All at once, the tumult became silent once more. She could hear the latch that held the heavy wooden doors shut being worked. The door dropped open with a thunderous crash. Outside it was night still--or, more likely, again. The crimson light of a torch illuminated the interior of the prison carriage, revealing Myranda's chained form, along with walls scarred by the frantic clawing of untold hundreds of tortured souls over the years. A blast of chill from the air shook Myranda's perspiration-soaked body.
The man who held the torch was enormous. More than a head taller than Myranda and easily three times her weight, he had a build that betrayed a mass of muscle beneath a layer of bulk. The light of the torch fell upon half of his face. Scars old and new told the tales of battles gone badly. He wore no cloak. In its place was an overused suit of leather armor and a crude iron helmet.
"We will free you," spoke the man in a voice to match his features.
He was joined by a second figure. This time a woman. She was about Myranda's height, and perhaps a few years older. One look at her face, though, showed a pair of eyes with the fierceness and resolve of a person twice her age. She wore similarly decrepit armor, as well as a sword at her side dripping with the evidence of its most recent use. The woman held her torch high and smiled as its light fell upon Myranda's bloodstained shoulder.
"It is she," she said, relief and accomplishment in her voice.
The pair of rescuers climbed inside. The woman investigated the grim reminders of past passengers by torchlight. She shook her head in anger and pity. The man revealed a pry bar, with which he made short work of the chains. When Myranda was free, he helped her to her feet, but the untold time she'd spent immobile had robbed her of the strength to walk. He carried her outside and onto one of two horses that were waiting at the ready.
The bracing cold chilled her to the bone almost immediately. She watched through heavy eyes as the rescuers stripped the fallen soldiers of their weapons and armor with ruthless efficiency. When all that could be claimed from the carriage had been similarly pillaged, the woman threw the torch inside. The black carriage took quickly to flame and the three watched with satisfaction. The woman soon put her feelings to words.
"You'll have no more of our lives, you wretched devil," the mysterious woman whispered.
The trio rode swiftly through the night, Myranda riding behind the woman who had rescued her. They had taken the four horses from the carriage, but the time inside had taken far too heavy a toll for Myranda to ride for herself. Aside from the obvious draw on her body, she began to feel that her mind was failing her as well, as the countryside whisking by her was unfamiliar. They were headed though a sparsely-treed field toward a dense forest that seemed to go as far as the eye could see. Behind them, far in the distance, a mountain range rose up from the horizon, a mottled green stripe at its base.
"Where are we?" she called out over the pounding of the hooves.
"The Low Lands," the woman answered.
The Low Lands! If her memory served her correctly, that meant that in her time in chains she had been taken to the other side of the mountains she'd decided not to attempt just before she was caught. She must have been asleep for some time. As tales of the Low Lands slowly came to her mind, she began to wonder if she was any better off now than she had been in the carriage. All through her life, if a tale of murder, crime, or disappearance met her ears, the setting was the Low Lands.
Judging by the size of it, the forest they were heading into was Ravenwood. It was a place that had come to be called the Endless Forest. Now at the fringe of the awe-inspiring sight, Myranda could not think of a more appropriate name.
There was a small break in the clouds, but the light was short-lived. The near-full moon overhead was soon filtered through the increasingly thick foliage of the forest once said to have consumed half of a division of Northern soldiers who had entered, but never left. She swallowed hard and hoped that she would not share their fate. Her fingers were completely numb, and her shoulder had worsened to the point that she could scarcely move the whole of her right arm.
Chapter 9
After hours of riding at as great a speed as they could manage, the trio was still within the forest, and had not used a single road. They finally came upon a large log hut. When they reached it, the others helped her from the horse and inside. A fire that had been left unattended for some time barely smoldered in the hearth. Myranda was led to a crude wooden chair, a blanket thrown about her shoulders. The large man left to tend to the horses, while the woman took a seat in another chair, a restrained look of satisfaction showing on her face.
"I am Caya," she said, extending her hand.
Myranda extended her right hand painfully in an attempt the return the gesture. She managed to weakly touch the fingers of her rescuer before she couldn't stand the pain anymore.
"Myranda," she said.
"We all heard what you did. Inspiring," Caya said.
"What are you talking about?" Myranda asked. "Who are you? Where am I?"
"You are at the headquarters of the Undermine. I am the regional commander. You've done more for our cause in just a few days than years of subtle operations," she explained.
"What have I done?" Myranda asked, her mind still too clouded to put the pieces together.
She knew of the Undermine well. Most people blindly supported the war. Some people, like herself, quietly loathed it. The Undermine was a group so steadfast against the continued conflict that they had come to actively oppose it. There were supposedly pockets of the Undermine in every major town. It was said that they commonly would carry out strikes on military targets with the intent of forcing a withdrawal from active combat. When the military or government spoke of them, the messages tended to be equal parts denial and propaganda against.
"No need for modesty. Everyone knows. You stole an item prized by the scoundrels in the military and slew four soldiers sent to reclaim it," She said.
"You know about it? Here! Already?" Myranda said in disbelief.
"Please. Nothing travels faster than bad news or a good rumor. This was both," Caya said. "We've been looking for something that could shake up the men in charge this much for years. Word has it that they got you, but not that which you stole. Is this so?"
"Well, I suppose, but you don't understand," Myranda tried to explain.
The large man entered. Caya turned excitedly to him.
"Tus! They still haven't found it!" Caya shouted.
The stalwart fellow nodded. She would soon learn that, from him, this was the height of emotion.
"What is it you have taken? Where did you find it? How did you hide it? I must know!" she urged.
"What weapon did you use to kill the men?" Tus added.
"I will tell you all that I know and all that I have done, but when I am through, I fear you will not think so highly of me," Myranda said.
And so she told the tale of the last few days. She spoke of the frozen body, the sword, and the merchant. She told of her imprisonment and release from the church. As she spoke, the faces of her rescuers shifted from joy to disillusionment. In the space of a few minutes, she shattered the image that the tales of a dozen gossips had painted of her.
"Well, Myranda. I am truly sorry to hear the truth. I had hoped to find a powerful ally in you. Instead I find an unfortunate victim of circumstance," Caya said.
"I, too, am sorry. I hate this war with all of my heart. If I could help you, I would," Myranda said.
"I doubt anything you could do now could match that which you have done by accident. You see, our operatives have reported motion at the very highest levels due to your actions. Whatever that sword is, it means an awful lot to some very important people. You are a marked woman. The minds that twist and shape the entire kingdom are turned to you and what you've done. The ripples are still spreading throughout the ranks," Caya explained.
"All of my men tell your story. They would beat the door down to meet you," Tus said. "Their spirits are strong
now. The men are ready to fight."
Caya's look had slowly changed from one of sorrow to one of thought.
"All may not be lost. Myranda, are you willing to join our cause?" she asked.
"Of course," she said, "though I cannot imagine what help I could give you."
"You've done enough already. More importantly, my people believe you have done much more. What they think of you is all that matters. You may not be able to fight beside them, as I'd hoped, but tales of your deeds will stir them to greatness nonetheless. So long as they do not learn the truth, merely having you in our ranks will give them the heart to fight double. In return for your membership, we will keep you safe from the clutches of the army.
"If what you say is true, only one man aside from Tus and myself still lives with the knowledge of precisely what has transpired, and he is a murderer. It is unlikely that such a man will turn to the people he has been killing to offer a description. Yes, yes. You must be kept from the light of day for a while. Perhaps a few months. The descriptions that the soldiers are passing around will fade from memory. Before long, so long as you offer a bit of disguise, you'll be able to walk the streets without prompting a second glance," Caya said.
"You will be trained. Another hand on another hilt," Tus added.
"Yes, good thinking, Tus. In time, you will become what the men believe you to be. This may yet be a great day for our cause," Caya agreed.
Tus remained stern as ever, but Caya showed enough joy for the two of them. Myranda mustered a smile for their sake. Things were spinning out of control. Days ago, she lived a simple life, albeit a restless one. Then she seemed to be at the center of something she knew nothing about, but was apparently of monumental importance. Now she would be the figurehead of a group of renegades who were working toward an end to the war, but through a means that was nearly a match for the atrocity of the battlefield. Her simple life had been tied in knots.
"Enough. There are plans to be made. Our man in the field said that the description the soldiers have been given lists you as a young girl of average height, average build, and an injured right shoulder. Not terribly specific, but we should still try to change as much of it as possible," Caya said.
"Of all of the things on list, might I request we begin with the shoulder?" Myranda said.
"One would assume that time would solve that problem for us," Caya said.
"I am not sure that such will be the case," Myranda said.
She pulled aside her sweat and filth-soaked cloak. The sleeve of her tunic was stained again, and when it was pulled back, the two warriors nodded knowingly.
"You did this two days ago?" Tus asked.
"Yes," Myranda said. "Plus whatever time I spent in that carriage."
"Mmm. Only a few days and the arm is ruined. Nasty. It heals badly. You will lose the arm," Tus said.
The wound had worsened. The whole shoulder was swollen, and red streaks of blighted tissue ran outward from the gash.
"But it was only a piece of wood," she said.
"Worse than a blade. Dirty. Causes . . . well . . . things like this. Not often, but sometimes. Not the lucky sort, are you?" Caya said.
"I've led a less than blessed life," she said with a feeble grin.
"Well, Tus . . . we'll get some food in her and set her up in one of the cots. At sun up we'll send her down to Zeb. We can't have our new mascot crippled," Caya decreed. "I'll draw up the writ and stow the new weapons and armor."
"No," Tus said, not as a refusal, but as a statement.
"What now? No food, no cot?" she asked.
"No Zeb. I put a knife in him," Tus said.
"Not another one, Tus," Caya said with frustration.
"He was speaking to the Blues," Tus said, referring to the Alliance Army.
The blue-tinted armor had been around since the beginning of the war, more than a century ago. Each of the three Northern Kingdoms used a different shade, but all were blue. Before the Kingdoms merged, the only thing that all three forces had in common was the color. Hence the name.
"I had a feeling. Six months of training . . . wasted on a traitor. People join us as spies to try to get themselves some favor with the officers in the army. Death is too good for them. With Zeb down and Rankin a runner, we've got no field healers," Caya lamented.
"Rankin went runner? Scum," Tus declared.
"Runner?" Myranda questioned.
"We pay a local white wizard a hefty price to train healers for us. Every so often one of the apprentices is given the money to pay him and never shows. Runs off with the silver. I tell you, I am beginning to wonder if there are any decent people left in this world. Send out the word. We need a new healer. I doubt we'll get any volunteers. The men and women who join us all want to be the one to draw the blade across the throat of the next general. There is no glory in healing," Caya explained.
"Wait!" Myranda said.
There was the solution, right in front of her. It would keep her off of the battlefield, provide her with a hiding place, and even give her six months of hot meals and soft beds.
"I'll be the new healer! Send me to the wizard!" she eagerly offered.
"You? I . . . I think that just might work," Caya considered. "Right, Tus, food and bed for her. I'll give her the letter of intention to give to Wolloff in the morning. Myranda, you had best get your rest. You have a long walk ahead of you."
"Wonderful! I . . . a long walk?" Myranda asked. "What about the four new horses?"
"Horses are for those who require speed. A sore shoulder can wait, but targets of opportunity open and close like the blink of an eye. Two steps too late and a chance is gone forever. Wolloff's tower is just on the north side of Ravenwood. On this terrain, on foot, I cannot imagine it taking you more than five days. So, eat, rest, and leave. We've much to do," Caya stated.
In a few moments, a clay bowl filled with perhaps the worst porridge Myranda had ever eaten was set before her. When she'd managed to swallow the horrid stuff, a cot and blanket were placed mercifully near to the rekindled fire. She settled stiffly onto the bed, such as it was, and basked in the warmth of the fire. Her body had dealt with such extremes of heat and cold, it was fairly screaming. Cramps twisted her muscles through the whole night. She closed her eyes and an instant later she was awakened by a rough prodding from Tus. The sun had yet to peek over the mountains.
"Food. Eat it slow. It will last," Tus said, tossing her a pack.
She managed to catch it, much to the detriment of the injured shoulder.
"Flint," he said, holding up a second pack. "And tinder. One night, one fire. It will last. Walk close to the mountains. Too close to the roads, the patrols will kill you. Too close to the mountains, other things will kill you."
With that ominous warning, she was sent on her way.
Chapter 10
The cottage was not even out of sight when Myranda began to regret not asking for a new cloak. Fortunately, though, it was not nearly so difficult to walk in the forest as it had been in the field. The dense needles of the evergreens held much of the snow, keeping the ground at a manageable depth. Closer to the mountain, the trees were a bit thinner, but a strong and constant wind kept the ground still more manageable. The iciness of the breeze tore at her, but the greater ease of movement made it worth the discomfort. She had been in danger of freezing to death often enough in the past to know that she was in no such danger now--at least, not if she kept moving.
As she walked, she marveled at how much more alive the woods were than the field. The whistling of the wind carried with it the calls of a dozen different animals. She recognized the call of an eagle overhead and the distant howl of a wolf. Tracks speckled the ground here and there. Some were from moose, others from elk. A long line of impressions in the snow gave her the feel of tracks, but were far too large. More likely they were the places where great lumps of wind-blown snow had fallen from the trees.
When the sun was beginning to slip from the sky, she collected some of the fal
len tree boughs and moved to the far side of a stand of stout old pines. Carefully she lit the fire where it would not cause the tree-borne snow to melt and rain down over her. She pulled open the pack of food, relieved to find salted meat rather than the coarse and heavy biscuit that, when soaked for a great deal of time in warm water, became the hideous porridge she had choked down the night before. After eating what she judged to be the day's ration, she marveled at the fact that a bedroll had been included with the other things in the pack. The attitude of those that had sent her off gave her the feeling she would be expected to do without.
The night was actually a bit more pleasant than the previous one. The bedroll was a bit softer than the cot and the fire kept her reasonably warm, at least on the side facing it. Wind whipped down off of the mountain constantly, but the trees served as a decent wind break. The morning found her better rested, and she moved even more quickly than the previous day. By sundown of that rather uneventful day, she'd covered easily twice the ground. Night was spent in a similar manner, and just as she drifted off to sleep, she wondered if, perhaps, her luck was changing.
The very instant her eyes opened the following morning, she regretted her thought. The sky was wrong, too dark. Worse yet, the air had the unmistakable feel of coming snow. Her bedroll and tree system would do no good against a blizzard. Myranda thought hard. If she recalled correctly, telltale hollows were scattered along the mountainside. They could only be the mouths of caves. That meant shelter. She quickened her pace and trained her eyes on the mountain. Whole sections of the slope had been swept clean by the wind, and in one such section there was a large, hollow opening. It extended far enough back that its end was shrouded in darkness.
Ice crystals were beginning to sting her face when she reached the mouth of the cave. To escape the powerful wind, she had to make her way much deeper than she had expected. The darkness was complete, save for the bit of light that found its way back from the mouth. She leaned her pack-covered back against the cave wall and slid to a seat. A bit winded from the rush to shelter, each breath burned her lungs with sheer cold. As she slowly recovered, she realized how much warmer the cave was than the outside. She brushed some of the more tenacious ice crystals from her cloak and took a deep breath through her nose. It was not the dank, moldy smell she expected, though there was a hint of it. Instead there was a rich, earthy smell, with a hint of smoke behind it.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 11
