The light of dawn filtered through the curtains and fell in dusty beams across the little upstairs bedroom. Farren turned with a rustle of sheets and buried her face in a patchwork quilt, inhaling its fresh, sunny smell. With bleary eyes, she took in the interior of her room on the upper floor of their little two-storied house at Fallmead. Home.
The ceiling was sloped, not unlike an attic; there wasn't much in the way of furniture except for a bed, a desk and a wardrobe. In a corner sat a forlorn rag doll, collecting dust on its smiling face. That was one of the few things she'd been able to take with her from Larton.
She closed her eyes. Those were simpler times, when all she needed to worry about was taking care of her toys.
The detour from Byton to Fallmead had been a tiring journey, yet every moment of it was worth seeing the surprise on Finnian's face when she'd turned up on the doorstep in the dead of the night.
"Farren?" There he'd stood in an oversized shirt that once belonged to Father, his hair a mess and eyes wide.
Farren took the moment of disbelief to take in his appearance. His features, although strikingly similar to her own, resembled Mother more in his longer nose and icy blue eyes. He stood nearly a foot taller than her. His chestnut hair had gotten longer, nearly reaching his shoulders.
"I'm home," she said.
Farren tried to muster up a smile, but tears stung her eyes instead. Before she could decide whether to hide them or burst into wails, he had pulled her into a hug.
"Rhilio's mercy, we heard something had happened in Kinallen-- another raid. Gran's worried sick," he said, "I wrote to you, but you never answered."
"Please don't tell me you sent the letters via the Dark Saints too."
"Well, yes. That's the best one there is," said Finnian. "Ain't it?"
Farren let out a laugh, wiping what remained of the tears. "You might as well tie your letters to Bessy's bell and she'll deliver them with more responsibility."
From the barn across the fence, Bessy let out an affirmative moo.
Once inside, Farren inhaled the familiar smell of home. Woodsmoke, warm bread and an earthly smell of old floorboards that now resided permanently beneath a thin layer of flour ever since Finnian had found his passion in baking.
He'd set up an oven rather hastily, although not even half of that enthusiasm had gone into cleaning the mess that came with baking. Farren's room upstairs was no better than the ground floor. The flour had seeped in through the cracks in the flooring, all looking as though coated with snow.
"I'm surprised Gran hasn't kicked you out yet," Farren said, raising clouds of flour with every step she took.
"But she does make sure to threaten me ten times a day," said Finnian with a broad grin, "but let's be honest. No one wants a master baker like me wandering the streets, homeless. Think of all the talent that would go to waste."
"Think of all the flour that we gotta breathe in because you can't be bothered to clean up," said old Mrs. Clearstrike as she ambled out of her room, a grey shawl draped across her shoulders, her silver hair in a bun.
She turned to Farren, an annoyed expression painted across her beautiful, lined face. "And you, girl, can't be bothered to send a word back home, can you? No letters for months, then dropping in the middle of night like that!" She pulled her in a hug nonetheless.
"Good evening to you too," said Farren, throwing her arms around Gran.
Hours slipped by like seconds as they talked, Farren stretched out on the armchair before the hearth, a warm mug of tea clutched in hand. Knowing the inevitable turn their conversation might take, Farren tactfully glossed over the events of the past few days, including the reason for her journey to Byton-- after all, what good was there in worrying them about things they couldn't help control?
Farren mentally patted herself for the subtlety it took to keep it all secret.
Although the suspicious looks Finnian threw her way suggested otherwise. He chose not to press it, in any case.
Gran, thankfully, did not take much notice, going on about the year's harvest, the supposedly second winter delaying the Spring Fest, of Finnian's plan to quit farming, sell Bessy and open a bakery in the market district of Byton ("No one's selling Bessy!" protested Farren and Gran took her side).
And before they knew it, the obsidian sky outside had begun to pale, birds chirping and the last of the stars fading into daybreak. That was when Farren dragged herself up the stairs into her room, to rest her tired limbs for a few hours before resuming her journey back to Kinallen.
✦✧✦✧
Farren got up and dressed, her body well-rested yet her heart heavy. The worst part about coming home was that she never wanted to leave.
The smell of baking bread and milk porridge wafted from the kitchen, and Farren found herself gliding down the steps, entranced by the aroma. Downstairs, Finnian was busy preparing breakfast, humming a cheery tune under his breath.
"Thank the Gods," she said, peeking over his shoulder, "I was so sick of stew."
She took a long sniff over the bubbling cauldron.
Finnian had always been excellent at cooking. It seemed as though the fire always crackled at his will, the meat tasted more delicious and tender, condiments sprinkled themselves in the perfect amount by way of some arcane sorcery only Fin had the ability to master.
And he only got better each day.
When they had first arrived at Fallmead, Farren would get tired of stale bread and watered-down milk and throw tantrums, not knowing they couldn't afford any better. So he'd sought out ways to make something better to soothe their appetites. And thus, he had found his own branch of sorcery to rule.
"You still haven't learnt to cook yet, I take it?" said Finnian, ladling steaming porridge into bowls and setting up the table.
"Not much scope at the camp, is there? Though sometimes we help out the cook," Farren said, stuffing herself with bread, "but I got banned from the kitchen-- just because I was unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity when the oven blew up."
Although the oven had not been working properly for days prior, everyone had concluded that it was somehow Farren's fault. Which was unfair, considering she was in a far corner, struggling to peel a potato.
Finnian laughed so hard it woke up Gran.
"Laugh all you want. Maybe I'm just more suited to wield blades than spoons and ladles," Farren huffed.
"That excuse, dear sister, is a pile of shite," he said, ruffling her hair, "you should learn how to cook because that's a part of being a responsible adult."
Cooking wasn't the only aspect of being a responsible adult Farren failed at. But she made a mental note to heed her older brother's advice. "Aye."
"How were those cookies, anyway? The ones I sent you?" asked Finnian.
The food stuck in her throat like a lump of lead as she remembered the clumps of ash.
"On fire," she managed.
✦✧✦✧
When Farren led her horse at a relaxed canter through the north gates of Kinallen, dusk had fallen, encasing the little village in a crimson hue. Her senses were more alert than usual, considering what she had found out in the Henris manor about Dion.
That bastard could be anywhere, crouching with an arrow nocked on his damned bow.
As soon as her mare's hooves struck the cobbled village path, a familiar voice carried over across the thatched roofs and reached her ears.
Rendarr was yelling, stationed atop a pedestal of wooden crates at the village square.
The first part was of no surprise, for talking loudly was a thing he excelled at, second to his skill in unarmed combat. But why would he choose the poor folk of Kinallen for his audience?
Then she recognized the words as she neared the village square. Rendarr was yelling an announcement.
An evacuation order, more specifically.
Farren reined in next to the crowd gathered before Rendarr. His eyes bulged and veins stood taut upon his forehead as he read out loud from a parchment scroll.
"Hear ye, good folk!
A deranged forest troll has been witnessed prowling the woods to the East and near the shrine of The Unnamed by the waterfall. Said troll is extremely dangerous and has managed to injure a few of our brothers and sisters in arms.
It is hereby proclaimed, by order of Lieutenant Rhanes Evander, that evacuation of all homes by midnight is necessary for your safety and welfare.
Be further notified that means of accommodation and sustenance has been arranged at the Lakefront Outpost..."
Madness! There hasn't been a forest troll in Kinallen for...years. Ever since the encampment had made the hills its permanent residence, the beasts had moved to a deeper part of the forest, and for good reason too.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, then halted at the one who could very possibly be at the root of this.
Across the crowd, astride his grand, black stallion sat Sergeant Linder. The dying sun glinted off his black and silver cloak, raven hair rippling in the wind. A dark, looming shape he was, as though a jagged piece of midnight had broken apart and arrived early in the wake of dusk. He observed the cluster of village folk, his eyes thoughtful, ever scheming the next move in a chaotic game.
She made her way over to him, trying not to recall what happened in the alley.
"So trolls decide to take a stroll outside the woods, eh?"
He swung his gaze to her with a half smile. "Everyone needs some fresh air."
"What are you really up to?" She reined in beside him, eyes on the crowd.
He stayed silent for a few moments, perhaps contemplating whether to disclose it to her. "It's only fair I let you know. After all, I was finally able to set foot in Silver Knife square because of you."
Like hell you would tell the whole truth.
"Despite what you make others think, you don't play fair. Not in this game, at least," said Farren, "but if your gratitude grants me bits and pieces of the truth, then so be it."
Linder's eyes glittered with amusement. The little jab in her words did naught but scratch his armour ever so lightly.
"We've news that there will be another attack tomorrow. Bandits."
Farren's eyes narrowed. "How do you know? Klo sent out scouting parties?"
"I have...other sources to confirm that. But of course, Kinallen's soldiers have no reason to believe my words without proof. So yes, Sergeant Wolturs did send men to ensure," he said. "An abandoned camp in the woods near the border post has been found. Evidence suggests they are headed this way. What you see before you now is a precaution. We must get all people to safety."
"By lying to them?" Farren dropped her voice to a whisper. "Last time a troll attacked was fifteen years ago."
"Exactly. And last time the village was under a raid was days ago." His steel gaze shifted to the villagers. "Didn't you see how the arrival of the emissary fuelled their anger?"
Few could have forgotten the fury of the villagers the day Captain Reylan arrived.
The image of the peasants retorting back to the emissary flashed before her mind. Honest, hardworking people who had been pushed too far, shattered and broken. When they strike back, they would know no bounds.
No wonder Captain Reylan had six powerful Council mages as his escort.
"We inform them of the incoming attack now, and a good few number of the young and strong are bound to join the fray-- I'm certain of it," said Linder, his voice a measured whisper. "A valiant effort, no doubt, but there's only so much pitchforks and kitchen knives can achieve against swords. We must get them to leave before it's too late. Even if it means lying to them."
"So...trolls?" She could hardly hold back a grin.
Linder smiled. "Aye, trolls. Lieutenant Evander seemed to like this idea as well."
And to think half of the camp was ready to put an arrow through his head mere days ago.
Around them, people from the crowd had already started heading home and packing up. Doors had begun to shut, windows shuttered, and the streets emptying. Their fear of trolls exceeded their hatred for Drisian looters, it turned out.
Linder gathered his reins, leading his mount up the dirt track. "Let's head back, Corporal. Some things need to be taken care of at the camp."
✦✧✦✧
Inside the camp walls, there was the usual hustle and bustle, but with added chaos with the squads preparing for tomorrow. A couple of Council Mages could be seen, lounging about on their mounts across the training grounds, vigilant eyes on the soldiers.
"Mages..." she trailed off. "Again? What business do they have here?"
"His Majesty sent them, I hear. To take Alastair to Byton and present him before the Royal court."
Gods, he is innocent. A brat, a piece of filth, yet not a murderer.
Farren tore her gaze from the mages, shoving back the faintest traces of empathy. Yet Lady Tassya's face swam in her vision.
No matter. This wouldn't be the first time an innocent man would be condemned. The Royal Courtroom stood witness to many such injustices.
Eliora passed them on the way, morningstar in hand and in a foul mood.
"What's the matter Doc?" Farren asked the old lady, eyeing her weapon. "Foxy-- uh, Foxward slacking off in his lessons?"
"No, the lad's working hard, bless him," said Eliora, "it's just this rumour about a troll prowling about the village. Got ready, armour and all, and now the lieutenant tells me it's just that-- a rumour. To get the folk to leave. Damn disappointing, if you ask me! Wait till I find whose idea it was to start this shite in the first place." She swung her morningstar in emphasis.
Linder gave a nervous grin, hitched up his hood, and headed for the stables at a fast canter.
"We'll take our positions at dawn. Sergeant Wolturs will tell you the rest. Best you go find her," he said, once both their mounts had settled in. "But before that...a humble request."
He extended a gloved palm toward Farren. "I would ask you to give me the dagger. For tomorrow only."
Of all the things he could have asked. Farren hesitated. "You suspect there might be a Vasaen among the attackers?"
"I don't suspect, I know it." He smiled, a brilliant spark in his grey eyes. "And that's how I'm going to die, Corporal."
Damn you and your riddles. And your damned pretty eyes. "Pardon?"
"Why, I think what you heard in the Henris manor, was quite self explanatory. Dion wants me dead. Tomorrow's battle might be a perfect opportunity. So I need the dagger, my only chance at survival."
'Got a Vasaen to take him down in the middle of a raid. A heroic death, you could say...' Dion's words rang fresh in her ears.
"So that raid Dion was speaking of--"
Linder nodded. "Is supposed to take place tomorrow."
"How on earth do you know this beforehand...?" Her eyes widened as realisation hit her. "Karles, that bastard!"
"A most loyal friend, I should say. But you're right."
"So you two have been putting up this show to lure him in!" Farren cursed aloud, gripping her hair. "Mad, both of you!"
"I see it is pointless trying to keep things secret from you, Corporal. There, you have caught me red-handed." With a pleased smile, Linder crossed his arms and leaned against one of the wooden beams holding up the stable roof. "With the truth now laid bare, would you trust me with the dagger?"
Farren reached for the weapon, but then stopped. She raised her eyes to his. "I'm riding with you tomorrow."
Linder studied her face for a moment, before he resumed a deadpan look. "No," he said, "you'll be positioned far from the fight, along with your squad. There will be...something else in your hands to deal with, if everything goes according to plan."
"What plan? The plan of you plunging headfirst into Draedona's realm?" she fixed him with an indignant stare. Why do I care?
"Oh, even if Draedona takes me, I'll find a way to come back to you, dear Corporal." He winked.
Anger flared through Farren, yet something else tugged at her heart. But she knew better than to be swayed by the words of the man who so terribly tricked her in that alley. One who left the touch of his lips burned upon her neck, yet her lips unkissed. Pushed her to the edge with his hollow words and left her dangling.
She hated how their positions had turned. I was supposed to catch you off guard, damnit!
"Do you trust me, Farren?" asked Linder.
Farren certainly didn't trust the extreme extents to which he could go to achieve a goal.
Either he trusts you with his life, or has no will to live.
"Damned if I do," huffed Farren, and unstrapped the sheathed, original crystal dagger from her belt. When she placed it on his outstretched hand however, it didn't feel like giving away a part of her own heart. It didn't hurt, and the absence of the dagger's malevolent aura surely was a relief.
His smile was bittersweet as he stowed the dagger in the saddlebags fastened behind the saddle of his stallion, and gave the horse a gentle pat on the mane.
✦✧✦✧
"You called us, sir?" Karles stood at the threshold of Lieutenant Evander's office, where Klo's squad had gathered around a map of the village. Behind Karles stood Dion, his eyes darting across all the faces in the room. Farren made to reach for the dagger at her belt, only to remember it wasn't there.
With a nod, Lieutenant Evander motioned him to an empty spot around the table. Karles strode in, exhaustion evident in the way he dragged his legs. Dion sauntered in, silent and his expression unreadable.
"Where in Rhilio's name were you all day?" Klo hissed. "Didn't see you down at the village."
"Cooped up in the new watchtower, me and Dion. Second Lieutenant's orders," he said. "What's with all this planning though? It's as though we're preparing for another attack."
All the colour drained from Dion's face, across the table. A look of urgency swept across his face.
"We are. Although you may not have heard, being stationed outside the village gates," said Lieutenant Evander, "that's why I called you in here. You are to contact your squads for information on tomorrow's plans."
He dismissed them. Karles walked out of the office unhindered, but as Dion made to leave, or rather, leapt for the doors, someone else blocked his path.
Captain Willa Rivera towered before him, crimson eyes luminous in the dark.
"You're coming with me, Edsley," she said with a fanged smile. "Down to the patroller's quarters."
"But-- I've to prepare--" Dion started, desperate to get out. His ashen face was dotted with sweat even in the freezing cold of the evening. Feeling cornered, are we?
"You'll have plenty of time later," said Captain Rivera, "Alastair Henris requests to see you one last time, before he's sent to Byton."
With a firm hand gripping his shoulder, she steered him away. But before she left, Farren was sure the captain gave her a subtle nod.
Something like hope swelled in her chest. We're converging upon him from all sides.
Lieutenant Evander resumed his seat, and folded his scarred, veined arms on the table with a note of finality.
"Tomorrow, we strike first," he said.
Farren's fists clenched. Once again, it was time for her blade to taste blood.
And she intended to savour it.