2.


    Escape


    “Hurry!” Nevynthi called back as they charged quickly through the meadow. Wind blew her hair which, after a few days spent in the wilderness, she was sure matched the tall, straw-like grass they darted through.


    Cathan and the others were three whole horse lengths behind her, their steeds struggling to match her pace. The beasts snorted great strings of liquid that dripped from their chins like candlewax.


    It seemed as though they were far enough away already, with their pursuers out of sight since before the sun had begun disappearing beyond the horizon. Even so, it was not sufficient reason to slow their movement, not yet.


    Other than the distant sounds of water and the crashing wind that smacked them from one side, Nevynthi could tell nothing of their surroundings. She was sure it was the same path they had travelled during the day – when it had been light – but it was hard to tell now. Now, they crashed heavily through thick and unknown terrain, unable to see much more than the muddy ground beneath their feet.


    “We are trying!” Cathan replied, having caught up just enough for her to hear him. “You know our horses are not as fast as yours!”


    It was true. Hers might as well have been a different breed entirely. She had trained it herself. But that didn’t matter, they just needed to escape.


    Despite their inferior steeds, their pursuers from the realm of men had dealt significant damage before falling behind. A portion of her company had been lost in the escape, more than she had lost during any job in the last century, perhaps ever.


    Where had things gone wrong? It seemed a task like any other, one that the Epeltu Beiri were more than capable of taking on. It was standard. Eliminate the target efficiently, then escape without being caught. Now some of her people lay battered, buried without ritual, and were more than likely in the possession of the exact man they had intended to kill.


    Seeing her pull ahead, the others picked up their pace; such was the competitive nature of the Fayne. They pushed their horses to the limit, charging like a brigade of war beasts.


    Nevynthi craned her neck, looking over her shoulder, before encouraging her horse with a soft slap at its side. The pair broke away from the group with ease.


    Nevynthi ducked her head so that it rested on the matted hair of her steed’s mane. It was her method for going faster – one of the things she had learned in Lluendar as a youth. Something about becoming streamlined, she vaguely remembered being told. Its hair was musky, much like that rough stench that emanated from the men’s barracks, only a little less tangy.


    In that stretch of the Eastern Islands, they came upon little that Nevynthi would civilisation. But for the odd collection of small shacks that emerged every so often amongst the overgrowth, the place was empty, empty of buildings, empty of light, empty of life.


    Even where they had found signs of life, mortals were quick to hurry their scrawny children in and bolt their doors shut. It was no different than could be expected, Nevynthi thought, for hers were a people almost entirely forgotten by the world of man, a bogeyman for children, and a long-lost memory for those already buried beneath the ground.


    As the last amber light of day shone brightly between a nearing outburst of trees, Nevynthi gestured for her company to slow their pace. For better or worse, it appeared that the darkening of the sky had completed their escape. Their pursuers had given up on the chase – or had set about finding other methods for their capture.


    Frosty gusts of wind blew through that new woodland of brown and green, sending the last clinging leaves tumbling to the floor.


    Nevynthi caught a glimpse of Cathan as he tried to quickly flick away a leaf which had found itself caught between his cloak and forehead. He must have thought that he had done so before anyone could see, but Nevynthi caught his eye. His face reddened. Caught off guard by a mere leaf, she thought, how the Epeltu Beiri have fallen.


    “Err… what now?” Cathan stuttered. He rode up to Nevynthi’s right, towering over her with his wider shoulders in such a way that he seemed to block whatever light had burst through the trees. “What happens when you fail a mission?”


    The question was a good one, for once. It was the same question that had lingered on her mind throughout their escape. She never had failed, not in her near thousand years of service – at least not that she could remember. What she could guess, was that it would not be as simple as a gentle slap on the wrist or a talking-to. No, the stakes were too high, it was already too late in the game. Merywyn the Recaller would not let them off so lightly.


    “I do not know,” Nevynthi said, “but we must return to Ysberinor; of that much, I am sure.” She combed her hand through her horse’s mane, her hands shaking a little. “The longer we leave it, the worse our punishment. Or at least that is what I would have thought. Perhaps we will be found some other use.”


    Cathan sighed, bringing a nervous palm to his face. “I would rather not be there when you tell her, Nevynthi.”


    “I would rather not be there, either.” Nevynthi smiled. “It is not you all who will be punished, anyway. It is me. I am your leader. You might also find yourself promoted, Cathan.” Her joking remark had the wrong impact. Cathan’s face fell.


    “That’s not it,” Ruadan, another of her party, interrupted. His voice carried with it a tone of sincerity – as if he either only spoke truths or was just stupid enough to believe in his lies. “We don’t want you punished in our place,” he continued, “A’wish you’d put some more responsibility on our shoulders. Share your burden!”


    The others nodded. Even Cathan, who she had often found to be the most troublesome, seemed on the same page as the rest.


    It was a strange feeling. Nevynthi had not thought that she commanded such respect from those under her command. Sure, she had led them to victories, but had she not also been the one to put them through hellish training in the peaks of the Aryd mountains? She could still hear their cries as they reached the summit. They had sworn to kill her if they survived the journey back down, had they not?


    “Perhaps.” She allowed herself to smile, before pulling up her hood to cover it.


    The group stopped beside a rough crag that cut out like a cliff edge from the hillside. The shaded ground beneath it would offer shelter from any barrage that could be thrown at them, be it sun, snow, or rain.


    They took their bags from atop their horses, setting them beneath the rock. Bags often made good seats when the ground was soaked through. Some set about preparing the camp, gathering firewood and ensuring their surroundings were secure, while Nevynthi spent that time considering. What next?


    The fire had been made small, just large enough to cook the few rodents they had managed to catch as they rode. They cooked only half of what they caught, the rest to be saved and stockpiled for use when they could not find anything. Nevynthi was almost thankful, however, that there was little to eat; she had no appetite. Whatever went down would surely come back up.


    Still, Nevynthi was given half of one of the creatures. Nevynthi thought it had little taste, nothing but the burning crisps of charred meat. Chewing on a piece, a small bone jabbed at the inside of her gum with knife-like sharpness. The rancid flavour of iron polluted her mouth, and her mind was sent back naturally to the sight and smell of her people falling during their escape. She stopped eating, passing her share to Ruadan. He accepted it gratefully.


    Her people were deathly silent, carefully picking through their pieces of meat. Long gone was the confidence that had filled them as they sat similarly around their campfire that morning. Gone was the dancing, the songs, the clinging arms trying to drag her to join them. Instead, there was only quiet, interrupted by the calls of a late-sleeping bird or the racket of crickets lingering in the grass.


    Once meals had been finished, the fire was smothered, and darkness fell completely. Two remained up to keep watch, faces lit only by what light the moon could provide, while the others set to their blankets.


    Nevynthi felt the cold worse than she ever had.


    As Nevynthi opened her eyes, the gentle blue hue of the morning sky had been blocked by a small, yet strikingly wide, figure. It towered over her as a tree stump might a fallen branch.


    “Mornin’,” the figure said.


    “I wish you would speak properly,” Nevynthi yawned, rubbing at her sharply shaped eyes, “did they not teach you youths of destruction how to speak?”


    “Sorry, ma’am,” Ruadan joked, standing at attention. “They did. It’s just how I am; how’ve always been. My father was the same, I think”


    “Fine, fine.” Nevynthi pulled herself from her blanket, curling it up and binding it with a leather strap. She wore still her tunic and bottoms but re-tied her blouse and enshrouded herself within her cloak. Shoving her feet into wet boots, she joined Ruadan, and the pair set about climbing the steep bank for better coverage.


    Her long legs carried her easily up the rough slope, while Ruadan struggled a little. He was an odd type of Fayne, his legs not as straw-thin and agile as others, and his upper body a little too heavy for climbing. He slipped and stumbled a few times, though remaining upright. For a moment, Nevynthi thought she had ventured too far, as Ruadan had disappeared into the darkness behind her. As she turned back to find him, it turned out that he had only been resting against a tree, huffing at the stress of the climb.


    At the top of the cliff, Nevynthi stretched. It brought about that satisfying feeling only made possible when stretching the muscles soon after waking. Then, with great flexibility and smoothness, she crouched and crossed her legs so that she was perched comfortably atop the frontmost edge of the rock. She felt like a barrelman perched in his crow’s nest – scouting.


    Ruadan stumbled up beside her moments later, panting. He placed his hands against his knees, catching his breath. Nevynthi noted how unnaturally large his feet were. They seemed to run from the point of her elbow to the ball of her wrist. Not uncommon for Fayne, but odd when considering his other proportions.


    “D’know how you do it,” he huffed. “How d’you all move so easily.”


    Nevynthi ignored the question. She was sure that he knew the reason all too well.


    Ruadan leaned past her, his head overhanging the stark drop at the rock’s edge. “Quite a drop,” he said, steadying himself. “Wouldn’t want to fall down there, would ya?”


    “If you don’t sit down and shut up,” Nevynthi replied, “I will throw you down there myself!”


    “Ah. I’m sorry, Nevynthi.”


    “I was joking, Ruadan. Sit.” She patted the hard stone beside her, where it was still somewhat dry, gesturing for him to join her. “I fear I am in need of company on a night like tonight. Company better than Cathan’s, that is.”


    Nevynthi tilted her head to the side, clicking her neck to relieve the stiff, uncomfortable feeling that had crept in throughout the night. They had ridden for several days under the cover of darkness, moving in the hours when the hunting packs of men would be less likely to spot them, and sleeping in places where they hoped not to be found.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Unfortunately, however, as it did for men, this also meant they could scarcely see that which surrounded them. All but the ground beneath their feet seemed a pitch-black nothingness – as if they rummaged through the dark, wet caverns deep beneath the Aryds. Should they be walking into an ambush, or headed straight toward a thousand-man army, they would not know – not until it was much too late, at least. Lucky, Nevynthi thought, that they had met no such trouble so far. The common people in this realm of men, it seemed, had no will to fight when their lords were targeted. That, or word of their attack had not made it this far. It was a race against time.


    Their convoy was much more orderly now. Sentries had been placed at both front and rear, swapping shifts by the day. They were in charge of scouting, of hunting for hiding enemies. Even so, it was not just those stationed to watch who remained alert. In such conditions as they found themselves, it seemed that none allowed themselves a break from vigilance, from scouring the visible circumference. Their formation was rigid, more soldier-like than they had forced themselves to be in recent years. Escape was the only thing on their minds, escape without losing more members.


    “Shouldn’t we stop, already?” Cathan groaned.


    Nevynthi almost ignored him. She wished to keep going for as long as possible, as long as it would take them to get to where they needed to be.


    “Nevynt—” He continued, his voice rising to a slight shout before he caught it with a cupped hand.


    She turned back to him, scowling. How could he be so stupid as to shout? Did he not hear how quiet it was, how quiet they needed to be? “What?” she said, teeth gritted.


    He rode up beside her, unwilling to make the same mistake twice. “Why do we not stop for the night,” he repeated, “our people are tired, too tired. And their horses need rest.”


    Nevynthi glanced past Cathan. Her men’s faces fell loose from their bones, the skin under their eyes sagging with the weight of their journeying. Some, she noted, slumped in their saddles, hanging on weakly to the reins as their horses trudged forward.


    But what was another few hours to those already beyond sleep? They could go further; she was sure of it.


    It had become apparent over the last few nights, however, that their pace was slowing. On the first night, they had made it nearly ten leagues. On their most recent, they managed only five. The horses were tiring. But if they could make it a little further... if they could just get that little bit closer to home!


    “Nevynthi!” Came the call again, only this time it wasn’t Cathan. Ruadan, who headed their formation, had shouted back from the front and was gesturing her forward with a stubby, waving hand.


    Nevynthi rode cautiously forward, passing many more tired faces. None looked up in her direction. Ruadan, unlike Cathan, was not one for causing a scene if he did not need to. Anything that he had called her forward for was enough to make her nervous.


    A single tree stood closer to the road than the rest, forming an overhanging shelf that reached for the other side. Its branches were mostly thin and scrawny, twisting unnaturally as if aiming or grabbing at something. Nevynthi’s eyes traced the thing from its roots, up its rough, bark trunk, past holes that more than likely housed birds, and finally to its thickest branch; the one that hung highest. As if in some ironic mirroring of the deathly tree, some form of justice had been carried out – if justice was truly what it was. Left to rot in the harsh weather, two lifeless figures hung like morbid decorations. They swung minimally with the wind, rocking back and forth.


    Nevynthi couldn’t help but stare as they passed beneath the corpses. Both she and her party were silent, either out of respect for the dead or from sheer tiredness. The exposed faces of the hanging ones had been chipped away, leaving dried blood and mangled flesh, while their clothing seemed equally torn and tattered, draped unfittingly atop thinned bodies. Even had they been criminals, she could not help but feel sorry. None deserved such a fate.


    “A bad omen,” Cathan managed, covering his face with a piece of white cloth, “nothing good will come of us continuing tonight.”


    Nevynthi struggled to come up with an argument against it. Whether she liked it or not, an eery fog had fallen about the place. A splintery chill passed through her spine.


    “Let us,” she replied, forcing her gaze away from the bodies, “get far enough away from here, at least. This is no place to make camp.”


    Days passed more quickly than nights as they neared Hafynstur. Cathan had stopped much of his grumbling as Nevynthi had decreased their riding times, while their supplies grew increasingly strapped. Much of what had remained of their dried fruits and meats was gone, and they now relied almost entirely on what could be caught on the road. They had found a fox one night, which had not lasted long, while on other nights they had found nothing at all. In the darkness of night, it seemed, not many creatures roamed freely here. Those that did would make themselves scarce at the coming of a convoy of horses.


    It was an arduous journey, monotonous in all the worst ways. They passed trees, then fields, then trees again, sometimes interrupted by the battering rapids of a waterfall or stream. Whatever beauty they had seen in it on their way through had grown tiresome and dull. Nevynthi, if not all of them, longed only for home; her real home.


    Finally, a few hours after that familiarly sharp seaside smell had emerged as a tinge on the breeze, they topped a steep hilltop, coming upon a scattering of stone-based buildings. Though rain created a mist before them, they could see much of the town. Most had tall, triangular-fronted rooftops, some tiled, some thatched. They crowded around a central square, bordering the seafront at one side, where piles of barrels and boxes were tied together untidily with rope. Water crashed against the sea wall, and a few fishing boats rocked uncouthly a little further out. The square was empty but for a few buildings where smoke plumed from rooftop openings and orange, flickering light escaped from gaps in walls and doorways. Hafynstur! It was the same as it had been when they arrived.


    They waited until the sun emerged from its resting place beyond the horizon. As it did, visibility increased, and it became evident that they had beaten their pursuers here. No army camped outside the town. No unwanted guests could be seen patrolling its outskirts. As the first few inhabitants emerged from their homes, no questionable urgency was shown, no evidence that news of their ambush had reached the town yet. It should, Nevynthi hoped, be safe to continue.


    Nevynthi could wait no longer before descending upon the town. How could she? The boat that secured their freedom was there waiting for them, ready to leave as soon as they arrived. That, and they were in dire need to escape the night’s rain.


    The road became more sophisticated the closer they got, better maintained and more comfortable to ride. Though their steeds’ shoes clopped loudly against the shiny cobbles, the racket was almost entirely covered by the sound of heavy rainfall.


    Nevynthi caught a glimpse of some sticks and other bits as they floated beside the road, water carrying them down makeshift gutters. She watched one as it passed her, faint memories of a childhood game she had played creeping in, before it disappeared into a shimmering reflection of the rising sun.


    They passed the first of a few scattered buildings on the town’s outskirts. Its door was boarded up, shutters closed. Not a peep escaped as they passed. Nevynthi paid little attention, instead focusing on the larger buildings that lay before them, the inhabited ones.


    “It is quiet,” Cathan said as they passed between two close-built buildings and emerged in the town’s square. His head was jerking from side to side atop his broad shoulders. “Where are the people?”


    Nevynthi spared a second to follow his gaze and listen. “It is no different than anywhere else we have been passing,” she said, “it is not like we have seen many people since we left the forests, is it?”


    Cathan thought for a moment before responding. “But it was not like this when we arrived the first time, was it?”


    “We are a large party,” she continued, “and we arrive under the final moments of darkness. It is no wonder that the townspeople have no wish to interfere with us. Let us pass peacefully; we need not cause any harm to them and should be grateful that they pose no threat to us in return.”


    But Cathan was right; the town was quiet – even more so than it had been upon their arrival the week prior. Where had been a bustling marketplace, empty stalls remained. Where had been children playing amongst themselves, toys were left untouched. That eery, dark feeling seemed to follow them still as they crossed the square.


    The few that ventured into the streets avoided Nevynthi’s party at all costs. Two, what looked to be a mother and a child, cowered into a dark alleyway until their horses passed, before quickly scurrying away behind them. Something seemed wrong, but Nevynthi could not place what had changed.


    They would continue onward. It was all that they could do. They would be rid of this place soon enough.


    They were headed for The Desperate Traveller, a tavern built conveniently beside the main shipping port. It was, for most, nothing more than a tavern, a place to drink and dance and sing. Of course, it had its fair share of unscrupulous folk, but such was common in places where men were prevalent. For the Epeltu Beiri and other informed people, however, it was something else entirely. A smuggler’s outpost, men called it. For Nevynthi, it was nothing more than a convenient means of travel where travel would be otherwise difficult.


    Knock three times, then say the magic words, the smuggler’s rules had been quite childish. But Nevynthi had no other choice. She raised a hand, damp cloak slipping down, revealing her arm. Water had seeped through, and a droplet dripped slowly down her skin, finally falling as she brought her hand forward.


    She knocked once, a heavy slam against the wood – that would be sure to wake any who might still be sleeping – before finishing the other two with more rhythmic precision.


    Then came the silly part. Nevynthi cleared her throat. “Show me the light,” she said quietly, embarrassed.


    Nothing.


    “Show me the light,” she said again. She could hear her companions snickering behind her. As she turned, intending to give them a dirty look, their faces showed no signs of laughter, and they made no noise.


    The door creaked open, and Nevynthi’s head snapped back. A hunchback sort of man, the kind that looked as though he might be near the end of his life, held the door open.


    “You’re early,” he croaked. “Come in.”


    “What do you mean we cannot leave for another week?” Nevynthi barked as the crinkled man removed the boiling pot from its flame.


    “I mean what I said,” he replied, raspy voice barely loud enough, even in the small kitchen where they sat.  “The Crosswater won’t be leaving ‘til it is restocked, ‘til there’s being enough people for it to carry.”


    Nevynthi could have stood up to hit the man; perhaps she should have, for that would have knocked into him the urgency of their situation. But what good would that do for them? It was enough that they even had a ship able to take them, it would do no good to get greedy.


    “Is there nothing at all we can do? No way we can leave any earlier?”


    The man seemed to shuffle nervously as he fumbled about with his cooking pots. The liquid – some sort of mild-smelling soup – simmered a little more aggressively. “There is—” the old man looked to the doorway, “nothing I can do. Nothing at all. It is out of my hands.”


    Something seemed very wrong. Something in the way the man spoke, or the way that he moved cautiously about the room pouring each of her company a bowl of the hot stuff. It was as if he expected something to happen; as if he knew who they were, and what they might do. He moved rat-like, scurrying to a far corner as he finished his dishing out.


    “We have prepared you all rooms,” he pulled open the wooden shutters of a window at one of the room’s sides, “at the inn across the road.”


    But how had he already prepared them rooms? They had only arrived moments before, and he had not stopped to send someone to do his bidding. Something was wrong, but the man showed no hostilities himself.


    “But when?” Cathan asked, unable to hide his suspicions as Nevynthi did.


    All were equally awaiting the man’s response, tired eyes focused on his face.


    “Well,” the man seemed to stumble on his words, his rotten teeth showing as he opened his mouth. Finally, after he had finished his stuttering, he appeared to have come up with his excuse. He placed the crook of his thumb and first finger at the point of his chin, as a wise man might do with parchment paper in hand and a smoking pipe hanging from his mouth. “The town is not as busy as it once was,” he continued, “so when you told us last week that you would be returning soon, your rooms were readied. No one has come since then to take them, so your places remain. Albeit—” he looked around the room, “there may be fewer beds needed than we previously thought?”


    Nevynthi almost swung for him again, the irritating little rat; how dare he? As she stood, Ruadan clutched at a tuft of her brown cloak, holding her back with a sturdy grip.


    For a moment she felt as though she might burst, as if the surging energy that swelled within her at the mention of her fallen comrades would unleash itself, causing the chaotic scene that the little man seemed to be expecting.


    But when Nevynthi planted herself back atop the countertop – there were not enough seats in the miniature kitchen for all who needed them – the man’s surprise was evident. He seemed to have been bracing himself but loosened now.


    He started toward the door. “Once you have finished that,” he said, pointing to the slop-filled bowls, “go across to the inn. I’ll make sure someone’s waiting for you there.” He turned his back to them, tutted, and slammed the heavy wooden door behind him.


    Nevynthi, glad to be rid of that creature, finally tucked into her food. Hungry was not a strong enough word to describe what she, and more than likely the others, too, were feeling. She could not help but think that this water-thinned stuff would do little to quell such an empty hole.


    The sun had fully risen by the time they emerged from the dingy tavern. Even then, the rain had not let up; it battered them with that light sort of barrage that could drench them even more than the heavy stuff did. Nevynthi led as they crossed the half-cobbled, half-gravelled square which, with the fresh brightness of day, she realised was more oval-like than anything with straight corners.


    She had thought correctly, though; something was wrong with the town. Though the square had filled with people, merchants selling to hooded women beneath canopies that covered their stalls, and guardsmen set about their patrolling, none seemed even to notice as they passed. As if ignoring them entirely, the townspeople looked through her Fayne party, to those who walked behind them or out into the vast expanse of water that was the Serlund Gap.


    Gone was the usual caution that came with their unusual figures. Other than the two they had passed before entering The Desperate Traveller, they appeared invisible to these mortals.


    They try too hard, Nevynthi thought. It was obvious that they were up to something.