Chapter XIV

Wren

Even before the village into sight, the air began to change. Heavy with silence, the tingle of a coming storm prickled across my skin. I pulled Brone to a leisurely stop beside the road and looked over my shoulder to watch the dark clouds rolling over Iselyn. Brone shifted uneasily beneath me, eager to keep moving away from the storm. I listened to his signals and kneed him forward once again.

The village came into view as we crowned the fifth rise. Iselyn out of sight behind us, the rain arrived in a sudden onslaught of cold water that took my breath away. As much as I would have liked to stop and seek out shelter in Roulf's shop or even one of the inns, I resisted. We had a ways to go, and I didn't want to attract attention.

We passed through the village without incident. Almost all the buildings closed tight against the storm offered blank faces of wooden shutters and dripping stone. Even Roulf's store looked closed. Only the thin streams of smoke coming from the chimneys and occasional movements behind curtains revealed the life behind the dead façade. Unable to bear looking at the evidence of fear, I urged Brone onward toward the far side of town.

The rain caught up with us a half mile beyond the last house. Announcing itself without warning, the weather went from foreboding to deluge in seconds. Brone protested with a snort and a small prance of nerves. I pulled my hood down over my already sopping head and tugged the brim down to shelter my eyes.

I expected the roads to be empty, especially considering the pressing gangs, so I was surprised when a half-hour later I heard the sound of voices. Male shouts, distorted by the roar of the rain around me, came from the crossroads ahead. As I rounded the bend in the road and the weather-bent silhouette of the wooden marker came into view, I involuntarily reached for my first knife.

A crew of five men, bent dark shapes in the rain drove a train of eight chained men along the center of the road from the capital city. Punctuating their yells with cracking whips, they turned the line of captives onto the road I was following, the way to the Enforcer’s fortress. None of the men noticed me as I pulled Brone to a stop and watched them.

What do I do, Father? I hadn’t even considered the role I was going to play before the Enforcer and his men. A female bounty hunter would probably be accepted, especially if my fame preceded me, which was a possibility since I had a public run-in with Steward Farley not so long ago over my last catch. Because of that, my best bet would be to be myself, or at least a version of myself that the men would expect. I replayed the incident with Steward Farley in my head, refreshing my memory and forming my role.

“Hey you!”

One of the men separated himself from the rest and started back toward me with whip in hand. I drew back my hood with one hand while the other closed about the hilt of my knife.

“Where are you headed, sir?” I asked politely, drawing out my braid of hair from beneath my cloak. The man’s pace and body language changed with it and my face’s appearance.

“The local Enforcer’s fortress, miss.” He came to a stop next to Brone’s head and squinted up at my through the rain. “What brings you out and about in such weather?” He scanned the road behind me. “And without an escort.”

Reasonably sure he was not an immediate threat I used both of my hands to wring out my braid and begin winding it around my head. “Between bounties. You don’t happen to know of anyone would need my assistance, would you?”

“Bounty hunter?” He drew in his chin in disbelief and grunted.

“Perhaps you have heard of me,” I suggested, raising my hood once again. “The Romany.”

He lowered his face to hide his reaction, but his body language changed again.

“The Enforcer might have a task for you,” he finally offered. “Those men are some criminals for his building crew.” He turned to glance at the group slowly moving down the road behind him. “If you want, you can travel with us.”

“I appreciate it.” I nodded down at him.

With a grunt, he turned back to catch up with his prisoners. I followed far enough back to not crowd them, but close enough to scan the captives. My presence caused a mild sensation among the captors, but the captives continued to trudge forward with heads bowed.

Thus we traveled for an hour. The rain kept up a steady beat on our heads, turning the road to a mess of mud that lapped at Brone’s ankles with every step. The pedestrians had it much worse. Caked in brown, wet slop to their knees, the drivers endeavored to keep the captives moving at a quick pace despite the conditions and the upward slope of the road. However, their expectations were unrealistic. One man would stumble and the whole line went down on their knees, drawn down with their comrade by the chain binding them together. After the fifth incident of this kind, I approached the leader of the gang.

“Why don’t we stop and wait for the rain to let up?” I asked.

“Promised the Enforcer that I would have a new supply by noon.”

I frowned. Noon was at least four hours gone. The sky was darkening, and I judged that we would be in complete darkness within another hour.

“We only have another mile to go,” the leader added. “Just after that turn in the road,” he pointed where I could dimly see the road disappearing behind a copse of trees, “we usually catch our first glimpse of the castle. With this…” He swore profusely as one of the captives went down on one knee. Turning away toward the stumbler, he raised his whip to strike. I nudged Brone’s side sharply and he leapt forward, startling the leader so he scrambled to get out the way. I drew Brone to a stop a few feet in front of the slowly moving column, turning just in time to see the leader struggling to find purchase in the slippery muck. I couldn’t hide the smile that came to my face when I saw he had lost his whip in the mud.

“Sorry about that,” I called back to him above the roar of the rain. “My horse is skittish around whips.”

I couldn’t make out the words of the man’s response, but he was saying something loudly and in a tone that indicated his displeasure. His associates moved to assist him and I scanned the column of men taking advantage of the disruption to rest. One of the men had raised his head when I had called out my apology. He had been looking at the master, but now, he looked up at me, recognition in his eyes. My gut hardened with dread.

“Arthus.”

The name slipped from my lips in a whisper as my thoughts raced. He never made it to the king. He couldn’t have. Not in the amount of time that he has been gone. This meant that Tourth’s petition for recognition from the King was never delivered. I grimaced. Tourth needed to know immediately so that he could send out another petition.

The master was on his feet again and the group moved forward, giving Brone and myself wide birth. The satisfaction of the master’s empty hands was lost in my frenzied struggle to come up with a plan.

I hadn’t planned on staying long at the Enforcer’s fortress. If it weren’t for Arthus’ danger, I would have already spurred Brone back toward home. However, Arthus was here, a captive doomed to hard labor, something I couldn’t allow. I shut out the stories of the Enforcer’s treatment of his forced labor crew and forced my thoughts to organize. Following the column at a distance, I continued to scheme.

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Tourth

Forty-five men in cramped quarters was hardly conducive to inner reflection. I reveled in the distraction and used the excuse of a chess game and a round of darts to keep my mind off of the future. The past was a bit harder to avoid considering Hiller and Iscarus were right there in the room, and every time I noticed them, a memory from childhood would explode in my thoughts. It seemed to take an eternity, but finally it was my turn to take watch. I stepped out into the drizzle with a sigh of relief.

“Not used to the company?” Iscarus stepped out the door behind me, shutting out the noise of the kitchen with a click of the latch.

“It is definitely more crowded.”

“The cost of safety,” he pointed out as he raised his hood.

“Where are you headed?” I asked, hoping to hear that it was far from my own post.

“Where ever you are. I am not on watch until tomorrow morning.” He met my gaze evenly. “I thought you might need someone to listen.”

I shook my head and peered into the darkness. My eyes gradually adjusted to the light change. “I am not in a talking mood, Iscarus.”

“In that case, I will just sit with you.”

I grimaced and strode out into the dark courtyard. I ignored the sound of him sloshing through the puddles behind me and concentrated on finding the gatehouse stairs. I was scheduled to watch from above the newly repaired gate. A task I would have preferred to accomplish alone.

I found the poor man I was replacing perched in the center of the arch over the gate. He looked up at our approach and then slowly unfolded himself beneath his cloak. Lifting a lantern so that he could see my face, he asked, “Password?”

“Very funny, Troj,” Iscarus replied.

“One can never be too careful,” the young man replied.

“I will vouch for his identity.”

“How do I know you aren’t a changeling?” Troj asked as he offered the lantern to me. I took it and lifted it so peer at the wet-shiny surface of his features.

“What about you?” I asked. “How do I know that you aren’t a changeling?”

He laughed. “You don’t.”

“Enough with the mind games, Troj.” Iscarus motioned for the man to leave.

“Is he always like that?" I asked as Troj disappeared down the stairwell.

"Usually. He likes to keep us on our toes."

I frowned. I didn't feel nearly as tolerant. I settled on the wet ledge, wincing as my cloak thirstily sucked up the freezing water. I leaned forward so that I could see out into the darkness as far as possible and grimaced as the rain dripped from the edge of my cloak onto my bare hands. I had forgotten my gloves, not that they would have helped much in these conditions.

"Reminds me of the night before the battle of Yornth," Iscarus commented as he settled in beside me.

"I wasn't there." Hoping that Iscarus would take the hint from my tone, I shoved my hands in my armpits and tried to keep the cold tendrils of memory at bay. Neither attempt worked. Iscarus continued to speak and my thoughts plodded helplessly to retrace the most painful memories of my life.

"It rained that night too." Iscarus' voice lowered, slowed by emotion. "My battalion was charged with defending Tanion Hill below Lord Orthan's castle. Out of the hundred men with me, only twenty had every seen a fight before. Even my sword mate, Honoiun, had yet to kill his first man."

My stomach turned as the familiar smells of the battlefield in my thoughts mingled with the essences of damp earth and wet stone. "None of us knew what we were getting into when we signed up." I closed my eyes, but it only intensified the images. Aron standing over a fallen spearman, hands and armor covered in the man's blood and the look of horror on his childish features. He had been too young. Only three years my junior, eager for his first battle, but he had not been prepared for the massacre of war. None of us had. I shook my head to rid myself of the ghost, but it would not leave.

"You should have seen their faces, Tourth." Iscarus' voice cracked.

"We didn't belong there." I looked down at my clenched fists. I held them out in rain, opening the fingers slowly. In my mind's eye, they still dripped red. I blinked. "Iscarus, none of us belonged there. If I had just put my foot down… If I had just said no and taken them the other way…" My hands shook.

"The battle of Catorna wasn't your fault."

He laid a comforting hand on my shoulder and I shrugged it off.

It was. Nothing had changed. Catorna was my fault. It had been in my power to change our course. I had seen the signs of ambush, and I had warned our commander. He had ignored me and called me a foolish country boy. My heart clenched and I gritted my teeth. If only I had said more, refused to continue, or done something, anything to avoid the ambush. Instead I had withdrawn, shamed into silence.

"I could have stopped it." I spat the words out with all the conviction I felt. "You are wrong, Iscarus. I could have saved all those men. I saw the signs and did nothing."

"Did you report them?"

"Of course, but that idiot of a commander ignored them. He kept marching us forward. He made Aron move to the front when I protested. Then Aron took the first arrow to the chest." I struggled to block out the sight, but I couldn't avoid it. The smell of shock and fear, the strange sensation of time standing still, and then the madness came, a fire burning within my chest, clouding my mind with anger, and then the blind obsession of revenge coursing through my limbs. "Do you know how many men I killed that day?" I asked as I pressed my slick palms to my eyes.

"No." Iscarus' voice was quiet and calm amidst the chaos in my head.

"Three hundred and seven." I forced myself to breathe, drawing air into my aching chest. I had to. I had no choice. "What is worse is that I wanted to do it. I looked into each of those men's eyes and exulted as the light of life faded." A sob broke from my throat, tearing away the scab that I had protected so jealously. "I wanted them to pay. Pay for killing Aron and the other boys, lads who would never know a future. Pay for being greedy and wanting more than their share. Pay for destroying so many lives." I laughed bitterly through my tears. "The irony is that I destroyed more futures in those hours than they."

"Did Svhen, Arthus, and Dardon know Aron?"

I shook my head, struggling to get my heart under control. "They were north of Catorna at the time of the massacre, loaned out to train with a different battalion the month before. In God's mercy, they missed Catorna."

"So you haven't talked to them about it?"

I laughed harshly. "I haven't spoken of it ever to anyone."

"Until now."

I nodded. Until now. "I will never understand why God let our commander live," I muttered. "Of all of us, he should have died."

"God had His reasons," Iscarus replied.

My heart rebelled slightly at the statement despite the fact I knew it was true. God always had a purpose, even for Catorna. That I could believe. That I was forgiven for those 307 lives that I took was another issue entirely. I was never going to be able to atone for them. "No one is beyond redemption, Tourth." Wren's words rang through my head. I didn't agree. I was beyond it, so far gone that there was no hope.

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Wren Romany - © 2009 Rachel Rossano