Across the Largo

by Mitchell Atkinson

  ***

  Esmeralda sat behind the boulder and looked up at Acheron’s snarling, grey face. He was tense, eyes trained to the mouth of the pass. She worked her hands against the tightly bound cords at her wrists. The gag tasted like sweat and cut at the corners of her mouth. She felt the flute under her now hopelessly ruined dress, its crystal body warm.

  From the bottom of the slope and to the left she heard a repetitive creaking. She tried to crawl around the edge of the rock but quickly found Acheron’s awful hand gripping her shoulder.

  “Do not move,” he hissed under his breath.

  She stayed still, wary of the wildly fearful look in Acheron’s eyes. He seemed quite ready to snap. Sweat rolled off of his grey face, and his eyes flashed from side to side erratically, scanning for everything at once. He released his hold on her after a moment, shifting his position to see further down the pass. With the supervision temporarily relaxed, Esmeralda inched up a tiny bit, so that she could see down the slope of the mountain.

  A carriage, no horse attached, rolled slowly along the ground, as if given a great push at the mouth of the pass. Esmeralda looked up at Acheron. His eyes were wide, staring. He held a fist up above the boulder, extended his index finger and waved it in a circle. From across the ridge, one of the Phoon drones fired an arrow into the carriage. Just one.

  They waited. There was no response. No motion from within. Acheron lifted up his fist and spread his fingers wide. From all throughout the hills, the hidden Phoon sent arrows into the carriage, riddling the wooden frame, smashing through the windows and sometimes splintering through the planks of wood.

  They waited. Esmeralda breathed slowly. She knew that she might be rescued soon. She also might be forced to see a number of people die. She looked up at Acheron, his face a horrible mask of grimacing hate. She tried to breathe slowly. The restless air fled out of her mouth.

  THOOM. The carriage exploded into a raging sphere of fire and thick, black smoke.

  Acheron screamed, not surprised, infuriated. He stood up from the boulder, staring over the flames to the mouth of the pass. Deep, opaque smoke piled into the air. Visibility was quickly diminishing. Without orders, some of the Phoon fired on the wreckage, foolishly. Acheron held up his fist and all firing ceased. From the mouth of the pass came the sounds of quickly scrambling feet. The attackers were on their way. Eyes desperate, Acheron raised his own bow unsteadily; there was nothing to be seen through the smoke, no way to shoot confidently through that expanding gloom.

  “Down, down,” he screamed out.

  The Phoon drew out of hiding and began to descend out of the hills with incredible agility and speed.

  Down the pass, the attackers began calling out, deep cries through the haze, the sound of the wide-eyed warrior.

  Acheron didn’t descend with the other Phoon. He turned his attention to Esmeralda.

  “Smart soldiers, your father’s scouts are. I don’t think they have a chance against us.”

  Esmeralda was thinking of a response when a high, bright sound cut through the cries of approaching warfare and the low and constant growl of the flames. Raahi’s flute. It sang over and through the fire below, flew around the smoke and, like a bird, landed on Esmeralda’s shoulder, chirping its secrets to her ears.

  Acheron’s eyes went wide. “The Song Wizards?” He looked down at Esmeralda. “Why do they want you?”