The Grey Blood #2

Wolf

The tracks take her east, through dense trees and up, the air becoming more frigid as she rides into open plains that send wind slicing across her bare cheeks. Grey clouds roll through the sky like billows of smoke, promising more rain to drench the already sodden land.

Enough of Warren's men were travelling to keep their tracks fresh even after the couple of weeks that have passed. Broken branches, extinguished campfires, scuffs in rocks from the hooves of horses, all such things lead her straight to their camp like a stark line on a map.

Slipping from the mare's back, she runs her hand along the horse's side before settling her palm against her snout.

"Thank you," she whispers to the animal, gazing into her brown eyes before she reaches for the buckles for the saddle and undoes them. It thuds to the ground, then she smacks the horse's side with a cry. The mare whinnies before galloping off down the hill in the direction she'd come.

Alicia won't leave the animal tied up, powerless to escape any Grey Bloods that may stumble upon her, but she also knows she might not walk away from what's waiting for her.

After collecting her pack, she begins to walk, her wounds flaring with every step she takes, but she can't turn back now and must continue on the path paved before her.

She knows she's close by the smoke that curls through the air, a thin line snaking above the trees that she can easily make out from atop her grassy hill. Descending again into the shadowed trees, Alicia touches the revolver tucked into the waistband of her trousers. She has some idea of what she's walking into, which is why she knows she must be prepared to do anything to get to Warren.

She has to be the girl she honed herself into during the war, when the dirty streets of the slums were the fires that forged her. She can only hope she remembers who that girl is.

As the dark embraces her like an old lover, Alicia begins to become aware of the other figures in the trees and kneels amongst the shadows, keeping her breath steady so it doesn't fog the air and give her away. The patrols amongst the trees are few and far between, but she still crawls through mud to avoid them, leaving her skin icy and her clothes dripping. She clenches her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

She peers at the glowing encampment ahead, keeping her senses open for any men that approach her position in the shrubbery.

They're well established, carts and horses loaded with supplies, tents pitched for a semi-permanent stay, and a dozen or so exiles. Alicia's hands curl into fists—mud slick between her fingers—as she wonders how she's going to reach Warren.

She shifts, her leg beginning to cramp and she winces, rubbing her sore thigh. The wound in her knee isn't the worst of what Warren has given her. Regardless of how many men he has, Alicia needs to do this. The wounds in her heart need to be cauterised in some way.

The centre of the camp has less activity than other parts but a large tent has been erected. That must be where Warren is, away from the boisterous singing of his men but still nestled amongst safety.

Alicia has a target, a plan forming in her mind as she scours the forests around her, but still she doesn't move, stuck in the shadows like they've chained her in place.

She feels the weight of the gun against her lower back, the knife in her boot, knowing she'll have to use them tonight. Maybe that's why she hesitates. Killing isn't a new thing to her. Her soul is tainted, her hands are stained with blood. But she doesn't want to. Not again. Never again. But this is different. This isn't for money or fame. This isn't for her mother's ambition. This isn't so her belly is full and her clothes are warm. This is to save lives. This is what she should have done in the Commons.