It was all coming together so beautifully, staring out

across the valley below, the wind carried whispers of

blood, faint screams, it stunk of a growing worry, the

fear and dread was setting in and would soon take root

everywhere. They had become so foolish, too

comfortable and fat in their ignorance, it would almost

be an effortless battle but they still stood in the way.

Their fates were intertwined, she could sense them all,

her betrayers, her enemies, they were each making

their way to her and one by one, and they would fall.

. . .

The clouds overhead were ready, the wind held its breath,

the water remained motionless, her body had stopped

shivering after a few minutes, it was cold and thick, clinging

to her, draining her of any warmth she’d had. The swamp

roads in the Wastelands were treacherous to anyone foolish

enough to take passage through it but her sources were

never wrong and she’d tracked the caravan this far. Four

bodyguards, the carriage driver and the man she’d spent

weeks studying, learning his routines and habits, counting his

steps and watching his every move.

The man was Lord Alastair, he was the man responsible for

an entire county, the lands and the people, a man who grew

rich off the misery and destitution of the people he had been

sworn to protect and care for, the man who had taken all he

could and then took some more. His travels west were taking

him to some noble function where he’d dine on the best

food, drink the best wine while his people toiled and starved.

Crouching, the dark ditch water stretched above her nose,

her hood pulled over her head, disguised amongst the weeds

and lumps of rotting tree, her ears pricked up as the sound of

heavy wheels squelching in the stagnant puddles of muck

drew closer. Above her the clouds unable to hold back, burst

open and the rain crashed down, the wind screeched and

screamed, the surface of the water shattered and bounced,

in the distance she saw the light of four torches.

This was her life, she wasn’t a blade for hire, she was no

weapons expert or mercenary, she was simply trying to the

right the wrongs of the world, one at a time. It was what her

father had done, and he’d carried the mission on from his

parents and so on, it was in her blood, it was her sworn duty

ever since birth.

The carriage drew closer and then came to a halt as she’d

expected, a branch from one of the large trees sinking into

the marsh had broken and fallen onto the road, it would give

her the time she needed to finish this quickly.

The arrow and bow were already in her hands as she began

to rise up from the murky pool, she’d be unnoticed until the

first arrow would hit. The sludge dripped and slid from her

body, droplets sinking beneath the surface, she closed her

eyes and as she pulled the arrow back along her arm, she

drew breath in, holding it for a moment, her chest tightened,

this feeling, this moment, it was a disturbing peace, it

frightened her, how relaxed she could be at this single

second, when it became too much to bear, she let go, the

arrow slipping out of her control, it whirled past, stripping

away the muddy water that clung to it, it hit its target with a

sickening accuracy.

Lord Alastair was dying, a cry from one of the men, broke the

air, peeling away the cloth and leather armour, the arrow

protruded from the chest, shattering bone, bursting skin and

ripping a hole in his right lung. Blood rushed in and the Lord

gasped and clambered for air, his hands flailing, his words

gargled in his throat, the men hired to protect him were

stirred up, panicking, she wouldn’t have to fight.

Her careful planning had all paid off, she knew that Alastair

was paranoid, afraid of his own shadow, his people were

against him, his own staff, he trusted no one, his greed had

cost him allies and he paid for it all with a long list of

enemies, backstabbers and spies.

On the night he left the castle she had watched as he

awkwardly climbed into the uniform of one his guards forcing

the man whose clothes best fit to dress as he would but

obviously not in his best travelling clothes. She’d overheard

their travel plans while sat opposite them in the Inn the night

they’d decided it would be more prudent to travel quickly

through the Wastelands. She saw how unaccustomed Alistair

had been to travelling on foot, his feet blistered and cracked,

he walked uncomfortably, as she waited in hiding for the

carriage to draw closer she watched for the man hobbling

through the mud and let her arrow free on the first clean

shot she had of him.

Now as he lay dying in the mud, the colour of his skin

washing away in the rain, she remembered the words her

father spoke, ‘A man, whether he has amassed the wealth of

a thousand kings or scraped a living in the fields, is still a man

and will still face death.’

She dipped back under the cover of the water, she had not

been seen and she would wait until the men and the carriage

carrying Lord Alistair was gone. She had done right, another

man will take his place and if he is a wise one he’ll pay heed

to how his predecessor faced his death.

Arcade stared patiently at the scene she’d created and

waited, night was drawing closer and she would make her

way out of the Wastelands under the cover of darkness.

. . .

The man fell to his knees, his makeshift armour, a tunic with

some ancient rusted chainmail shattered, his flesh split open,

the blood inks out and dyes the clothes, he falls forward in

the mud, making no sound, only dying.

Standing over the body of the dead man, she sheathed her

sword, unable to bring herself to look down, she stares out

over the battlefield, it was terrifying, savage and brutal and it

was all by her words that it happened. She had been chosen

to lead, chosen to carry the burden, the guilt and as she

watched the men and women she was meant to protect fall

at the swords and spears of their enemies, she began to feel

the weight of the world pull her down.

Her throat tightened as she reached up to tighten the band

holding her long brown hair back out of her face, she felt the

sting of tears but this was not the time to lay down and weep,

she pulled her shield around from her back and gripped it in

her right hand, squeezing the handle tightly. She darted

forward, erupting a battle cry to her fellow soldiers, ‘Charge’,

she ran into the thick of the battle, hoping she’d outran her

fears and lost her guilt in the crowd.

The sensation of two hands on her shoulders pulled Opera

abruptly from her dream, was it morning already?

‘Quickly girl, before they see us’, the woman on the chain

line, she was cutting at the rope bound around her feet and

wrists. The others on the line were still asleep, it had been

one of the hardest days so far, the torrential rain turned an

already dangerous route into a death trap, she had to watch

as one of the chain lines was dragged under the quick marsh,

the rain having washed away any trace of a path, the wrong

step could mean death for everyone bound together. The

slavers had made their cargo walk in front to ensure their

own safety, arrows trained on their backs at all times in case

they ran but no slave, no matter how desperate to escape,

would chance their life trying to run, not in the Wastelands.

The old woman cut through the wrist restraints and pulled

Opera to her feet, guiding her out of the camp and into the

darkness and unknown marsh. The ground was loose and

each step carried her down, deeper, she could feel her

clothes soaking, the ooze rising up around her but she still

felt the old woman dragging her, her hand felt strong, the

grip was forceful but not threatening, almost like a mother

leading her child through a crowd.

Turning back to see how far she’d gone she could still see the

light from the campfire, she felt the ground beneath her slip

away, struggling to catch herself she fell, she gasped for air

and pulled against the grip dragging her, she slipped under

the water. Choking on the sludge she darted upwards,

reaching for air, she coughed and spluttered; voices and

shouts behind her from the camp, their escape had been

discovered. The woman pulled harder, their steps were faster

now as they edged and shoved through the darkness and the

bog, she knew the slavers wouldn’t let them go, they would

be in pursuit, she tried to push the thoughts out of her head,

the fear, worries of what they’d do to punish them.

Her foot found more solid ground, the old woman let go and

in the black of night it was almost as if she’d vanished,

disappeared by the Wastelands, she scrambled in the dark

then felt a familiar hand on her shoulder, ‘Up here girl, be

quick’. Her hands dig into the embankment, the cold wet dirt

broke away but she managed to heave herself onto the bank

but before she had a chance to catch her breath the woman

had grabbed her wrist and was dragging her again, beneath

her feet she felt cold dead leaves crack and break. The old

woman twisted, bobbed and weaved, coiling through the

shadows and the dark, Opera stumbled behind her, her

vision always at the corner of her eye, tracing the men

chasing them. Branches and twigs reached out to grab them,

to slow them down, cracking and snapping with little effort,

the Wastelands was a dead place, nothing grew here, there

was only death.

It was then it hit her, this place, it was, this was the

battlefield from her dreams.

Overhead a light flickered, burning as it raced over them, it

was followed by another and another, the sky was lighting up

with burning arrows. The trees that blocked them like white

stalks, brittle and dry, the slavers were trying to block them

off by burning their path to escape.

‘Quickly Nierie, before the men catch us’, the old woman

turned, her expression was etched in determination, her

pace quickened. Who was Nierie? Why did the woman call

her Nierie? Her accent was unfamiliar, she’d never heard it

before, the woman wasn’t from the plains.

The fire sprinted ahead, the trees erupting into burning

torches, scorching heat sizzled and spat at them as they ran,

sparks popped and cracked, it was hopeless the fire was

spreading too fast, she could barely make out her

surroundings.

The woman stopped abruptly, she turned and faced Opera,

her hands reaching up to her face, the light of the fire caught

the tears that ran down her face, her skin was dark, her eyes

were a deep brown, she had been beautiful in her youth but

the lines and wrinkles her face told a story of worry and fear,

aging her faster than time.

‘Nieri, I do this for you. Run, my daughter! Run!’

The old woman grabbed Opera and shoved her, there was

nothing to catch her, no ground, no trees or earth to grab out

to, she was falling, they had reached a cliff edge? The

darkness raced up around then she hit something, she rolled,

dust burst upward, stinging her eyes, she was rolling down

the side of hill, fast, she reached out to slow herself, her

hands and feet scraping the ground until she’d come to a

stop.

Overhead, the fire burned and glowed, she could only hear

voices, the men had caught up to them. On the edge of the

cliff she saw the old woman edge backward, a shadow lunged

out of the darkness, a slaver, in his hand, a knife. The woman

fell to her knees, the slaver kicked out, sending the woman

downward into the darkness, her body bounced when it hit

the slope, then rolled down into the darkness, there was a

splash.

Opera scuttled down the slope, careful of her footing, she

searched out each step to make sure there wasn’t another

drop, after a few seconds she found water and in the dark

she heard a whispering voice; ‘Nieri, my little girl, you must

run, they will come.’, in the faint light cast by the fire above

Opera could just make out the woman, ‘Run Nieri, you must

run’ and then the voice stopped, the last words pushed out

by a final breath.

She had been saved by a woman who thought she was her

daughter, her Nieri, Opera reached out to touch the woman’s

face but flinched. She picked herself up and began running,

she didn’t know where or what direction she was even going

but she ran. Looking back once she saw three torches circling

downward, they were still chasing her, she couldn’t see the

body, she couldn’t see where she was going but she ran.

Coming Soon

Chapter IV

Waiting and Watching