A Matter of Grey [ Eithne, Eragos, Elemmírë ]
Mud clung on Dinaden from his hooves to his knees. Collecting rainwater made the road slick and sloshy—-impossible to navigate without getting dirty. The day was made miserable by torrential rains coming down in spurts and blasts, as if Armas was emptying a bucket of rain he’d forgotten by the back door some weeks ago. The water and the low clouds made it difficult to see down the road or very far past the trees of the surrounding forest. This wasn’t the reason for the slow pace Dinaden and his rider took, however. They had ridden together through windstorms in the Acierran Plains and blizzards in the Central Mountains, which were far worse than some mud in the summer months. Vera’s held the reins tight for the first few hours, knowing that her horse wanted to dart forward and run as if the two of them were alone again. Dinaden was impatient because Vera never made him stay so long in one place and when they were finally on the road, she held him to a steady trot. The rhythm of Dinaden’s hooves squishing in the mud, the turn of the wagon wheels behind them created the odd rhythm of a march in Vera’s ear. Even when she encouraged the wagon drivers to pick up their speed the rhythm never changed. The beat morphed into a memory: sitting cross-legged on the balcony of the Red House, listening to the loud field drums on the spring fields of Eistocene that urged the city into competition and battle once more.
The caravan that Vera led from Gali was unconventional at best. None of the wagons travelled in a reliable line, with men on horseback mixed in and occasionally weaving around to the outer sides of the wagons. Their formation looked disorganized, but that had Vera's intention. Which wagon was for supplies and which carried people was difficult to discern. Even the wagons that carried young village men with crossbows and weapons were hidden. Yet everyone knew where everyone else was. The wagon drivers were chosen for the common sense they possessed, most of them having seen at least forty summers. Vera knew she could rely on them almost as much as the Riders and Elf that accompanied her to the City of Tyrus.
Eithne and the Riders with her were an unexpected blessing to most of the village because the villagers never dreamed of receiving more help than what had arrived. Leaving Gali in the dark hours of morning, the spirit of the village had been far better than it would have been otherwise. This was the reason Vera didn’t voice her concern, even to Eragos, about what four more Riders traveling with the people of Gali could mean. They carried no letter from the Captain, knew next to nothing about what had happened in Tyrus when they arrived. This meant the Riders found her through investigation. They were blunt, especially Eithne. The Riders were sent, they said, to find and assist her until they could bring her back to the Cities. Vera knew from this that Captain Agrippa was telling her something without telling her anything at all: secrecy no longer mattered. Vera could hear his voice, concerned and damning in the same breath...
"Watch your back."
Water rolled down her brown cloak to stream off of Dinaden's skin. Vera squinted as she continued forward, yelling back at the drivers to keep moving but not to go too fast. Getting stuck wasn’t something she wanted to deal with though she knew it was very likely. Eithne rode not far behind her, closer to the caravan. Vera didn’t know what the woman was thinking, if anything. They hadn’t spoken much. Eithne always looked bored even when she had a mask covering her face. Vera hoped she was keeping her eyes on the trees like she was supposed to. Eithne was the only other Rider that Vera could afford to have up front and she had to trust in the woman’s training. Eragos and Geoff were at the back because Vera needed someone to lead there if chaos struck their party. At least, that was the rational explanation. There were many things that her mind was banned from dwelling on today. The former Dragon Knight was one of them.
For as many people Vera now had protecting Gali, most were just as difficult to spot as the contents of the wagons. She had Cols on horseback amidst the caravan and Martine was hidden in one of the wagons as Alatáriël was. The elf was annoyed with her for making her give up her horse for carrying supplies. Alatáriël had only agreed to go along with it when Vera explained her plan. Losing the elf’s insight was a difficult sacrifice, but she knew their caravan was being watched. Best to let their enemies think her mage was incapacitated from the previous battle and too weak to make the ride. Alatáriël glaring out from the wagons was one of the few things that Vera could smile about.
Rain slid in through her mask and over her lips. The drops banded together around her collar, soaking the fabric and making the ride even more cold and uncomfortable. The water didn’t taste fresh but sour, almost metallic. This was the last thought she would have before the dull ache in her wrist increased to the painful burn that she was so familiar with. Vera shifted slightly in her saddle, straining her eyes to see the bend of the road ahead through the weather. There were grey shapes along the edge of the curve that stood rigidly in the wind and downpour. Vera held up her hand, signaling for the wagons to stop. For Eithne to stop. Dinaden, on the other hand, took a few cautious steps ahead.
Vera's sight was uncommonly good for a human. It was one of the reasons she excelled in archery, like her mother, and it was a gift in times like these when anyone else might need help from spectacles or a spy glass. She paused, even as Dinaden moved nervously beneath her. The figures were rigid, swaying in the wind like trees more than people. But she could make out heads and weapons. She saw...
There was a nasty gust of wind that ripped across the road and in that moment the rain moved horizontally. Vera could see through it, just as one of the rigid figures fell. It was a corpse. A corpse strapped to a pole. They were all corpses, wrapped in white sheets, lined along the winding of the road...the memory of the journey from Astarii, nearly a year gone, suddenly became very vivid in her mind. That was intentional. Everything that had happened in the past two days, including the calm that allowed Eithne’s arrival, was intentional. Vera gripped Dinaden’s reins tightly again and she turned her horse just enough to look at Eithne.
“Get back!” she said over the rain. “Get back!”
As Vera warned Eithne, there was a loud cracking sound from the woods. One of the old oaks, sitting just off the road, split at the base of the trunk and leaned dangerously toward the wagons. Vera, sacrificing most of her focus, managed to give the falling tree a sharp push to the left with her telekinesis and sent it crashing down along the roadside, away from the caravan. Vera didn’t notice the large branch breaking in the woods behind her, hurtling from the trees. It moved swiftly through the air, seemingly of its own will, and struck Vera before she could turn. The blow sent her flying from Dinaden’s back and across the road. She landed awkwardly in the mud, her left arm making a sickening pop as it came free of the socket. The rest of her limbs fell however gravity might arrange them when her body skidded to a halt. The branch dropped a few feet from where she stopped.
Vera couldn’t see. Her Rider's mask had broken when her face glanced a rock in her landing. She couldn't hear beyond the rain that came down around her. The fingers of her good hand pushed at the pieces of her mask, forcing them off into the mud. She forgot what it was to breathe. Vera realized her mouth was bleeding...or was it her nose? Her forehead? Intense pain radiated from her arm. She should move, she thought. She should get up. It was just that she was sitting in her saddle a moment ago and the broken shards of her Rider's mask didn't seem real.
She looked up, finally, and the world was at a strange angle. Figures in dark garb emerged from the trees to advance on the caravan. They wore pale, grotesque masks over their faces that were streaked with red. Those masks were what Antare once described to her when re-telling the fall of her village. Anger made a sudden shove into Vera's blood bypassing both shock and pain.
Vera undid the clasp of her cloak and pulled off her hood. Someone was shouting at her as she slowly grabbed the jagged pieces of her mask in her hand, diligently ignoring the agony of a dislocated shoulder. Vera forced herself to her feet, stumbling into the middle of the road. In the distance, four horsemen rounded the bend of the road at full gallop. They broke through the rain as if they were part of the storm--their grey cloaks lifting like wind across the road, their raised swords cutting the fog.