Dasen was first aware of the ground beneath him. It was rough, uneven, like lying on a mattress of pinecones, but he did not move to deflect the discomfort. In his semi-conscious state, such a minor inconvenience could not muster the motivation required for the monumental task of movement. He was not even certain that he was capable of such effort. His body felt distant, detached, no longer under his control, but he did not begrudge its absence. Its innumerable complaints would only delay his return to the magnificent solace of sleep.
He allowed that sleep to take him and was on the border of oblivion when his journey was arrested by the image of runes playing before his mind’s eye. He tried to ignore the intrusion, but the images were relentless in their display, so he studied them, wondered what they meant and why they chose now to interrupt him. The runes were familiar, he realized, but nonetheless incomprehensible. They were complex but at the same time simple. They were smooth and flowing, yet jagged and sharp, and they seemed to follow no pattern at all, as if someone had scribbled with no known purpose. Watching again and again, he began to see a pattern in those scribbles, something that suggested a method to the apparent madness. He searched for it, concentrated on it, almost had it.
Like an avalanche, memories crashed through his mind: the ambush, the wild ride, and the ball of fire that ended it all. Those images overran him, crushed him with their weight, and exiled the runes to dark subconscious corners.
If the memories were not shock enough, his body was simultaneously reattached to his mind, and all the pain in the world hit him in one breathtaking moment. His head burst, throbbing like it was being hit with a hammer. His face burned with the fire of the sun. Every muscle and joint in his body screamed in dreadful sorrow. The pain was so complete that he could manage nothing more than a sharp inhalation through gnashing teeth – unable even to vocalize the myriad miseries.
No sooner did the sound slip from his lips then a hand was clenched over his mouth. He immediately recognized the significance of that restriction, and his eyes shot open, searching for its source. A hazy blanket of green slowly fragmented into individual leaves, delineated only by the soft light that filtered between them. The leaves were dark green, thick, and round with the moist appearance of a recent rain. There was layer after layer of them so that not even a speck of sky showed trough their multitude, yet the sturdy branches sprouting around him like the bars of a birdcage held those leaves high above so that he could sit upright without any touching his head.
The hand at his mouth came into view, and Dasen followed a long arm up to Tethina’s face. She was sitting on folded legs, coiled like a taut spring, with her head ducked so that it was just below the first leaves of the bush. Her eyes watched the foliage expectantly, examining the green shield for gaps. She was setting so close that her firm thigh was pressed against his side, almost on top of him. That leg trembled slightly, in sync with the tremors in her hand where it held his mouth.
After an anxious minute, Tethina's face came down to his. Her cheek rubbed against his, soft and warm. Her lips stopped so near his ear that he could feel her rapid breath tickling across its surface. "They’re here.” The whisper was so soft that he could barely hear the words. “I’m going to move my hand, but you cannot make a sound. Understand?" The words were tightly controlled but laced with desperation.
Dasen nodded his reply and felt Tethina's cheek retrace its path past his – her skin felt as soft as the silk dress that draped across his hand. She returned to her perch. Her hand left his mouth, moving to rest on his chest in what could have been a comforting or restraining gesture. Dasen took a slow, deep breath. He did not even consider rising, concentrating instead on staying as still as possible despite his aching body and throbbing head.
Glad to close his eyes, he reached out with his other senses, searching for anything that might tell him what was happening. He heard the gentle rustle of the leaves blowing in the breeze. Then the crackle of a fire. He smelled the smoke. The coach burning, he realized. He wondered how he had escaped that trap and made it to this sanctuary but knew that the answer was as close as the hand on his chest.
Voices rising above the sound of the flames ended his contemplation. The voices were distant, but they grew louder until they eclipsed all other sounds. It was men, and from the volume of their words, they were not concerned with stealth. Their words were like muted thunder, deep rumbling syllables pounded out in the rhythm of a chant, but Dasen could not understand a single one of them. He focused on the words, trying to decipher them, but the men were not speaking any language he had ever heard.
That realization shocked him. The Church and Empire had ensured during their long reign that all people were unified by a common language, the Imperial tongue. They had stomped out the use of other dialects and now very few remained. Most of those were concentrated in the wild lands of Sylia – none still existed in the Kingdoms. It posed the question of why a group of bandits – as these men must be – would be speaking in a foreign language. Unless they were from Sylia . . . .
It was a ridiculous answer to an unnecessary puzzle. The only important thing now was avoiding capture. Dasen locked the oddity into his memory for later contemplation and focused on listening for the attackers’ positions. Some distance to his left, he thought, near the fire, but they were spreading out to search.
The men did not speak as they searched but their steps were heavy, and Dasen was certain that he could give the position of each of the five men to within a few feet. Unfortunately, one of them was circling closer until his steps stopped at the edge of their bush. Dasen prayed for the man to keep moving, but he just stood there for what seemed a lifetime then called out in a hushed tone to his fellows.
The man was close enough for Dasen to hear his heavy breaths, so his hushed call was a thunderclap. Dasen’s eyes shot open. They only saw green. And Tethina, more tense than he had imagined possible. The muscles of her leg quivered. Her hand pressed on his chest until it hurt. The small dagger was clutched in her opposite hand so tightly that her knuckles were white. The blade was poised just below the first leaves, its razor point sparkling in the sparse light that made it through the canopy above.
Tethina shifted, getting ready to strike, but they were not found yet, and a rash move could cost them their lives. Dasen wiggled his hand out from where it was trapped by Tethina’s leg and caught her arm just below the wrist. She looked at his hand then face as if he were one of the men outside the bush, but Dasen nodded slowly and squeezed her wrist. Tethina got the message. Her muscles relaxed, but the knife did not move, so he did not release her.
More footsteps sounded nearby as the other men joined the first. From the sound of their steps, the bandits were big. Undoubtedly they were heavily armed, able-bodied, and confident. If they were discovered, he and Tethina would not stand a chance. Capture would be the best outcome. With that thought in mind, Dasen surveyed their hiding place again but found only curved walls of green on every side. They were safe from casual observation, but if someone pushed back the branches, they would have nowhere to run. He prayed that it would not come to that.
The first bandit whispered to the others – even the whispers seemed a roar, but the language was no clearer. He closed the final feet on the bush as if he still might surprise what he found inside. When his huge leather boots could be seen peeking through the bottom leaves, he stopped, and there was silence. Dasen could imagine him peering intently at the canopy above.
A hand started through the top layers of the bush.
Dasen froze and watched Tethina. He could feel the tension in her every muscle like a steel trap with a faulty trigger. He intensified his grip on her arm and prayed to the Holy Order for her to remain calm – even if she surprised the men, she would only spark their aggression.
A second hand joined the first.
Dasen continued his silent prayer but was paralyzed beyond that.
He could not even breathe. The pounding of his heart sounded like thunder in his ears.
The huge hands closed around the leaves of the bush to draw them apart. They were found for certain.
Dasen clenched his eyes shut unable to watch his fate unfold and made one last desperate plea. To his tremendous surprise, it was answered. With a bellow of agony.
She stabbed him, Dasen thought as his eyes flew open. He still held her wrist. He was certain that it had not moved. He looked at the blade. There was no blood on it.
The bandit yelled again, anguish clear in his guttural scream. Another scream and he fell to the ground near the bush. He howled, gnashed his teeth, and groaned in misery. His fellows backed away from the bush as if it had come alive. Their weapons rattled as they came to the ready. The men yelled back and forth to one another in wonderment, surprise, and fear.
Dasen was every bit as confused. He looked at Tethina, but she just let out a soft sigh and lowered her knife. Had she expected this outcome? A small smile crept across her lips until she heard the bandit coming to his feet.
The sound erased her smile and brought the knife back to its place near the innermost leaves, but the man did not approach. He mumbling then screamed what could only be curses as he backed away from the bush. From the sounds of their steps, his friends had joined him. Eventually, the other men relaxed and chuckled at their compatriot’s inexplicable misfortune, but none of them came near the bush. They joked and laughed all the way to their horses then mounted and rode south . . . toward Randor's Pass.