She had heard that women had not always been obliged to go to war. They were to stay behind and tend to the affairs of the home. Those years were long gone. Now the towns were growing more and more sparsely populated as the generations of people were being killed in battle before they could even spawn the next crop of warriors. The faded bloodstain on her cloak was likely the only thing keeping the people from questioning her presence in this town, earning her the assumed status of injured soldier on leave. Such were not uncommon in the larger towns until a few months ago, when they stopped showing up. She quietly thanked fate for the rare bit of luck, and went about her tasks.
Chapter 8
After a day of spending, Myranda headed back to the inn with a handful of essential items for the days to come. A small, one-person tent was tucked under her one good arm, and a sturdy new pack filled with provisions was slung onto her back. Only a few pieces of copper remained in her pocket, but she had all she needed. Her last errand was to seek someone to give attention to the afflicted shoulder.
Healers had been a scarcity ever since enemy pressure required all available clerics to report to duty immediately. That was several years ago. Still, until recently here and there one could find an apprentice cleric or an alchemist deemed unfit for duty. Now even that was becoming rarer, as each year more laws were passed to prevent medical practitioners from treating anyone who had not served in the Alliance Army. It was just another way to prevent the people from avoiding service.
Myranda had just given up looking for one when she noticed a very urgent message arriving. A horse was galloping as quickly as its legs would carry it through the half-cleared street. When it reached the center of town, the rider jumped off. He seemed to be as winded as the horse, and drew an eager crowd around him.
"The old church is on fire!" he exclaimed.
The eyes of the crowd turned to the north horizon. A wisp of black smoke in the distance confirmed his story. Myranda felt a pang of fear burn in the back of her mind.
"That old place was bound to come down one of these days. It had been rundown for years," a grizzled old man said.
"That isn't all. There were men, some of ours, dead. I went to see the fire, I saw them on the ground, four of them. It wasn't anything normal that took these men, though. There was nothing left but dust, like some black magic struck them down or something. No sign of the culprit. I've just come from Fort Wick. No one had been in or out since yesterday, except one girl. She must have done this, and she came this way!" cried out the winded man.
Myranda walked as calmly as she could back to the inn as people flooded out of every door to hear the new tale. It would not be long before one of them put the pieces together and came after her. She dropped off the key to her room with the stable attendant and loaded her things onto the horse. She then led it slowly and calmly into the narrow backstreet behind the stable. When she was sure that she would be unseen, she climbed to the horse's back and rode out of town.
"Please," she whispered, "just let me escape notice for a minute more. If I can make it over the hill without any eyes falling upon me, I have a chance."
The horse stepped briskly though the knee-deep snow of the uncleared road out of town. Several nervous glances over her shoulder assured her that the chaos brought by the news had yet to subside enough to organize a search for her, but it was only a matter of time. When she had reached the foot of the hill, she knew that she was out of sight of the townsfolk. Only one idea came to mind. She pulled her things from the horse's back. Stuffing anything she didn't need into the new cloak she had just bought, she strapped it to the horse's back.
"Well, it was nice having you around while it lasted. I hope things turn out better for you than they did for me," she said to the horse.
With that she gave it a slap that sent the animal galloping down the road. Already she could hear the angry cries of a posse leaving the town. Myranda scraped at the heavy mound of ice and snow left by the side of the road by the blizzard. The dense drift was well-packed enough to allow a hollow to be dug. A few moments of frantic digging produced an alcove in the snow drift facing the field. She threw her pack into the hollow and followed it. The first lynch mob had just reached the top of the hill when she covered herself over as best she could. The horse, running wildly, was too far away from the mob to be clearly seen. The angry people of the town followed it as though she was still on its back. The sound of their furious voices would surely keep it running, and the lack of a rider would keep it well ahead. With any luck, her decoy would keep the mob on the move for the better part of the day.
Myranda held her breath as half of the town poured out onto the snowy road on every available horse. It was not until the thunder of hoofbeats had receded into the distance entirely that she pulled herself from her frigid hiding place. Ice clung to her cloak and chilled her to the bone, but at least the terrible throbbing in her shoulder had numbed.
Shivering, she reached into the snowy alcove and pulled out her things. All that was left was the sturdy pack, loaded with some food and water, and the travel tent. She set her body to the daunting task of hoisting the essential apparatus to her back and her mind to the still more taxing task of escaping the area, as well as the near impossible task of clearing her name.
In a perfect world, she would merely have to explain the truth to be freed of blame. In the here and now, though, she was a stranger and the victims were the beloved soldiers. She was as good as dead. There was a task at hand, though, so the task at mind could wait. The pack was across her back, the tent tied to the top. She was anything but a small target and could barely walk under the weight of her things. If she was to escape this place with her freedom, it would be through nothing short of a miracle.
Myranda scanned the horizon. Rolling white fields turned quickly to rocky, impassible mountains in the east, the Rachis Mountains. Crossing them would be difficult. They formed a chain that traced a crooked line across the Northern Alliance, beginning at the hilly plains just beyond the capital in the far north, and running nearly to the Tresson border. Crossings were scattered and tended to be well regulated. Best to avoid them.
South was where her pursuers had been led and north was the way she'd come. Neither was a viable route of escape. Westward was a snowy field that sloped smoothly downward, likely ending in a stream or river. Streams meant bridges--which, in turn, meant roads. There would be plenty of fresh water and means to find a road when the time came. Her pack had food enough for a few days, and by that time, there was hope that the tale would have been twisted enough as it was passed from ear to ear that she could escape immediate suspicion.
At the very least, the time would dull their memory enough to offer a chance of escaping recognition.
It was as good an idea as any. At least it meant walking downhill. She set off to the west as the cloud-shrouded sky reddened with the coming evening. To say her progress was slow would be a monumental understatement. By the time the last few rays of sun were fading, the light they cast was enough to reveal angry villagers streaming back to the town. Myranda was still near enough to see them, which meant that they were near enough to see her.
She kept low, confident that she would not be spotted, though fearful that her trail might. That would continue to be a concern for her until a fresh snow had wiped away the footprints. Fortunately, in the north, a snow storm was seldom far away.
After nearly an hour of patient watching, the last of the lynch mob that had ridden off in search of her finally returned to the town and dusk had turned to a typical moonless night that made only their torches visible. Perhaps a few more steps south would serve as a fair campsite, provided she could wake early enough to take down her tent and move on before the road got busy. Myranda turned her back to the town, now completely shrouded in the blackness of night. It was this darkness she'd been waiting for. No one would see her now. All she had to do now was erect the tent against the biting cold of the northern night, and she would be safe until
morning.
Unfortunately, the very night she had awaited for safety had been awaited by others--others who wished their activities to go unseen as well. They'd seen her leave. They'd followed her. Now she was far enough from prying eyes to allow action to be taken.
Myranda had just finished wrestling the thick canvas of the tent into place. It was with no small amount of difficulty, as the cold had taken most of the feeling from her hands. She forced the last wooden stake into place and attempted to massage some feeling into her icy fingers. Blowing into them and rubbing them vigorously had managed to restore some tingling when she heard a peculiar rustling. Her first thought was that a rabbit had found its way into the mass of fabric of the tent and was trying to free itself. She turned to the tent only to hear the sound again, from behind her. Myranda turned quickly, her heart nearly skipping a beat.
Five figures stood before her. They wore cloaks, just as everyone else did, but these were different. They were nearly black, as opposed to the lighter gray of the others. They stood, silent and moved only by the breeze, staring at Myranda with unseen eyes from within cavernous hoods.
"Who are you?" she stammered.
The figures remained silent. Myranda backed toward the pack she'd left just inside the tent.
"What do you want?" she asked, fear mounting.
Slowly, and with an eerie smoothness, the figures began to approach her. Myranda fell to the ground and reached into the tent. Keeping her eyes on the silent ones, she fumbled with her good arm inside the pack. Inside she found the handle of the stiletto protruding from the coin bag. She pulled it free.
"Stay back! I did nothing wrong! I do not want to hurt anyone! Just leave me alone! Please!" she warned, praying that they would listen.
Still they advanced. She brandished the knife as her uncle had taught her. As a member of one of the more successful military families, she was no stranger to the use of a knife, but she loathed to do so.
She struggled to her feet, thoughts swirling in her head. Where did they come from? How had they come upon her unseen and unheard? She tried to keep her distance, but the snow gripped her feet while her pursuers seemed unaffected. One of them circled in behind her. She reeled around and caught it with the tip of the blade.
The razor-sharp knife sliced easily though the fabric. Though she could not feel the blade meet flesh, her attack prompted a shrill and ear-piercing shriek that was far too spine-tingling to have been made by a creature of nature. Startled by the horrid cry, she released the knife. It disappeared through the slice and fell to the ground. The wounded attacker pulled away violently, briefly allowing the cloak to open. The few rays of cloud weakened moonlight must have been playing tricks, for what they illuminated could not be. Nothing. The cloak was empty.
Myranda froze as she tried to comprehend what her eyes were telling her. Inside of the garment was nothing more than air, yet it swept about as though it were worn by someone agonized by the attack. Her distraction was long enough to allow the creature behind her to act. Her hood was pulled back, and something clutched her head. Instantly her mind became clouded. She could not hold onto a single thought as the world seemed to spin around her. Myranda tried to fight it, but against her will she slipped into unconsciousness.
#
Far to the north, in a dimly-lit room, a pair of individuals waited. The first, a tall, graceful elf woman in ornate armor, stood facing a wall of maps. Beneath her arm was her helmet, and on her face was a look of concern, impatience--and, most of all, anger. Seated at a large desk behind her was a nobleman. His face was a mask of deliberate composure, and his clothing was of the finest variety. In appearance and demeanor, he seemed as though he should be sitting in a royal court at the right hand of the king. In front of him were scattered countless sealed documents, military dispatches, coded messages, and royal declarations. His fingers were steepled in front of his face, and his eyes were locked on the door.
"Does he normally take this long?" the woman asked petulantly.
"Patience, General Teloran," replied the man.
The elf sighed and turned back to the map. It showed the whole of the continent, though there was no reason. The top third of the map, representing the Northern Alliance, was cluttered with figures and military patterns representing every aspect of the year's battles. Below that, a thin line representing the front was obscured almost completely by carefully recorded combat figures. The rest of the map, showing the enormous kingdom of Tressor, was virtually untouched. General Trigorah Teloran, formerly a key field commander, ran a finger over the map, tracing a faint line near the front. It had been ages since she'd seen the enemy, since she'd seen real combat.
"Have you retaken Orin Ridge?" she asked.
"That is not the matter at hand," the man wearily commented.
"With all due respect, sir, until it is won, the war is always the matter at hand," Trigorah replied. "We are too far from the front here. Even with Demont's methods, the information is cold when it reaches us. We never should have left Terital, General Bagu. We need--"
She was interrupted as the door flew open. Through it marched a rather slight man. He was dressed similarly to Bagu, through the exquisite garments seemed out of place on him. His were not the features of a nobleman. In place of implacable composure was a look of sharp determination, tempered with annoyance, as though he was perpetually being kept from far more fruitful endeavors. A gem-tipped staff of some kind was strapped to his back. The harness that held it was coarse, and clearly worn in complete dismissal of the regal bearing the vestments had been intended to represent. As for the staff, it had silvery metallic sheen to it, and the jewels of the tip gave any who observed them the nagging feeling of being watched. In his hands were a stack of papers.
"General Bagu . . ." he began, turning slowly to acknowledge the elf. "Teloran . . ."
There was no attempt to disguise the distaste with which he spoke the latter name.
"General Demont," she acknowledged.
"What have you to report, General?" Bagu asked levelly.
"There are some things which may be stated with certainty. The sword had been found, and it has been handled. The girl who found it has been apprehended, and is even now in route to General Epidime's . . . facility," Demont explained.
"And the sword? Is it in hand?" asked Bagu.
"It . . . is not. We've reason to believe that it is still in the hands of the assassin. The girl was not delivered by him either. She had to be gathered," Demont responded.
"It was to be expected. Assassins are not to be trusted," Trigorah stated, fury smoldering under her voice.
"Well then. General Teloran, gather half of your Elites. Your assignment is to find precisely where the sword was found and trace its path and that of the girl. Locate and identify any who might have come into contact with it. When you are certain that this task has been thoroughly and completely performed, find your way to the sword and bring it to Northern Capital," Bagu ordered.
"As you wish, sir," General Teloran replied.
"Then go. Demont, remain here," he said.
After collecting the pages containing the details of Demont's findings, Trigorah set off, purpose in her stride. She stepped through the door and into the massive entry hall of this, Verril Castle. At one end of the long, vaulted room was the throne, currently vacant as the King attended to the affairs of state. Opposite it were the massive doors that lead to the castle courtyard.
The General donned her helmet and marched toward them, drawing the images on Bagu's map to her mind. Slowly, meticulously, she envisioned what moves should be made. Foot soldiers here. Cavalry there. Siege weapons at the ready here and here. Yes. When these distractions were dealt with, when the Alliance proper was cleansed, then she would be at the front once more. And she would be ready.
#
Consciousness slowly returned to Myranda. All around her was darkness. She was unsure if she had even awoken. The ground heaved with sudden, regular jolts. The air wa
s heavy with an oppressive heat and an indescribably horrid smell. It was a gruesome combination of stale blood, perspiration, and half a dozen other odors that she'd never known before and hoped never to know again. She tried to feel along the floor, but a jingle followed by a resistance revealed that she was shackled to the floor.
Her sleep-addled mind turned over the possibilities. The answer was not a pleasant one. She remembered seeing them here and there all of her life. The black carriages. Where one could be found, something terrible had always happened. And now she was inside. Caught. Condemned.
She struggled against the chains periodically for hours. It was useless, but anything was better than allowing her mind to dwell on the situation. No one who had been thrown into one of these carriages had ever been seen again. The crack beneath the doors let in little air and no light. The lack of air made it difficult to stay awake, but the dark was a blessing. It spared her what was sure to be a horrific sight left by the last unfortunate soul to occupy this place. Tears welled in her eyes as she began to realize that this is how it would end for her.
Sleep had come and gone a dozen times or more since she had first awoken. There was no telling how long it had been. The only thing she could be sure of was that her captors were moving recklessly fast, stopping only occasionally, seemingly to change horses from the sound of it. She was jarred awake when the lurching of the carriage came to an abrupt end as it had with each such stop, but it was different this time. Outside, muffled by the thick carriage walls, a struggle could be heard. Myranda cringed at the screech of steel against steel and the terrified cry of horses.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 10
