“Hey,” She croaked. She was alarmed to note that she didn’t recognize the voice coming through her mangled throat. She tried again. “Guard. Guard. Are you listening? I need to speak to someone. It’s important.” Then she waited. There was silence for a few minutes, then the figure stationed outside the door peeked inside, first tentatively, then more confidently as they confirmed Mel was in no condition to fight. They stepped inside.
“Yes?” Mel was surprised and secretly pleased to hear a woman’s voice under the metal helmet––not because women were in any way less cruel than men, but because she figured her odds of speaking without interruption were a little better.
“Can you do me a small kindness?” She asked, looking at the woman with her good eye. She had a westerner’s looks––wild green eyes and thin lips. “These bonds are awfully tight. You don’t have to take them off, but would you loosen them a little? As you can see, I’m not going anywhere.” She gestured with her chin to her torso and legs, which were spotted with blood. Her lungs ached in remembrance. The woman seemed to take this in, weighing her options. “If it helps, I’ll open my palms––show you that they’re empty.”
The woman considered her for a moment, then spoke. “I’m not sure I believe everything they say about you, Amelia Saul, but I will not risk my own neck finding out.”
Mel didn’t relent. “What is your name?”
“Janine,” She allowed.
“Janine. If you–” That was as far as Mel got before a man in dark red chainmail burst through the tent door. His armor was lopsided and latched incorrectly in places, and his face had a wide, panicked expression.
“Private!” He shouted, with no regard for the short distance between them. “Stop talking to the prisoner and move your ass! There’s a fire in the mess hall!” Then he disappeared out the door, as quickly as he arrived. Janine gave Mel one last look of guarded consideration before running out the door after him.
“Shit,” She mumbled, eyes on the entrance of the tent. “I guess the wait continues.” At some distance, Mel could see a plume of smoke staining the soft blue sky. Coupled with that sight was a faint roar and yelling from all directions. Impulsively, she jerked her body to the left, pushing off the ground with her right foot. The narrow chair tipped easily, and she hit the dirt with a timid thump. I guess I win the chair game, she thought, grimacing through the pain reigniting all over her body. Once the chair was on its side, she pushed it out from underneath her legs and kicked at its wooden back. The dry wood fractured instantly, and after a couple kicks she yanked the rope free.
Mel struggled to her feet, arms still behind her back. If she tried to pull on the wooden strut too hard, the tent might come down on top of her, and then she would have an entirely different set of problems. She decided fraying the rope was her best bet, and set about looking for bits of metal around the tent. Think, she commanded herself. What sharp edges could they have overlooked? Rocks, bits of metal, broken glass… Her eyes landed on the fractured chair at her feet. That’ll do.
She was about a third of the way through the rope when another soldier stepped into the tent, this one in much lighter armor than the panicked corporal from before. Mel whirled around, keeping the jagged piece of wood and mangled cord behind her back. She glanced down at the chair, which was in pieces, then back up to the soldier. “Before you ask, yes, it was that uncomfortable.”
“I don’t doubt it.” The soldier pulled off their helmet, revealing a crop of short brown hair and black doe’s eyes. July tossed the helm aside, grinning and stepping around to Mel’s back, to the rope. “No offense, but you look like shit.”
“July? How did you get––rather, what are you–”
“As much as I want to stay here and savor my dashing act of heroism, we need to go. They’re only going to tend that fire so long, and I don’t know where Damien went. He’s useless without me.” Mel felt a sharp tug, and the rope around her wrists fell away. She rubbed at them gingerly. “Where’s your stuff?”
“In a tent closer to the gate––number thirteen,” She recalled, keeping an eye on the tower of smoke.
“Great, let’s vanish.” July snatched the helmet off the ground and ducked out of the tent. They moved through the camp quietly, staying in the alley between the wooden wall and the tents. On the way, they got a glimpse of the fire––the mess hall, a long canvas tunnel composed of four smaller tents, was burning in a merry pile. To July’s obvious delight, the fire had spread to the wooden wall, as well. Most of the camp was concentrated there, knocking down the neighboring segments of the wall to prevent the flames jumping any further. As a result, the thirteenth tent from the gate was abandoned when they arrived.
“Let me,” July said. She went around to the front of the tent and disappeared inside. Mel waited by the wall.
“July,” She said, directing her voice through the canvas, “you mentioned someone else––Damien, I think?”
“Yes,” July called, sounding distracted. The sound of wood splitting shortly followed, and then July emerged again, holding Mel’s things. She took them gratefully and began dressing. “They had them in a crate––like, a shipping crate. I swear, you were on the first boat out of here tomorrow morning.”
“July.”
“Yes?”
“Where’s your friend?”
“Right! I’ll get to that.” She looked out over the camp. Mel didn’t know what she was looking for, but evidently she found it, as she turned back, rummaging through the pockets of her bag. “Okay. This is the dangerous part of the plan–”
“That wasn’t the dangerous part?”
“Fine, they’re all dangerous parts. We agreed beforehand that when Damien sees my signal, he’ll know I found you, and we’re on our way out. We’re meeting up on the highway.” July produced a matchbook and struck a bundle of matches, then held them against the body of the tent. A fuming black hole began to spread, consuming the canvas hungrily.
“Hey!” A voice called. They turned and saw a pair of soldiers, swords drawn. “Stop! Vandals!” One began to run for them, and the other turned back to the larger blaze, yelling to the other soldiers for help. The women ran, Mel somewhat clumsily. July drew a bow from her back and an arrow from the quiver at her hip, then dropped to one knee, lining up where the soldier would round the corner.
“Keep going!” She called over her shoulder. Mel turned and ran for the gate, which was in sight now. She didn’t see the arrow leave the bow, but she heard the clatter of metal hitting the ground and the berserk yell of a wounded man. Then July was next to her again, keeping up easily. She swooped down and pulled Mel’s arm over her shoulder, lifting her slightly. The two ran in tandem through the gate, ducking into the woods where the coverage was better. A few stray arrows flew into the leaves, missing their mark; it seemed July wasn’t the only one with a bow. She risked a look back and saw a row of four archers at the foot of the gate, reaching for their quivers.
“Archers,” Mel warned, her head spinning. Blood loss and panic were not interacting well. She felt the world tilt at a nauseating angle. Then the dirt was coming up at her fast, and she fell face-first. A root jabbed sharply under her chin, and she suppressed a yelp of pain.
July let out an earsplitting shriek and fell down to her side. Mel’s nausea intensified as she saw the dark, narrow shaft of an arrow protruding from the girl’s thigh. She glanced back; the archers were moving forward, their marks lost in the foliage. Mel crawled towards July, meeting her eyes urgently as she stifled the girl’s pained moans with the palm of her hand. July held her gaze.
The forest made up for in sound what it lost in sight; Mel had a rough sense of where the archers were by the volume of the thrashing bushes, shuffling against themselves and the men’s leather padding. She remained low to the ground, listening, not daring to move an inch in case the leaves wavered, revealing their position. The shuffling grew closer. The archers shouted to each other, short reports of empty woods, growing closer, and
closer, until the sound was practically on top of them. She heard the crunch of boots on the soil, feet away from her ear. For once in her life, Mel put up a prayer.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ESCAPE. SHEDDING SKIN. THE HUNT CONTINUES.
“Oi!” The boots stopped. July bucked violently, but Mel pushed her hand against her mouth even harder, keeping her still. “You lot! What do you think you’re doing? Playing in the flowers? Get back in here and move some tents before the whole camp goes up! Move, damn it, or I’ll have your uniforms on my fucking desk before sundown!” The sounds resumed, at a much faster pace, disappearing into the roar of the inferno.
“Just trust me,” July mumbled into Mel’s palm, struggling free of her grip and managing to kneel. “Damien!” She shouted. Mel looked back and saw the man running full tilt towards them. As he got closer, she did recognize his tired features in a vague way. From the boat, maybe?
“You’re alright?” He asked, extending a hand to Mel. She pulled herself to her feet.
“Damien, right? Lower July to the ground on her side––avoid the left leg. And I need your knife.” She added, affecting her doctor voice. The man seemed surprise by her sudden demands, but complied calmly when he saw the arrow running through her. July, on the other hand, looked faint as she lowered her head into the dirt. Mel drove out her own pain and fear and focused on the task at hand.
The arrow pierced her entire leg, exiting through the back of her thigh on a slight diagonal. It had a metal tip, pointed and triangular but otherwise smooth. That was fortunate––if the arrow had been barbed, the wound would have been much messier. The shaft of the arrow was slightly sticky with some kind of wax adhesive––meant to help the arrow lodge in the wound, she surmised. She carefully opened July’s pant-leg with the knife, letting the cloth dangle off the shaft of the arrow. The entry wound was straight and clean, closer to the outer thigh. She gently twisted the shaft of the arrow, watching the metal head for movement. It turned easily to either side; therefore, she could safely assume it wasn’t stuck in bone or heavy muscle. She pulled her knapsack off her back and began rooting.
“July, you’re not going to like this much, but it’s all we can do for the time being. The arrow isn’t lodged in your bone or any major arteries, so far as I can tell. If I take it out, you won’t bleed to death. But the infection is going to be severe.” Mel uncapped two jars and began to mix the ointments in her palm.
“How severe?”
“There’s a chance you’ll lose the leg. And if you don’t, you may never walk straight again.” Mel saw no point in lying to the girl. It was better out in the open––secrets formed abscesses the same way wounds did.
July only nodded. Mel respected her immensely for that. “So what––what are you going to–” Her reply began to falter as her blood started to pool in the soil. Mel knew she had to work fast. “What are you going to do?” She spread the ointment on her hands, on both sides of July’s leg and on the blade of the knife. Without any real disinfectant, it was the best she could do, and the doe’s breath in the ointment would act as a local anesthesia––a weak one when applied through the skin, but it was something. She turned to Damien.
“Hold this.” She pulled a long strip of bandage from her pack and gave it to him. “Ball some up and put it in her mouth. When I ask for it, hand me the rest.” He nodded and tore a segment off, balling it in his hand. She turned back to the wound, carefully guiding the tip of the blade in a short cut to each side of the arrow’s shaft. Her hope was that this would make the exit a bit smoother, and reduce any tearing to a minimum. July hardly shuddered––the pain was probably an itch in comparison to the arrow.
“I have to pull it out. Are you ready?” She fixed her hands on the shaft of the arrow and put up her second prayer of the night. Damien put the ball of cloth in her mouth, and she nodded, eyes wide. “I’m going to count to three, okay? Here we go. One. Two.” She yanked on the arrow with the force of her entire body. It unstuck with a jerk, then slid out of July’s leg with excruciating slowness. Another shriek of agony shook July’s entire body, muffled only slightly by the cloth and Damien’s hand. After six gruesome seconds, the flattened feather tail emerged from the back of July’s thigh, and the arrow was free. Mel set it aside and spread more of the doe’s breath ointment on the wound, then held a hand out for the bandage. Damien complied instantly, one eye still on the burning camp. Mel noted how low the sun was getting in the sky––she would have to finish up soon, or she wouldn’t be able to see what she was doing. She wrapped the bandage snugly around the leg with a practiced hand, tying the end in a knot in the absence of any pins, then pulled the ball of cotton out from July’s jaw. She expected resistance, but found none––July had passed out near the end of the procedure.
“Help me lift her; we have to move,” Mel said, scrubbing her hands quickly with the ball of cotton. She turned to Damien and found his gaze already settled on her. A twinge of discomfort tickled her. For the time being she boxed it away with the rest of her emotions, lifting July’s arm over her shoulder. “Well?”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
They came to the mouth of the path quite slowly, dragging July between them. It didn’t help things that July was the shortest of the trio, and Amelia wasn’t far behind––Damien had at least a head on both of them. Finally, the trees gave way to the open air, dark and cool against her sweating skin. The road was roughly cobbled, but far better than the dirt path they had just left. Mel wondered if there was something to this praying business after all.
She felt a jerk to her right, and found Damien stopped, eyes fixed on the horizon. She followed his line of sight and saw a swinging yellow light, rapidly growing. “A patrol,” He reported. “We should hide.”
“No,” Mel responded. “You’re both wearing Lhord leathers. Just tell them about the fire.”
“And you?”
“I was wounded. It’s too dark to see my face,” She responded. When she saw how quickly the patrol approached, she knew that they had made the right decision––the light was good enough that they would’ve seen a dive into the bushes.
To Mel’s surprise, the patrolling carriage wasn’t painted the deep red and gold of the Lhord’s Army, but a royal blue, almost invisible against the silhouetted trees. If they hadn’t held a lantern, they might not have seen the patrol until it was practically on top of them. A man and a woman sat atop the carriage, and a third rode alongside on another horse, which whinnied impatiently at the interruption. The rider, also a woman, stepped off her mount and approached the two, looking particularly officious in her matching blue overcoat. Mel’s heart soared––she had never been so happy to see the Amoran colors.
“Two Lhord soldiers and a bloody traveler,” She said quietly. “I assume this has something to do with that?” She pointed at the pillar of smoke rising above the woods.
Damien nodded. “Not that an Amoran officer like yourself has to worry much about it. Only snakes in that pit.” Mel watched the woman look the three over, then reach for the sword hanging at her waist. Her hope began to dwindle.
“I know you,” She continued, nodding at Mel. “Saul. The Throne has a mighty interest in you.” Tension rose like a wave of heat. The two atop the carriage readied to dismount, one reaching for the crossbow on his back. Mel’s hope died altogether. With their fighter out of commission, it looked like they were going to comply quietly.
Damien suddenly dropped July and swung his fist into the woman’s head, knocking her against the carriage, where she fell to the ground. “Go,” He said urgently. The soldiers on the carriage dismounted. He lifted July with surprising strength, tossing her onto the back of the lone horse. Mel moved to follow. She felt a rush of air and heard a thwip as a crossbow bolt sailed past her.
She climbed clumsily onto the horse, taking up the reins. The horse pawed at the ground, anxious at the sudden violence. There was the sound of more metal and leather clashing, but she focused on
turning the horse around––her nightmares were already full of bloody pictures. She wanted to call out to Damien somehow, to thank him, but she knew there was no time. Mel pulled July onto her back and drove her heels into the horse’s sides. Then they were off into the night, the violence and smoke replaced with cold, lonely road.
Behind them, Damien backed away from the officers, each with a levied weapon and a better position. In one practiced motion, he pulled his twin knives from the holsters under his leathers.
He favored them with a shade of a grin. “Three against one––that hardly seems fair.” When none of them responded, he shrugged and stepped closer. “Your funeral.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
By the time Captain Bolton could get the fire under control, organize the camp, and form a search party at the edge of the moonlit highway, Morgan was seated beside the carriage, legs crossed and hands in his lap. At a glance, it was hard to discern his bloodied form from those of the three dead patrolmen around him; what gave him away was a low gravelly sound in his throat. He hummed a tune that approached peaceful.
The captain approached alone. The rest of his company eyed the scene uneasily, a mixed bag of fear and zealous awe; regardless, neither group felt comfortable enough to accompany the hulking man.
“Good to see you, captain,” Morgan said. His expression was noncommittal but his eyes were alight with dark cheer, running a perfect counter to Bolton’s stern glare.
“Explain.”
“The locals responded to your smoke signal. I don’t think they’re happy.” Bolton said nothing, instead placing his hand on his sword and deepening his scowl. Morgan continued, “You picked out a wily pair of rabbits. The girl especially; I didn’t expect her to put up such a fight.”
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