by Jean Winter
The proud rider, a very young captain by the insignia on his uniform, was perched a good five feet off the ground in a sturdy saddle overlaid with intricate beadwork. One hand, adorned in an ivory sheepskin riding glove, held his mount's lead straps, the oiled leather creaking when he flexed his fingers. His other hand gripped a cone shaped, bulky amplifier. Its green, glowing power source encased in thick glass peeked out below the device's handle. The officer addressed them in his natural voice.
“My name is Captain Rookenik, Fifth Platoon o' the Great Army o' the Republic o' Caldreen,” he said with great pomp like he enjoyed the sound of the consonants coasting off his tongue. “In the interest o' national security, and by command o' the Grand Republic's Cabinet and the High Lord, the Supreme Chancellor, himself, I am hereby authorized to investigate all peoples residin' within the boundaries o' the great Motherland.” He paused to pull in a satisfied breath (or maybe to remember the next line of his script). “I am tasked to either confirm or establish legal citizenship o' said people, or bring to justice those judged to be threats to the ideals and well-bein' o' the continued prosperity o' the nation o' Caldreen.”
Lyra's saliva turned rusty in her mouth as she listened to the rationale for burning villages and terrorizing peasant families. With reluctance, she swallowed the bitter flavor.
Rookenik, his slicked hair combed severely to one side, his outcrop of a nose imperiously overshadowing a retreating chin, scrutinized them all with air of someone accustomed to looking down on people—even when he didn't have an impressive mount upon which to straddle rangy legs like hinged tent poles. Lyra noticed his attention stall on their few women.
She had heard many horror stories of the army's rampant defiling of female captives. Good for troop morale, so it was said. The captain's nose wrinkled in distaste when he came to Lyra in her unfeminine leggings … until his gaze began to climb up her body in calculable degrees. It made Lyra shudder. Jon bristled, shifting a half step forward. He had interpreted the linger as well.
Unperturbed, the captain demanded, “Who is in charge here?”
Horth stepped forward.
A rugged man, Horth was second in command of the colony's militia. He had been designated to stay behind and lead everyone to the new site. It had been a long time since the reserve company encountered any trouble, but it was just for unexpected situations like this that the lottery was conceived and the main body of villagers left earlier.
“That would be me, sir. How can I help you?”
Captain Rookenik assessed him up and down. Mostly down. “Oh, I just have a few simple questions to begin, and we will go from there, shall we?”
Horth nodded in grim compliance. He already had a good idea where this was going. They all did. A pounding pulse ricocheted in Lyra's head and she had to remind herself to breathe again.
She and Jon had told their children not to worry as they sent them along with one of Lyra's sisters and her family. Jon and Lyra's youngest, Iyalyn, had been especially distraught. It took a long heart-to-heart followed by giggle-inducing hugs and kisses to relieve the fears of their little, blond seven-year-old.
I'll pray for you every night, Mommy.
With ceremony, Rookenik extracted a dog-eared, folded document from his breast pocket. His eyes swept across his rapt audience once more with their well-mended attire, their neat and relatively clean appearance, their confidence with purpose—quite different from the common peasant rabble Lyra was sure he usually encountered. His hint of a smile as he turned to the papers plainly revealed his judgment, as surely as if he had said it out loud. Percs, for sure.
Oh, God help us!
He began. “Do you and present company recognize the government o' the Republic o' Caldreen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you and present company recognize High Lord Staffir D'Pendul as lawful supreme chancellor along with his elected advisers, cabinet, and so forth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you and present company law abiding, legal citizens o' Caldreen?”
“… No, sir. Well, what I mean, sir, is that we do not break the law. We mean no harm—”
“You will only answer 'Aye, sir' or 'No, sir' unless otherwise directed,” Captain Rookenik said with a disinterested sniff.
“Yes, uh, aye, sir.” Horth made quick eye contact with another of their group across the way, his mouth pressed into an austere line
Similar nervous glances flew around, many of them landing on Lyra, as white knuckles clenched on ropes or canteens—whatever they happened to be holding. Lyra's insides began an acrobatic act and she reached for her husband's hand. Jon barely responded to her touch. He was focused on the face-off.
“Will you submit to becoming loyal citizens o' the great nation o' the Republic and swear your fealty and your lives to upholdin' its interests?”
Silence.
Keep breathing. In. Out. … The world began to spin.
Finally, “No. No, sir. We will not.” Horth would not lie, and neither would any of the rest of them. Lyra's heart sank to new depths, nonetheless.
Captain Rookenik's eyebrow arched. “And will you explain the nature o' your traitorous convictions?” Another anticipatory creak of oiled glove leather at the reins echoed in every hostage's ears like cannon fire.
Horth's deep breath lasted long enough for brief connection with every individual of his company. Somber faces stared back, resolved. Prepared. He stood straighter.
“We refuse to swear loyalty to a corrupt government built on slavery and prejudice,” Horth answered, the force of righteous rebuke behind his tone, “in a tyrannical caste system that denies inalienable rights to its citizens.”
If Captain Rookenik was surprised by the forthrightness, he didn't show it. Quite casually, he began to refold the yellowing paper. “Well then,” he said, “I guess that brings this interrogation to an end.” The document was returned to his pocket and he coaxed his mount closer to the circle of bodies. “Let it be known that this group o' insurgents is hereby declared outlaws and enemies to the Republic …”
Jon's urgent whisper was hot on Lyra's ear. “When Horth gives the signal, drop under the wagon. I will lead attention away.”
“Jon!” Lyra shot back under the drone of the captain's voice. “I won't—”
“You will,” he asserted harshly. “As Bearer you will.”
More interested in the fine gloves he adjusted on his hands, the captain continued, “You are all under immediate arrest …”
Horth glanced solemnly at Lyra, then Jon, and gripped his walking stick tighter.
Jon gave Lyra's hand a furtive squeeze.“Tell the children that my last thoughts were of them.”
The captain's zethrin shifted nervously, grunting to its rider in alarm. It sensed a change in the prisoners.
“No, Jon! Don't talk that—”
“Keep the faith, my Twitterbug, and God will show you the way.”
Horth's stick suddenly delivered a stinging smack onto the snout of the nearest zethrin. Jon kissed his wife hard. “I love you,” he said.
Then, Lyra's husband of fifteen years pushed her to the ground.
An organized chaos erupted as the other members of the Believer reserve party, wielding either knives or bows or slings pulled from various places, suddenly charged at their captors. The Fifth Platoon of the Great Army of the Republic of Caldreen was caught off guard. Soldiers scrambled to load and cock weapons they had not bothered to make ready. Riders fought with their mounts who had grown complacent from too many acquisitions won without resistance.
Lyra's view between wooden wheel spokes framed perfectly the captain's stunned expression as he watched the clearly outnumbered and outgunned peasants throw themselves with amazing vigor and ferocity upon his men. Her people were not fighters, but something about defending life and liberty can bring out unexpected vehemence in a soul.
Move. Move! she yelled at herself.
Jon brandished a knife at a hissin
g, squealing zethrin. It was very angry from the slash it had received in its shoulder. He kept its attention while retreating slowly toward the abandoned framework of a dwelling. Attempted stabs every few seconds kept both mount and rider on the defensive, discouraging the soldier from taking good aim with his rifle.
Lyra kept glancing back at Jon, agonized, as she crawled along under the wagon. Her insides were tied in knots and her throat felt so constricted that she doubted she could speak. She was supposed to run, supposed to watch for her moment to slip away. This whole bloodbath of a diversion was really for her—or for what she had strapped to her back—and it took every ounce of resolve she possessed to not let her concern for Jon override this important detail. I can't believe this is happening! God and Father of the Heavens, this can't be Thy divine will. My husband, my friends!
A couple more wagons packed with final odds and ends for the exodus offered continued concealment for another ten yards. Then she had to chance a quick open sprint to her village's central well. She pressed herself into the side of its low stone wall as much for physical support as for shielding. Peeking around its side, Lyra gazed spellbound at the fray.
Two zethrin had been seriously injured with some well-aimed arrows. A few Caldreen'n soldiers lay dead or dying, blood running from fatal wounds. Some hope began to materialize in her … until Lyra found friends in likewise prone positions, still and broken. Hot tears blurred her vision as shouts and screams bloodied the air. The acrid scent of gunpowder scalded her nostrils. The whiz of an arrow vibrated overhead, its quest ending with a sickening thud into the back of an infantryman's head.
Lyra had to wait a moment—and not just for the nauseating vertigo to clear. She would be totally exposed for several yards until she reached the cover of brush; right now the fighting was too close.
Horth and a woman by the name of Petrona were backed up within the trusses of another vacated home. They were valiantly, if unskillfully, defending against the onslaught of a zethrin. A soldier just beyond was setting himself up for an easy shot at the two. Lyra automatically inhaled for a warning shout, but in the same moment the gunman's head jerked unnaturally to the side. Without another twitch, he fell dead to the ground. Tempet rose up slightly from his crouched position near a fire ring, reigning in the slingshot he had just used with deadly accuracy. His lips stretched into a grim smile.
Rejoicing, Lyra turned her attention back to the fighting couple just in time to catch Petrona flying head first into an upright beam, released from the sharp talons of a pale green zethrin. She fell in a heap at the base of the timber and lay still. Bile replaced the joy. Horth was not visible anymore.
Jon! Where was he? Lyra just realized she'd lost him, too.
She risked slipping around the curve of the well's above-ground mouth to get a better look. The stacked stone felt cool against the adrenalized heat of her arm, though it offered no relief to Lyra's fevered nerves.
There!
Jon was bleeding from his shoulder, but standing erect near the animal pen. The sheep, nannabies, and cows inside: completely panicked. From the corral's far side, a nimble zethrin weaved toward him fast. It bounded over the span and Jon reached for the pen's gate, springing it. He wedged himself in the space between the fully open gate and fence and ducked to let the fencing take the weight of the scaled belly. The zethrin's hind leg slammed against the gate's top edge. It screamed in pain as it rolled off to the side, dislodging its rider.
Lunging livestock stampeded out of the enclosure, eyes rolling wildly. Jon's bark carried across the yard. “Go! NOW!”
The message was not directed at the livestock that needed no encouragement. It shook Lyra back to her senses and she sprang up. There was no better time to make her mad dash. The entire company, human and zethrin, were now fully engaged in avoiding the throng of tri-cloven hooves, and one ton, horned mania.
Lyra wheeled toward the beckoning forest—and smacked full on into the chest of a waiting soldier. He had been sneaking up on her! They both went to the ground. Pushing off him, she made to run again, but only got one step before her face was kissing the dirt. Lightning pain registered up her leg and Lyra gasped through a bloodied lip. The soldier had managed to catch hold of her foot. Her ankle was not supposed to turn that way! With her good leg, Lyra kicked wildly at his face and, grunting, he let go. Then, gritting red-stained teeth against the sensation of torn ligaments, she pulled herself up and limped onward.
Not three feet from welcoming cover, Lyra felt a vise-like grip close over her left wrist. He was still at her! She spun and shoved her fist down and toward his body, forcing his hand to turn under toward the inside of his own arm. As the soldier's grip loosened, she was able to twist out and seize his wrist to make his arm roll even further inward, locking out his elbow. Then with all the force she could muster, she struck down heavily on the joint. She heard and felt it give way. With a scream, the soldier dropped to the ground.
Wow. It actually worked! Lyra was stunned. She no longer regretted all the times her father had forced her to spar with him in defense lessons.
Run … run!
Lyra obeyed the impression and threw herself into the shelter of brush. With the freed livestock quickly heading out of sight, the skirmish seemed muted now. Lyra stifled a sob. The thought of leaving her husband and the other people she loved to certain death about killed her, but no, she had to maintain control.
The plan dictated that she make distance between her and danger. Simple, right? Which direction? She needed to cover ground without leaving much of a trail, a feat much complicated by her new sprain. The river!
Assuming her ankle lost no matches with slick stones.
The river ran southeast along one end of the settlement. To get there, she had to travel parallel to the action for a bit, a reluctant, reeling witness to the reserve party's last stand just a stone's cast away. As she carefully picked her way under branches and over exposed roots, Lyra took every opportunity to move hand over hand using deeply ridged tree trunks heavy with moss as supports. She didn't trust her balance at the moment.
“Hold steady!” Rookenik's amplified command rang through unassuming valley and hollow skeletons of homes.
Through passing leaves, Lyra made out the survivors, surrounded, having gravitated toward each other for support. Jon was bloody, beaten, but still on his feet, knife at the ready. Horth labored to remain upright over a blown out knee. Only two others remained: the sturdy woman, Sonyam, and Valunt, a rather tall, unusually brawny man. Reappearing, the captain rejoined his men. There didn't appear to be a scratch on him, or his restless ride.
That pompous, overbearing slug! It was a momentary relief to feel something other than blind panic and utter hopelessness.
Jon discretely scanned the trees in her general direction, his breath hard and ragged from exertion, his face pale with worry for her. Her! He was the one facing the death squad. Lyra's heart went out to her lover and father of her three beautiful children.
Godly Father, please … do something! she prayed as she crept along.
The God of the Heavens was out there watching. She knew He could send miracles if it were His will. The only question was: Is it God's will that Jon die today? Jon's cryptic remark about “today” and his parting words to her stung in her brain. Lyra wiped angrily at another tear. Please no. Please send a miracle.
The Fifth Platoon, a handful of recruits and one zethrin short, had every gun pointed at the four survivors. They waited impatiently for the order to open fire, but Captain Rookenik was bent over in conference with a soldier. The soldier stood uncomfortably, one arm hanging limply at his side. Lyra knew that one!
The captain asked another question, it was answered, and he straightened back up in his saddle, smiling slyly at what remained of the rebel force. “It seems you have a deserter.”
Lyra froze.
The amplifier went back to his mouth. “I know you can hear me. Cremluss here says you have a bad ankle.” He chuckled. �
�But by the looks o' it, he is the one the worse for wear.”
There were laughs and snickers. Cremluss blushed violently while Jon's chin lifted a proud hair higher.
“I wonder …” Captain Rookenik paused as if a new thought had just occurred. “I wonder how you will feel if I do this.”
In one smooth move he pulled a pistol from its holster and shot Horth. Sonyam cried out in shock and began to sob. Valunt placed a trembling hand of comfort on her shoulder.
“That was for the bloody expensive zeth' you killed,” he charged the dead man. Then back out to the trees, “Look, I have a good tracker here. You will no' get far on that leg. Turn yourself in and maybe no one else will have to die today.”
He let that sink in for a moment.
The memory of the debate that had ensued when her name was drawn in the lottery to stay behind clawed at Lyra. It was quickly noted that she had also just started her week serving as Bearer, but eventually Brother Oubwyn determined that she would fulfill both capacities. Jon announced his decision to stay behind with her soon after. Despite Lyra's protestations, his request stood and he took the place of a grateful young husband and soon-to-be-father whose name had been drawn last.
Why did you have to be so noble, you incorrigible blockhead? You were not even supposed to be here!
In despair, Lyra clung to a tree for dear life. Even if she had been able to slip away unnoticed, it was not a guarantee that lives would be spared. However, understanding that as a concept versus actually witnessing it firsthand were two entirely different things. This was absolute torture! The thought of having Jon's murder tattooed in permanent, perfect detail on her brain made her stomach churn. Lyra tried to tell her body to start moving again, but it didn't listen. She felt completely immobile, like the cragged peaks to the west.
Unfaithful notions began to prickle inside. Maybe she should turn herself in. It might save Jon.
Stop that! She would not spit on the sacred artifact she had covenanted to protect all for the love of a man, though it seemed little more than an exacting, life-sucking parasite hitching a ride now. An almost imperceptible voice called to her, urging for reticence. Something warm and strong settled over her limbs, gluing them in place. Reason screamed for a calculated dash to the river.
