by J D Abbas
She fell with one leg free and the other still caught in the wrap, landing on her back with a loud thud, her left leg twisted beneath her. Malak sidestepped to avoid trampling her, and Drendil nimbly leapt over her as she rolled. The others stopped short of where she'd fallen and watched the pitiful struggle.
The girl tore at the cloak, fighting invisible hands and shrieking. The terror in her voice, like a finely honed blade, flayed the edges of Celdorn’s nerves one layer at a time. The other men sat rigid, held immobile by the intense fear she thrust toward them. When the girl freed herself from the cloak, she attempted to stand, but her left leg collapsed, sending her to the ground with a grunt. She lay on her belly and frantically pulled her naked body through the dirt toward edge of the road.
One by one, the men broke free of the strange stupor that had gripped them and dismounted. Uncertain what to do and not wanting to terrify the girl further, they stood by waiting and watching.
Suddenly realizing the girl intended to escape over the edge of the cliff, Celdorn jumped from Malak. “Stop! We’re too high. The fall will kill you.” He ran to her side and grabbed her shoulders. “We won’t hurt you.”
His words had no effect. The girl continued to fight and push forward. Celdorn tightened his grip, not wanting her to destroy herself in her desperation to be free.
Without warning, she rolled onto her back and threw a handful of dirt and rocks into his face, blinding him. When his hands moved to his eyes, she used her moment of freedom to pull herself over the edge of the cliff without a sound.
After brushing the debris from his face, Celdorn could only watch in horror as she tumbled downward through the undergrowth and rocks. She flailed and grasped at shrubs and branches, unable to grab hold of anything to slow her descent.
The chiming music and dancing lights of Alsimion suspended in a gasp, as if the forest stopped to watch the tragedy. A susurrus passed through the trees, followed by a deep rumble. With a loud Ah-oomph, a wide branch from a nearly horizontal tree moved beneath the girl, preventing her from toppling another hundred feet. Her head hit the wood with a solid thud, and she lay tangled in the tree’s embrace, unmoving. Celdorn stared in disbelief as the music of the forest resumed.
“Did you see that?” he asked Tobil, who now knelt at his side.
Tobil’s eyes grew wide. “It really moved?”
“It did.” Celdorn gave his head a sharp shake and recalled himself. “I need a rope!” Then he realized Tobil was already fastening one around his waist. He lowered himself over the edge, his men feeding him rope as he climbed down the steep incline. When he reached the girl, Haldor threw him another line. Celdorn tied it under her arms, and the men pulled her up with Celdorn guiding her limp body from below, doing his best to keep her from being torn up in the branches. Tobil hoisted Celdorn up just moments after the girl.
When Haldor laid her on the ground, her frantic eyes shot open. Tobil and Haldor jerked back, as if they’d been shoved away by some force. Celdorn untied the rope and hurried to her side. Blood gushed from the wound just above her eye where she’d struck the tree, and her arms and legs were covered with new gashes from the undergrowth. He knelt beside her, wiping the blood that dripped from her brow into her eye. “You’re all right now,” he assured her.
Celdorn was amazed when the half-blinded girl turned over and attempted to crawl away again. He grabbed her shoulders, frustrated that he couldn’t convince her that they meant her no harm. He spoke to her in Lanar, thinking perhaps she didn’t understand Borok. “We won’t hurt you. I swear to you, we’re taking you to a safe place. The men who held you captive are dead.” She continued to struggle, requiring him to use a firmer grip. He turned her over, hoping if she could see his face, she might believe him. Instead, the girl went wild, shrieking and clawing at his arms and head, but he refused to let go. He wouldn’t allow her to hurt herself further. When he succeeded in laying her on her back with her arms pinned at her side, her whole body arched, and she screamed.
“Celdorn, her leg,” called Dalgo.
Celdorn looked down and saw her limb bent in an unnatural position. “Don’t move or it will do more damage,” he warned her, holding firmly.
She lifted her head and glanced at her twisted leg then stared back at him, her eyes full of questions. She seemed to have finally grasped his words. But then she pulled away again, fighting so hard to turn that she gagged. Just in time, Celdorn realized she was retching and rolled her to her side. Her tangled blond hair wound around and over much of her face, but he did his best to move it out of the way as she vomited. The face he uncovered was caked with new layers of dirt and blood. She looked pitiful.
Celdorn frowned as the air around the girl suddenly sparkled and warped, then, just as before, she went limp, her eyes locked in an empty stare. He slid his hands underneath her head and thighs and moved her away from the mess, wiping her mouth with the edge of his wrap. He grabbed the cloak that had gotten tangled in her legs and laid it across her bare body. He stroked her forehead, willing life back into her and trying to understand what just happened.
Chapter 5
Giara woke a short time later, head swirling, eyelids weighted, as if she'd been sedated with a powerful elixir. Her ears were alert first. The musical leaves of Alsimion chimed around her. So she must still be in the forest. Then she noted several deep, male voices, talking in hushed tones, probably fifteen to twenty feet away. Boots scuffed. Horses snorted. Bridles jingled. Her guess: four men, not mounted at the moment.
Dread, and the pounding in her head, held her eyes closed a few moments longer. Finally, she swallowed hard and peeked out between her lashes, lying as still as possible. Someone knelt by her side, his shadow extending across her body, which was on the ground. A large hand moved toward her forehead, and she flinched.
“You’re awake.” The hand pulled back.
It was no use pretending any longer. She tried to open her eyes but found that the left one wouldn’t. She lifted her hand to see what was wrong, but someone grabbed her wrist.
“You don’t want to touch that. It’s still bleeding,” the man said as he dabbed at her brow with a cloth. He spoke in Lanar, which wasn’t surprising since it was her native tongue, but it wasn’t his; he had a northern accent.
She moved her bleary eyes in the direction of his voice, trying to bring him into focus. The first thing she noticed was that his face was bleeding. Had they been injured together?
The second, he wasn’t Farak. He was twice their size. Her mind tumbled, trying to figure out who he was, what he was. The last thing she remembered was lying in the Farak camp just after dawn with those disgusting animals either asleep or passed out around her. Judging by the position of the sun, it was mid-afternoon.
Her eyes began a frantic search for clues, any information to tell her where she was and how she'd ended up with these men. The world tilted sharply when she moved her head, forcing her to close her eyes as a wave of nausea swept over her. Her hands flattened on the rocky ground as if that would somehow keep the earth from moving. When the thudding in her ears gradually subsided, she realized the man was speaking to her.
“Here, drink this.” The man lifted her head and held a waterskin to her lips. She tried to obey, but her mouth wouldn’t work. Most of it trickled down her chin. The water was cool and helped soothe her scratchy throat, which felt like she'd been eating dust. The man wiped her face with the cloth and tried his muffled question again.
“What’s your name, little one?” He set the waterskin down and pressed the cloth to her forehead.
Her eyes drifted back to his face, surprised by the gentle tone in his voice. What had he done with her? Why was she on the ground? A shiver ran through her, and it was then she realized she had only some sort of blanket over her otherwise naked, and extremely cold, body. The world tilted again.
When she didn’t respond, he said, “Well, we have to call you something.” The man studied her face for a moment, then a playful twinkle lit his eye
. “How about Elena?” He nodded to himself as if he liked his choice. “It seems a good name for you.” She wondered what the name meant. Was he mocking her? “I’m Celdorn, and this is Dalgo.”
They both glanced up as another man joined them.
“We can’t move her like this,” Dalgo said in the trade tongue, though he had the same accent. “We need to straighten the leg.” She lifted her head and looked more closely at her limb. There was a grotesque bulge next to where her left knee should have been. Dalgo looked at Celdorn. “This is going to be painful.”
She was only half-listening. After Dalgo approached, she noticed three men standing by the side of the trail. They were all giants. Even their horses were massive. Her stomach twisted. Judging by their weapons and dress, they were mercenaries or warriors, though they wore no insignia by which to identify them. She'd heard them speak Borok, Lanar and some other northern tongue.
Her body went cold with dread. They must be Morah. She couldn’t breathe. Had they arrested her for being with the Farak?
She turned her eyes back to the one kneeling beside her, the one who called himself Celdorn. He seemed to be their leader. He exuded authority in the very way he spoke and carried himself. His eyes and hair were dark, like most of the others, but the shimmering silver strands that lightened his temples and beard made him appear older, though his body was as fit and robust as the youngest among them. When he spoke with Dalgo, he frowned, accentuating the creases around his eyes and mouth. A scar ran down the side of his nose and disappeared into his moustache. He had all the markings of a seasoned warlord. She made a note not to cross this one.
The other man, who must have been a healer, seemed older, slightly more rounded and moderately grayed. He had a kind, nurturing face that was riddled with concern as he examined her leg, his hands deft and gentle. Her eyes darted away again when she noticed a pulsating light behind him.
A man, or some sort of otherworldly being, stepped into view. He stood out among the others like a star on the blackest night. Something flickered in her memory. Had she seen him before? It was one of those flashes, like a faintly remembered dream too fuzzy to grasp, which lingered all too often at the edges of her mind.
Dalgo spoke to her again. She focused on his words. “Your leg is injured. I need to straighten it before we move you. It’s going to hurt. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Then she noticed the man who pulsated with light coming toward her. He took off his wrap and laid it under her head then knelt on the ground above her and placed his hands on either side of her face. He gazed into her eyes and spoke beautiful words in a language she’d never heard before. His voice sounded like a song, something birds would sing at the joy of flight. All her stalwart defenses melted away. She was floating in a most wonderful place, as if she were a cloud passing over green meadows on a summer day. When Dalgo moved her leg, she felt nothing. She was blissfully somewhere else.
With a gentle whisper, the man of light called her back, though he didn’t use his voice. Piece by piece reality took shape. She was again on the ground with the men kneeling beside her. When her body began to shake uncontrollably, she looked back at the man of light.
“You are reacting to the pain. Do not fear,” he whispered in Lanar, followed by more words in his strange tongue. “These men are trustworthy. They will not harm you.”
She stared at him, wanting to believe him, wanting to hold onto the place he took her. He gazed back at her with a furrowed brow. She hated when people looked at her like that. What was he seeing? An icy chill ran up her spine.
“Her body is near frozen,” Dalgo said, misunderstanding the reason for the shiver. “We need to get her back to Kelach.”
He put together a makeshift splint for her leg and wrapped a cloth around her forehead. He said he would need to stitch the wound later, but for now, this would have to do.
The youngest of the men stepped forward and handed Celdorn some clothes. “They’re not f-fit for a w-woman, but they’ll c-cover her,” his tenor voice stammered, soft and shy.
“Thank you, Braiden,” Celdorn said.
She found herself staring at Braiden’s beardless face; he seemed too young, too green to be riding with these seasoned warriors. He had a gentle face. His auburn hair and lighter skin reminded her of her youngest brother; the thought sent a warmth through her chest to which she clung. When their eyes met, however, he quickly looked away.
Giara’s heart went chill. He’d seen and judged. Good people despised her. She knew. Which made her wonder again, what had she done and why had these men seized her?
Celdorn interrupted her thoughts. “I’m going to help you sit up.” He slid a hand under her back and moved her to a sitting position. She was surprised to hear a groan pass through her lips because she really wasn’t feeling much of anything. She also noticed her body was trembling harder.
“Sorry,” Celdorn said, almost wincing with her as she moved. That puzzled her.
He helped her put one arm into the shirt then the other. It was hard to lift the right one. She noticed Celdorn looking at her ribs. He exchanged a glance with Dalgo but didn’t say anything.
“Can you button it yourself?” She nodded but couldn’t control her fingers no matter how hard she tried. Celdorn put his hands over hers. “It’s all right. I’ll do it for you.” He spoke softly, almost as if he didn’t want the others to hear. She obediently moved her hands and let him finish.
His expression confused her. He looked so sad, so...concerned. She must have looked truly pathetic to evoke such pity from a Morah. Her head lolled, and she started to drift away on that cloud again.
“I don’t know what to do with the trousers,” Celdorn said, pulling her back. “The splint is too wide to fit in the pant leg, but I don’t want to leave her exposed. The air is starting to cool off, and we’ll be in the shadows.”
Dalgo slipped a knife from the sheath at his hip. Before she could stop herself, Giara cowered into Celdorn, suddenly wide-awake.
“It’s all right. He won’t hurt you,” Celdorn said, patting her shoulder. “He’s just going to put a slit in the trousers, so we can get them on you.”
Dalgo glanced her way and turned his shoulder so the knife was out of sight.
Giara took a shaky breath and nodded. She had to get control of herself, couldn’t let them think she was weak. Weak was deadly. She had endured far worse than this. Whatever she’d done, she could face their punishment.
As Celdorn dressed her, she watched every movement of his hands but didn’t resist his efforts. When Elbrion lifted her, she stood as still as her one trembling leg would allow and tried to decide how best to manage the situation. Her body was clearly useless. She needed to figure out what was going on, what they wanted from her, and do whatever was necessary until she could find a way to escape.
It surprised her to see Celdorn hesitate and turn his eyes away as he pulled the trousers up over her hips. He tied the waist, tugging the laces as tight as he could, but they were still too loose for her small frame.
The young Braiden stepped forward with a belt. “I th-thought she looked s-significantly thinner than I.” His throat and jaw worked as he struggled to push out the words. He glanced at her with the shyest of smiles, but she didn’t return it. She didn’t know what to do. No one ever smiled at her—at least not a sweet smile. A leer, a lecherous grin, yes, but warm and friendly, never.
Celdorn cinched the belt then put a cloak around her shoulders and hooked it in the front, pulling the hood over her wild hair. The mantle was made of the most unusual fabric. Every movement changed its appearance. She found herself staring, almost entranced by it.
“Isn’t it beautiful? It was made by the Elrodanar,” Celdorn said. “Elbrion’s people”—he nodded toward the man behind her—“use them to conceal their light as they move about so as not to draw undue attention. The fabric, woven only in Queyon, is like nature captured in a cloth. One can find the hues of every living thing in its fibe
rs, and when worn, the garment will appear to be whatever colors are around it, rendering the wearer nearly invisible.”
Giara caressed the soft fabric while Celdorn explained. What she wouldn’t give to be invisible all the time. She was sick to death of men gawking at her, devouring her with their eyes, pawing at her flesh. She glanced up at the other men. To her surprise, they had turned their backs. She should have been relieved, but instead she felt the sharp stab of shame. They were repulsed, not able to endure the sight of her. Why did she care what they thought? What did it matter anyway?
Because your life depends upon them now, you fool. If you’re not careful, they’ll dispose of you. The acrid voice made her wince. Her eyes suddenly burned, but she pushed the traitorous tears back. She was so tired, tired of fighting, tired of living.
She felt Elbrion’s grip tighten around her just before she drifted away.
~
Celdorn watched the girl collapse into Elbrion’s arms. “She’s gone again?”
Dalgo checked her eyes, which were closed this time. “I think she’s just exhausted. We need to get her back to Kelach.”
“Agreed. Let’s go,” Celdorn called out. He mounted and reached for the girl.
“You’ll have to cradle her in front of you,” Dalgo said. “Her leg can’t hang unsupported.”
Elbrion lifted the girl while Dalgo steadied the injured leg. They leaned her farther to Celdorn’s left to keep the leg from dangling. The weight shift required Celdorn to hold her more tightly so she didn’t fall over backward. He didn’t want a repeat of earlier.
“Elbrion, will you fasten the other cloak around us?”
Elbrion mounted and pulled Drendil alongside Malak. He spread the cloak over Celdorn’s shoulders and tucked it around the girl, leaving a place through which she could look out, so she wouldn’t feel trapped.
“You are not responsible for her fall,” Elbrion said, keeping his voice low. “She is safe with you.”