Of Falorn
Consciousness returned to the fallen warrior once sense at a time. First the acrid scent of blood and steel assaulted her nostrils, making them twitch slightly. The coppery taste of her own bloody mouth came next, and she choked her way into movement to turn her head and spit the sticky contents out onto the earthen floor.
"So, you're awake. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever come conscious again," a voice in the darkness called. Unfamiliar, harsh- not the voice she was expecting.
With opening her eyes came the return to her body, the painful awareness that she'd been wounded in battle. Her brother, his face an impassive mask of concentration, pressed herbs to the gash in her side, his stern tone as he chanted a warning not to move again least she dislodge them.
"Who is that?" Ambria asked, remaining still and therefore unable to turn and see the speaker. Her own voice sounded alien to her- hoarse and raspy. She remembered the firepots of the enemy, and how the smoke had filled her lungs near to bursting.
"I'm glad you're awake," the voice continued. He didn't offer a name or an explanation. "I don't know how much longer I could have carried you- that armor is heavy."
Avon grunted, finished with the herbals, and wiped his hands on a stray bit of bandage. "The battle," he offered by way of explanation. "You didn't fare so well."
Ambria struggled to sit, pressing a hand to the sticky herbal bandage. The smell of the concoction nauseated her, and she felt like she might pitch over again. Strong hands held her steady from behind. "Careful," the stranger said. She managed to turn enough to see his face - his rough cut hair, a dirt smudged cheek, blue eyes that revealed nothing of his intentions.
"Who are you?" she asked again, and would have said more had she not broken off into coughing. Avon fetched a skin of water, pressed it to her lips. She drank in greedy gulps until the taste of battle was washed down enough to breathe.
"Grant," he said, offering no surname or mark of allegiance. He passed in front of her and to the sod window, and it occurred to her that she knew now where she was- in her brother's dugout in the field, the sod-and-daub house where he kept to himself and his books when life at the castle was too stifling. It was all but invisible to the casual observer due to a combination of natural camouflage and Avon's wards. "We must leave soon as you are ready to travel."
Though night had long since fallen and there was little more than the moon streaming in to illuminate the man at the window, she could see the gleam of steel at his belt, and the fastenings of his leather jerkin. They reminded her uncomfortably of the invaders who had surprised them all at dawn. Falorn Castle had been ill-prepared for an attack from within the walls, a certain treachery from within the ranks being the only likely cause of such easy violation of their defenses.
The battle came back to her in flashes... the barbaric cries of the interlopers, their skill and speed in battle - and how her father's body fell a split second sooner than his severed head. "Where is our mother?" she called softly to Avon, who was packing as many books as would fit into his satchel.
"Your mother," he corrected automatically. "Last I saw her was on the porchyard, with the soldier's taking turns." He regretted the harshness of the words as soon as he saw her face, though he was too shamed to apologize, and turned instead to the task of packing a second bag with what little food the dugout contained.
Ambria clenched her fists and teeth in unison, the muscles of her battered body drawing painfully tight. She cried out from the effort, and the stranger - Grant- was beside her again. "There is no time for anger," he cautioned her. "There will be time for vengeance when we can plan it well, far from this place."
"But my mother--" she began.
"Is likely dead," he finished, "and if she is not, only the Gods can help her now. We must think only of ourselves now, and our survival. Which depends, almost entirely, on our getting the hell out of here before dawn. So I suggest we move."
Perhaps to make up for the harshness of his words, Grant took her brother's cape from the chair over which it draped, and wrapped it securely around her shoulders. He clasped it loosely at the throat, then drew the hood up over her hair. "Keep hidden as best you can," he said.
Her bright red hair, inherited from her father, and the slight point of her ears, inherited from her father, set her apart from the general population of the area. Avon had no such problems- illegitimate that he was, the son of a gypsy who looked much like a gypsy with his swarthy build, with eyes as dark as his hair. He could have been anyone's son, though by providence he had belonged to (and been claimed by) the lord of the land.
Avon shouldered his packs without complaint, though he twitched slightly as he took his staff in hand and prepared to leave the safety of his dugout. Ambria knew he rarely left the castle grounds, and this had to be quite the ordeal in the making. She resolved to be strong for him, and their parents, and for Falorn... or what remained of it, in the hands of the invaders.
"We will return someday," Ambria promised, as she struggled to her feet.
"Lean on me," Grant said, and together they ambled towards the door. Avon followed close behind, gazed up at the night sky as he closed the door to his dugout for likely the last time, to study what the heavenly bodies might portend.
Overhead the moon shone, half-shrouded with the red haze that signified a hot day just over the horizon. "Blood and bone," Avon whispered, his upturned face illuminated as they picked their way towards the treeline. "Not the most fortunate of signs."
(to be continued)
"So, you're awake. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever come conscious again," a voice in the darkness called. Unfamiliar, harsh- not the voice she was expecting.
With opening her eyes came the return to her body, the painful awareness that she'd been wounded in battle. Her brother, his face an impassive mask of concentration, pressed herbs to the gash in her side, his stern tone as he chanted a warning not to move again least she dislodge them.
"Who is that?" Ambria asked, remaining still and therefore unable to turn and see the speaker. Her own voice sounded alien to her- hoarse and raspy. She remembered the firepots of the enemy, and how the smoke had filled her lungs near to bursting.
"I'm glad you're awake," the voice continued. He didn't offer a name or an explanation. "I don't know how much longer I could have carried you- that armor is heavy."
Avon grunted, finished with the herbals, and wiped his hands on a stray bit of bandage. "The battle," he offered by way of explanation. "You didn't fare so well."
Ambria struggled to sit, pressing a hand to the sticky herbal bandage. The smell of the concoction nauseated her, and she felt like she might pitch over again. Strong hands held her steady from behind. "Careful," the stranger said. She managed to turn enough to see his face - his rough cut hair, a dirt smudged cheek, blue eyes that revealed nothing of his intentions.
"Who are you?" she asked again, and would have said more had she not broken off into coughing. Avon fetched a skin of water, pressed it to her lips. She drank in greedy gulps until the taste of battle was washed down enough to breathe.
"Grant," he said, offering no surname or mark of allegiance. He passed in front of her and to the sod window, and it occurred to her that she knew now where she was- in her brother's dugout in the field, the sod-and-daub house where he kept to himself and his books when life at the castle was too stifling. It was all but invisible to the casual observer due to a combination of natural camouflage and Avon's wards. "We must leave soon as you are ready to travel."
Though night had long since fallen and there was little more than the moon streaming in to illuminate the man at the window, she could see the gleam of steel at his belt, and the fastenings of his leather jerkin. They reminded her uncomfortably of the invaders who had surprised them all at dawn. Falorn Castle had been ill-prepared for an attack from within the walls, a certain treachery from within the ranks being the only likely cause of such easy violation of their defenses.
The battle came back to her in flashes... the barbaric cries of the interlopers, their skill and speed in battle - and how her father's body fell a split second sooner than his severed head. "Where is our mother?" she called softly to Avon, who was packing as many books as would fit into his satchel.
"Your mother," he corrected automatically. "Last I saw her was on the porchyard, with the soldier's taking turns." He regretted the harshness of the words as soon as he saw her face, though he was too shamed to apologize, and turned instead to the task of packing a second bag with what little food the dugout contained.
Ambria clenched her fists and teeth in unison, the muscles of her battered body drawing painfully tight. She cried out from the effort, and the stranger - Grant- was beside her again. "There is no time for anger," he cautioned her. "There will be time for vengeance when we can plan it well, far from this place."
"But my mother--" she began.
"Is likely dead," he finished, "and if she is not, only the Gods can help her now. We must think only of ourselves now, and our survival. Which depends, almost entirely, on our getting the hell out of here before dawn. So I suggest we move."
Perhaps to make up for the harshness of his words, Grant took her brother's cape from the chair over which it draped, and wrapped it securely around her shoulders. He clasped it loosely at the throat, then drew the hood up over her hair. "Keep hidden as best you can," he said.
Her bright red hair, inherited from her father, and the slight point of her ears, inherited from her father, set her apart from the general population of the area. Avon had no such problems- illegitimate that he was, the son of a gypsy who looked much like a gypsy with his swarthy build, with eyes as dark as his hair. He could have been anyone's son, though by providence he had belonged to (and been claimed by) the lord of the land.
Avon shouldered his packs without complaint, though he twitched slightly as he took his staff in hand and prepared to leave the safety of his dugout. Ambria knew he rarely left the castle grounds, and this had to be quite the ordeal in the making. She resolved to be strong for him, and their parents, and for Falorn... or what remained of it, in the hands of the invaders.
"We will return someday," Ambria promised, as she struggled to her feet.
"Lean on me," Grant said, and together they ambled towards the door. Avon followed close behind, gazed up at the night sky as he closed the door to his dugout for likely the last time, to study what the heavenly bodies might portend.
Overhead the moon shone, half-shrouded with the red haze that signified a hot day just over the horizon. "Blood and bone," Avon whispered, his upturned face illuminated as they picked their way towards the treeline. "Not the most fortunate of signs."
(to be continued)