“No!” Brien yelled at her captors as they dragged Stevan from the cart. She struggled against her bonds, but the hay in which she lay gave her no purchase as it slipped beneath her. She uselessly flopped about like a dying fish on land.
“Brien, don’t,” Stevan ordered. “They wouldn’t be giving me a horse if they meant to kill me. It’ll be alright.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said the soldier who had helped Stevan stand. “Neila’s feeling fickle today.”
The soldier had positioned a horse at the back of the cart. Since Stevan’s hands were tied behind his back, the man held onto him to help him into the saddle. Stevan swung up with little effort.
“I’ll be back if I can,” Stevan told Brien gently. The soldier chuckled as he led her commander away.
Brien wanted to yell out in rage, her anger bubbling up like the scream of a boiling kettle. But orders were orders. She laid back and held her tongue, taking comfort in the softness of the hay, thankful her heart still beat in her chest.
The wagon started moving again. The old clothes they had given her at the fortress rubbed against her raw skin, chafing from the dried blood of its former owner. She paid it no mind. Better than being naked on a cold stone floor like the night before.
She still tasted blood in her mouth, and one eye refused to open from swelling. Gregor had done his best to beat her into submission, but she refused to give in. She may have come from Elahn, but she was no longer an Elahner. She was now a soldier of the Southlands. She had left her old life behind and refused to go back in mind or body. Gregor would have killed her for her defiance if not for Neila’s interference. Unfortunately such kindness had been too late for young Warren. They had left his body in the cell with her overnight. It was a not so subtle reminder that her life was no longer her own.
She had Stevan to thank for her life. After Neila had him taste her blood, they had formed a connection, garnering the young woman’s favor. The blooding was a sacred Elahner rite that bound two people together. It was a sharing of power, of ingesting the strength of another. It was not given without reason or offered lightly. Neila had healed Stevan, placing him under her protection, as well as Brien by association. It was the only thing keeping Gregor at bay for Brien’s sin of being born a woman in the deserts of Elah.
Perhaps it was true that Neila was an incarnation of the great Mother herself. Perhaps she had come down from her Mountain to bring her word to the westerners in the form of this young woman. It would explain how Neila could heal Stevan, and Gregor’s obedience to her. If it meant once again submitting herself to the Elahn, however, Brien would have none of it. She did not care if Neila was a god. She had grown to love her life in the Empire. She had been free to do what she wanted, when she wanted. Better to lose her life than return to what she had been.
She slept fitfully on her bed of hay as the wagon trundled along. Occasionally the cart would hit a rut in the road, startling her awake, but the wagon would settle back into its rhythm, allowing her to return to blissful sleep.
The wagon jostled again, but this time it refused to settle. She woke, feeling the cart shift with the weight of an extra passenger.
"Comfortable?" Gregor asked in the familiar singsong language of the Elahn. Steeling herself, Brien kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep in the hope he would go away.
"I know you can hear me, bitch. Look at me." His voice was low and menacing, sending a shiver of fear up Brien’s spine. She knew that ignoring him would not save her from pain.
With dread she looked up at him. Only one of her eyes could fully open, so she glared at him through a tunnel of defiance. He crouched beside her in the hay. One of his cheeks was puffy, and a fresh cut on his lip gave him a sinister sneer.
Neither said a word as they looked at each other. Every lesson Brien had been taught as a child told her to turn away, that looking at a man squarely was forbidden. Yet she did not waver. Hurt though she was, she knew that to give in to old habits would make a lie of her chosen life.
For once her silence did not anger him. He met her gaze evenly without his previous rage. When he finally spoke, only a hint of his former fury danced in his eyes.
"What kind of man do you think I am?" he asked. The wagon driver ignored them, not understanding the Elahner tongue.
She returned an honest question with an honest answer. "A proud one. A proper man of Elah."
"Then tell me why I should not kill you? Your presence here insults our people."
Her voice quavered, knowing her words endangered her life, but she refused to lie. "Because she would take your life for killing me without permission." It was a guess, but it seemed a likely truth. There was only one person among her captors who would dare to hurt Gregor so and live. Only Neila could make Gregor feel helpless.
Her words hit home. The fury drained away. He sighed deeply, becoming a smaller, less sure version of himself.
"Yes, she would." He nodded in agreement. "Yet our laws demand it."
"Your laws. Mine are those of the Empire now."
The rage returned. He spit over the railing. "The Empire means nothing to me."
"But she does. Why?"
He turned red, embarrassed by the question. He looked off into the surrounding land of shrubs and yellowing grass, unable to look Brien in the eye. "She makes her own laws. They are difficult to ignore."
"Then you are like me,” Brien said. “We do what we must to live. That too is a law of the Elahn. Of all of them, it is the only law that matters."
Looking back to her, he nodded. "Yes, yes it is." With that he got up and swung over the railing, leaving her alone again.
The rest of the day went uneventfully. Even so, when the caravan stopped for the night she breathed a sigh of relief. Her arms tingled from laying on them all day, shoulders aching from the strain of her tied wrists. She was also starved for food and water. She had asked her guard to give her some, and was offered only a few drops and a single bite of bread. It was not enough to satisfy.
When the caravan stopped, a soldier hauled her from the wagon and tied her to a nearby tree. She watched as some of the wagon’s hay was unloaded to feed the caravan’s horses. Though her shoulders still hurt, a measure of feeling returned to her hands. In the waning light of the sun she could feel her body tremble with every gasp of breath and her face throb with the beating of her heart.
There in the growing shadow of the tree, ignored by everyone and listening to the rasp of her breathing, she felt a sense of familiarity. Alone and afraid in the dark, beaten and broken, her once forgotten life flowed through her. It filled her mind and body until it poured out in tears. She sobbed against the tree, wishing she could muffle her cries from the savage night. She could do nothing to stop herself, but it did not matter. No one cared enough to hear.
Two hands worth of seasons ago she had sat against a tree much like this one, face swollen with a hand shaped bruise. It had been many leagues east of where she sat now, a child slave sold into the bondage of marriage by the Elahn.
She remembered being happy before that. Among her people, every every child was cherished and given few limits. But her budding womanhood had put an end to that life. She had been as interested in sword play as any boy and loved the feeling of the desert air on her face as she clambered among the rocks and gullies of her home. With her first menstrual blood, however, she became a woman with a woman’s obligations to home and family. Her world shrank from from the wide desert to the walls of her yurt. It became smaller still when she was given as wife to a young man whose father owed her own a debt. While fortunate that her husband, Ruslan, had been relatively handsome and strong, it seemed his family had many debts. She had become the third of his wives, and as the youngest, the least of them. Unable to get pregnant early in the marriage, she had been relegated to common servitude by the other two. Their children and work became her burden to bear.
There was one blessing in this. Her husband and his father were among the few Elahn who traded with the Empire, giving skins and crafted bows in exchange for metal weapons and cookware. Being the lowest wife and childless, she traveled with her husband, maintaining their camps and caring for her husband’s needs. For a brief time the open air was hers again, the lands of the Empire becoming a new and exciting adventure.
Relegated to the camps, her glimpses of western life were few. Still, the green of the woods was more color than she had ever seen in her life. From a distance she could see the wooden walls and buildings of Imperial towns, a stark contrast to the skin yurts of her homeland. She caught glimpses of women walking openly among men, heads raised proudly and eyes bright with laughter.
She asked her husband and father in law many questions about what she saw. At best she was scowled at in disapproval. At worse she was dragged into the woods and tied to a tree as punishment for her impertinence. She would cry alone in the dark, scared by the sounds of unfamiliar animals. When she was allowed to return to the campfire, her husband would see her tear stained cheeks and ridicule her. Such weakness was unbecoming of a woman of Elah, he would say.
Eventually Ruslan grew tired off her behavior and tried to trade her. "Not even these barbarians would have you," he said when she came into the tent. "Go. I cannot bare to lay with such shame."
She walked into the woods and cried one last time, sitting upon a rock beneath the moon drenched shadows of a tree. Her face stung from his parting slap. When her tears ended she did not go back. She walked into town and waited by the western road as the sun rose. In what little she new of the stumbling western language, Brien offered herself as a cook to a passing trader. Later, when her caravan was attacked by bandits, the swordplay of her childhood saved the owner and his family, setting her future course and worth. She had vowed never again to accept less.
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Now she was tied against a tree once more, bruised and battered, wondering if she had any worth at all. As her tears faded from exhaustion, however, a sense of fulfillment overcame her. She felt cleansed and renewed, absolved of her past. This too was a familiar feeling. Among her people, an oath was a bond stronger than iron. Part of her felt shame for abandoning her people, yet not once had she given oath to them. There were many things she could be proud of, and her word was one. She had made an oath to herself that she meant to keep. There was no shame for her here, only honor. If there was any question over the choices she had made, they were gone with her passing grief.
The night air was warm. Autumn was coming but these woods had yet to feel it. Making herself as comfortable as possible against the rough bark of the tree, she settled down to sleep. In the distance she could hear the soft burbling of the Uphret river. The sound lulled her into gentle, dreamless bliss.
Morning brought an easing of pain, and a sliver of light now slipped between the swollen lids of her left eye. Around her, the caravan busily broke camp in preparation for departure. Yet after the wagons were loaded and the sun rose, they did not move. Returned to her cart of hay, Brien peeked over the wagon’s rail to see what delayed them, but all she saw were soldiers and followers just as confused as she was.
Unfortunately her guard was not among them. He diligently watched over her, sticking to his duty. He showed little curiosity beyond an occasional glance down the line of horses.
After awhile many of the camp followers drifted forward, only to return with a look of shock and reverence. When the wagons finally trundled forward once more, Brien heard little of the usual banter from the drivers. Only a general murmur, with everyone keeping their voices low as if visiting a temple to the Three.
After enduring the usual bumpy road for a time, a rider came down the line and stopped her wagon. She looked on curiously as the man whispered to her guard and driver. Her watcher shrugged in response. He left his seat to walk toward her in the back of the wagon.
"Get up," he said brusquely. Glancing at the messenger who still lurked nearby, Brien wondered if this was the end. Perhaps the decision to execute her had finally come. Knowing an argument would do nothing, however, she maneuvered herself upright.
"Off the wagon," he ordered. When she hesitated he became more firm. "Move now!" He growled impatiently between gritted teeth.
Grudgingly she complied, scuttling to the end of the wagon where the man held out a hand to steady her as she hopped down. Pushing her forward the guard moved around behind her. She could hear the sliding of metal as he removed a blade from its sheath.
"You don’t have to. Please…" she started, but then she felt a tug at her bonds. The ropes around her wrists fell away. Her hands suddenly free, she swung around to face her captor.
"Go." His dismissed her like he was releasing an animal from a snare, too small to be used for food or fur.
Brien wondered if it was a trick. When she did not move, his impatience grew. "If you’d rather be dead, I can be doing that too." He still held his sword in hand. "But I be thinking you’re better off going. Shoo now. Go." He waved her away, pointing into the woods with his weapon. Then he turned to walk back to the front of the wagon. He climbed into the driver seat without another glance. With a snap of the reins he sent the wagon forward once more. Satisfied, the messenger left as well, his horse trotting back to the front of the caravan.
Brien was left alone in a cloud of dust. She watched the wagon go, dumbfounded by what was happening. For a time she stood in the road, the trail of wagons grow smaller with distance. The wagon that had carried her moved along with the rest, unconcerned with her fate.
She briefly considered going home to the Southlands. But not only had she made an oath to herself, she had also made an oath to the High Lord of the Southland. It was her duty to protect the Southland and the Vorshan Empire from any who would harm its people. It was Brien’s duty to find out more of what Neila intended and free Stevan if he still lived.
Before the dust of the caravan had settled, she made her way to the nearby river. Having listened to its gurgling all night long, she longed to wash away the dried blood and ruin from her clothing and body. Besides, she had to let the caravan get some distance from her. It would do her no good to follow only to be seen and captured again. There was no danger of losing them. The road only led to one place.
A swift swim brought new life to her bones. The cold water cleaned her mind as well as her body, the chill of the water leaving her refreshed. Afterward, she ran back to the road and headed east as fast as her bare feet could take her.
It had been a long time since Brien had walked without shoes. Among the Elahn, leather footwear was worn only for long journeys. In the Empire, however, it was used for everyday wear. In her past, traveling this way would have been easy. Now it was torture. Her calluses long gone, the hard packed road and its sharp pebbles left her feet sore and bleeding. She stayed to the wagon ruts as much as possible, finding it easier where many seasons of wheels had worn down any jagged protrusions.
Painful did not mean slow, however. Despite her time in the Empire, she was still a child of Elah. Despite her discomfort she kept going, making sure the caravan’s column of dust remained visible over the nearby hills. Thankfully the speed of any convoy was only as fast as its slowest member. With the wagons laden with equipment and supplies, she had little trouble keeping pace.
Eventually the path split into two, one turning north toward the river and the other south and east. The southern path lead to a hill that grew increasingly lush with brush and trees as the slope ascended. Brien had been to Nassir before and remembered the place well. It was the first real city she had ever been to outside of trading towns. In comparison to some of the cities of the south, it was quite small, but grandly more civilized than anything the people of Elahn had ever built.
She could no longer see the column of dust. The road was less dry and more densely packed, leaving little loose soil to be kicked up by horses and wagons. From the sounds drifting down the hill, however, she knew the caravan had gone upward toward the city.
As she walked up the road toward the city’s gates, Brien could tell there was trouble. The clashing of metal echoed down the hill, followed by the distant screams of panic. Breaking into a run, she tried to ignore the pain running up her legs. Her mind played tricks, telling her she needed to slow down, that her feet were now little more than bloody stubs. She put aside the image, instead focusing on what lay ahead.
She came upon the tail end of the caravan just below the white walls of Nassir. From there she could see the open gate and a single body on the road before it, blood pooling over marble bricks.
None of Neila’s mercenaries were in sight. Only followers too old or young to fight where in sight. Most watched over their charges of wagons and horses. Some were straining to see what they could through the gates, while others looked away and pretended they were not involved in what was happening within.
She stopped running, trying to look like just another follower as she moved up the line. Up ahead, two people exited the gates, looking startled at the site of the caravan. When nobody moved to stop them, they fled into the surrounding woods. One was a soldier with gilded armor that glinted brightly in the sunlight. The others was a commoner, his brown wool overcoat flowing behind him as he ran.
With all that was happening no one paid attention to Brien. At the head of the line she noticed an old man holding onto the reins of several horses. He gently patted one whose eyes were wide, its hooves stamping with fear. Two others were hitched to the front wagon, nickering skittishly with the desire to bolt.
A large, dark skinned man wearing the black robes of a monk came stumbling out of the city. He gasped from exertion, having run despite his ample bulk. Instead of fleeing, however, he looked around in desperation. The old man was the first person he saw. Grabbing onto his sleeve, the monk tugged at it frantically.
"For Yu’s sake help me!" he pleaded, panic dripping from every word. “She’s killing him! He can’t die! Kurn has spoken to him. He’s blessed by the gods. He can’t die. Tristan can’t die…" The monk trailed off, sobbing.
"Go away, fool," the old man said in annoyance. The horse he had been soothing tugged at its reins to get away from the monk.
Hearing the name of Tristan perked Brien’s interest. She came up behind the old man and struck him quickly on the back of the neck. He crumpled to the ground like a marionette whose strings were cut.
"Tristan who?" she asked of the monk, how now stood in confusion. The sleeves he had held were gone, leaving only empty air. The fearful horse, its reins dropped, bolted in fear. Neither Brien or the monk moved to stop it.
He squinted up at the tall woman, looking ready to bolt himself. But he still struggled to catch his breath, his inhales ragged. He did not have the stamina to run another step.
"Tristan who? If you want to save your friend, tell me!"
"He didn’t give his sir name." the monk said, seeing hope standing in front of him. "He’s a warrior I fished out of the river near my monestary. But I know the gods sent him to me to care for. He’s in terrible danger. Please help."
That was all Brien needed to know. Something within her told her it must be the Lord Defender. It was possible he escaped to the battle at the fortress only to go into the river and wash ashore on this man’s doorstep. With Neila in the city, he would be in grave danger once more.
"Then get on the damned wagon and show me." Picking up the reins of the hitched horses, she jumped onto the driver’s seat of the wagon. When the monk was slow to move, she yelled at him some more. "Get on!"
The moment she felt the weight of the wagon shift, she snapped the lines. The horsed jumped, hurtling the wagon forward through the gate.
The monk directed her from behind. "Straight ahead down the main road!" he shouted into her ear.
Brien drove down the central thoroughfare. The wagon rocked back and forth as she dodged around fountains and frantic people.
As they approached the temples of the Three, Brien could see a crowd gathered around the fountain. The people had spread out before the water filled basin, revealing three people huddled together on the stone road.
Tristan de’Dassir sat on his knees surrounded by a pool of blood. It was more blood than seemed possible from a single man, the onlookers giving him space as if afraid to touch that terrible crimson puddle. He swayed like a tree in a storm, buffeted by a wind only he could feel.
Beside him was Neila. The young woman was down on one knee, a hand out on Tristan’s chest. With her was a man Brien did not recognize, looking over Neila’s shoulder, his flowing golden hair hiding his face.
Neila looked up at the sound of approaching horses. Brien did not give her a chance to react beyond that. With a snap of her reins, Brien drove the wagon at the young woman, turning the horses at the last moment to swing the cart into her. With a startled yelp, Neila slipped under the wheels and the man with her was slapped back into the side of the fountain.
Brien pulled back hard on the reins, stopping the wagon in front of Tristan. The crowd around them scatted away like leaves in a whirlwind.
"Drive!" Brien commanded the monk. As the large man climbed over the seat to take the reins, she leapt off the wagon next to Tristan.
Brien’s stomach churned at the sight of him. He was bleeding profusely from a gaping wound to the chest just beneath his right shoulder, the length of a spear laid out in front of him. The haft glistened with crimson gore. Her commander wore dark robes similar to the monk’s, the cloth turned black with blood. His face was pale with blue veins standing out against bleached skin. His breath rasped with each inhale.
Pushing down the bile in her throat, she picked up Tristan in both arms, then flung him hastily into the wagon’s bed. He groaned with pain, but she had no time to be careful with him. Following him onto the wagon, she shouted "Go! Go!"
The wagon lurched forward. Brien held on to a side rail to keep from being flung off the wagon’s bed.
“Brien!”
Hearing her name, Brien looked back at the crowd behind her. She locked eyes with the golden haired man as he stood over Neila’s crumpled body. It was Stevan, or at least a younger version of him, barely recognizable without the grey in his beard. At his feet, Neila’s body twitched, limbs rearranging themselves back into the shape of a human being.
Before she could say anything, the wagon was away, quickly circling the fountain before heading down a side street. Stevan made no move to follow. They just looked at each other until the gleaming marble of a temple’s wall blocked their view.
Brien jumped over the wagon seat to sit beside the monk. The large man looked frightened, eyes wide and knuckles white as he gripped the reins. He was not about to let them go and Brien did not argue. She held onto her seat as the wagon hurtled onward, tipping as it dodged another fountain.
They continued on, heading toward the outer wall. There they found a back gate. It was smaller than the main gate, but wide enough for the wagon. And it was wide open. They hurtled through into the wooded countryside, leaving Neila and Stevan behind.
