The Wretched of Muirwood

“It stopped. Come on then. Go that way, I go this way.”

Lia started again, glanced backwards once, and then nearly walked into a tree. Catching herself, she went around it to hide, but there was no ground on the other side. The hillside gave way to open space and she gasped as she fell into the blackness.

Pain shot up her leg from her ankle as she landed abruptly then fell face first. Fiery darts of agony streaked up her calf and her whole foot throbbed. She clamped her mouth to keep from screaming. She could hardly breathe through the pain.

“Did you hear that? Over there!”

Part of the hillside had been gouged away. Dirt pattered down like rain. She looked up. The once-majestic tree she had nearly stumbled into had been split by lightning and part of it lay shattered around her, exposing some of the roots. The trunk was hollowed out. Rain over the years had washed away part of it, forming a little inlet, a little cave. She had landed in a patch of brush growing at the base, revealing the little opening. There was no way she could crawl to the camp. She needed a place to hide, and there it was. Lia dragged herself and the bow into the inlet, hearing the sounds of the king’s men above.

“Which way? Do you hear it?” Their voices were right above her. She hunkered deep into the shell of the tree, shrinking as small as she could.

“I do not. Sounded like it crashed this way. You think it was a deer?”

Another crackle from the woods came further down the hill. “There it is. Do you see it? A buck, not a doe. Come on.”

Lia breathed heavily, feeling the pain in her ankle sharpen as she crouched. She bit her lip, wondering how she was going to get to the camp to warn Colvin.

The Medium.

She remembered something Colvin had taught her. That there were people strong enough in the Medium to share thoughts, no matter how distant. Writhing in pain, she tried to focus her thoughts. To push them through to wherever he was. She pictured his face in her mind, remembering the look of tenderness he gave her. A surge of warmth brought a blush to her cheeks.

Colvin?

She could still feel the sensation of his fingers, his strong hand, as he helped her down from the saddle. She remembered how she had wanted to kiss him goodbye.

Lia?

It was less than a whisper. She was not certain she had even heard it, but she went ahead.

Warn Demont. The king sends traitors behind you in the dark.

Lia?

Warn him, Colvin! Beware!

She felt herself tugged away, snatched by an strong invisible hand as if it grasped the back of her neck. It was not a soldier. It was not physical. But it felt as real as if it were. The jolt came from inside her. A guttural voice whispered in her mind – strong, angry, full of hate.

Who are you?

The thought was loud and crushed against her mind. She was choking. She could not breathe or speak, even if she had wanted to. The Myriad Ones swarmed around her in the hidden knoll, with breathless mewling. Who was this creature hiding in the dark? In their dark? The thoughts were bold, hateful. The voice in her mind gripped her like an insect – something he could destroy. She realized who it was, recognized the presence without understanding how. It was a memory she did not own – only borrowed.

It was the king.

CHAPTER THIRTY:

The Battle of Winterrowd

The mind of the king was like a festering sore, a wound that would never heal. It tainted everything brushing near it and it expanded like darkness and shadows. Though the sky was clear of clouds, it was as if a storm raged in the valley below, harsh with thunder, hail, and wind. Instead of pelting raindrops, it was a vision of what would happen the next morning. In her mind, Lia could see the dead littering the fields, each wearing the colors of Demont and the stain of blood. In horror, she watched soldiers hacking those already dead, fixing heads on spears to warn others of the fate of those who defy the king. Lia cowered from the strength of the thoughts.

The battle of Winterrowd would not be a battle – it was more akin to butchery than any noble contest. The king would not send the soldiers in three battle lines as Colvin said. No, they would attack from all sides at once, engulfing the smaller army like a flood. No matter which way Demont’s men faced, they would be exposed. After they were all slain, she watched with despair as the butcher-soldiers turned into thieves, stripping the dead of their chaen shirts and tomes and melting them into coins, goblets, or spoons. Colvin would be among the dead. In vain, her eyes searched for him among the indistinguishable corpses. A reaping of corpses.

No!

The violence of her emotions surprised her, especially at how vividly she yearned that Colvin would not die. No, it was stronger than a yearning. She demanded it. She insisted on it. Whatever else would happen on the morrow, no matter how the king’s army engulfed them, Colvin would not die. With all the willpower she could summon, she fixed her mind on that thought. Colvin would live. A choking grip strengthened against her. She was going to die. The king’s thoughts were going to kill her.