the door she had wrestled partially open. The inch-wide portal to the outside remained, for whatever reason, undisturbed by the kidnapper. The fiend could have easily pushed her wedge from the door and robbed her of this tiny accomplishment, but instead it remained, whistling with the frigid wind of the outside. Earlier that day she had prayed to find this place and to be allowed inside, but now all she wanted was to leave. She put her eye to the crack.
The sky to the east was beginning to take on the rose hue of dawn, coloring the stark white snow a faint crimson. The only soul to be seen was the captor, dressed in the same blasted cloak as any other northerner. The stranger sat with eyes to the east and back to Myranda. Far off in the distance, a speck of black was moving toward them along the snow-mounded road. As it drew nearer, it revealed itself to be a horse-drawn sleigh. It was not unusual for such vehicles to be seen so soon after such a terrible storm. Blizzards were anything but uncommon, and waiting for the roads to clear was a surefire way to be caught in the next. However, it was clear that no one had been along this road for many months, save for whoever had looted this place. This sleigh's appearance could not be a coincidence.
When the sleigh was near enough, Myranda could see that the horses, the sleigh itself, and the four soldiers who stepped out of it, all bore the unmistakable emblem of the Northern Army. Her heart lifted. She had not been happy to see a soldier of either side for years, but today they represented her only chance for rescue.
"Here! I am in here! Help me!" she cried out, beating on the door with her fists. A sharp pain in the shoulder quickly put the hammering to an end, but she continued to call out.
When she was certain that she had been heard, she put her eye back to the crack in the door. The four soldiers stood silently before the door, each in full combat armor, complete with face masks. The first was speaking calmly with her captor while
the others looked on. They made no motion toward the door. She strained her ears to hear what the two were saying. Only the soldier spoke loudly enough to hear.
"The one who touched the sword? We are charged with her return, as well as that of the sword," he said, in response to the kidnapper's unheard comment.
The sinister figure pulled a bundle from inside the cloak and held it out, obviously the sword that had been taken from Myranda. The soldier took the weapon with gauntlet-clad hands and uncovered it. After as close an inspection as he could manage without raising his face guard, he looked to the kidnapper.
"It seems to be the piece we require. We shall take the girl and be on our way," he said, moving toward the door. The captor stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.
"What?" the soldier said, irritated.
The kidnapper held the hand out palm up.
All hope was dashed away as she struggled to comprehend the pieces as they came together. He was waiting to be paid! The Northern Army was in league with the stranger who had captured her! Why? And why did they want her? A thousand thoughts of fear burned across the back of Myranda's mind and her heart fluttered in her chest. The exchange between the conspirators continued.
"The capture and return of the swordbearer is the responsibility of the Alliance Army. Regardless of what orders you may have received, your interference is considered a treasonous action. Owing to the fact that your interference was entirely beneficial, you will not be charged," the soldier said.
Her captor said something too quiet to hear, but the fiend's body language betrayed more than a bit of anger.
"I have received no word of such an agreement, and even if I had, it would have been deemed illegal. You shall receive no payment. I suggest you accept this fact and be grateful we do not kill you where you stand," he said.
Her mind raced. How could anyone want her or the sword? She had only just found it in the field a day or two ago. It had obviously been there for some time. And how could anyone have found her here so quickly? No one knew she would be here, not even she, until the old man had . . . the old man. He must have assumed she had stolen the sword, and he told her where to go. Apparently she had not learned her lesson about who to trust for directions. The cloaked figure must be a bounty hunter. Things were looking grim. If the Alliance Army had come to take her away, she might be witnessing her last sunrise. In criminal matters, only an accusation was needed to be thrown into prison, and if the weapon was valuable enough to hire a bounty hunter and alert the army, she would remain locked away for the better part of a decade.
As she worried what the future held for her, the exchange between the bounty hunter and the soldiers became very heated. The other soldiers, who had stood silently until now, began to encircle the blade-for-hire. The leader stepped between the door and his underlings and began working at the ropes, blocking Myranda's view of the spectacle. Despite the overwhelming emotion, she could not help but notice an odd quality about him. It was something in the way he moved. It seemed . . . foreign.
A flash of light reflecting off of something metal shifted her gaze to the action behind the approaching leader. The soldiers began to move back, but never even made it to a second step. One by one the soldiers jerked awkwardly and dropped to the ground. Their ends were brought in a heartbeat by a single strike too fast to see. The clang of falling armored bodies drew the attention of the leader. His head had not yet turned when a blur of steel removed it from his shoulders.
Myranda backed away, but the grim spectacle lingered in her mind. She stumbled back from the door, her head spinning and her stomach churning. The sight had physically sickened her, and she could not keep her feet. She settled dizzily to the ground, coughing and gagging.
Somehow she managed to maintain her composure. When she felt well enough again, her eyes turned to the door. The murderer was still out there, she could feel it. The tides had turned again. Her desire to wrench the doors open and taste freedom was swiftly replaced with a repeated prayer that they remain shut, that the monster outside would not come in. She kept her gaze locked on the door for what seemed like an eternity, fearful even to blink.
The light of morning crept across the floor in front of her. Myranda strained her every sense to try to learn what the killer was up to. Only the occasional whinny of horses and the drip of melting snow broke the silence. Slowly, careful to make no sound, she rose to her feet and crept toward the doors, eyes focused intently on the slit of light between. She was only a step or two away when the ribbon of light darkened. She rushed backward, tripping over a piece of wood and hitting the ground hard. There was a blur and a hiss as the fiend's blade split the restraining ropes. The doors swung open, leaving the dark silhouette of the murderer as the light reflecting from the snow fairly blinded Myranda.
Squinting against the sudden brightness, Myranda felt for a piece of wood and brandished it. She'd seen what he could do to trained warriors, but no one would take her life without a fight. If this monster was going to finish her off, she would be sure to make the decision a regrettable one. The form of the bounty hunter had only begun to clear when it leapt from the light. Now it was hidden somewhere in the darkness inside. Myranda's eyes were useless, as the contrast of light and dark kept her from seeing anything. Before she could even react, she felt the board she'd grabbed torn from her grip. Her arm was pushed painfully behind her back and she was forced forward.
Fighting all the way, Myranda was led outside. Each time she resisted, a sharp pain in her already-injured shoulder forced her to continue. The snow was ankle-deep at its shallowest, and as tall as she in drifts. When she was nearly to the horses in front of the sleigh, her arm was released with one final thrust. A second iron grip locked onto the back of her head, keeping her gaze forward. One of the horses had been cut off of the sleigh, every symbol of the army's ownership removed from the equipment.
"Go. Now!" came a whisper to her ear, harsh and disguised, but certainly a male. His final word flared with anger, offering some hint of a voice.
Myranda gasped as she felt the cold edge of a knife pressed to her throat.
"If you so much as glance in my direction, I will do to you what I did to them," he said, turning her head to the remains of the soldiers.
Where once had stood a man now lay a mangled mass of metal. The snow around the heap was pitted where flecks of blood melted through, and armor showed smudges of blood far blacker than she had seen anywhere but the field a few days ago. There was no flesh or bone among the spent armor either, only a scattering of bluish-gray dust. There had been more than a blade at work in the murder of these soldiers. Some unholy magic had ravaged their bodies. He had taken more than their lives; he had taken their humanity. Now they could not even be honored for their sacrifice with a funeral. It was horrible.
She climbed with difficulty to the back of the horse. It had never been meant for an individual rider, so it had no saddle. Myranda had ridden bareback before, but she preferred not to. Now, however, was no time to object.
As she snapped the reins and went on her way, she filled her head with the mindboggling facts of the day. This bounty hunter captured her, bound her, and stole her most valuable item. Yet, at the same time, he left her money and made sure to keep the fire going, even though he did not warm himself by it. The fire must have been for her--but why? It was clear that she herself had some value to him, but after killing those who seem to have come for her, he provided a means to escape and demanded that she use it. Why? Was this some sort of cruel game?
Myranda urged the horse forward. Despite the dozens of paces already between them, she could feel the place in her back where a knife might slip in at the first hint of hesitation. She pushed the horse as hard as she could to put as much space between herself and the killer as she possible. Minutes passed--she knew not how many--before she reached the fork in the road and decided she felt safe enough to stop.
The horse breathed great, steaming gasps as she gave it its first rest.
It was unaccustomed to speed, being used only to pull a sleigh. She looked to the beast's back and frowned. Her pack had never been returned to her. All that she had left was the three silvers that the friendly fox had given her earlier. It was just yesterday, but it seemed ages ago. She looked to the south. No sense going back to the man who had sent the soldiers and murderer after her. She would head to the next town, replace her lost goods, and decide what could be done.
Now that the desperate fear had released its grip on her, she became aware of three things. First, the cold was absolutely biting. The night she had spent away from it only served to make it feel many times worse. Second was the pain in her shoulder. It had been burning steadily from the cold, but she had only now become aware of it. Last, as the horse began at a gentle trot, she heard a peculiar jingling. It was different from the sound of the various buckles and straps of the horse's equipment. Curious, she looked about for the source of the sound. She soon found it. There was a bag, tied to one of the horse's straps. The removed the satchel and opened it. The sight made her head spin.
It was the bag of coins she'd had stolen from her. There could be little doubt. Everything from the ancient-looking bag to the weathered coins were familiar to her. How? How had it gotten here? The killer must have been there, in that tavern, that very night. How else could he have the bag? And why would he give it to her? Did he want her to know? She shook the bag and discovered the sheathed stiletto had been placed inside, along with a note. Eagerly she snatched it out, sure that the message had not been there when she had last had it.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 8
