A slow escape, but trouble grows

A stranger met upon the road.

The trees lining the road swayed in a restless wind, stirred into agitation by the passing of an indecisive Spring, who scattered petals petulantly in her wake and sent clouds skimming across the blue sky: some white and fluffy, some heavy-laden and grey. The oppressive heat of a few days before was washed away by frequent silvery showers that left the landscape glittering and chill in their wake, and puddles strewn across the muddy path.

Along the road trailed a long line of refugees, their boots and cloaks dirty, their possessions meagre. They were largely silent save for the occasional cries and complaints of infants and children, their heads downcast, faces turned away from rain and sun alike, as they trudged towards an unknown fate.

Some way behind the slowest of the survivors, a much smaller group ambled, their progress tediously slow with the need to stay discreet from the rest. They had been travelling for two days now and should have reached Hillbank, but were instead barely half way. Flint refused to increase their pace, insisting that they keep out of sight as much as possible – avoiding attention was imperative if they were to get their two infected companions to safety. He assured Ben and Lady Araynia that they would make better speed once they passed the village, where he had decided not to stay due to the crowds, but to leave the highway and cut through the forest, heading directly south to Forthwhite.

They were in need of supplies for such a long journey, however, so Flint was forced to hail a passing merchant or two to buy clothes, blankets and food. He starkly warned the traders – and any other travellers that happened along – of the grim tragedy that lay ahead on the road east; some took heed and hastily turned around, some simply ignored him and continued on regardless.

Flint could do little but watch them go, shaking his head.

Ben felt restless as he walked. The wind snapped at his cloak and tossed the mane of the silver mare beside him in all directions. A blanket had been tossed over her back, covering the two passengers slumped there, and tied down with rope.

Ben didn’t like this arrangement: it looked as though they were transporting corpses.

“That’s the idea of it,” Flint had told him brusquely as he secured them in place. “Should stop pesky folk stickin’ their noses in. If anyone asks, these’re two Freeroamers fallen in the course ‘o duty, and we’re takin’ ‘em back to Forthwhite for a proper burial.” Pulling his hat down on his head, he muttered: “And ain’t that half the truth...”

Ben knew the reason, but it still made him uncomfortable to see them like that. Unlike Flint, he steadfastly believed that Hawk and Everine were not dead, and could yet be saved.

He ought to feel lower in spirits than he did, he reflected, considering his sister was now infected with trigon in the same way that Hawk was. Of course, worry for her followed him around like a second cloak, constantly whispering at his back. But Lady Araynia’s miraculous recovery had filled his heart with a surge of hope that outshone the shadows.

The young noblewoman had been so near to death, yet had managed to use the Sword of Healing on herself, even while unconscious.

If she can do that, Ben thought in fierce determination, she can do anything! He was more certain than ever that she would be able to heal Everine, and Sergeant Hawk, and anyone else who was sick or injured or infected with trigon.

Lady Araynia really was a sorcerer!

Ben glanced over his shoulder at the noblewoman.

She trailed quietly at the back of their group. Her flimsy nightgown had been replaced with a simple linen blouse, brown skirt edged with yellow and red embroidered flowers, a good pair of boots, and a long cloak. Her hair was tied back in a rough bun, though the wind had pulled much of it loose to whip around her face. She seemed to be completely healed from her devastating burns: not a mark remained on her clear brown skin.

And something about her had changed, subtly. Gone was the haunting despair that had crippled her with its cold fist since the terrible events at the castle; now she held herself a little straighter, and there was a resolute look to her expression. There was fear in her dark blue eyes – none of them were free from that – but she was refusing to let it overwhelm her. Something of the silent dignity and elegance of a noble lady had been restored to her.

Ben tried not to stare at her in awe. He was burning to know what she had experienced after they had parted ways in the ancient forest – and what had happened in the infirmary, too – but he held his tongue, wishing to give her space.

Lady Araynia had been through a lot.

Now and then, though, he thought he heard soft sighs from behind him, and sounds of frustration, almost lost in the wind.

Eventually, concern got the better of him. Handing the reins of the horse over to Flint, he dropped back to walk beside her.

“Um...” he ventured. “Is... everything alright?”

Araynia fidgeted with her sapphire pendant, a frown on her face, not looking at him. She didn’t reply for so long that Ben was about to leave her in peace, when she said suddenly: “My pendant won’t respond.”

Turning back, Ben stared at her quizzically.

She looked at him, finally. “This gemstone...” she hesitated, as though unsure how to explain what was bothering her. “It… it is of the same type set in the Sword of Healing,” she continued. “Its magic is connected to the Sword. I should be able to use it to sense where the Sword is, but…” She looked back down at the stone. “It no longer reacts to my touch.”

Ben looked at her worriedly. “You’ve lost your magic?”

Araynia shook her head. “No. Not completely.” She stared ahead at Flint and the horse walking in front of them. “I can still see… the auras of things, if I concentrate hard enough. I feel that there is some magic still within me. But...” she ran her thumb over the smooth, glittering stone. “The pendant is dead.”

Ben thought for a moment, and shrugged. “Maybe you’re just tired.”

Araynia shook her head again.

“Maybe… you’re too far away from the Sword?”

Araynia looked at him. “It called me all the way from Crystaltina.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

They walked on for a few minutes in silence.

“I fear...” Araynia said softly, “that something has happened to the Sword.”

Ben waved a hand dismissively. “What could have happened to it? The Sword is indestructible! It’s not as though the fire could have damaged it.”

The noblewoman said nothing. Then, falteringly, she described what had happened in the infirmary.

“I… threw the Sword at Carmine,” she said. “It struck her. She screamed…” She closed her eyes, a shudder passing through her. “The most terrible scream I have ever heard.”

Ben felt goosebumps pass over him, as well. “You killed her?”

Araynia looked sad. “I do not know.”

Ben felt the goosebumps turn into something more unpleasant, a dark feeling in his gut. Both Mekka and Ferrian had explained to him what happened when silvertine came violently into contact with trigon. But he thought that now was probably not the best time to start mentioning holes being ripped in the fabric of reality. He swallowed, feeling slightly queasy.

So, Carmine is either alive or dead or… what??

The only answers that came back to him were leering, and full of dread.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved them aside. “Well, whatever happened, Raemint will retrieve your Sword and bring it back to you,” he said confidently. “She should catch up to us any day now!”

Araynia said nothing. They continued their journey in troubled silence.

On the fourth day out from Meadrun, the grey clouds won their battle for the sky. They settled themselves in, blocking the sun from view. The wind kept up, rushing through the forest in energetic gusts. The air grew colder, damper and clammy, and smelled of wet leaves and wet horse, but the rain held off for awhile.

Flint’s party stopped for lunch by a footpath that trailed off the main road into a stand of dense, shadowy pines. The path was a shortcut to Hillbank; some of the refugees had gone that way, others continued along the road.

They ate a cold meal of hard biscuits and old cheese, sitting under the sheltering boughs of the trees, making no conversation: each keeping their thoughts to themselves. They had just finished packing up, ready to start down the muddy path into the forest, when a man approached them from out of the gloom.

All three of them stepped aside to let him pass, but the stranger stopped as he reached them, giving an elegant bow. “Good day, gentlemen, m’lady!”

The man was well-groomed and fashionably dressed, in a red brocaded waistcoat over a beige shirt and matching red trousers, knee-high, polished black boots and an expensive-looking green velvet cloak draped over one shoulder. Completing the ensemble was a wide-brimmed, floppy hat similar to Flint’s but in much better condition, with one side pinned up and sporting an exotic flush of colourful, spectacular feathers.

He carried nothing but a small rucksack slung over one shoulder.

Flint leaned on the Eliminator, eyeing the man suspiciously. “What d’you want?” he said gruffly.

The stranger was unfazed by the Freeroamer’s rudeness. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “A fellow hat aficionado!”

Flint took hold of his crossbow and hefted it up to point at the man.

“And a crossbow enthusiast, too!” He clasped his hands together. “How delightful!”

Flint’s eyes narrowed. “I said,” he growled, “state yer business, or git movin’!”

The man smiled benignly at them all, beneath a meticulous moustache. “Ah, yes, my business.” He cleared his throat dramatically. “To the point, then!”

He pointed at the grey mare. “That horse,” he declared, “belongs to me.”

A deep silence fell, disturbed only by the wind in the trees, and the ominous flick of the safety catch releasing on Flint’s bow. The Freeroamer lifted the Eliminator higher, sighting down its length.

“I think you’ll find,” the man went on patiently, undaunted, “that her name is Mirrormere. It is inscribed on her harness.”

Ben stepped up to the horse to check. She nuzzled his shoulder, wanting more food. Flint’s gaze never left the strange man. Nor did he lower his crossbow, which glimmered between them like a huge, silvery bird of prey waiting to strike.

“Uh...” Ben said after a few moments. “Flint. He’s right.”

Another awkward silence fell.

Flint grunted as his shifted the Eliminator to his shoulder and dug in his pocket for a leather pouch, which he threw to Ben. “Give the man a gruble.”

Ben did as he was told, taking out a single large, gold coin and tossing it to the stranger, who caught it deftly.

The man stood looking down at the coin, turning it over in his thin fingers.

“This horse has been requisitioned for use by the Freeroamers,” Flint stated. “You got a problem with that, take it up with Commander Cairan at the Guard House.”

The man pursed his lips. He looked at each of them carefully in turn, then finally back at Flint, and his smile returned. His teeth were disarmingly white and gleaming. “Well!” he said, slipping the coin away in a pocket. “This is a regrettable turn of affairs, but… so be it! Farewell, then!”

With a theatrical whirl he started to walk away, but suddenly, quick as a striking snake, his arm lashed out, spraying bright orange powder in one arc – then two – directly into their faces.

Ben went to his knees at once, choking, gasping for breath as his lungs, nose and eyes filled with fire. Through blurry, deteriorating vision, he saw Flint crumple in a heap, then Araynia.

Then he, too, plunged into searing, agonising blackness.

Ben awoke groggily to the steady, soft patter of droplets on his face, and the scent of pine needles. His eyes stung when he forced them open, and his throat felt raw and parched. Swallowing painfully, he pushed himself up, brushed the needles and mud off his cheek, and tried to get his bearings.

The rain had returned, though the thick canopy of the pine trees kept most of it at bay. Heavy shadows crowded around them, and Ben couldn’t tell if it was mid-afternoon or evening. Flint was awake as well, peering dazedly about. The older man reached for his hat, pulling it towards him from where it had fallen, then suddenly froze and cursed hoarsely.

The Eliminator was gone.

As was the horse.

And Hawk and Everine.

And all of their supplies.

And the strange man was nowhere to be seen.

Leaping to his feet, Ben’s hand went to the Angelican dagger at his side.

Gone.

He cursed, as well.

Quickly, he went to rouse Lady Araynia. She woke with a start, coughing, and Ben helped her to sit up. Her hand went to her throat, only to find the pendant missing. She gasped, eyes going wide. “Ben!”

“Yeah,” Ben sighed, pulling his bandanna off in dismay. “We’ve been robbed.”

Flint kicked a tree, showering them all with water, pine needles and a bombardment of pine cones.

The Freeroamer paced furiously back and forth as Ben got up and crouched to examine the path. Despite Flint’s tramping around, clear imprints of hooves and boots could be seen in the sodden ground. They led deeper into the forest.

“Well, he left in a hurry,” Ben said, “not bothering to conceal his tracks.” He frowned. “Surely, he’s not heading for the village?”

“If he is,” Flint growled, “he’s as stupid as he looks. He won’t sell the Eliminator there!”

Ben knew what he meant. The Eliminator was an extremely distinctive weapon; one of a kind, in fact. There was hardly a person in the Outlands who wouldn’t recognise it immediately as belonging to Sergeant Flint of the Freeroamers.

The boy stared into the gloom of the pine forest in mingled fury and despair. Who was that man? And did that horse – Mirrormere – actually belong to him? Had this been a chance encounter, the man on his way to retrieve the mare, perhaps – and had seized upon the opportunity to steal her back, robbing them of all their possessions as well for good measure??

“Why take Hawk and Everine?” he thought aloud.

Flint stopped pacing. “Hawk’s got some mighty fancy armour, on ‘im,” he said. “And Everine…” he shook his head grimly. “Prob’ly dumped her somewhere out in the bush once he got a look at what she’s infected with.”

Ben stood up and re-tied his bandanna firmly. “Well, let’s get after them, then!”

“Aye,” Flint replied. “You kids head on to the town, I’ll–”

“No way!” Ben cut him off, stepping forward. “My sister is out there!”

Araynia came and stood beside him. “I want my pendant back!”

Flint scowled. “A squad of Freeroamers is gonna be comin’ this way any minute now. Or Lieutenant Raemint will. Someone’s gotta be here to tell ‘em what happened!”

Lady Araynia folded her arms defiantly. “It is not going to be me!”

Ben nodded in support. “Araynia stood up to a demon-wraith,” he pointed out. “Twice!”

Flint put his hands on his hips. “An’ she had a magic Sword when she did it!”

Ben waved a hand at him stubbornly. “And you’re bristling with weapons, right?”

They glared at each other.

All at once, the anger seemed to drain out of the Freeroamer and he sighed, his muscled shoulders sagging. His face scrunched up like an old man’s, and he rubbed it with his hands. He looked tired, his eyes red-rimmed and watery from the stranger’s powdery attack. Without saying anything more, he started forward, and Ben and Araynia stepped aside to let him pass. Picking up a large stick from the ground, he removed his Freeroamer badge from his sleeve and fastened it to the wood. Then he rammed it into the loamy embankment beside the road.

For a few moments he paused, looking up and down the deserted, misty roadway, as though in final, vain hope his fellow Freeroamers would appear.

But nothing moved except the rain splashing in puddles, and the glistening whisper of leaves.

Finally, he turned and started up the forest path.

Ben and Araynia followed close behind.