Clothis entered the village with her head held high and her dagger loose in its sheath. She was aware that she was dressed as a Dyrel scout, and she was also aware that this particular village was in Huryl territory. Judging from the fearful gazes she was being given, she was also aware that she could fight anyone who would dare oppose her, and that no one would dare.
She walked confidently to the village square and stopped. The people had scattered, fleeing to their houses and slamming the doors closed. The windows were barred and only a few brave faces peeked through the shutters at the stranger. Clothis smiled to herself. She was a scout, and the people must believe a larger force was behind her, or that she would ask them for hospitality and the Huryl would punish them. The people were simple farmers and traders, and wanted nothing from the war other than to survive.
“Your elder, if you will,” Clothis announced in a loud voice.
There was some faint muttering and a door squeaked open and closed behind the huntress. She didn’t turn until she heard the footsteps behind her shuffle to a halt. Placing her hand on her dagger, she moved to face the elderly man. He stood as tall as possible and met Clothis’ gaze easily, waiting for her to speak. Behind him a few of the villagers had come out of hiding, holding their farming tools as weapons. Clothis held up her hands.
“Peace,” she said. “I come only for information. I’m tracking a man who entered your village a day ago, possibly with a girl as his prisoner.”
“We saw the man,” the elder said. “He met some soldiers just outside the village and gave them the girl in exchange for a sack of coins. Probably gone to Xennax by now to spend it.”
“Where did the soldiers go?”
The elder shrugged. Clothis nodded to him and thanked him for his cooperation. As she moved to leave the village, the elder called after her.
“If you’re after the girl,” he said, “don’t bother. She’s dead.”
Clothis froze, but did not turn back around.
“Saw her myself,” the elder continued. “The man stayed the night in the inn, left the girl alone in a room. The innkeeper went to check on her and ran out, crying that the stranger was hauling a corpse around. I went to see, and sure enough, the girl was stone dead.”
Clothis nodded and continued on her way. At the edge of the spirit forest, she paused until she felt the now familiar presence of Fynn. They had been moving with little rest for a day or two, and Clothis had developed a grudging admiration for the mysterious Woodwalker.
“Well?” Fynn asked. “Where do we go from here?”
“Home,” Clothis replied. “Leila’s dead.”
Fynn took her by the shoulder and spun her around so she was forced to stare into his brown eyes. Slowly, she told him everything the elder had said. Fynn listened intently and when she was finished, refused to let her go.
“You’ve got to go after her,” he insisted. “Follow the soldiers. See for yourself.”
“I’ve done my duty,” Clothis argued. “I followed her this far. She’s dead. Go after her yourself.”
Fynn’s eyes grew angry. “What would the soldiers do with a corpse? They must be taking her to the capital.”
“You want me to go to the Huryl capital?” Clothis exclaimed.
“I want you to find Leila. Bring her body back, if necessary.”
“Why don’t you – “ Clothis began. She paused. “You can’t, can you?”
Fynn released her and turned away. The huntress moved to stand in front of him, although his face was shielded by his long hair. He refused to meet her eye.
“You’re
stuck in the forest, aren’t you?” she pressed. “The Woodwalker… you can’t leave
the woods!”
“I can,” Fynn said roughly,
“but it pains me to do so. I become weak. Too long from the trees, and I don’t
know what would happen.”
Clothis looked at him, watching how he was being torn inside. He truly felt something for this girl from another world, something more than Prince Damaeon felt. The Prince saw her as their saviour, the Promised Child who would set them free. Clothis frowned. She could not tell how Fynn saw Leila, or why he was risking everything for her.
She was promised to us…, a voice whispered through the trees.
Fynn raised his head, and Clothis blinked in confusion. The voices continued to call softly, but only Fynn could hear them. He walked a few steps away from his companion, listening.
She was taken from us, the voices changed their tone. She abandoned us, does not chose one of us. She cannot be for us all.
“Please,” Fynn said softly to the treetops. “Please, you must believe. She is for us all!”
She cannot be. She must choose. Until she chooses the ones she loves best, we will remain hidden from her.
“No!” Fynn called more loudly. “Do not abandon her now.”
You must choose as well, Woodwalker. Whom do
you love? Your Queen? Your kind? Or the girl?