FINAL FLIGHT
N. R. Eccles-Smith
Final Flight
Naomi Eccles-Smith
Text copyright Naomi Eccles-Smith, 2013
Cover illustration copyright Naomi Eccles-Smith, 2013
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It has been ten years since the Remenon Estate Incident. Ten years since the accusation of murdering my family and burning our manor to the ground. Ten years of being wanted by the Varscodian Enforcers—hunted, ostracised and forced to filter myself through a mire of aliases and masks. Ten years of running. And I’m tired of it.
I’ve known for a long time that the whole affair was a villainous plot instigated by the Varscodian aristocracy to mark me as the transgressor to cover their involvement. Though, why I was singled out, I’ve never been able to find out. Perhaps because I was the rebellious, untempered one in the family; the wild red-haired girl who bucked against the standards of propriety and custom, all for the love of adventure and freedom. As a girl, I rode wild Keecoon birds bareback and notched down unripened apples with my brother’s throwing knives instead of attending dance lessons or improving myself in the beauty arts as expected of any seventeen-year-old heiress.
If my uncurbed nature created the reason for setting me up, it could only mean one thing: an inside betrayal. The Varscodians would have never known of my personality quirks otherwise. My antics were outrageous to be sure, but my mother always made sure they remained undisclosed from all public eye and scrutiny.
And then there was the way the local authorities dealt with the case—the mishandling of evidence, the tainted objectivity, and the poisonous whispers of false witnesses. The whole thing reeked of treachery, and no one gave a damn about uncovering the truth. Whenever I think about it, I imagine silhouetted rows of Varscodian noblemen standing behind all the parties involved, holding marionette strings above their heads. It leaves a bitter silent laugh in the back of my throat every time.
My innocence never stood a chance.
And so, I ran away and ended up joining the Grey Wake Mercenaries. That course of action probably made me look all the more guilty. But I was a child, paranoid, foolish, and desperate to erase my traumatic past. It only made matters worse that I severed ties with close friends and acquaintances. Those with the power to help me, had no way of finding me, and even if they did, by then it was too late. I didn’t trust anyone from my old life anymore, and every bridge I crossed, I burned.
And the Varscodian dogs continued to hunt my shadow, tarnishing my name as they went.
Wanted in fourteen provinces, I have an 800,000 Sand Gold bounty on my head. How I’ve managed to keep out of the Varscodian Enforcers’ filthy hands for this long is simple: I never stay in the one place too long, I never use the main roads, and I make sure to keep informed of the Varscodians activities. Keep your friends close, and you enemies closer, they say. Well, I made sure to live by that as though my life depended on it. And, it pretty much does.
Tonight, however, I’m unsure how my situation stands. No close encounters in over three months. Most would consider that a good sign. But I don’t. Something feels off.
A glance into my half-empty glass reveals the murky reflection of my face staring back at me, prickling with the bubbles from the oxidised beverage. My eyes look hollow, my face taut. Gone is the spark of life people used to admire in my gaze; that spark of freedom that glinted like shards of sunlight dancing over a tumbling stream of sapphire blue. Some of my acquaintances—few as they are—have become incredulous and angered by my diminished spirit. They constantly debate the retellings of my wild adventures, reminding me of how many places I’ve visited, and the wonders I’ve seen. Every kingdom on the continent has been my home, visiting realms which others could only dream. I guess, in their eyes, that makes me the most free and spirited person they’ve ever known.
The truth is, though, there is nothing free about me. In body I may roam the lands, uninhibited by duty or calling, yet in spirit I am the equivalent to a wild animal trapped in a snare. My cage is not one of bars or locks, oaths or bonds; it is a grim and unyielding arrow, trained ever at my back. This life of constant running, constant uncertainly, constant strife ... this is not the wild, romantic freedom I longed for as a child. This life is the slow, painful grinding of a millstone. And now, that stone has passed through my bones and begun grating at my soul.
I don’t want to run anymore. But I don’t want to surrender either. I’ve reached the edge of a precipice, but don’t know how to keep from falling over the edge.
A raucous outbreak disturbs me from my brooding. I turn my head toward the table on the far side of the commons room. As usual, the tavern is crowded and noisy, but the din from some men in particular holds my attention. Drunk and slovenly, they pound the table with their hands and tankards, their poorly pitched voices raised in song.
Lo, see our brothers standing strong,
When come the break of crimson day.
To make right what was turned to wrong,
They call to arms and ride away.
For freedom sing,
For freedom fight,
For freedom give all sword and soul.
Never shall we bend our knee,
Come days of terror or nights of woe.
Nay, never shall we bend our knee,
Or yield to our offending foe.
For freedom sing,
For freedom fight,
For freedom put your faith in whole.
Nay, never shall we bend our knee,
Or yield to our offending foe.
They finish with a series of blubbering shouts and cheers, and receive a general round of applause from other patriots. The rest of the gathered, including the tavern employees, are less than impressed. One of the serving girls hurries over to try and settle the men down. Their wariness I understand all too well. If Varscodian soldiers were to walk in and hear traditional Elkshaan war odes sung in public, they would likely arrest the offenders on the ridiculous charge of inciting civil rebellion and slam the tavern with a severe fine. It wouldn’t matter that the men are Elkshaan citizens, drinking Elkshaan-brewed mead, in an Elkshaan tavern.
Ever since Elkshaida’s Duke Farveign signed the so-called “peace” treaty, the Varscodian armed forces have unrestricted authority within Elkshaan borders. The Duke was likely encouraged to consent to the nonviolent takeover with an ultimatum. Probably something along the lines of: submit to the terms and conditions, or watch your kingdom burn. Farveign must not have wanted Elkshaida to end up stained red with the blood and flames of war like Korsha and Murgren.
The cost of defiance is high, and leads down a terrible, bloody road of violence and sacrifice. But in the end, the cost of conformity is higher—especially against a conceited and heartless kingdom like Varscodia.
I give the singers my own gesture of approval, raising my glass and glancing up at the ceiling. ‘Just another day in paradise, then.’ The words emerge a little scratchier than intended, but the old man two stools down from me seemed to approve.
‘I’ll drink ter that, sister,’ he mumbles before tipping back the rest of his booze with clumsy enthusiasm, dribbling on his whiskery beard.
I start to take a final swig from my drink, but catch my breath as a strange, cold sensation rushes through me. My world becomes small and isolated, as though everything has been swallowed by a compressing darkness, except for the commons room of this small rowdy tavern. Claustrophobia creeps in, and I instinctively slide off my stool and point my feet toward the nearest exit.
The front door bursts open, and Felix Cressen staggers over the threshold, gasping as though he’s sprinted ten miles. His dark hair is slick with sweat and matted over his
face, while his yellow eyes have a wild glaze about them as they madly scan around the room before training on me.
‘Hey!’ shouts the burly bartender, ‘Can’t you read the sign? This is an exclusive tavern. No Murgrenite mongrels allowed.’
Felix flattens his lupine ears, but otherwise pays no heed to the bigoted demand and makes a beeline straight to where I stand. ‘Adeline, the Varscodians—they–they know you’re here! They’re planning a–an ambush. Leave, now! Get out of the city and as far away as possible.’
I grab his shoulders and snare his gaze with mine. ‘When did you hear of this? How long have they known about me?’ I struggle to hide my panic, but I’m sure it’s not convincing. The heat rushes to my cheeks, and the muscles on the back of my neck twitch as they do when my anger or anxiety becomes uncontrolled.
Felix shakes his head, still gasping for breath. ‘I found out less than an hour ago, but