the shadow hours - chapter three
Post on 30-Mar-2016
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It was all coming together so beautifully, staring out
across the valley below, the wind carried whispers of
blood, faint screams, it stunk of a growing worry, the
fear and dread was setting in and would soon take root
everywhere. They had become so foolish, too
comfortable and fat in their ignorance, it would almost
be an effortless battle but they still stood in the way.
Their fates were intertwined, she could sense them all,
her betrayers, her enemies, they were each making
their way to her and one by one, and they would fall.
. . .
The clouds overhead were ready, the wind held its breath,
the water remained motionless, her body had stopped
shivering after a few minutes, it was cold and thick, clinging
to her, draining her of any warmth she’d had. The swamp
roads in the Wastelands were treacherous to anyone foolish
enough to take passage through it but her sources were
never wrong and she’d tracked the caravan this far. Four
bodyguards, the carriage driver and the man she’d spent
weeks studying, learning his routines and habits, counting his
steps and watching his every move.
The man was Lord Alastair, he was the man responsible for
an entire county, the lands and the people, a man who grew
rich off the misery and destitution of the people he had been
sworn to protect and care for, the man who had taken all he
could and then took some more. His travels west were taking
him to some noble function where he’d dine on the best
food, drink the best wine while his people toiled and starved.
Crouching, the dark ditch water stretched above her nose,
her hood pulled over her head, disguised amongst the weeds
and lumps of rotting tree, her ears pricked up as the sound of
heavy wheels squelching in the stagnant puddles of muck
drew closer. Above her the clouds unable to hold back, burst
open and the rain crashed down, the wind screeched and
screamed, the surface of the water shattered and bounced,
in the distance she saw the light of four torches.
This was her life, she wasn’t a blade for hire, she was no
weapons expert or mercenary, she was simply trying to the
right the wrongs of the world, one at a time. It was what her
father had done, and he’d carried the mission on from his
parents and so on, it was in her blood, it was her sworn duty
ever since birth.
The carriage drew closer and then came to a halt as she’d
expected, a branch from one of the large trees sinking into
the marsh had broken and fallen onto the road, it would give
her the time she needed to finish this quickly.
The arrow and bow were already in her hands as she began
to rise up from the murky pool, she’d be unnoticed until the
first arrow would hit. The sludge dripped and slid from her
body, droplets sinking beneath the surface, she closed her
eyes and as she pulled the arrow back along her arm, she
drew breath in, holding it for a moment, her chest tightened,
this feeling, this moment, it was a disturbing peace, it
frightened her, how relaxed she could be at this single
second, when it became too much to bear, she let go, the
arrow slipping out of her control, it whirled past, stripping
away the muddy water that clung to it, it hit its target with a
sickening accuracy.
Lord Alastair was dying, a cry from one of the men, broke the
air, peeling away the cloth and leather armour, the arrow
protruded from the chest, shattering bone, bursting skin and
ripping a hole in his right lung. Blood rushed in and the Lord
gasped and clambered for air, his hands flailing, his words
gargled in his throat, the men hired to protect him were
stirred up, panicking, she wouldn’t have to fight.
Her careful planning had all paid off, she knew that Alastair
was paranoid, afraid of his own shadow, his people were
against him, his own staff, he trusted no one, his greed had
cost him allies and he paid for it all with a long list of
enemies, backstabbers and spies.
On the night he left the castle she had watched as he
awkwardly climbed into the uniform of one his guards forcing
the man whose clothes best fit to dress as he would but
obviously not in his best travelling clothes. She’d overheard
their travel plans while sat opposite them in the Inn the night
they’d decided it would be more prudent to travel quickly
through the Wastelands. She saw how unaccustomed Alistair
had been to travelling on foot, his feet blistered and cracked,
he walked uncomfortably, as she waited in hiding for the
carriage to draw closer she watched for the man hobbling
through the mud and let her arrow free on the first clean
shot she had of him.
Now as he lay dying in the mud, the colour of his skin
washing away in the rain, she remembered the words her
father spoke, ‘A man, whether he has amassed the wealth of
a thousand kings or scraped a living in the fields, is still a man
and will still face death.’
She dipped back under the cover of the water, she had not
been seen and she would wait until the men and the carriage
carrying Lord Alistair was gone. She had done right, another
man will take his place and if he is a wise one he’ll pay heed
to how his predecessor faced his death.
Arcade stared patiently at the scene she’d created and
waited, night was drawing closer and she would make her
way out of the Wastelands under the cover of darkness.
. . .
The man fell to his knees, his makeshift armour, a tunic with
some ancient rusted chainmail shattered, his flesh split open,
the blood inks out and dyes the clothes, he falls forward in
the mud, making no sound, only dying.
Standing over the body of the dead man, she sheathed her
sword, unable to bring herself to look down, she stares out
over the battlefield, it was terrifying, savage and brutal and it
was all by her words that it happened. She had been chosen
to lead, chosen to carry the burden, the guilt and as she
watched the men and women she was meant to protect fall
at the swords and spears of their enemies, she began to feel
the weight of the world pull her down.
Her throat tightened as she reached up to tighten the band
holding her long brown hair back out of her face, she felt the
sting of tears but this was not the time to lay down and weep,
she pulled her shield around from her back and gripped it in
her right hand, squeezing the handle tightly. She darted
forward, erupting a battle cry to her fellow soldiers, ‘Charge’,
she ran into the thick of the battle, hoping she’d outran her
fears and lost her guilt in the crowd.
The sensation of two hands on her shoulders pulled Opera
abruptly from her dream, was it morning already?
‘Quickly girl, before they see us’, the woman on the chain
line, she was cutting at the rope bound around her feet and
wrists. The others on the line were still asleep, it had been
one of the hardest days so far, the torrential rain turned an
already dangerous route into a death trap, she had to watch
as one of the chain lines was dragged under the quick marsh,
the rain having washed away any trace of a path, the wrong
step could mean death for everyone bound together. The
slavers had made their cargo walk in front to ensure their
own safety, arrows trained on their backs at all times in case
they ran but no slave, no matter how desperate to escape,
would chance their life trying to run, not in the Wastelands.
The old woman cut through the wrist restraints and pulled
Opera to her feet, guiding her out of the camp and into the
darkness and unknown marsh. The ground was loose and
each step carried her down, deeper, she could feel her
clothes soaking, the ooze rising up around her but she still
felt the old woman dragging her, her hand felt strong, the
grip was forceful but not threatening, almost like a mother
leading her child through a crowd.
Turning back to see how far she’d gone she could still see the
light from the campfire, she felt the ground beneath her slip
away, struggling to catch herself she fell, she gasped for air
and pulled against the grip dragging her, she slipped under
the water. Choking on the sludge she darted upwards,
reaching for air, she coughed and spluttered; voices and
shouts behind her from the camp, their escape had been
discovered. The woman pulled harder, their steps were faster
now as they edged and shoved through the darkness and the
bog, she knew the slavers wouldn’t let them go, they would
be in pursuit, she tried to push the thoughts out of her head,
the fear, worries of what they’d do to punish them.
Her foot found more solid ground, the old woman let go and
in the black of night it was almost as if she’d vanished,
disappeared by the Wastelands, she scrambled in the dark
then felt a familiar hand on her shoulder, ‘Up here girl, be
quick’. Her hands dig into the embankment, the cold wet dirt
broke away but she managed to heave herself onto the bank
but before she had a chance to catch her breath the woman
had grabbed her wrist and was dragging her again, beneath
her feet she felt cold dead leaves crack and break. The old
woman twisted, bobbed and weaved, coiling through the
shadows and the dark, Opera stumbled behind her, her
vision always at the corner of her eye, tracing the men
chasing them. Branches and twigs reached out to grab them,
to slow them down, cracking and snapping with little effort,
the Wastelands was a dead place, nothing grew here, there
was only death.
It was then it hit her, this place, it was, this was the
battlefield from her dreams.
Overhead a light flickered, burning as it raced over them, it
was followed by another and another, the sky was lighting up
with burning arrows. The trees that blocked them like white
stalks, brittle and dry, the slavers were trying to block them
off by burning their path to escape.
‘Quickly Nierie, before the men catch us’, the old woman
turned, her expression was etched in determination, her
pace quickened. Who was Nierie? Why did the woman call
her Nierie? Her accent was unfamiliar, she’d never heard it
before, the woman wasn’t from the plains.
The fire sprinted ahead, the trees erupting into burning
torches, scorching heat sizzled and spat at them as they ran,
sparks popped and cracked, it was hopeless the fire was
spreading too fast, she could barely make out her
surroundings.
The woman stopped abruptly, she turned and faced Opera,
her hands reaching up to her face, the light of the fire caught
the tears that ran down her face, her skin was dark, her eyes
were a deep brown, she had been beautiful in her youth but
the lines and wrinkles her face told a story of worry and fear,
aging her faster than time.
‘Nieri, I do this for you. Run, my daughter! Run!’
The old woman grabbed Opera and shoved her, there was
nothing to catch her, no ground, no trees or earth to grab out
to, she was falling, they had reached a cliff edge? The
darkness raced up around then she hit something, she rolled,
dust burst upward, stinging her eyes, she was rolling down
the side of hill, fast, she reached out to slow herself, her
hands and feet scraping the ground until she’d come to a
stop.
Overhead, the fire burned and glowed, she could only hear
voices, the men had caught up to them. On the edge of the
cliff she saw the old woman edge backward, a shadow lunged
out of the darkness, a slaver, in his hand, a knife. The woman
fell to her knees, the slaver kicked out, sending the woman
downward into the darkness, her body bounced when it hit
the slope, then rolled down into the darkness, there was a
splash.
Opera scuttled down the slope, careful of her footing, she
searched out each step to make sure there wasn’t another
drop, after a few seconds she found water and in the dark
she heard a whispering voice; ‘Nieri, my little girl, you must
run, they will come.’, in the faint light cast by the fire above
Opera could just make out the woman, ‘Run Nieri, you must
run’ and then the voice stopped, the last words pushed out
by a final breath.
She had been saved by a woman who thought she was her
daughter, her Nieri, Opera reached out to touch the woman’s
face but flinched. She picked herself up and began running,
she didn’t know where or what direction she was even going
but she ran. Looking back once she saw three torches circling
downward, they were still chasing her, she couldn’t see the
body, she couldn’t see where she was going but she ran.
Coming Soon
Chapter IV
Waiting and Watching
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