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After hours of riding at as great a speed as they could manage, the trio was still within the forest, and had not used a single road. They finally came upon a large log hut. When they reached it, the others helped her from the horse and inside. A fire that had been left unattended for some time barely smoldered in the hearth. Myranda was led to a crude wooden chair, a blanket thrown about her shoulders. The large man left to tend to the horses, while the woman took a seat in another chair, a restrained look of satisfaction showing on her face.
"I am Caya," she said, extending her hand.
Myranda extended her right hand painfully in an attempt the return the gesture. She managed to weakly touch the fingers of her rescuer before she couldn't stand the pain anymore.
"Myranda," she said.
"We all heard what you did. Inspiring," Caya said.
"What are you talking about?" Myranda asked. "Who are you? Where am I?"
"You are at the headquarters of the Undermine. I am the regional commander. You've done more for our cause in just a few days than years of subtle operations," she explained.
"What have I done?" Myranda asked, her mind still too clouded to put the pieces together.
She knew of the Undermine well. Most people blindly supported the war. Some people, like herself, quietly loathed it. The Undermine was a group so steadfast against the continued conflict that they had come to actively oppose it. There were supposedly pockets of the Undermine in every major town. It was said that they commonly would carry out strikes on military targets with the intent of forcing a withdrawal from active combat. When the military or government spoke of them, the messages tended to be equal parts denial and propaganda against.
"No need for modesty. Everyone knows. You stole an item prized by the scoundrels in the military and slew four soldiers sent to reclaim it," She said.
"You know about it? Here! Already?" Myranda said in disbelief.
"Please. Nothing travels faster than bad news or a good rumor. This was both," Caya said. "We've been looking for something that could shake up the men in charge this much for years. Word has it that they got you, but not that which you stole. Is this so?"
"Well, I suppose, but you don't understand," Myranda tried to explain.
The large man entered. Caya turned excitedly to him.
"Tus! They still haven't found it!" Caya shouted.
The stalwart fellow nodded. She would soon learn that, from him, this was the height of emotion.
"What is it you have taken? Where did you find it? How did you hide it? I must know!" she urged.
"What weapon did you use to kill the men?" Tus added.
"I will tell you all that I know and all that I have done, but when I am through, I fear you will not think so highly of me," Myranda said.
And so she told the tale of the last few days. She spoke of the frozen body, the sword, and the merchant. She told of her imprisonment and release from the church. As she spoke, the faces of her rescuers shifted from joy to disillusionment. In the space of a few minutes, she shattered the image that the tales of a dozen gossips had painted of her.
"Well, Myranda. I am truly sorry to hear the truth. I had hoped to find a powerful ally in you. Instead I find an unfortunate victim of circumstance," Caya said.
"I, too, am sorry. I hate this war with all of my heart. If I could help you, I would," Myranda said.
"I doubt anything you could do now could match that which you have done by accident. You see, our operatives have reported motion at the very highest levels due to your actions. Whatever that sword is, it means an awful lot to some very important people. You are a marked woman. The minds that twist and shape the entire kingdom are turned to you and what you've done. The ripples are still spreading throughout the ranks," Caya explained.
"All of my men tell your story. They would beat the door down to meet you," Tus said. "Their spirits are strong now. The men are ready to fight."
Caya's look had slowly changed from one of sorrow to one of thought.
"All may not be lost. Myranda, are you willing to join our cause?" she asked.
"Of course," she said, "though I cannot imagine what help I could give you."
"You've done enough already. More importantly, my people believe you have done much more. What they think of you is all that matters. You may not be able to fight beside them, as I'd hoped, but tales of your deeds will stir them to greatness nonetheless. So long as they do not learn the truth, merely having you in our ranks will give them the heart to fight double. In return for your membership, we will keep you safe from the clutches of the army.
"If what you say is true, only one man aside from Tus and myself still lives with the knowledge of precisely what has transpired, and he is a murderer. It is unlikely that such a man will turn to the people he has been killing to offer a description. Yes, yes. You must be kept from the light of day for a while. Perhaps a few months. The descriptions that the soldiers are passing around will fade from memory. Before long, so long as you offer a bit of disguise, you'll be able to walk the streets without prompting a second glance," Caya said.
"You will be trained. Another hand on another hilt," Tus added.
"Yes, good thinking, Tus. In time, you will become what the men believe you to be. This may yet be a great day for our cause," Caya agreed.
Tus remained stern as ever, but Caya showed enough joy for the two of them. Myranda mustered a smile for their sake. Things were spinning out of control. Days ago, she lived a simple life, albeit a restless one. Then she seemed to be at the center of something she knew nothing about, but was apparently of monumental importance. Now she would be the figurehead of a group of renegades who were working toward an end to the war, but through a means that was nearly a match for the atrocity of the battlefield. Her simple life had been tied in knots.
"Enough. There are plans to be made. Our man in the field said that the description the soldiers have been given lists you as a young girl of average height, average build, and an injured right shoulder. Not terribly specific, but we should still try to change as much of it as possible," Caya said.
"Of all of the things on list, might I request we begin with the shoulder?" Myranda said.
"One would assume that time would solve that problem for us," Caya said.
"I am not sure that such will be the case," Myranda said.
She pulled aside her sweat and filth-soaked cloak. The sleeve of her tunic was stained again, and when it was pulled back, the two warriors nodded knowingly.
"You did this two days ago?" Tus asked.
"Yes," Myranda said. "Plus whatever time I spent in that carriage."
"Mmm. Only a few days and the arm is ruined. Nasty. It heals badly. You will lose the arm," Tus said.
The wound had worsened. The whole shoulder was swollen, and red streaks of blighted tissue ran outward from the gash.
"But it was only a piece of wood," she said.
"Worse than a blade. Dirty. Causes . . . well . . . things like this. Not often, but sometimes. Not the lucky sort, are you?" Caya said.
"I've led a less than blessed life," she said with a feeble grin.
"Well, Tus . . . we'll get some food in her and set her up in one of the cots. At sun up we'll send her down to Zeb. We can't have our new mascot crippled," Caya decreed. "I'll draw up the writ and stow the new weapons and armor."
"No," Tus said, not as a refusal, but as a statement.
"What now? No food, no cot?" she asked.
"No Zeb. I put a knife in him," Tus said.
"Not another one, Tus," Caya said with frustration.
"He was speaking to the Blues," Tus said, referring to the Alliance Army.
The blue-tinted armor had been around since the beginning of the war, more than a century ago. Each of the three Northern Kingdoms used a different shade, but all were blue. Before the Kingdoms merged, the only thing that all three forces had in common was the color. Hence the name.
"I had a feeli
ng. Six months of training . . . wasted on a traitor. People join us as spies to try to get themselves some favor with the officers in the army. Death is too good for them. With Zeb down and Rankin a runner, we've got no field healers," Caya lamented.
"Rankin went runner? Scum," Tus declared.
"Runner?" Myranda questioned.
"We pay a local white wizard a hefty price to train healers for us. Every so often one of the apprentices is given the money to pay him and never shows. Runs off with the silver. I tell you, I am beginning to wonder if there are any decent people left in this world. Send out the word. We need a new healer. I doubt we'll get any volunteers. The men and women who join us all want to be the one to draw the blade across the throat of the next general. There is no glory in healing," Caya explained.
"Wait!" Myranda said.
There was the solution, right in front of her. It would keep her off of the battlefield, provide her with a hiding place, and even give her six months of hot meals and soft beds.
"I'll be the new healer! Send me to the wizard!" she eagerly offered.
"You? I . . . I think that just might work," Caya considered. "Right, Tus, food and bed for her. I'll give her the letter of intention to give to Wolloff in the morning. Myranda, you had best get your rest. You have a long walk ahead of you."
"Wonderful! I . . . a long walk?" Myranda asked. "What about the four new horses?"
"Horses are for those who require speed. A sore shoulder can wait, but targets of opportunity open and close like the blink of an eye. Two steps too late and a chance is gone forever. Wolloff's tower is just on the north side of Ravenwood. On this terrain, on foot, I cannot imagine it taking you more than five days. So, eat, rest, and leave. We've much to do," Caya stated.
In a few moments, a clay bowl filled with perhaps the worst porridge Myranda had ever eaten was set before her. When she'd managed to swallow the horrid stuff, a cot and blanket were placed mercifully near to the rekindled fire. She settled stiffly onto the bed, such as it was, and basked in the warmth of the fire. Her body had dealt with such extremes of heat and cold, it was fairly screaming. Cramps twisted her muscles through the whole night. She closed her eyes and an instant later she was awakened by a rough prodding from Tus. The sun had yet to peek over the mountains.
"Food. Eat it slow. It will last," Tus said, tossing her a pack.
She managed to catch it, much to the detriment of the injured shoulder.
"Flint," he said, holding up a second pack. "And tinder. One night, one fire. It will last. Walk close to the mountains. Too close to the roads, the patrols will kill you. Too close to the mountains, other things will kill you."
With that ominous warning, she was sent on her way.