by Jean Winter
Why couldn't she move?
The young officer finally dismounted, his lankiness even more pronounced as he strode long legs toward the threesome. With a rough yank of the sobbing Sonyam from Valunt's grasp, he stood her before a loaded barrel.
“Here goes number two!” he yelled, his amplifier left in its strap on the saddle. “But first, I am going to give this lady friend o' yours a chance to reason with you. If you surrender now, I promise no more o' you will be killed.”
Sonyam, puffy-eyed and heaving, peered suspiciously at the man, but he merely nodded for her to go ahead. In resolution, she managed to collect herself somewhat. “Don'—don't do it!” she finally choked out. “Remember … your duty—”
Another shot split the air, and Sonyam's body crumpled to the earth.
Go now! Lyra shrieked to herself. But her body still wouldn't budge. Deliriously, she listed her head against the trunk's soft moss. She couldn't hold it steady any longer.
Blood spatter marring the finish of Rookenik's polished boot invoked a frown. This game wasn't playing out like he wanted. “I suppose I should no' be surprised by your lack o' response!” he shouted. “What else can I expect from an ignorant, rebel girl too frightened for her own life to stand alongside her comrades?”
The man turned on his two remaining prisoners. “Any last words?”
Jontrell Woodrose straightened to his full height—one eye on the officer and one gazing past him in the general direction where he seemed to feel that his wife was hiding.
“I'll be waiting for you,” was all he said.
He spoke just loud enough for Lyra to catch his message—a message that no one of the Great Army of the Republic understood. Jon's face softened in a smile. Then, he winked—past a greatly disturbed Captain Rookenik of the Fifth Platoon.
Two more shots echoed through the graveyard settlement, and a scream rose up behind—a piercing, primal wail that stiffened the hair on the back of every Caldreen'n's neck.
Lyra's voice had come back.
CHAPTER 2
“NOOOOOOO!”
The scream didn't sound like her own. It didn't even sound human. Lyra buckled over and waited for the world to go black. She wanted to die, but she was not so lucky. Her hearing, still keen, picked up the rush of infantry boots heading her way. Oh, no!
Through a hot sheet of tears she saw them nearing and knew she wouldn't make it to the river before being spotted. God, what do I do now? Something drew her eyes up higher to the thick green of tazeberry branches overhead. She was sure she could scramble up.
Wait, she could get trapped up there.
No, do it!
Stuffing her despair and hesitation into a tiny, dark hole, Lyra reached for the lowest branch.
Moments later she lay horizontal and motionless in a layer of canopy as soldiers jogged by underneath, assuming she had bolted toward the river. A small movement very near the side of her face made her start and nearly fall, but it was just the glistening, white tendril of an early tazeberry blossom extending toward her—likely hoping she was a passing beetle it could shock and eventually digest. The current it generated would only produce a pinprick of a welt on a human-sized animal, but Lyra swiftly plucked the blossom and dropped it to the ground, nonetheless. She didn't need any more pain right now.
Crunch. Crunch.
The footfalls of a cavalry zethrin disturbed the leaf litter below, its snuffling azure snout curiously investigating the fallen blossom. Oh no, they're going to find me! Then Lyra noted that it had no rider. It must have wandered off. The adrenaline ebbed.
Lyra had little practical knowledge of zethrin. They were not native to this area. They were carnivores, preferring a diet of small mammals. They couldn't fly, but were very good gliders and they were extremely intelligent—prized possessions of the Great Army.
Well … do I dare try?
As silently as possible she let herself down, positively trembling and sure that she would be seen at any moment. She approached the shining blue beast with soft coos and gentle strokes of his feathery neck, then took a deep breath and swung up in the saddle. It remained calm and docile. The sounds of the searching soldiers continued at the river's edge. Still all clear. Lyra tried mimicking the leg squeezes and clicks she'd observed and, obediently, the zeth' started to take her farther into wooded coolness.
Heading out of sight of the abandoned settlement, Lyra did not look back at the body of her husband. She couldn't stand to. It wasn't him anymore, anyway. Just a shell of where he used to be.
When she was sure they were out of earshot, she coaxed her ride to a swifter gait—a rather jerky, swaying rhythm that felt unnatural to Lyra's hips, but she managed to stay on. Unfortunately, this mode of travel had its disadvantages. Although her mount was willing enough, she found she had to stick to the more open, exposed tracts of forest to accommodate its commanding, striding body. It had also sustained some injuries from the battle. Whatever tracker Rookenik was surely sending after her by now would be able to catch up soon enough. So, Lyra's focus was merely speed. She had to lead the platoon away from the Believers' migration course and head toward civilization to the southeast. She could get lost in the humanity there long enough to let her ankle heal and her hunters disperse before attempting to rejoin her people.
Lyra urged her ride over steep, rocky hills and along sloped, treed mountainsides as swiftly as she dared ask. At first, she was able to focus on the terrain and her plan for hiding out, but as the hours passed, her brain started replaying the horrors of the day. Over and over again. Twenty times. Fifty. Jon's last caress. His last kiss. His last wink just before the bullet dug a channel through his skull.
The threads of security that held her insides together unraveled, leaving frayed seams that bled into shredded nothingness, tattered bits that used to beat a rhythm of love. Shoulder-wrenching sobs tormented her frame and for long periods of time, she became oblivious to her surroundings.
At some point it hit her that it was very dark. Only one of the three moons made a drop of light in the sky and her transportation stumbled more and more—exhausted, traveling blind, and injured. Lyra determinedly brushed away dust-coated tears and made the animal continue for several more miles, encouraging it softly until she couldn't bear to ask one more stride of the heaving, faltering creature.
In a small clearing under a canopy of drooping shudder spruces, Lyra dismounted, touching gingerly on her throbbing ankle. The zethrin collapsed in a heap. She knelt and stroked its dirty, matted feathers. Through a grief stricken throat, Lyra hummed gently to him and told him what a good boy he was as she stripped off a clump of moisture-laden mothermoss growing on tree bark and wrung it out over a particularly large, crescent-shaped cut on the animal's side. Its calming antibiotic effects would help the healing.
She didn't worry too much about leaving the hurting zethrin resting on a thick carpet of needles and vegetative duff. It would be picked up in the morning by the platoon. So, through her own pain and exhaustion, she risked night travel in untamed woods. Occasional rustlings or crackling of twigs teased at Lyra's imagination, but she had a hard time working up the proper sense of fear. Death by vicious whorlock might be nice and quick, anyway. She hardly even noticed prickly tree branches ripping at clothing and scratching flesh as she limped ponderously along. She had to make it to Flantilly … or die trying.
When morning light stretched groping fingers along the landscape, Lyra dropped, pack and all, into a hillside of ferns to rest a while. Numb from misery, pain, and clinical shock, she soon fell asleep, lingering tears mingling with the dew.
A few hours later, Lyra was sorry she awoke. Every muscle in her body ached, her ankle was swollen to at least three times its size, and all she had on her was a little bread and dried sweetroot to eat. Her empty water canteen got a severe cursing worthy of repentance, but the Lord let her pay penance with the first mile of the day. It was agony.
A sturdy stick eventually helped support her weight. The
pain dulled a little, too, once her muscles warmed up.
Her continuous prayer trickling out split lips asked for the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Surely the Lord would help her evade capture. She was the Bearer, after all. Wasn't the security of the artifact of utmost importance?
Lyra just wished being faithful didn't have to be so … painful. God had just required literally everything of her—her husband, family, home. It was so much to bear, and she felt so alone.
“Be at peace,” something whispered. “Look.”
Lyra halted in surprise. The words had been distinct and clear as if someone were standing right beside her. She looked.
The view from foothill ridge number nine revealed cultivated farmlands and quaint habitations that was the western quadrant of the country town of Flantilly sprawling through the narrow valley below. She could make out the grid of businesses and homes beyond. Lyra dropped to her knees.
“Forgive my grumblings, Father. I have been weak!”
A warmth spread through her, enveloping her entire being, and for just a moment, she was not throbbing body and soul. She wasn't aching for her children, her heart not bleeding for her husband. She would see them again. She would be okay. God would protect her.
The distant striding of boots and men's voices cut short the brief respite, making Lyra jerk her head around. Oh no, the platoon!
She leaped up and began to sprint downhill, teeth gritted against her sprain. She didn't need to reach the inner city, just a rocky country road to help hide her steps. Then maybe she could take shelter in a barn or root cellar.
But after a day and a half of forcing her ankle to go above and beyond the call of duty, it gave out on a large stone. Lyra whirled out of control. She tumbled and bounced three quarters of the way down until a great, prickly oak stopped her with a sickening thud—forehead greeting trunk.
Gasping for air, and through the tingling fuzziness of fading consciousness, Lyra managed to untangle her arms from the straps of her pack and fling the leather and canvas bag as far away from her as she could.
God, protect it!
Huh, this seems like a nice place to die.
Man, I hate Caldreen'ns. …
Searing stiffness and—could it be true?—bacon.
Lyra stirred, struggling to open her eyes. Ugh. All was swirling, blinking colors. Even the dim light from the single, overhead bulb was too much.
“Ah, you are just in time for mornin' repast,” said a nasal Caldreen'n accent. It was familiar. Unfortunately. “Well, mine anyway,” it corrected.
The smiling face of Captain Rookenik crunching into a thick slice of bacon with relish eventually became recognizable and revulsion flared in Lyra's chest. It sharpened her senses.
She was in a small prison cell, dumped on a musty cot. The rust brick walls framed no windows. The dingy toilet in the corner was sole companion to a sink and faucet with a continuous drip. A thick wooden door sat open to a dark hallway. She had to take his word for it that she had been out for a day and night.
He swallowed. “Welcome to Flantilly's enforcement station.”
Lyra strained to sit up over protesting muscles and noticed her boots had been removed. Rookenik straddled a three-legged stool behind a compact table from which wafted the tantalizing smells of omelet, cheese, and a butter-drizzled biscuit. As if on cue, her stomach growled. Traitor.
The captain grinned broader. “Food will be brought to you—after we talk,” he said, and took a sip of some steaming beverage in a tin cup. “I have already ordered a nurse to come attend to your wounds.”
Lyra glanced at her distended ankle. It had turned a ravishing purple and was her primary source of pain. A close second: a pounding headache from the skull-melding-with-tree-trunk incident. The back of her neck also ached. Her right elbow … her tailbone. She could go on.
“What do you want to talk about?” Lyra's throat felt thick and sticky with dehydration. Physical complaint number ten.
“Well, to begin, I know your small company was part o' a larger group that left earlier. Where did they go?”
“I don't know.” That was mostly the truth. “Most of us weren't told the exact location in the event that something like you came along.” She tried to spit this venomously—a difficult task when you're running low on spit. “And the one man who knew where we were going, you shot in the head.”
Rookenik's egg-laden fork stopped midway to his mouth. “Aye,” he admitted, “but as I recall, he was no' the one you were really worried about, was he?” He spoke his next words slower. “You did no' react until someone else was executed. And o' those two … let me think,” he pretended to think hard, “I bet it was that handsome, husky fellow with the curly hair.”
Lyra knew her expression gave her away. She wasn't a good liar.
“Was he special to you?” the captain simpered.
Her fists balled up the cot's threadbare blanket at her sides and her jaw became rigid while, smirking, the captain went back to his breakfast still speared on the two prongs of his fork.
Now!
With her good leg, Lyra kicked hard at the little table's edge, forcing the opposite end into the captain's gut. He and his insubstantial stool careened backward. His head hit the floor with a satisfying thump and Lyra lunged forward. Snarling, she lifted the table over her head. You're going to feel on your face just how special Jon—!
“Excuse me,” a mild voice spoke from the door's threshold. “Would you like me to come back later when you are finished? It would be more efficient to treat the both o' you at one time.”
Lyra froze. A very aged woman hovered in the doorway, her large medical bag held at waist level, her plain, dark work dress adorned only with a modestly high collar and long sleeves.
An armed guard materialized from the hall, his weapon pointed at Lyra's head. “Put the table down and step away,” he ordered. His cliché tone almost made Lyra laugh. Almost. She did as she was told.
Swearing loudly, Rookenik clambered up. With a napkin he quickly began to dab at splashed beverage scalding his skin. “You sneaking little witch!”
He threw the stained linen against the wall and advanced, preparing a backhand to her face.
“Any further injury, Captain, will likely put this little tiger into shock. Then you will no' be able to finish your interrogation until tomorrow.” The woman's thin, white bun of hair floated above humped shoulders and her wrinkled face bore more resemblance to a wrung out rag left to dry in the sun. She skirted by the guard, brushing the gun away with distaste.
The young officer hesitated, then just shoved Lyra onto the cot. “Try something like that again, wench, and I will introduce a bullet to your skull just like your rebel lover.” Lyra remained hunched on her stomach against the cot, head and muscles screaming. That little maneuver had cost her.
Quietly, the old nurse began setting up her work space on Lyra's makeshift battering ram and Rookenik dismissed the guard. He rubbed, peeved, at the bump forming on the back of his head. “I will leave you to your work, nurse.” To Lyra, he sneered, “We will continue our 'conversation' in a little while.”
When he left, he didn't bother to close the door behind him. Odd. Of course, she wouldn't be able to make a quick getaway on her ankle. There was also the guard.
The nurse started by checking the responses of Lyra's pupils, then moved on to her pulse. “My name is Maehan,” she eventually offered.
“I'm Lyra,” Lyra whispered. “Thank you, Nurse Maehan, for your help.”
Maehan smiled. “How about we take a look at that ankle first?”
At Lyra's lift of her pant cuff, Maehan's eyes widened and she clucked sympathetically. She made Lyra move it back and forth for her as she palpated the area with arthritic, age-spotted hands. The treatment: wrap it snugly in gauze.
“I am no' a nurse, by the way—no' officially,” Maehan said. “I am a Keeper. Been doing that for many years. But the captain knows I have had plenty o' experi
ence with these types o' minor injuries, and,” she chuckled, “I am cheaper than a clinical nurse and happened to be on a stopover here with the caravan. Convenient for him and his limited governmental budget, I would say.”
Lyra was puzzled. “A Keeper?”
“Keeper o' the Women.” Lyra's continued confusion was evident and Maehan paused in her wrapping. “Khari'na?” she tried.
Khari'na! The word made Lyra shudder. Concubines. Slave mistresses. Old-fashioned terms for the modern, extremely lucrative, government-run auctioning of women. Khari'na were not addressed like other women with a “Mrs.” or “Miss,” but bore a distinct title of “'Na” before their name. The sound of it filled her with disgust.
Maehan guessed at her thoughts as she finished the wrap. “You are no' from one o' the sanctioned towns or villages, I take it.”
“… No,” Lyra answered hesitantly. How much should she say? The less the better.
“Do no' look so horrified, Little Tiger. The great majority o' the girls come quite willingly. It is their best hope for avoiding poverty and sickness in the Republic's many poor settlements. The families also receive a percentage o' the sale. It can set them up for several years—more sometimes.” She began administering some antibiotic ointment to an open cut on Lyra's head. “Khari'na mostly live a stable, pampered life, child.”
Lyra said nothing.
“I think I need to give this one a stitch to keep it closed,” Maehan observed. “Are you up for it? I know in the hospitals they are experimenting with a painkiller that numbs only the spot needing treatment, but all I have here is some alcohol to dull the pain.”
“No, thank you,” Lyra said. “I don't drink. I'll just … grin and bear it, if you can be fast.”
A sparse, white eyebrow was raised. “Are you sure?”
