“-Good! I need to take a walk and think about all the things we’ll need to do of course! About my dress—Ooo! I’ll ask Trilla her opinion once her shift is over.” Her heart simply fluttered at this, at all of this. She never imagined that one day she’d marry. She stopped suddenly. “Oh, is that alright, Grudie? To walk about?” She looked at him wide-eyed. “It’s gloomy but it isn’t dark out and the threat from that Treva wench or any rogue WynSprigns would be reduced at this early hour…” She led, grinning hopefully.
“Fine.” He considered that having her appear happily flitting about the encampment would be a positive—continuing to bolster optimistic views of him. He wouldn’t deny this request because it would only serve to benefit. Her cup of tea still steamed on the ledge.
“Eeeee!” she squealed and whirled and spun herself across to the castle door, opening it with a dancing glide.
Grude chuffed a laugh and for the hell of it, swiped her cup of tea—it was fun to watch it plummet and disappear. Finally, his rule was beginning to take a different shape. He still needed his precious trillium reserves of course, but for now, there were fewer Mysra to supply. It was a nice thought, that he didn’t have to disperse his trillium to the throngs of Mysra like he had before. It was his now, and she’d rule the slaves—only they wouldn’t be referred to as such. He’d have to start referring to them as WynSprigns. It was a good move. They’d listen to her. Adore her.
It was all beginning to take shape.
✽✽✽
Cantata twirled from the castle and into the hazy morning air of the Odana. Her sapphire dress was stark whipping against the granite mountain castle behind her. She was beyond thrilled. As she walked out from the castle and down to the base, she greeted the Mysra guards.
“Good morning!” She sang out to them each on her way down, breathing in the new morning, the new life.
“Good morning, milady,” they muttered back with grim faces.
It seemed they already knew that Cantata’s status in the castle was changing. “Oh, this is too lovely!” she gushed to herself walking carefully down. She knew today was different. She imagined that she felt as a Queen and had already, unknowingly to all, achieved a traditionally Queenly requirement. She breathed in deep again, at the knowing. At the new pebble she carried.
She made her way through the maze of huts and toward the small hills at the foot of the mine’s entrance. It was a lengthy stroll, but she was determined. Her sapphire dress drafted and flowed around the tight corners and rows. A tight, inky color against the misshapen gray-brown huts. She squinted as the mine’s entrance came into view.
She opened her mouth gaping slightly, then paused trying to focus. She noticed a line of slaves outside the mine, but this was not the long, lanky line that she had been accustomed to seeing in the recent past. It was true that she was not as familiar with the mining processes or the roles, but she thought for certain the line was longer than this—that there were more slaves than this shabby bunch lined before her. She shrugged this detail off and continued her cheerful, but curious march to the line. She quite liked the idea of greeting her people. She was embracing her new role as a champion. Their champion. And she was determined to brighten their glum lives. It was extraordinarily charitable of her and especially now in her newfound condition.
She came to the back of the short line. The slaves looked back at her and murmured with one another in surprise at seeing Cantata, and with the severe blue of her dress no less.
“Good morning, my fellow WynSprigns! I’m just here to see the work that you do and support you with my voice,” she sang out cheerfully to the weary group. Morning haze still lingered around. The sun had not yet splashed brightness on this side of the mountain, though it was a murky start to the day. It was still quite early and the sun, if Odan be merciful, would remain hidden today.
“Good morning, Cantata,” several responded with forced smiles, but shared the feeling: it really was far too early for this shit.
Cantata noticed confusion masking their faces, but paid it no mind. She’d see to keeping them entertained, and often. It was to encourage them onward at their mining. It was her duty, and she would do this with pride. She’d dance around them and dazzle them with her voice as they toiled. It would make coming to work a treat, no—an honor. They would have a splendid time with her flitting about them.
“Morning, Cantata!” Trilla chirped from the very front of the line. She waved her slightly less purple hand out.
Energetic and cheerful as always. Good, enthusiastic company!
Cantata’s thin arm thrusted upward. “Oh! Morning, Trilla—just the WynSprign I was looking for!” Cantata gently nudged, then shoved, making her way to the front, and trying to be mindful of her long dress as she wove through the hazy group. She walked through the narrow line bumping into the slave miners, trying to avoid falling to her death on the steep side.
“Where is the Mysra guard?” Cantata asked Trilla curiously as she neared. She figured there was a guard that was supposed to be stationed here.
“Well, as odd as it is, the guard never showed up this morning. So, we aren’t sure either,” Trilla responded innocently before glancing at the other miners. Blank expressions everywhere.
Cantata glanced back to the line, now behind her. They were all waiting. They were all confused. They are all unmotivated half-wits. She hummed and held her gloved finger to her closed mouth, thinking. She remembered that Grude had ordered additional security to protect them at the castle. So, that’s likely what happened. She wasn’t going to tell the others about that though—secret royal business. The guard was likely called back to assist at the castle. Luckily, I can take this group under my wing and leadership.
“Well, let’s just go in,” Cantata said, stating what she felt should have been obvious to them.
Nods and murmurs arose. She pranced to the door and, with great effort, lurched it open. The motion causing a few hushed snickers from behind. Then the group lumbered in.
“I just wanted to say that you’re doing great, Cantata,” a small elderly WynSprign woman gushed. Her voice sang out the words—the same as Cantata would often do. The old woman had strolled behind everyone else. She was quite old and odd. Perhaps even…familiar?
Cantata’s face smiled, but she had found the woman’s singing statement unusual. Is she trying to mock me? She looked into that soft warm face. No, probably just encouraged to sing out her happiness now that I’m around.
Uncertain of how to respond to the woman, Cantata twisted her upper lip into a smile and followed in behind her, thus ending the line.
Chapter 21
Until the end—to whatever end that awaited
Anah and Marin panted, catching their breath. They took a quick pause from running throughout the camp telling the WynSprigns to run for the trench hill, and guiding their steps across the trench. They had acted quickly. Exhilaration filled the air. Having partaken in the freeing of countless slaves had been an absolute joy for the girl. Watching several more scuttle to the other side and into the woods had lifted her heart. Unexpectedly, she grabbed Marin’s hand and, in a swift move, jerked him close to her. Surprised, he met her smiling stare. Her lips pressed against his for only a moment. It was quick. The sensation sent delicate tingles through them—wonderful flutters. But they had only a moment to spare, and no more. They had been alerting the WynSprigns at the southern border, where she and Gish had spied previously and there were still so many more to help across to safety. They had been able to take action after Gish had hung a bloodied rag from a tower window that faced the forest—his signal.
Hours had passed by the time Gish had taken out the tower guard there. He had arrived just after the shift change for the guard at sunup. His was the first mission of the group. He knew the guard assigned at that post would be tired, just as he had been when he was a guard. They often drifted into a light sleep. Nothing ever took place. The WynSprigns, until recently, never dared escape. Nonethe
less, there was no room for error in this mission. Gish took a chance on the guard’s weariness, snuck up the tower’s narrow steel grates, and slit the his throat. The guard had rested against the wall, just near the entrance of the tower’s lookout. He had little chance of survival positioned like this. If the guard was actually sleeping—Gish didn’t know. It was convenient for Gish and he didn’t have to rely on trillium for the needed rush and strength of a brawl.
Gish, in a rush to move on with the plan, didn’t take time to look out from his high vantage point. He fumbled for his signal—a rag, and put this in position for his friends on the ground to view. Done.
Just as he turned from the lookout, the additional guard was ascending the twisted staircase. They locked eyes. Gish’s breath left his lungs the moment of recognition. It was a former partner assigned to the tower! Dizrin. A cold sweat claimed him. Gish didn’t account for an additional guard to be stationed here! He thought there had been changes to the rotation! That only single guards were now being assigned since none were spotted previously! Shit! His heart hammered.
Dizrin, hesitated before fumbling with his pouch. His fingers desperate to claim trillium. He needed the mineral induced surge of power before this challenge. In a blink, that hope was abandoned. Gish, who was positioned higher, swung down with his sword. It clanged in time to catch the guard’s jagged knife.
Damn it!
He hadn’t acted fast enough. Gish swung and grated his metal against his foe’s. Having the advantage of height, Gish pushed down against the knife. He ground his teeth through strain. The force, metal against metal, muscle against muscle. Beaded sweat glistened.
Dizrin growled, “You pampered bast—” Gish’s blade snapped! At the twang of metal, a hint of a smile started on Dizrin’s lips just as Gish’s weight sent him forward. Down. Belting into the now-bewildered guard only steps beneath. They tumbled and fought. Gish grabbed on to Dizrin’s ankles, his arm. He slammed his fists into unknown, unseen body parts and into the mortar itself—the guard did the same. They clawed and fought, tumbling down the steep stairs and into the dark beneath. Gish crashed into a wooden handrail and felt—heard—his ribs crack. Whether or not the two pounded each other, the stairs played its part with its own battery.
At the landing, beaten, bloodied, and broken Gish, fighting painfully for breath, in confusion grasped his pockets, searching, feeling, needing. Dizrin’s nose was crooked and gushing black blood. His knife was tossed only steps away. They both lay there, gasping for air and grappling...
It wasn’t there. The trillium. He’d forgotten! Gish’s free fingers trembled as he tried to move—a hilt. His fingers felt the hilt. His sword may have snapped, but he was still an armed Mysra.
Dizrin, still coiled with Gish, tried to reach for his knife. He stomped, kicking Gish in the thigh. Gish howled, but remained unyielding as he pried his wrist from Dizrin, just as Dizrin edged, touching his knife’s grip. In a flash, Dizrin palmed his knife and turned to swipe Gish, but it was too late! Gish swayed back—allowing the blade to whiz just before him. Gish used the forward momentum of his foe and, in a deft move, jabbed him through the eye! Deep. There was no doubt that his blade had cleaved his brain. They locked bewildered gazes. There was no love lost. Gish and Dizrin, though partners for years, never—not once—liked each other.
✽✽✽
Through the soft rain that now began to loose, a bloodied rag hung from the tower window. With the signal that the tower guard was taken down, it was the time to run free.
Anah and Marin, back to their adrenaline-induced mission, shouted as loud as their voices would allow. The astonished slaves were hesitant, at first, but largely took action and began to run as instructed.
“To the hill! The trench hill!” Anah belted out, reminding them as they ran. She had long dreamed, and planned, to free all the slaves. She could scarcely believe she was finally getting her wish though it meant running around and trying to get the WynSprigns moving. The reality of it was better than anything she could have dared imagine for herself. She licked her lips, still tasting Marin there.
✽✽✽
Freck and Felena had made it to the northern section of the slave encampment, toward the castle base. They had already instructed the slaves to leave, to run. Those slaves would encounter Marin and Anah. It was such a large group. Larger than Freck or Felena had envisioned. It was expected that a large group would bottleneck, waiting in anxiety to take their turn to pass through the planned route. Only one could pass at a time across the trench. Two—if one had to be carried.
They each lifted silent prayers to Odan under their breath.
✽✽✽
“Eeew!” Marin said still bending, bracing his weight against his knees. “What’s-what’s that—it smells awful around here.” His face contorted at the waft of malodorous breeze that shifted his way.
Anah raised her shoulders and let them fall, shrugging his useless question off. It wasn’t their problem to deal with at the moment.
“Does it always smell like that?” Marin continued. He straightened again, wincing from raindrops and that putrid odor.
She wasn’t paying any attention to his mere disgust. More important things were underway. She scanned the running crowd to focus on them running in the correct direction. Understanding this was the trickle from Freck and Felena’s crowd, from their section to the north. While the crowd waited to cross, the steps for crossing were shared, practiced, over and over again. A vital dance they all paid unbreakable attention to.
Without further probing of Anah, Marin suddenly remembered that the head guard, Nizen, was supposed to have been stuffed into Treva’s old hut and that her hut had been positioned near this trench. Ahh, right. “Was my mother’s hut around here?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, it was,” Anah answered quickly still focused on the organized chaos surrounding them. Thinking. Focusing. Monitoring as the group of restless, bewildered slaves gathered as instructed and waited for their turn to cross—practicing the series of movements needed to cross safely.
“Right. Never mind,” Marin said quietly to himself as he rightly concluded the smell was indeed Nizen; who was noticeably decomposing already. The slave called Miken and the other ones were successful in their task. Relief came. It meant that the slaves got away with it, but it would have been for only a short while. If the stench alone wasn’t enough to alert other guards, than the missing and newly appointed head monitor, would be. It had been a risk, a trust that they had given his mother. Without the rescue, eventually Nizen would be noticed missing and his decaying body would be discovered. Who knows the punishment that would have been inflicted upon them then? Marin shuddered at the thought.
✽✽✽
Treva would never forget the sight. She knowingly memorized the sight, the feeling she had witnessing the WynSprigns climbing up, just after conquering the trench. Their faces would focus upward, to the growing crowd in the tree line. The expressions of sheer joy, exhilaration, freedom shining upon them. A familiar face helping to pull the struggling up, General Prince Lanico Loftre himself.
At first, it seemed impossible. His clothes, the rugged appearance. The humble nature of actually touching and helping them up, but—that face. Tough, dirtied, and damp with sweat, he had the same face. The voice, solid and deep.
A General’s voice.
As the group increased in size, every moment passing, excitement and anxiety grew from the clamoring crowd. Though he hadn’t said anything, she knew that his arms burned at the strain of helping to lift them up one at a time, over and over again. Treva was just behind, still watching the small images of Marin and Anah beyond the trench. Her eyes flicking from her General Prince to Anah and Marin, watching for signs of danger.
Others, more abled-bodied, turned and followed his movements, helping pull struggling slaves up and over the steep hill and onto the forest plateau. Many landed on the plateau, panting, lying over the carpet of grass and larkloft flowers. It was arduous bu
t the hunger for freedom urged even the most feeble of them onward, and Treva couldn’t have been any prouder.
After what seemed like hundreds had climbed, Lanico’s tall form turned, emerged from the hill, and strolled into the wooded area. Treva left her position and flanked him.
“Lanico!” an approaching WynSprign woman cried. “It’s gotta be…” Treva knew that he hadn’t assisted this woman, or the others that had stood behind her. Six. There were six of them. “We are thrilled to have you here, sire.” She gave a bow and the others behind her did the same.
He was about to protest, but she stood and continued to explain that she and the others had escaped weeks ago and had been living here, among these dense woods. They had heard the growing din and came from the near distance to investigate.
“This is an explanation of why I noticed tracks of others when we arrived here to camp.” Lanico’s voice sounded relieved; thankful his tracking skills were still reliable after all–he had held a small concern earlier. Seeing the escapees, he said “I’m overjoyed to meet such a brave group and that you were able to make it through undetected.” To this they smiled and bowed humbly.
The Legacy of Lanico: Return of the Son: Book two of the Legacy of Lanico series Page 20