Defiance

Ali gazed over the tree line as darkness faded into the glow on the horizon. The twin moons lost luster before the rising sun. Brief wisps of fog dispersed, revealing the valley below. Her sharp vision searched for motion, found none. She sniffed the air for signs of life, residue of wood smoke mingling with varied scents of the forest. And was that…? Yes. Delicate yet irrepressible, just strong enough to trace. She could almost taste the fresh bread cooling below. With a warm, cheerful grin, she began her descent down the rough mountain path.

Ten years away wiped out her early recollections of the valley. She had done her best to cling to memories, reviewing each sight and sound late into the night while her young body ached from training. Time dulled some and erased others no matter how hard she clung to them. The most important part of her new life with the Order had been letting go of the old. She conceded at last, embracing the path she had chosen—the path that had chosen her.

Despite years of devotion to that choice, the familiar aroma brought her past rushing back.

Ali was going home.

Despite the sword on her hip and the bow strapped across her back, she glided without effort, tireless though she walked through the night to reach her destination. As she made the edge of the trees, the path narrowed, crunchy with dried leaves and twigs. Thin shafts of sunlight filtered through the canopy, penetrating the gloom of the forest. The rays touched her cropped brown hair and lit her green eyes.

She paused by a stream, scanning the ground on instinct.

Children play here, she thought, observing tiny footprints on the soft bank. And I played here too, when I was young. The ghost of who she was, a tiny girl with blonde hair in a torn and dirty dress, laughed by the water. She shifted her longbow on her back, hooking her thumbs in her sword belt, fingers brushing her worn hilt. The child she had been offered a wave of her hand as the vision was banished by reality. Ali raised hers in answer despite herself. The sight of her outstretched offering made her pause.

She had big hands for a seventeen-year-old, with thick fingers and palms calloused by long hours honing skills of sword and bow. They were covered in scars and bruises, the fingernails filthy where they weren’t gnawed short.

Some sight I am, she thought. I left a girl and come home a… what am I now? A Guardian of the Order.

She dropped her arms to her sides. When Master Arner granted her leave, she hadn’t thought twice. And yet, would her family even know her, dressed like a man in her uniform, fitted to her and her alone? The dark brown leather hugged her from neck to knee, designed for comfort and protection, the weight of it balanced by its flexibility. She rarely wore anything else these days.

A quiet pool had formed near her feet. The water of the creek trickled by, but the puddle was still enough to allow her reflection to be cast back. For the first time in ten years Ali really looked at herself. A plain, honest face. Large eyes. Small nose and wide lips. Tanned, scarred cheeks. The face of a warrior.

Crouching, she chose a small stone from the gravel strewn at her feet and tossed it into her reflection before continuing on.

***

She was seven years old when the stranger came to her village. She and her brother were excited and a little afraid. Visitors from members of the Order were rare. The elite Guardians were the right hand of the High King and only did his Majesty’s business. They didn’t often venture as far north as the mountains or the villages calling them home.

Even more amazing, this particular man came to see their father. The siblings shushed each other from their perch at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping on the conversation below.

“We miss you greatly, Darmus.” The tall, spare man in chocolate brown leather had eyes that terrified Ali in a thrilling sort of way. They were quiet and deep and made her feel as if she had done something wrong.

Her father filled the man’s cup. Trensa, their mother, seemed uneasy. She smiled brightly enough at the stranger, so Ali thought she imagined it.

“Those days are gone, Emnit.” Darmus leaned back, drawing on his freshly packed pipe.

Emnit showed no emotion, made no move to drink or eat. “And yet. You know why I have come.”

Darmus continued puffing, ignoring his wife’s soft moan. She covered it with a cough, but it concerned Ali greatly. “I do,” her father said.

“I am only here for one.” The stranger’s head turned, focusing on the landing and the children hiding there. His eyes were black in the shadows.

Her brother grabbed Ali’s arm and pulled her away from the banister. She followed Gault to his room. He sat down on his bed, shoulders sagging. It made her afraid.

“What’s wrong, Gauley?” Her small fingers clutched at his tunic.

“Quiet,” he said. The frame creaked from his weight, broad shoulders indenting the mattress. He threw one arm across his forehead, dark hair pooling on the quilt. “Go to bed, why don’t you?”

Ali hesitated, wanting to reassure him as much as she needed his comfort.

“What did he mean?” She asked. “Who is he here for?”

Her brother, fifteen to her seven, sat up. He reached out and pulled her to him, hugging her hard. She trembled, fighting tears, not liking at all the heavy beating of his heart.

“Just go to bed,” he whispered, releasing her.

Ali did. She lay awake well into the night wondering and listening to the noises of the house.

***

The aroma of baking bread and wood smoke rose strong from the east tip of the village. She breathed in ecstasy at the large wooden sign welcoming her to Mirin, one of the larger and more prosperous villages in the mountain region. Its people were known for their cheerful good humor and firm self-reliance. Homes were comfortably rustic by choice, with none of the fancy luxuries the big cities demanded. According to residents, life was more pleasant in this small village than gold could hope to buy.

Each house appeared plainly built of timber, one and sometimes two stories, save for the local inn that towered over its neighbors, a giant among children. Well-kept dirt roads ran toward the village in orderly lines. The main street was lined with shops and workplaces. Gray smoke puffed from chimney tops, tugged at and dispelled by a swift morning breeze.

But wait. The smoke was wrong. It spiraled up from the far side of town, too massive to be innocent. Her training snapped her into focus.

The quiet a warning, she faded back into the forest to think and curse. Her mind wandered home well before she had, nostalgia stripping her of caution. Emnit would have whipped her within an inch of her life.

Time to get my head out of the past and find out what’s going on.

She slid into the trees, opening her senses as she bypassed the village on her way to the source of the smoke. She stayed close enough to the edge that she was able to catch a few glimpses, but nothing that could explain what happened. The forest stood quiet and still, but not overly so. She sensed no threat. A clear look through two houses at the front door of the inn showed the heavy oaken door boarded over, windows locked and barred. Ali absorbed the information, cleared the emotion as she had been taught, and moved on.

***

Her mother was crying. No, sobbing. Trensa clung to Darmus, face buried in his sleeve, unable to look at either of her children. Ali’s lower lip vibrated in sympathy with her mother’s weeping. Ali’s father wouldn’t look at Trensa. He only had eyes for the Guardian, Emnit.

He’d called the entire village to the center square. No one questioned or declined. Not only was attendance required, no one would miss it.

Emnit loomed tall, taller than her father, lean and hard. His tanned face was gaunt, deep sunken eyes almost black. His dark hair hung down his back in a single thick braid. He wore a sword, much like the one Darmus had hidden in the root cellar.

“Is this everyone?” Emnit asked her father.

“It is.”

“Very well.” All eyes watched him. “Citizens of Preval, you have been summoned to witness the Choosing.” He pointed to the nervous siblings. A ripple of whispers. Gault twitched beside her. She felt small under the eyes of the entire village.

Emnit’s displeasure at the disruption showed on his stoic face. Silence returned.

“Know that Darmus Archat was a Guardian of the Order.” Brief gasps, but the rest of the silence held. “By law, his issue must be tested.”

Ali’s heart skipped. She resisted grabbing her brother’s hand. She didn’t want to lose him. This cold, dark man couldn’t take Gault!

Emnit stood in front of her brother for so long Ali felt Gault take a gasp of air when the man turned away. He had been holding his breath.

Before she could ask what happened, Emnit faced her and she fell, lost in his eyes. There was pain as something within her was torn free and discarded.

Can you hear me? His voice was in her head somehow.

Yes, she answered by instinct the same way.

You are afraid.

Yes.

She jerked free of his eyes. Her body felt tingly, mind on fire with the touch of his. Everything seemed brighter, noises more intense. Even the brush of Gault’s tunic sleeve against her hand made her pause at the odd feeling of it.

Emnit, meanwhile, turned to her parents.

“I have Chosen,” he said. “The girl has the gift.”

Trensa collapsed in a wailing puddle as Gault shouted a protest. Ali’s mind was otherwise occupied. She had no time to think or feel. A bag was already packed for her. As soon as Emnit made his announcement, he retrieved it, one of two lying in the dust.

In case it was Gault, she thought.

Yes, Emnit sent.

Within moments she marched beside the tall stranger toward the south edge of town. There was a short interruption when Trensa caught her, kissing Ali’s hair and face, her own distorted with grief.

We must go. Emnit detached her from the weeping woman. Best to be done quickly.

Will I see them again? Ali held tears back as she waited for his answer.

Someday, he said.

Her last memory of home was a long look over her shoulder. The whole village gathered to watch her go. Her brother waved. Her father watched.

Her mother wept.

***

Ali hunkered down next to a large hardwood on the outskirts of the north end. Despite her training in controlling emotion, anger and fear warred within her. This side of Mirin was home to the meeting hall, the town magistrate and the small jail that in her day rarely held more than the local drunkard. They never had a need to wall or fortify. They were a peaceful people, far from the border, in a quiet and safe part of the world.

Had been. The entire north end of town had been burned to the ground. Fine walls of gray smoke rose from dying embers. Heat waves distorted the scorched dirt. The scent of burning wood mixed with charred meat. The fire that did this was no accident. Short steel war arrows jutted from the surrounding buildings, burned black by the fire. A hoof-churned half circle marked where the attacking force made their stand. A pile of dead bodies smoldered in the center of the square.

Ali choked on the ash, eyes stinging from the smoke. The damage was at least a day old. The rest of the village seemed deserted.

Not soon enough, she thought. They were taken by surprise.

She circled the site, alert as she pieced the battle together. Her body tensed when the events played out, ghosts revealing themselves to her, tied to the gift.

Night, the moons not yet risen, not a hint of a breeze. The sudden silence of once happily humming crickets. A deep drumming growing louder as light flickers in the distance. Riders sweep out of the trees, masked in black, horses snorting steam. Torches are offered to arrows, setting the special tips ablaze. Without warning or order, the weapons fly. The wood of the buildings catches. The first villager to emerge is killed from a distance. The second makes it two steps. He is taken down. The third manages to shout a warning before falling, but it is too little, too late. Sheets of flame climb the magistrate’s home, smoke slithering across the roof. There is shouting as the villagers attempt to rally a defense. There is so much smoke and flame, painful to watch, impossible to make out much detail. A small group of faceless defenders storms the square but are surrounded, their weapons no match for arrow’s reach. A miracle, two attackers are injured in the assault, a horse goes down, but the end is inevitable. They are killed to the last man and left to burn.

Ali pulled herself free of the gift in time to hunch over and vomit. The smell made the vision all the more intense. It took her a moment to get herself under control.

Forgive me my weakness, Emnit, she thought with some bitterness. Her teacher would not have understood.

***

She was unable to stop crying. Her new master allowed her to snuffle for only a short time before gripping her upper arm in one iron hand and shaking her so hard she cried out. She had never given her parents a reason to strike her, unlike her brother. Emnit’s fierce scowl snapped her out of grief and back to fear.

“Enough,” he said. “You have been Chosen. It is an honor. Do not mourn your old life. Release it now.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, terrified, wanting him to let her go.

“If I see one more tear,” he warned, “or hear one more snivel, you will be punished. Do you understand?”

Ali agreed, even though she didn’t understand at all.

Emnit let her go. His cold, dark eyes glittered, shadowed by thick brows that came together in the middle when he scowled.

“Emotion is your enemy now,” he told her. “It is a lesson you must learn, Alimeaha, if you are to be one of us. The gift will feed on it, on you, if you are not careful. And that will be your undoing.”

She rubbed her arm and did her best, not knowing that bruise was to be the first of many.

***

Ali tensed while the world fell silent. She hovered in the safety of the tree line before her mind knew her body moved. All soldier, she pushed out her senses to the shift in her narrowed focus.

People approached, but they made no effort to lower their voices or hide themselves. She remained where she stood and watched. Several men stepped from the north road into the square. Each carried a weapon of some sort. She counted without prompting the long bows, like her own, swords, axes. One man carried a wheat scythe.

Villagers, she thought. Looking for what?

“I’m telling you, I saw someone,” a young man said. The others spread out. Ali noticed with admirable calm that neither her father nor her brother was with them. A huge, powerful brute with broad shoulders and corded arms turned toward her hiding place. Ali took in his ruddy face and thinning dark hair, shining with gray.

Obron, her mind whispered.

With great care, she revealed herself. The big man cursed, raising the sword in his fist. She held up both hands.

“Do you not know me, Master Smith?” She asked. “Do you not remember the little girl who sat on your knee while you and Darmus told each other stories no one believed were true?”

His hazel eyes widened, the sword falling to the ground with a thump as his fingers released it.

“Ali,” he said. “Little Alimeaha.”

She approached, bending to retrieve the fallen blade. She handed it to him, hilt first. “You should never drop your weapon.”

Obron laughed. Ignoring the offered sword he swung her into his arms, crushing her against his broad chest. For that brief space of time she was seven years old, and he was one of her heroes.

He turned toward the gathered men. “Ho, now, lads. Put them weapons down, hey! Our little Alimeaha’s back from the Order.” Only then realizing what he had done, Obron set her down, fear in his eyes. “My apologies, Guardian,” he stammered.

Their moment had passed.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” the soldier in her said. “And why.”

“I’ll be explaining that to you later, lass, ah, my lady,” he answered. “Come now, though. Moisten your throat with a spot of ale and eat your fill of bread and stew.” He lowered his voice. “There’ll be many who will be glad to see you.”

Ali followed the blacksmith into the forest. She knew the path, understood where he was taking her before she spotted the black opening of the first of the caves carved into the side of the mountain.

“We had to,” he said. “There was no going home, not after what happened.”

At the top of the path, they entered a clearing dominated by a vast cave mouth. Once overgrown with weeds, old dead trees and tumbled stone, it had been cleared in a hurry and recently. A few families huddled in groups, possessions piled around them, watching her pass with haunted eyes.

Obron’s wife, Maelinda, met them in the large cavern.

“Stir up the stew from yestereve, woman, and cut up a fresh loaf!” The smith beamed despite the wretched circumstances. “We have a starving stranger here who just wandered in.”

“Mother bless me.” The petite woman in plain homespun gripped Ali’s hands. A smile creased the woman’s lined face, blue eyes welcoming, though Ali could feel anxiety radiating from her. Being a member of the Order had its benefits. Becoming an object of fear to old friends wasn’t one of them.

Both Maelinda and Obron had aged. Surely, this wasn’t the energetic woman who had her hands in everyone’s business, and who, despite her size, kept Obron in check?

Ali followed them into the damp cavern, Maelinda limping lightly ahead. Ali kept her eyes forward, ignoring the pitiful sight of the people around her. Sobs and low cries of grief echoed in the dark. She was shown to a rough stone slab next to a small fire and had food thrust before her. Maelinda draped a warm fur over Ali’s shoulders against the chill. With mechanical automation, she devoured the stew and bread, only sipping the watered ale set beside her.

As she ate, Obron lit his pipe. Rings of smoke rose around him, the hearty smell hovering in the still air. Ali inhaled, mind shying away from her absent parents.

“These are hard times,” Obron said. “Since the death of High King Amoden, there’s been nothing but trouble brewing. Trade is slow, if it happens at all. Folks go missing on the highways. The useless fool they’ve placed on the throne couldn’t care less from what we’ve been told. Ayah, I suppose he means well with his treaties, but they ain’t helping his subjects. He needs to stop looking past our borders and see to the safety of his own folk.”

Ali knew it would never happen. This wasn’t the only part of Preval experiencing attacks, though the fact the enemy struck so deep within what should have been the safe confines of the kingdom gave her anxiety she shunted aside before it could take hold. And yet, the High King refused to act time and again, effectively tying the army and the Order to the ground. His new foreign policy took his complete attention.

Obron went on. “We’d heard of trouble in the lowlands. We never thought it would reach us. Things have been tough, but we’ve been safe enough. They hit us night afore last, no warning or negotiation or demands. I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

“Obron,” she said, emotions stilled against the truth. “Where is my father?”

He refused to look at her. “The night we were attacked, your Da was the only one who kept his wits. He got some of the men together so fast I don’t know how he managed.” Ali did. One of the benefits of the gift was the control of others. “Even fought back a bit. Got me to lead the women and children into the forest while he and the others attacked. Darmus got a couple, took down a horse.” Ali refused to let the rising tide of hurt and grief win. Emnit’s presence clung strong as she listened with forced dispassion. “He fought so bravely, Ali, you need to know.”

“He was killed.” The quiet in her voice pleased her.

Obron slumped low on the stone bench. “Ayah. We hadn’t a chance against them. My own Togan…” he choked off, face mottled with pain and rage.

“Here now, Obron,” Maelinda’s hands fell to his shoulders, “there was nothing anyone could have done.”

A sad-eyed Togan with the shy smile winked in her memory. He had been her friend, so many years ago. Obron brought himself back under control and continued. “They killed the magistrate and the entire council.” He leaned forward, eyes sad. “I am sorry, lass.”

Ali felt cold. No pain, no tears. An iron fist settled around her heart. Cold was perfect. “And my mother?”

“Ayah, your Momma too, was struck down when she tried to get your Da from the flames.”

The fist tightened. “And Gault?” Her voice was Emnit’s.

“Lives, if for now. He is fevered and infected with a great sickness.” He sat back again, puffing sadly on his pipe. “We must pick up the pieces of our lives and fit them back together, if we can. But we don’t have a hope if we have no protection.” He watched her through the swirl of smoke rising from pipe and lips. “Will you help us?”

“I want to see my brother.” She climbed to her feet, the fur sliding from her, to gather in a soft puddle around her boots.

Lying in a mess, she thought, like my life. How can I tell these people there is nothing I can do?

***

Ali held still as her mentor thrashed her with the flat of his sword.

You care too much. The length of steel raised burning welts on her back. You weigh yourself down with these feelings for others. You defend them when you should look to your own training.

They were hurting him. She kept her mental voice calm. Any show of weakness would result in further lashes. He had done nothing wrong.

The boy needs to learn on his own. Emnit’s blows stopped. He faced her, beads of perspiration rising on his upper lip from the exertion of the thrashing. You must learn to follow orders, Alimeaha.

He returned to his work as she clung to self-control. The core of her ached for the boy, only six, nearly killed by a pack of older trainees. As she took her punishment, not the first and certainly not the last, Ali held on to the truth and her defiance.

She had done the right thing.

Don't miss PART TWO!