by Joseph Lallo
In a perfect world, she would merely have to explain the truth to be freed of blame. In the here and now, though, she was a stranger and the victims were the beloved soldiers. She was as good as dead. There was a task at hand, though, so the task at mind could wait. The pack was across her back, the tent tied to the top. She was anything but a small target and could barely walk under the weight of her things. If she was to escape this place with her freedom, it would be through nothing short of a miracle.
Myranda scanned the horizon. Rolling white fields turned quickly to rocky, impassible mountains in the east, the Rachis Mountains. Crossing them would be difficult. They formed a chain that traced a crooked line across the Northern Alliance, beginning at the hilly plains just beyond the capital in the far north, and running nearly to the Tresson border. Crossings were scattered and tended to be well regulated. Best to avoid them.
South was where her pursuers had been led and north was the way she'd come. Neither was a viable route of escape. Westward was a snowy field that sloped smoothly downward, likely ending in a stream or river. Streams meant bridges--which, in turn, meant roads. There would be plenty of fresh water and means to find a road when the time came. Her pack had food enough for a few days, and by that time, there was hope that the tale would have been twisted enough as it was passed from ear to ear that she could escape immediate suspicion.
At the very least, the time would dull their memory enough to offer a chance of escaping recognition.
It was as good an idea as any. At least it meant walking downhill. She set off to the west as the cloud-shrouded sky reddened with the coming evening. To say her progress was slow would be a monumental understatement. By the time the last few rays of sun were fading, the light they cast was enough to reveal angry villagers streaming back to the town. Myranda was still near enough to see them, which meant that they were near enough to see her.
She kept low, confident that she would not be spotted, though fearful that her trail might. That would continue to be a concern for her until a fresh snow had wiped away the footprints. Fortunately, in the north, a snow storm was seldom far away.
After nearly an hour of patient watching, the last of the lynch mob that had ridden off in search of her finally returned to the town and dusk had turned to a typical moonless night that made only their torches visible. Perhaps a few more steps south would serve as a fair campsite, provided she could wake early enough to take down her tent and move on before the road got busy. Myranda turned her back to the town, now completely shrouded in the blackness of night. It was this darkness she'd been waiting for. No one would see her now. All she had to do now was erect the tent against the biting cold of the northern night, and she would be safe until morning.
Unfortunately, the very night she had awaited for safety had been awaited by others--others who wished their activities to go unseen as well. They'd seen her leave. They'd followed her. Now she was far enough from prying eyes to allow action to be taken.
Myranda had just finished wrestling the thick canvas of the tent into place. It was with no small amount of difficulty, as the cold had taken most of the feeling from her hands. She forced the last wooden stake into place and attempted to massage some feeling into her icy fingers. Blowing into them and rubbing them vigorously had managed to restore some tingling when she heard a peculiar rustling. Her first thought was that a rabbit had found its way into the mass of fabric of the tent and was trying to free itself. She turned to the tent only to hear the sound again, from behind her. Myranda turned quickly, her heart nearly skipping a beat.
Five figures stood before her. They wore cloaks, just as everyone else did, but these were different. They were nearly black, as opposed to the lighter gray of the others. They stood, silent and moved only by the breeze, staring at Myranda with unseen eyes from within cavernous hoods.
"Who are you?" she stammered.
The figures remained silent. Myranda backed toward the pack she'd left just inside the tent.
"What do you want?" she asked, fear mounting.
Slowly, and with an eerie smoothness, the figures began to approach her. Myranda fell to the ground and reached into the tent. Keeping her eyes on the silent ones, she fumbled with her good arm inside the pack. Inside she found the handle of the stiletto protruding from the coin bag. She pulled it free.
"Stay back! I did nothing wrong! I do not want to hurt anyone! Just leave me alone! Please!" she warned, praying that they would listen.
Still they advanced. She brandished the knife as her uncle had taught her. As a member of one of the more successful military families, she was no stranger to the use of a knife, but she loathed to do so.
She struggled to her feet, thoughts swirling in her head. Where did they come from? How had they come upon her unseen and unheard? She tried to keep her distance, but the snow gripped her feet while her pursuers seemed unaffected. One of them circled in behind her. She reeled around and caught it with the tip of the blade.
The razor-sharp knife sliced easily though the fabric. Though she could not feel the blade meet flesh, her attack prompted a shrill and ear-piercing shriek that was far too spine-tingling to have been made by a creature of nature. Startled by the horrid cry, she released the knife. It disappeared through the slice and fell to the ground. The wounded attacker pulled away violently, briefly allowing the cloak to open. The few rays of cloud weakened moonlight must have been playing tricks, for what they illuminated could not be. Nothing. The cloak was empty.
Myranda froze as she tried to comprehend what her eyes were telling her. Inside of the garment was nothing more than air, yet it swept about as though it were worn by someone agonized by the attack. Her distraction was long enough to allow the creature behind her to act. Her hood was pulled back, and something clutched her head. Instantly her mind became clouded. She could not hold onto a single thought as the world seemed to spin around her. Myranda tried to fight it, but against her will she slipped into unconsciousness.
#
Far to the north, in a dimly-lit room, a pair of individuals waited. The first, a tall, graceful elf woman in ornate armor, stood facing a wall of maps. Beneath her arm was her helmet, and on her face was a look of concern, impatience--and, most of all, anger. Seated at a large desk behind her was a nobleman. His face was a mask of deliberate composure, and his clothing was of the finest variety. In appearance and demeanor, he seemed as though he should be sitting in a royal court at the right hand of the king. In front of him were scattered countless sealed documents, military dispatches, coded messages, and royal declarations. His fingers were steepled in front of his face, and his eyes were locked on the door.
"Does he normally take this long?" the woman asked petulantly.
"Patience, General Teloran," replied the man.
The elf sighed and turned back to the map. It showed the whole of the continent, though there was no reason. The top third of the map, representing the Northern Alliance, was cluttered with figures and military patterns representing every aspect of the year's battles. Below that, a thin line representing the front was obscured almost completely by carefully recorded combat figures. The rest of the map, showing the enormous kingdom of Tressor, was virtually untouched. General Trigorah Teloran, formerly a key field commander, ran a finger over the map, tracing a faint line near the front. It had been ages since she'd seen the enemy, since she'd seen real combat.
"Have you retaken Orin Ridge?" she asked.
"That is not the matter at hand," the man wearily commented.
"With all due respect, sir, until it is won, the war is always the matter at hand," Trigorah replied. "We are too far from the front here. Even with Demont's methods, the information is cold when it reaches us. We never should have left Terital, General Bagu. We need--"
She was interrupted as the door flew open. Through it marched a rather slight man. He was dressed similarly to Bagu, through the exquisite garments seemed out of place on him. His were not the feat
ures of a nobleman. In place of implacable composure was a look of sharp determination, tempered with annoyance, as though he was perpetually being kept from far more fruitful endeavors. A gem-tipped staff of some kind was strapped to his back. The harness that held it was coarse, and clearly worn in complete dismissal of the regal bearing the vestments had been intended to represent. As for the staff, it had silvery metallic sheen to it, and the jewels of the tip gave any who observed them the nagging feeling of being watched. In his hands were a stack of papers.
"General Bagu . . ." he began, turning slowly to acknowledge the elf. "Teloran . . ."
There was no attempt to disguise the distaste with which he spoke the latter name.
"General Demont," she acknowledged.
"What have you to report, General?" Bagu asked levelly.
"There are some things which may be stated with certainty. The sword had been found, and it has been handled. The girl who found it has been apprehended, and is even now in route to General Epidime's . . . facility," Demont explained.
"And the sword? Is it in hand?" asked Bagu.
"It . . . is not. We've reason to believe that it is still in the hands of the assassin. The girl was not delivered by him either. She had to be gathered," Demont responded.
"It was to be expected. Assassins are not to be trusted," Trigorah stated, fury smoldering under her voice.
"Well then. General Teloran, gather half of your Elites. Your assignment is to find precisely where the sword was found and trace its path and that of the girl. Locate and identify any who might have come into contact with it. When you are certain that this task has been thoroughly and completely performed, find your way to the sword and bring it to Northern Capital," Bagu ordered.
"As you wish, sir," General Teloran replied.
"Then go. Demont, remain here," he said.
After collecting the pages containing the details of Demont's findings, Trigorah set off, purpose in her stride. She stepped through the door and into the massive entry hall of this, Verril Castle. At one end of the long, vaulted room was the throne, currently vacant as the King attended to the affairs of state. Opposite it were the massive doors that lead to the castle courtyard.
The General donned her helmet and marched toward them, drawing the images on Bagu's map to her mind. Slowly, meticulously, she envisioned what moves should be made. Foot soldiers here. Cavalry there. Siege weapons at the ready here and here. Yes. When these distractions were dealt with, when the Alliance proper was cleansed, then she would be at the front once more. And she would be ready.
#
Consciousness slowly returned to Myranda. All around her was darkness. She was unsure if she had even awoken. The ground heaved with sudden, regular jolts. The air was heavy with an oppressive heat and an indescribably horrid smell. It was a gruesome combination of stale blood, perspiration, and half a dozen other odors that she'd never known before and hoped never to know again. She tried to feel along the floor, but a jingle followed by a resistance revealed that she was shackled to the floor.
Her sleep-addled mind turned over the possibilities. The answer was not a pleasant one. She remembered seeing them here and there all of her life. The black carriages. Where one could be found, something terrible had always happened. And now she was inside. Caught. Condemned.
She struggled against the chains periodically for hours. It was useless, but anything was better than allowing her mind to dwell on the situation. No one who had been thrown into one of these carriages had ever been seen again. The crack beneath the doors let in little air and no light. The lack of air made it difficult to stay awake, but the dark was a blessing. It spared her what was sure to be a horrific sight left by the last unfortunate soul to occupy this place. Tears welled in her eyes as she began to realize that this is how it would end for her.
Sleep had come and gone a dozen times or more since she had first awoken. There was no telling how long it had been. The only thing she could be sure of was that her captors were moving recklessly fast, stopping only occasionally, seemingly to change horses from the sound of it. She was jarred awake when the lurching of the carriage came to an abrupt end as it had with each such stop, but it was different this time. Outside, muffled by the thick carriage walls, a struggle could be heard. Myranda cringed at the screech of steel against steel and the terrified cry of horses.
All at once, the tumult became silent once more. She could hear the latch that held the heavy wooden doors shut being worked. The door dropped open with a thunderous crash. Outside it was night still--or, more likely, again. The crimson light of a torch illuminated the interior of the prison carriage, revealing Myranda's chained form, along with walls scarred by the frantic clawing of untold hundreds of tortured souls over the years. A blast of chill from the air shook Myranda's perspiration-soaked body.
The man who held the torch was enormous. More than a head taller than Myranda and easily three times her weight, he had a build that betrayed a mass of muscle beneath a layer of bulk. The light of the torch fell upon half of his face. Scars old and new told the tales of battles gone badly. He wore no cloak. In its place was an overused suit of leather armor and a crude iron helmet.
"We will free you," spoke the man in a voice to match his features.
He was joined by a second figure. This time a woman. She was about Myranda's height, and perhaps a few years older. One look at her face, though, showed a pair of eyes with the fierceness and resolve of a person twice her age. She wore similarly decrepit armor, as well as a sword at her side dripping with the evidence of its most recent use. The woman held her torch high and smiled as its light fell upon Myranda's bloodstained shoulder.
"It is she," she said, relief and accomplishment in her voice.
The pair of rescuers climbed inside. The woman investigated the grim reminders of past passengers by torchlight. She shook her head in anger and pity. The man revealed a pry bar, with which he made short work of the chains. When Myranda was free, he helped her to her feet, but the untold time she'd spent immobile had robbed her of the strength to walk. He carried her outside and onto one of two horses that were waiting at the ready.
The bracing cold chilled her to the bone almost immediately. She watched through heavy eyes as the rescuers stripped the fallen soldiers of their weapons and armor with ruthless efficiency. When all that could be claimed from the carriage had been similarly pillaged, the woman threw the torch inside. The black carriage took quickly to flame and the three watched with satisfaction. The woman soon put her feelings to words.
"You'll have no more of our lives, you wretched devil," the mysterious woman whispered.
The trio rode swiftly through the night, Myranda riding behind the woman who had rescued her. They had taken the four horses from the carriage, but the time inside had taken far too heavy a toll for Myranda to ride for herself. Aside from the obvious draw on her body, she began to feel that her mind was failing her as well, as the countryside whisking by her was unfamiliar. They were headed though a sparsely-treed field toward a dense forest that seemed to go as far as the eye could see. Behind them, far in the distance, a mountain range rose up from the horizon, a mottled green stripe at its base.
"Where are we?" she called out over the pounding of the hooves.
"The Low Lands," the woman answered.
The Low Lands! If her memory served her correctly, that meant that in her time in chains she had been taken to the other side of the mountains she'd decided not to attempt just before she was caught. She must have been asleep for some time. As tales of the Low Lands slowly came to her mind, she began to wonder if she was any better off now than she had been in the carriage. All through her life, if a tale of murder, crime, or disappearance met her ears, the setting was the Low Lands.
Judging by the size of it, the forest they were heading into was Ravenwood. It was a place that had come to be called the Endless Forest. Now at the fringe of the awe-inspiring sight, Myranda could not th
ink of a more appropriate name.
There was a small break in the clouds, but the light was short-lived. The near-full moon overhead was soon filtered through the increasingly thick foliage of the forest once said to have consumed half of a division of Northern soldiers who had entered, but never left. She swallowed hard and hoped that she would not share their fate. Her fingers were completely numb, and her shoulder had worsened to the point that she could scarcely move the whole of her right arm.
Chapter 9
After hours of riding at as great a speed as they could manage, the trio was still within the forest, and had not used a single road. They finally came upon a large log hut. When they reached it, the others helped her from the horse and inside. A fire that had been left unattended for some time barely smoldered in the hearth. Myranda was led to a crude wooden chair, a blanket thrown about her shoulders. The large man left to tend to the horses, while the woman took a seat in another chair, a restrained look of satisfaction showing on her face.
"I am Caya," she said, extending her hand.
Myranda extended her right hand painfully in an attempt the return the gesture. She managed to weakly touch the fingers of her rescuer before she couldn't stand the pain anymore.
"Myranda," she said.
"We all heard what you did. Inspiring," Caya said.
"What are you talking about?" Myranda asked. "Who are you? Where am I?"
"You are at the headquarters of the Undermine. I am the regional commander. You've done more for our cause in just a few days than years of subtle operations," she explained.
"What have I done?" Myranda asked, her mind still too clouded to put the pieces together.
She knew of the Undermine well. Most people blindly supported the war. Some people, like herself, quietly loathed it. The Undermine was a group so steadfast against the continued conflict that they had come to actively oppose it. There were supposedly pockets of the Undermine in every major town. It was said that they commonly would carry out strikes on military targets with the intent of forcing a withdrawal from active combat. When the military or government spoke of them, the messages tended to be equal parts denial and propaganda against.