With reluctance, Chism put the slightest amount of faith in the Duke. He won’t open fire while I’m surrounded by citizens.
A tight grip on the reins, a sharp kick to his horses flank, and a tug to the left sent Chism careening toward the gatehouse. Both he and the horse ignored the grabbing men that tried to block the way.
“Don’t shoot!” ordered Duke Jaryn. “Close the portcullis! Close the portcullis! Drop the gate!” His voice rose in pitch with each command. The last view Chism caught of Duke Jaryn, and the image that would remain in his memory, was the duke with quaking jowls, shouting and waving his arms wildly in the air.
The two men who had opened the portcullis raced to carry out the orders. They entered the gatehouse well before Chism, who was now clear of the mob. Archers fired from the wall, but Chism’s speed and the steep angle made it a difficult shot.
The first man reached one of the heavy levers when Chism was two strides away from the first portcullis. He yanked the bar and pain shot into Chism’s thigh as the heavy gate plunged downward. Chism ducked under the falling points at the bottom of the portcullis and seized Ander’s spear, confused by the pain in his leg. The portcullis had missed him. He was inside the gatehouse with a heavy iron gate separating him from the Watch and mob in the city.
But there was no time for pain. The second lever was only two paces past the first and the other man pulled it before Chism could drop him with the spear. It didn’t matter; Chism had another use for the spear.
It was impossible for his horse to cover the fifteen paces before the outer gate fell. Already it creaked downward with alarming speed as the sound of a solid chain passing around pulley wheels clanged through the gatehouse tunnel. Man and horse continued at a full gallop and Chism let the spear fly toward the mechanism. It lodged with a grinding CLANGK in the turning wheel, suspending the gate in mid position.
Chism tried to lean to his left so he and the horse could duck under the motionless portcullis, but something pulled at his right thigh. It felt like someone had cut one end of his thigh muscle and yanked on it. His leg was stuck to the saddle, and tremors of pain shot through his leg when he tried to move.
He pulled his horse up with just enough time to avoid the gate. In the dim light of the gatehouse he couldn’t see what held him, but when he felt for it he found a thick wooden shaft adorned with feathers protruding from his thigh. An arrow had pierced his leg and now kept him from leaning far enough to allow escape. The gate was high enough for a riderless horse to exit, but there was no way to get low enough without separating himself from the saddle.
One guard moved toward Chism with a drawn sword while the other began working the mechanism of the inner portcullis. The mob, eager for his blood, pressed angrily at the gate which was already rising. One anxious man lay on his belly, trying to wriggle under. Luckily none of them had bows or crossbows. Yet.
Chism considered subduing the two guards then raising the outer portcullis but remembered he was bound to his saddle and had no weapon. He couldn’t do anything until he freed his leg.
Grasping the arrow with both hands, Chism snapped the shaft, trying unsuccessfully to keep the lower portion still. The high tension of the situation dulled the pain, but working so close to an impaled object was sickening. He threw the fletched end of the arrow at the approaching guard, making him cringe and slow. The Watchman was only a few paces away, and would soon be joined by the crowd at the gate. Already the crawling man was half way through and others were bending to duck under.
Chism placed both hands under his knee and with a mighty yawp heaved upward. The splintered shaft scraped the inside of his leg like claws, but he refused to cry out further. He was free and didn’t hesitate to swing his injured leg over the horse and crouch in the left stirrup. Urging his horse forward, he left the disappointed Watch and mob behind.
As the outer portcullis passed overhead, Chism thought, Now if I can just avoid the arrows of the Watch from the city wall I’ll be free. Free to face the headman’s block in Palassiren.
Staying low, he swung his leg up, placing it crooked in the saddle next to the broken arrow. As he started to lead his galloping horse into a meandering pattern, a fantastic sight distracted him. Still on horseback, six Fellows were lined up facing the walls of Knobbes. With speed only possible for the best bowmen in the kingdom, they loosed arrow after arrow toward the parapets, allowing the Watch only inaccurate shots when they dared reveal themselves from sheltered positions. Regardless of the fact that Chism’s rash actions had endangered the entire squadron, they risked their lives to protect his retreat. He was proud to wear the Circle and Sword.
The six Fellows pinned down at least two dozen of the Watch in an elevated position. No wonder Chism loved even numbers.
As he passed, Chism heard one more round of arrows, then half a dozen horses following him. They left the road and spread out, using the fallow winter fields as their escape path. The dark uniforms and nearly moonless night offered perfect cover from the Watch’s searching eyes and arrows.
Finally able to breathe, Chism felt the stabbing pain in full. He looked and saw blood seeping from his right thigh. The saddle covered the wound on the back of his leg and with one hand he tried to staunch the bleeding from the front.
Once out of bow range, Chism angled toward the road. Using bird calls as signals, the squadron was quickly reunited. A headcount revealed none lost, the worst injury being the hole through Chism’s leg. Ander examined the wounds and reported that the bleeding was steady, but not profuse. He would live. They didn’t have time to sew up the wounds, so Ander bandaged the leg tightly.
Since none of the other Elites or Fellows had life-threatening wounds, Lieutenant Fahrr led the squadron a mile further away from Knobbes before stopping to allow the men to attend to their injuries. A few torches were lit and the Fellows efficiently sewed up wounds in their Elites’ faces, heads, and arms then splinted elbows and knees that had been struck by stones and clubs.
“Innards and entrails!” swore Ander as he dug through his pack for sewing supplies. The man could make anything sound like a curse.
Chism had to endure a barrage of his curses as the Fellow cleaned and stitched the wounds on the front and back of his thigh. If Ander had his way, Chism’s hair would migrate from his head to his back, foul breath would prevent him ever marrying, and he would never ride a mile without swallowing a dozen gnats. Though he’d never seen Ander as angry, the curses let him know that eventually things would return to normal with his Fellow.
Once the Elites were tended to, the Fellows turned their mending skills on one another. The care was rendered efficiently, and in no time the squadron was lined up in riding order. Chism resumed his position at the rear of the column next to Ander. At a steady walk, they started the long journey northeast to Palassiren.
Lieutenant Fahrr broke position and Chism saw his outline alongside the column two thirds of the way back.
“Tonight we faced our first real test as a squadron. We are the newest squadron in the kingdom: a recently promoted Lieutenant, two sublieus with no leadership experience, three Elites who have never seen battle and the youngest soldier anywhere in the King’s service. So new we don’t even have a name.”
The man molded human emotion like a sculptor with clay. After the perfect pause, he said, “Tonight, we have earned a name. Tonight each of you proved that you would risk your life for another who bears the Circle and Sword. Tonight you had to trust your leader enough to walk away and allow an Elite to stand alone. I know your hearts were near to being ripped from your chest. If any of us had faltered or hesitated, we would all be dead along with scores of Knobbes’s citizens. Any Elite can fight, or he would never be chosen for training. But I would rather lead a squadron that can keep its head and survive a thorny situation.
“This squadron is strong as metal. Fluid as water. If we are forced to divide, we come together and meld into a single element. Henceforth, we are the Quicksilver Squadron.
Quicksilver refers to the metal mercury; it is our symbol of unity, flexibility, and strength.”
From the front of the formation, one of the sublieus shouted, “Quicksilver Squadron! Hurrah!”
The squadron answered, “Hurrah!”
The shout and answer were repeated twice, and Lieutenant Fahrr resumed his place at the head of the column.
Chism’s days as an Elite were numbered, there was no doubt. But every day he spent as a member of Quicksilver Squadron would be an honor. He glanced over his shoulder, taking one last look at the Province he had offered his life for, and realized he might be lucky just to make it back to Palassiren.
Hundreds of torches poured out of the city gates and barracks like liquid fire—Duke Jaryn hadn’t given up the pursuit. The executioner’s block ahead and a violent lynching behind. Like Ander said, Chism never did anything half way.
Chapter 9
Exit
Hatta had given up on Shey’s Orchard. The days were almost all ash-blue and the people faded more toward brown every day. The only bright colors in his life were his mirrors. Some days he stared at them for hours. After discovering the colored ores two months before, it didn’t take him long to develop his style—mirrors like no one had ever seen before.
A mule and rickety cart awaited him in the night outside of Aker’s shop. More than twenty mirrors—wrapped in burlap, sheepskin, and even Hatta’s spare clothes—filled the cart. After one last glance around the shop, Hatta turned away forever. A knapsack with food and two water skins in the cart, and he was ready for the road.
He purchased the mule earlier in the evening from a young man named Stefen on an outlying farm, and the cart from Mikel, the orange farmer. Food came from three different sources. There would be no uncomfortable goodbyes and no one would have a chance to beg him to stay because he’d be gone before they realized it.
At least the journey to Palassiren would be more enjoyable than his previous travels now that he had a companion. “Shall we be off, girl?” he asked the mule.
A shrill bray answered him and reverberated through the quiet streets of Shey’s Orchard. Apparently she felt the night was no time for travel. “Shush,” whispered Hatta as he tugged on the reins. “You’ll wake Master Aker.” The crabby animal brayed again, even louder. Pulling was getting him nowhere, so Hatta moved to the back and pushed against the mule’s rump.
The animal let out another malicious holler and Master Aker burst out of his house, in his nightshirt, to investigate.
“What’s all this, Hatta?”
This was exactly what he wanted to avoid.
He doffed his turtle-shell print traveling hat and said, “No disrespect taken, I hope. I’m bound for the capital, for to sell my mirrors.”
“Why didn’t you give us a chance to say goodbye?”
“There’s a note,” Hatta offered. “I left a note. Hettie scribed it. It says, ‘Thank you, Master Aker’.”
“Is there any way to make you stay? Did we do something wrong?”
This was the part Hatta couldn’t take. He didn’t know how to bid farewell without creating hard feelings. Why couldn’t people just let relationships stay positive? Before he began, the road ahead had been such a promising chartreuse. Now it was turning gray, blending in with everything else.
Still staring at the ground, Hatta heard Master Aker say, “You don’t want to travel at night. There’s wild animals around here. Twice in the last year people have seen bandersnatches. One of them would’ve killed Elora if Tjaden hadn’t found her in time.”
His lecture wasn’t helping. Hatta had done everything possible to avoid this situation, but here he was again. Tight-lipped and eyes down, he shook his head.
With a sigh, Master Aker said, “I’m sorry, Hatta. I won’t ask you to change your mind. But will you wait long enough for me to write a note for you to deliver to Elora? She’s probably lonely, all alone in Palassiren, what with Tjaden out doing missions…” The mirror maker turned his head to the side and gulped. His lips smacked and his voice was tenuous. “…and we do miss her so.”
Hatta nodded in the moonlight, and Master Aker hurried inside. The urge to sneak off nagged while he waited, but that would most likely create even more hard feelings. Not to mention deprive Elora of the letter. She was fortunate to have a father that cared for her, and it would be a shame to interfere with her father’s kind words.
A short time later Master Aker returned and handed the note to Hatta along with a small rucksack. “Here’s some food and a few coins. Life’s expensive in the city; I hope it helps.”
Hatta thanked him and set the sack into a gap in one of the corners of the cart. Still unsure what to say, he gave Master Aker a smile and tip of his hat. He tugged on the mule’s lead, but it still wouldn’t budge.
“Isn’t that Hass’s boy’s mule?” asked Master Aker. “The trick with this one is the first step. Give her a good scritch right here,” he reached down to the side of the belly, “she’ll pick up that leg, and you’re on your way.” Sure enough, one foot came forward, and the others followed.
Hatta didn’t pause, worried the animal would dig it’s hooves in again. He waved but didn’t look back. He told himself everything was fine between them and the gray feelings started to fade. The small pouch of coins clinking at his waist was the only fanfare as they walked out of Shey’s Orchard.
By the time they reached the Telavir Spoke, it was clear the mule was a dismal conversationalist. She mostly ignored Hatta, but that didn’t surprise him. She was mud colored, after all. Hatta, on the other hand, was feeling quite orange—an encouraging color indeed.
***
After the third night of travel, Hatta came across fellow travelers for the first time. He traveled at night to avoid such encounters, preferring the meetings with nocturnal animals—owls, coyotes, rats, and bats. Bats were his favorite; a little scatterbrained and easily distracted. Hatta could relate to that.
Just after sunrise, he caught up with the slow-moving young couple. When they heard him approach they stopped and waited for him. The man gingerly helped his wife to a seated position at the side of the road. He was hooded, but golden hair flowed out of the cloak.
“How do?” asked Hatta, tugging at the brim of his traveling hat.
“Not well, Sir,” said the man. “Traveling has been arduous for my…wife, and the journey to Palassiren has been more treacherous than we planned. We’ve consumed all of our provisions.”
Hatta smiled at the stranger and fetched his rations from the cart. The bag had grown quite light, and looking inside Hatta saw only a small biscuit and a single strip of beef. Barely enough for a single meal. He handed the vittles to the man, but retained the sack to use as additional padding for his mirrors.
“Is this the last of your rations?”
Hatta nodded. “I regret having not more food to offer.”
“But what will you eat?”
Reluctant to tell him the animals would help him find food, the thought struck him, “Master Aker’s food, of course.”
The rucksack!
Hatta hurried to the cart and dug for the forgotten sack. It sat undisturbed in the cart’s corner and was heavy with enough food for at least a few days.
“There are coins as well. You could buy food from travelers or towns perchance.”
“Do you have any food for yourself?”
Hatta shook his head. The man dug into the sack and produced a wedge of cheese and a round of flatbread and handed them to Hatta. “If we ever have the opportunity to repay you, I pledge to do anything in my power. I’m Raouf, from Hannil Province. And you?”
“No, I’m not.” A curious expression showed on Raouf face. “Oh, Hatta. Yes, I would be Hatta.” Another smile for the stranger, then he walked to where the mule waited and took the lead rope. “From T’lai,” Hatta called over his shoulder, pleased with the lack of an awkward farewell.
The weather grew colder each day and snow spotted the hillsides. After rea
rranging the packing around his mirrors, Hatta had plenty of clothes to keep him warm. No rain or snow fell on him, or on the mule for that matter. But by the animal’s disposition one would have thought Hatta was forcing him through blizzards.
The cheese and flatbread lasted one day, then Hatta had to forage for food. The taciturn mule was useless, but a variety of other animals helped him. After chittering idly for a while, a squirrel led him to a store of nuts in the fork of an oak tree. Hatta thought the squirrel revealed the stash by mistake, but animals were so easy to read, the hidden supply was obvious. He only took a handful of the squirrel’s stored nuts. If he hadn’t been so hungry he wouldn’t have taken any of the industrious animal’s food.
When he asked a friendly doe where he might find food she signaled a faint path that led to an enormous berry thicket. Not only did he eat his fill, but left with as many as he could carefully fit into his turtle-shell hat. Back at the cart he transferred them into his sack. Raw tubers, mushrooms, and some shriveled figs rounded out his diet.
On the sixth night, if Hatta counted correctly, the next encounter occurred. Having just packed his bedroll into the cart, Hatta was hitching the mule when he heard soft footsteps just outside of the clearing where he’d made camp.
He whispered to the mule, “Stay quiet and perchance they’ll pass us up.” For a miracle the cantankerous mule obeyed. Yet despite their silence, the crunching of leaves got closer. Hatta looked for men and horses but only saw a greenish shadow pass through the brush toward the clearing. It crept cautiously and at times disappeared completely. The night was clear, and half a moon hung in the sky.
Ten steps later the figure entered the clearing. Hatta knew immediately it wasn’t a man, but in the silvery light he had a hard time seeing exactly what it was. The creature walked upright like a man, but had hoofed feet like a goat. It wore no clothes and had pale green skin, leathery like a cow that had rubbed a patch of hair away. Its head was bald and dull red eyes absorbed the moonlight. Like dried blood. Leading with menacing claws, it leaned forward as it walked toward Hatta and his mule, as if ready to pounce at any moment.
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