RETREAT AND
RESOLVE
Something had gone terribly wrong. Grandmother had
felt it like the snap of a bone in the small hours as they passed
the night in the grove. She’d heard a horrible wailing in her sleep
like some enormous beast receiving grievous injury, and upon
awakening, she found the limbs of trees quivering above, and that
the forest had grown uneasy. God said he’d ensure their safe
passage home, but as they hurriedly packed and sought their way out
of the grove, the forest was as hostile as ever, unseen eyes
glaring at them, unnamed creatures lusting for their blood, and now
they didn’t even have their groundmite companions to protect them
anymore.
Grandmother had had
to create a salamander compass to help them navigate the curling
roads of Argenthyne until once again they found the main road
around the lake. Even the lake was disturbed, its surface curdled
and waves slapping the shore. When she glanced back toward the
castle towers, they had grown darker as if decayed, dying, and then
wet clouds swallowed them. Acrid raindrops began to pelt her
face.
With two of her men
gone—three if she counted Regin, who had been lost so early on in
their journey—setting up camp for the night proved despairingly
difficult in the rain, as if they’d never done it before. With a
little help from Grandmother’s art, Cole did manage to get a fire
burning.
Though Lala now had
a voice, she said little. Occasionally she broke out in small
snatches of song.
“Mum,” the girl
said, cuddling up to Grandmother before the fire.
Grandmother’s cares
and aches and chills melted away to hear Lala call her that, and
she wrapped her arm around her little girl.
“I will teach you
some songs one of these days,” Grandmother said.
“I think I know
some,” Lala replied. “They came with my voice.” And she sang the
chorus of a ridiculous drinking song.
“No, no,”
Grandmother said as gently as she could. “I need to teach you some
songs of Arcosia that have been passed down, and others that will
help you with the art.”
“Oh.”
Grandmother was too
tired for teaching this night so they sat in silence for a time as
rain hissed and steamed in their campfire. It looked like their
journey home was going to be no easier than their journey in,
especially since it appeared God had rescinded his promise of
protection. Grandmother sighed, not looking forward to the perilous
walk. She brightened when she thought to look in on Birch. She had
wanted to see how his campaign fared, and maybe God would come to
her and she could plead for His protection.
So she knotted some
of her precious dwindling yarn, and with a nail clipping of Birch’s
wound within, she tossed it onto the fire.
And saw dusk. The
evenings there were less dark, and it was not raining. She heard
the clash of steel, and she gazed through Birch’s eyes. The dead
surrounded him where they’d fallen in the woods. They appeared to
be—No! Not their own!
“Retreat!” Birch
bellowed, waving his sword.
A glance over his
shoulder revealed men coming after him with pikes and swords, whose
mail glinted beneath home-spun clothes. Snatches of black and
silver uniforms showed from beneath plain coats and
cloaks.
From Birch’s mind
she gleaned he’d allowed his men to walk into a trap. He’d gotten
overconfident and his band of warriors had been overwhelmed—there
had been more than the thirty of the enemy his scout had reported.
They were slaughtered by the Sacoridians.
“Retreat!” he cried
again to those of his men who survived.
Grandmother withdrew
from the connection and placed her face in her hands. She had to
get home now. She could not permit Second Empire to
fail.