Rogue Beyond the Wall

by Giselle Jeffries Schneider

  That there sent his heart pounding. His breaths shaking.

  Then the figure hit the line of trees and stopped. A personal shield appeared. Isaiah saw enough of the glimmer to know what spell he was looking at now without needing his magic sight, and his head shook again. His hand was still over his mouth.

  He isn’t even attacking back.

  And with that the figure vanished into the trees.

  Isaiah turned away, hoping the person wasn’t too injured to keep going. His heart ached for whoever it was out there.

  Brida (Nicholas)

  Nicholas’ feet tripped over his own boots, his toes so cold they were numb and swollen against the material. His boots were actually an old pair of his father’s and normally fit slightly large, so his feet should have been sliding around. Maybe they were sliding around. Maybe that was why they hurt so much.

  Then he got caught under a root, staggered, and fell sideways. A tree caught him, but he pushed away and grasped firmly to the wound on his side as he seethed loudly into the silent forest.

  “You need to stop, Nicholas,” came a voice. It was female, young, and somehow next to him yet distant. It sounded like…

  He shook his head weakly, blood pooling over his fingers through his shirt and tunic to warm his entire side. His thigh was helping with warmth of its own. No, she’s dead. He had seen her hanging, watched her die. It’s just my guilt.

  “Stop. Please. You’ll kill yourself.”

  Brida is dead. He staggered again, fell, and this time the snow caught him and sent his long blond hair into his face.

  A cold chill swept across his cheek, no breeze to accompany it, and he turned his head to peek through his locks.

  “Get up, Nicholas,” came his sister’s voice again, but there was no Brida.

  He was alone, and cold. So he dropped his head back into place and closed his lids.

  “No! Open your eyes!”

  “Brida,” he whispered in response.

  And then he heard her screech just as everything went dark.

  Peaceful Realm (Isaiah)

  “The pages are here.”

  Isaiah picked up the finished teas in a daze and turned to find Xander in the doorway with an expression to his features that didn’t suit him. He had forgotten about the pages and first year guards, his mind on that escapee.

  What did the poor guy… or girl… He recalled Brida. His innocent little girl. She had been so terrified over losing control, yet she had accepted the consequences readily. It didn’t matter that the incident hadn’t been her fault. The village took it out on her anyway, and she had seen no other way out but to die. No other way to end the misery of never being allowed outside for the unfair reason that she wasn’t like everyone else. What did he or she do to deserve to be shot at? Was it on purpose?

  Then the guard cocked his head slightly, bringing Isaiah back to the room. “Are you all right, Master Isaiah?”

  He mentally shook his head. King William was a good man, and he had his reasons for everything. Haven wouldn’t be the peaceful kingdom it was if not for him. So whatever this spell caster did, the punishment was justified. And he did run. So Isaiah pushed away the caster who walked through the wall. “Oh yes. Thank you.” Then he held out Xander’s cup. “You can drink it in here or in the hallway.”

  The guard came forward, that expression deepening. It was more than concern, Isaiah realized.

  Wait a second…

  The cup lifted from his grasp, his last thoughts clicking.

  Went through the wall? A mid-level spell caster went through a wall? My wall?

  “Shall I send the first page in for you?”

  He blinked, and then met Xander’s gaze. The guard’s eyes were grey, and his hair was a shabby mess of sandy brown. What?

  Xander seemed to read his mind. He gestured to the door silently.

  “Yes,” he replied. The pages. And he went for the patient bed and set his tea on the stand next to it.

  Part 3

  November 12 - November 13, 4464

  What Laid Behind (Nicholas)

  Incoherent voices drifted over, and an icy cold enveloped Nicholas. It had him across the chest, around his limbs. He tried to breathe, but his breath caught as the cold drifted into his lungs and settled there.

  Then an ache. His side hurt, dreadfully. His thigh, not so much. And his shoulder he couldn’t feel.

  He groaned, lips cracking as they twitched in response, and slit his lids open to find snow. His entire body was covered in it.

  More voices, and their tones were louder. They were moving closer to him.

  He shifted, neck protesting, to find a dark sky above the thin trees. It wasn’t night, though. What he was seeing was cloud coverage, but the shade told him the end of the day was a couple hours away. Either way, he knew he needed to get moving, so he groaned one final time and shoved himself onto his knees.

  The world swayed. No… he swayed, and his stomach turned over and he vomited without warning. All his insides, he was sure, spewed out before him and stained the snow various colors. One of those colors, he processed, was blood.

  His eyes attempted to widen, but they were far too strained. So he raised a stiff arm and swiped at his mouth and looked down to check the sleeve.

  No blood.

  A sigh of relief, but then he recalled his wounds and went straight for the one at his side. It was trickling slowly now, most likely chilled from the cold.

  The voices again. A few words were becoming clear, but they made no sense.

  I need to get out of here. And it didn’t go unacknowledged that an entire day had passed without anyone having come his way.

  He adjusted carefully, body protesting, and pushed onto his feet and straightened.

  The world swayed again, his feet stumbled sideways, and he grasped a tree just as his stomached rolled and he vomited all over again.

  “I think I heard something over here,” a male voice spoke just clear enough, but from somehow everywhere.

  Nicholas glanced over his shoulder, knowing Haven was that direction, and let his pupils dart in search of what he was sure were either guards or bounty hunters. But then again, they could be somewhere else, having scoured the area for hours.

  “I think I heard it, too,” responded another male voice.

  It was a risk, but Nicholas assumed the men were behind him. So he trudged onward in the original direction he had been headed, toward Roupan and the nearest docks. All the while he used the trees as a crutch, taking the weight off his wounded thigh enough to keep up his energy.

  Dead Flowers (Isaiah)

  Isaiah pulled out his house key and went for the lock, noting the front torch was out and the windows were dark. The key slipped in easily, but when he turned it left…

  No click. No release. The house was already unlocked.

  With a sigh, he stuffed his key back into his coat and grabbed the knob, ready to find his son unconscious.

  But all he did when he turned the device and pushed the door open was dart his gaze through the dark. Then he stepped inside with the motion of the door, his free hand twitching its hesitation to light the interior torches. He knew very well he could find his son worse than unconscious.

  Gods, give me the strength.

  He lifted his arm as he closed the door, flicked his wrist, and found the large entry empty. The cushioned seats were untouched.

  A swallow escaped, then a sigh, and he cautiously ventured through and into the open dining area.

  Empty again.

  He kept going, out the other side, and into the kitchen.

  Still nothing.

  He turned left, for the sitting room.

  Nothing once more.

  Isaiah found himself breathing carefully as he eyed the wide doorway on the other end that led back into the entry. The very sound echoed into his ears. There was only one room left his son could be in, so he turned and forced
himself to make his way through the kitchen and across to the hallway.

  All three bedchambers sat closed on the left.

  He sucked in his breath here at last and went for the first door, opening it before he could think twice.

  The bedchamber was dark, but from the bit of light from the hallway and the window it was clearly empty.

  “Nicholas?” he called out as he stepped away and glanced back into the kitchen, wondering if maybe he missed him somewhere.

  Wait… He went to the next door, Brida’s, and reached out with a hand that now trembled.

  Don’t do it, his inside voice warned. Don’t do it. You’ll regret it.

  But his fingers slipped over the knob and turned it. He pushed the door open before he was ready.

  Nothing again, except…

  Brida’s wardrobe, vanity, unmade bed all stood untouched and dusty. That doll Seraphina had given her still sat against the pillows waving as if Brida was going to walk through at any minute. Dead flowers were on the window ledge.

  That was when the hard floor smacked into his knees, his hands flew to his face to smother the last memory of his thirteen-year-old daughter’s execution, and the tears fell anew.

  Through the Eyes of a Spirit (Brida)

  The pale morning light broke through as the grouping of trees thinned and opened into a clearing, shedding light onto a caravan that sat in a rather flimsy circle. Brida trailed behind Nicholas as he approached as steadily as possible. Her poor brother was limping and looked dead tired. Not once did he stop to rest during the night. Not once did he attend to his wounds.

  They entered the clearing at last, so she scanned the wagons quickly. The day cast shadows against them. It looked to be sixteen all together.

  “I am not so sure about just waltzing into a caravan,” she blurted, wondering how far the warning had gone. Owls could have been sent out and received by now. All the nearby villages could be looking for him. She shook her head. “I think we should get out of here while we can and hide.”

  “Hello, traveler,” came a feminine voice then.

  Brida turned just as a full-figured woman came up, but her attention immediately broke off to the dark purple skirt, white long-sleeved underdress, and forest green bodice. She had bangles around her wrists, danglers on her hip, and large hoop earrings. Her voice was soft, like a whisper.

  “Are you interested in a reading?” The woman gestured to a wagon close by. “It is free for the first five minutes.”

  “Actually…” Nicholas began, the words clearly drawing too much energy from him.

  Brida looked around once more for others, but only a small number of people appeared. Children were in tow. They were all dressed similarly as this woman and did not appear threatening.

  “I am trying to reach Roupan. I have no money, but I will do whatever work you have available.”

  Boots hit the ground and Brida jumped, spinning to find a man sauntering over from the wagon parked in front of the woman’s. He was dressed in black puff pants, a half open white shirt, and purple and green sashes. There were dangles at his hip as well, and a hoop earring hanging from a single ear.

  “Nicholas…” Brida spoke up again as she returned to the woman once more, taking in her long waves of black hair that matched the man’s outrageously attractive short mess. “… they’re gypsies.”

  “We accept all travelers,” the man interjected. Then he offered a hand as he sidled up to the woman’s side. “My name is Manfri.”

  Nicholas took the hand despite the rising nervousness within her. If the gypsies didn’t already know, then when they did find out they could turn him over for whatever they desired. And they would do it far faster than anyone else. Gypsies protected their own, and freedom was an issue with them.

  “This is my sister, Theodosia.”

  The woman curtsied extravagantly with a smile.

  “Nicholas,” her brother responded as he staggered in her peripheral.

  Brida’s jaw dropped. She hoped she hadn’t just heard her brother give up his name, so she snapped around to face him. To verify for herself. Except her mouth closed immediately to allow her brows to rise high. Nicholas’ features were paling to a white-green.

  She inched closer, ready to ask if her brother was all right. Her palm even went out to clasp his shoulder as she had tried a few times before. Only she was sure he had sensed her last time. Heard her. She couldn’t risk that happening again and pulled back instead.

  Then Nicholas gasped and dropped.

  A scream escaped her throat. “Nicholas!” And that panic from when her brother passed out in the snow took over. It threatened to swallow her up this time as she dove for him.

  But Manfri got there first, and gypsy man and Nicholas fell in a heap on the ground as she collapsed helplessly to her knees. Theodosia joined them smoothly, taking up Nicholas’ wrist as she did so.

  “He feels hot, brother,” the gypsy woman began. “His pulse is quick, too.”

  Manfri ripped open Nicholas’ tunic and shirt at those words, the sound filling the cold morning air, and placed a hand on his chest.

  “Nicholas,” Brida sobbed, not caring now if he heard. And she reached out just to have her hands drift through him. “Please don’t die. Not like this. Please. You can fight this and make it to Tibinda.”

  “He is very weak,” Manfri spoke up. “Drained, too. He definitely has a fever. There is no strength left in him to continue onward. I can feel he is lost and frightened.”

  “What’s this?” Theodosia fingered Nicholas’ side, then his thigh. His shoulder was spotted next. Despite all the dirt and debris, the dark stains were clear.

  “Our Victory of the People is injured.”

  Victory of the People? Brida echoed to herself.

  Then Manfri rose with Nicholas in his arms. “He shall stay in my wagon. Ask Sabina to bring him some soup, then get the medical bag.”

  “Now wait a second,” Brida rose to join the man at his side. Outraged that this gypsy was just taking control of her brother without his permission. Yes, he needed help, but it was the principle of the thing. “We don’t know you, and as trusting as Nicholas is…”

  Manfri’s wagon appeared, and of course he simply took on the short steps and walked on in through the open door.

  Brida followed, brows furrowing, and immediately halted at the entrance.

  Every bit of wall space, including ceiling and floor, was draped in dark colors. A pile of the fabrics sat in the far right corner, where Manfri proceeded to lay Nicholas. “You shall make it to Roupan, Sir Nicholas.” Then he began removing her brother’s clothes. “Then to Tibinda where you shall heal.”

  Brida gasped. “How did…”

  The man turned, his gaze strangely catching hers, and saw his eyes were a dark shade of green streaked with gold.

  “I’ve got the bag,” came Theodosia’s voice.

  She shook her head just as the gypsy woman stepped through her nonexistent body, sending that strange tickling sensation and a shiver.

  “Sabina will have soup set aside for him when he wakes.”

  “Help me get his clothes off, sister. It is pasted to his body.”

  “Oh gods,” Brida breathed as she turned away and covered her eyes.

  Beautiful (Nicholas)

  A scorching pain. Nicholas’ wasn’t sure exactly where he felt it, but it sent his dark world to white and he jerked instinctively. Then the white went dark again, silver stars sparking behind his lids.

  “Hold still, beautiful,” came Theodosia’s soft voice in his ear, her breath against his skin. Then her gentle fingers stroked his hair out of his face.

  He could feel sweat trickling down every inch of his body now, the strands of his blond locks insistent on sticking to him.

  “You may need to hold him down,” entered Manfri’s voice. “I am getting ready to stitch his side.”

  “Y… you,” Nicholas fumbling
breathlessly, his head flying into a whirl and sending blood rushing through his nose, which he tasted in his mouth. “Y… you don’t… h… have medicine… for that?”

  Manfri chuckled, and it was an oddly comforting sound. “No, Sir Nicholas. I do not. I am afraid I will have to stitch you.”

  Hands pressed down on his shoulders from there and a sharp prick went through his side.

  He seethed, but he held still as best as possible as every muscle in his body tightened.

  “Good job, beautiful.”

  Another prick, and his skin began to come together.

  “This is a nasty one, so it will be awhile,” Manfri resumed. “I also still have your shoulder and thigh to patch up.”

  But he didn’t feel the next prick, only heard Theodosia’s voice drift away as she repeatedly called him beautiful.

  Consequences (Isaiah)

  A harsh rapping reverberated from the door. It shook the walls, the floor. Isaiah drew away from his meal, not that he was making much of a go at it. Nicholas hadn’t come home, and he had struggled immensely to pick himself up off his knees after seeing Brida’s room again. So he just pushed his plate away and stood, taking on the dining and entry in the same daze he had been in all night.

  The rapping came again, much more forceful this time around, and then he reached out and opened the door.

  “Master Isaiah?” boomed a voice before he even got a good look at the man.

  Isaiah took a moment to look his visitor over and immediately caught the royal seal on a blue tunic. A hauberk hung out from under the garment, a sword and baton were included. Then the name Soto came to mind.

  “I have a warrant for Nicholas’ arrest.”

  Isaiah blinked, unsure he heard correctly.

  The guard reached for his belt and pulled out a scroll that had been wedged between his weapons. He snapped it out authoritatively, so Isaiah took it without question and rolled it open. The sound of the paper separating filled the entry. Then Isaiah’s mind went blank. All that could be seen was the color of the paper. The letters made no sense.