by Jean Winter
They walked through the cell wing, more doors on either side lining the way, and Lyra soon detected a light herbal scent mixed with vanilla floating about Mr. Hundt's person. His shampoo? Hmm, she wouldn't have pegged him for the type. Hundt grunted briefly to a sleepy guard at the end of the hall and they entered a sparse, communal office area. A few desks. Some patriotic paintings of past Caldreen'n leaders all gazing sternly out into nowhere. Minimalist military chic.
A large banner of the Republic floated across the top of the main exit: a pale green triangle, one red stripe slashing it horizontally in half. Maehan and Hundt paused for an obligatory salute. Then they all passed under, stepping out double doors carved with scenes of some of the Republic of Caldreen's “glorious” historical battles.
It was late afternoon by the looks of it and Lyra's eyes smarted under the sudden, intense light. This part of Flantilly was not known to her. The Believers' infrequent shopping excursions took place at the opposite end. However, the basic scene was familiar enough: cobblestone streets, sturdy, family-owned shops, the general giving way and careful, averted faces for army personnel.
The locals had no problem casting curious eyes upon her trio though. Could she blame them? A bowed, elderly Keeper and a dark, forbidding giant cradling the small frame of a dirt-stained, beaten woman, her frizzled hair accented with bits of forest floor? No.
Before long they turned off on packed gravel and residential neighborhoods. The older homes, cabin-like. The new ones, larger, red-bricked with iron accents, and proudly displaying Caldreen'n flags billowing over neatly trimmed hedges and flower beds.
Drowsiness knit a shroud over Lyra again. It seemed those pills were still holding her body hostage. They rounded a bend and through heavy lashes Lyra made out the blocky train barges and yellow, canvas tents of a khari'na caravan in the distance. Her lids grew heavier. The relaxed prattling of female voices tumbled into her ears. Deep lowing and snuffles accompanied by the distinct odor of fresh manure told her that very large beasts of burden were bedded not many yards away. She struggled to remain alert, to identify the creatures, to study these foreign surroundings.
Gralion Hundt's gait crunched a steady beat.
The drugs slogged an indistinct lullaby in her head.
Sleep persuaded—and won.
The sound of Maehan pulling back a tent flap woke Lyra. The soft light that entered with the Keeper told her it was twilight and that she lay on a freestanding hammock. Another hammock and a large trunk against the wall opposite the door used up the rest of the available space. This abode was not made to accommodate two people.
Her head felt clearer now. It also helped that the light had dimmed. Maehan brought her a large bowl of a meaty stew and Lyra carefully sat up to take it.
“Thank you,” she whispered. It smelled really good, and she was absolutely famished!
Also procured for her was a substantial slice of warm, brown bread and a mug of milk. Lyra dove in to her meal as fast as politely possible.
“This is my tent,” the old woman offered after a minute. “You will bed here with me during your recovery. Tonight I can help you bathe. Then you must rest. We have an early start in the morning. We have more girls to collect along this route and then it is onward to the capital city for auction.”
Lyra had to grab her bowl with both hands to keep it from falling off her lap.
“Ma'am, I … I need to stay here.”
Maehan shook her head. “I feel for your predicament, my dear, but I invested a lot in you and even above that, you are still property o' the Republic. Whether or no' I wish for your freedom is irrelevant.”
“No, I mean, I can't leave yet,” she clarified, heart hammering against her chest.
“Is there something you need to do first?”
What other option was there but to tell the truth? “I need to go get something. My backpack. It has … personal items of immense sentimental value. May I please go find it?”
“You are in no condition to go wandering about Flantilly in the dark by yourself.”
“Please. Please, my lady! I must—I have to have it. I'll do anything.” Lyra gulped. Did she just say that?
“Little Tiger, I am no lady. I am hardly even a ma'am. And sweet moon mother Henna, you do no' need to get yourself so worked up! Every khari'na is allowed one bag or trunk o' personals.” Lyra nearly tingled with relief. “But we will need to bother Grally again. He must accompany you tonight. He will be too busy in the morning overseeing the inventory and head count.”
The thought of asking a favor of the security guard for a second time in twenty-two hours tasted sour to Lyra, but incurring his disdain was better than being forced to leave Flantilly empty-handed. Maehan hailed a passerby to find Mr. Hundt and Lyra finished her meal, fretting over her ability to find the same spot on the slope where her tumbling had come to a stiff end. It would be even harder in the dark.
While Maehan started on some mending, Lyra took the opportunity to inconspicuously bow her head.
Father of All … I need help. I don't know what Thy plan is for me, but I am still trying to fulfill my stewardship. I'm trying to remain faithful and trust in Thy wisdom. Please … guide me to my pack—
“You again?”
Mr. Hundt! Lyra's head flew up.
“Grally, 'Na Lyra needs you to help her fetch a personal item she left behind before she was taken to the compound.” Maehan turned to Lyra. “It is in the city, correct?”
“Well, it—it's just outside the northwestern city limit, where the foothills meet the valley,” she stammered, her cheeks coloring. A frown dipped Hundt's mouth and he folded his arms across his chest. The fact that he couldn't stand up fully in the tent made him look even more forbidding. She tried not to shrivel. “Please. It's very important to me.”
“A trip to that point and back will take at least two hours,” he said. His tone was even with practiced patience. The tightening of his eyes, however, indicated something different. “I will also need to saddle up a pony for you. If this is about some lacy, frilly thing that is your favorite color—”
“No. I'm not asking you to help me find a stupid dress!” Lyra flushed. That came out stronger than she'd intended. “I mean … it's a backpack, containing some things of great personal value.” She could scarcely look him in the eye. Few probably dared speak to him that way. She was surprised then when she caught the hint of a smile. It seemed he found her little outburst amusing—this time.
He considered her a moment, then with a sigh, tersely began to outline a plan. Back in half an hour with mech torches. She needed a warm cloak and “something to cover that foot.” Upon leaving, Maehan received a wry arch of his eyebrow. Sure you don't want to reconsider your latest purchase? it said.
Maehan was able to dig out a thick, black cloak from her trunk. “This should keep you warm enough.” The task of finding something for Lyra's foot, however, made the old Keeper's lips pucker in deliberation. They finally decided to bind it up in scraps of leather. Next, Maehan thoughtfully combed through Lyra's matted hair so she could pull it back in a tight ribbon out of the way.
Exactly on time, Hundt returned with a shaggy brown and white striped pony. He helped Lyra mount up.
The stallion was of typical size, its fuzzy head as high as Lyra's shoulder, its youthfulness apparent by the shortness of its single, straight, off-white antler growing midway between arrowhead shaped ears. It was plenty strong to carry her though, and his sure, rubbery hooves would pick their way easily across unpaved landscape when it was time to leave the road.
The Woodrose family had occasionally enjoyed riding friends' ponies in the settlement. The women often used them for working the livestock, though Lyra, herself, preferred to jog with the men. For those with the stamina, running was actually the faster method as a ponies' short, stocky legs were not made for speed.
Nervousness boxed at her insides as she struck out into the darkness with the big man. She wasn't sure if she trusted him
, and she hated to think how angry he might be if it ended up taking hours to find her pack. What if she couldn't find it at all? Lyra spent the first minutes gathering all her mental powers to picture the details of the nearest farm she had seen before her fall and loss of consciousness: the leaning barn with the weather vane, a fence line only fifty yards from the tree she hit, the tree itself, unusual in its crooked growth like a nest of worms. She was surprised at the clear vision that formed.
At junctions in the road, Hundt waited for Lyra to direct him. The triplet moons seemed especially bright tonight and, nearly without a hitch, they found the farm, the barn, the pasture fence. Thank the Almighty! There, they abandoned the road to trail up the mountainside.
The shrouding trees made it time to bring out their mechanical torches and Lyra flipped hers on, feeling the warm hum of the piphony plant's green jelly-like sap through the tin casing as it made contact with coiled filaments inside the tube. The glass bulb at the other end glowed and she shone it about. Moments later, Lyra was crying out softly in delight. Up the slope and a little to the left was the prickly oak, its coarse leaves curled at the tips in sharp ridges.
She quickly offered a prayer of gratitude in her heart. At least the Lord was making something go her way. Lyra clucked to her mount, but Hundt's massive arm suddenly shot out, laying hold of the bridle. He had turned his torch off and quickly commandeered hers as well, pressing a silencing finger to his lips. Lyra obeyed. Straining her eyes up the slope, she soon saw something: the faint glow of campfire not far from the tree.
With caution, Hundt led her pony to a thicket. He tied it there, giving Lyra a strict command to stay put and wait for his return. Then he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lyra to marvel at how such a large man could move so quietly.
She sat for a minute, enveloped in sounds of the night, zealously dismissing any apprehension she was tempted to feel by calmly stroking her ride. Everything would be fine. She even tried to become annoyed over the new ache her ankle had developed from dangling off the pony's side for so long.
A deep bellow rang above the forest, interrupting the crickets' serenading and snapping Lyra's backbone to rigidity. Was that Hundt? Faint shouts erupted. The clunks and sharp knocks of clashing weapons followed.
Oh, no! Lyra slid off her pony and hobbled as fast as she could toward the glow. She was not as stealthy as her companion.
Then a new sound arose—a whistle of sorts. The hum came and went in short spurts. The same pitch every time. The tone was so clear Lyra could sing it if she wanted. A “B” below middle “C”? No, a perfect “B” flat.
Wait. How did she know that?
Lyra shook her head and jerked her bad foot along faster.
A break in the trees finally allowed visual on a small clearing that had been made into a campsite. A healthy, crackling fire licked at a pot hung overhead. Beyond the flames, part in shadow and part lit up in angry red and orange hues, was Hundt fending off attackers. Lyra crouched, tense, behind a downed, rotting tree.
The strange, monotone whistle originated from Mr. Hundt, or rather, from what he was wielding, for in his hand he swung a coppery rod about three quarters the length of a fishing pole, thicker at the base and narrowing in segments, like a seaman's telescope. Something round and solid hung a few inches off the tubular end. The slightly flexible rod and ball whizzed through the air, striking many an arm, head, and body with serious results. The weapon was the source of the tone, and Hundt was making it sing.
Wow. Lyra watched in fascination.
She counted ten men in all. Some already lay moaning on the ground or dead. Others were attempting to crawl away. The remaining few waved swords or knives, struggling even to get close enough to use them. Hundt looked relaxed and calculating.
He downed one more after which the last two finally demonstrated an ounce of brain. They ran.
Poised in readiness, dark skin glistening in the firelight, Hundt waited for the others that could still move to follow suit. Soon, all was still.
Lyra stood. “That was amazing!” she breathed.
Hundt's head jerked, eyes scouting for her beyond the campfire.
“Sorry. It's just me,” she called. She carefully began to maneuver over the trunk that had been her screen. “I heard the fighting and was afraid—”
Hundt leaped over the fire at her, his expression distorted and ugly. Shocked, Lyra ducked her head and threw up shielding arms just as she was yanked off the log with a ferocity that took her breath away. The weapon sang one more time.
It took a second for Lyra's senses to stabilize, to see that she was hanging folded in half over Hundt's rock hard forearm, her face in intimate greeting of his thigh. She craned her neck around to see past it.
Behind her rotted tree, a man slowly dropped to his knees, his face registering shock at the blood leaking from his chest where the sharpened, hollow point of Hundt's strange weapon skewered him. Trembling fingers dropped a dagger to the ground—a dagger that had been aimed at her. His body soon followed and, like the sharp knife, landed with a dull clap in the dirt, heavy and lifeless.
Hundt let her go, and Lyra landed unceremoniously on her backside, stunned. He had just saved her life! She watched the man retrieve his rod from the sticky sternum and pull a cloth from a pocket to wipe the blood from his curious pole.
“Thank you!” she got out.
Hundt snorted. “I told you to wait down there.”
“I was afraid you might be in trouble.”
He gave her a look.
“Well, how was I to know you had that thing? And against a whole gang …” Lyra stood shakily, testing her one, good leg.
“And if I were in trouble, how were you planning to intercede?” There was that glimmer of a grin again.
Lyra shrugged, feeling stupid. Even if he did know she wasn't totally incompetent in hand-to-hand combat, she still wouldn't have been much use tonight—not in her condition.
Hundt gestured to one end of the campsite. “Is that your pack?”
Yes! Lyra half limped, half scrambled to the place where it lay on the ground. Empty! She began a frantic search of the immediate area.
The stolid Hundt stood sentinel as, one by one, Lyra located her items. She felt his eyes on her as she lovingly dusted off Iyalyn's homespun dolly of wood and fabric and found Rorn's carved switchblade set aside on a rock. Lyra brushed the weight of his gaze aside to return anxious eyes to the ground for the really important object. “Did you see them handling anything in particular when you first got here?”
“One o' them was attempting to pry open a box on that stump over there,” Hundt grunted. “They were no' interested in letting me anywhere near it or your bag.” He shook his head. “Common gypsy thieves. They needed some … persuasion.”
Lyra flew to the stump and seized the ancient metal and wood box—still intact. Clutching it in quivering hands, she fell to her knees. Oh, thank the Heavens! Thank God! she exulted and wept openly.
Her warrior savior was made to wait as she ceremoniously re-wrapped her stewardship in its white linen covering then bowed her head in prayer, giddy with relief, exhausted by the day.
“Is that everything?” Hundt had held back until she was done and had a chance to dry her eyes with her sleeves. Lyra looked up. His stance indicated eternal patience, but the sharp gaze requested an explanation.
She had to disappoint. “Everything of importance.”
Something in his jaw shifted.
The return trip was uneventful and Lyra kept astutely silent, unwilling to open herself up for examination. It was hard though. Her mind was filled with questions about the security guard near her side—his weapon, his training … him. Strange. Was that type of skill and brute strength really necessary to guard a bunch of gossiping, raffish women?
Back at the caravan, Lyra gave him her most heartfelt thanks. “I am in your debt, sir.”
He gave a slow, deliberate tip his head. “Good evening, 'Na Lyra.” Then he was g
one.
Lyra gratefully accepted Maehan's help straight to bed. She burrowed deep under the covers. Her stomach full, her pack retrieved, no imminent danger threatening, she blithely succumbed to sleep. Deep, deep, mind-numbing sleep.
Leaning on the train barge's window sill, with chin resting on overlapped hands, Lyra watched the scenery roll by. Verdant knolls domed the prairie landscape like velvet, overturned soup bowls. Wispy spikes of lavendrinias dotted the depressions in between. Twitchy-nosed marmins scampered between burrow mounds, twittering tails signaling the start of breeding season. Outside, all the glory of nature beckoned … but Lyra didn't see any of it.
She had largely been left alone since leaving Flantilly and she finally had all the time in the world to dwell on Jon's death. A deep depression had quickly settled over her. She didn't talk to anyone unless compelled. She barely ate. Hours were spent bent over, her arms hugging her knees or just curled against her stomach. She was given to rocking back and forth, slowly, as if she were comforting a baby, purring nameless tunes to no one.
A thousand times Lyra relived that horrific event, memorized in painfully crisp detail. The loss of her husband, her family, her everything consumed every waking moment—and the sleeping ones, too. The nightmares were maddening.
Lyra knew Keeper Maehan was concerned about her, but she didn't care. It was too easy to just sink into oblivion.
A breeze lifted, bringing with it more dust kicked up from plodding churung foot pads. The beast's pale pink scales glittered as they undulated over powerful muscles that pulled the barge on runners gliding smoothly over the murodium track's ice-like surface. Seven other rectangular passenger and storage cars, each about thirty feet in length, slid along in like manner. The khari'na caravan.
Lyra shared her coach with a dozen other women. Idle conversation floated about. Some fanned themselves. It was the warmest part of the day and each occasional wisp of air that entered stirred afresh the scents of stale perfume, musty upholstery, and fetid reminders that the caravan's occupants had been on the road for several days.
