Year 350 after the War of the Gods, Late Autumn

Somewhere between Andras and Merun

They had ridden all night; the empire’s hounds at their backs and if they only lapsed for a second, their blood would soon drench the earth in Merun. They had ridden far away from the old way station, first along the road, then down a narrow path between meadows and bare fields, where the last forgotten stalks kept solitary watch. Then into the forest, whose name Áed didn’t know. And as they rode further and further through, the trees came closer and closer and then began reaching for them, appearing to want to grab them for their pursuers. Gnarled branches thrashed about, hands of dry, edged leaves and twigs dug into clothing and hair, and a darkness - with a voice of leaves and hoofbeats - screamed their names into the night. And as they finally left behind the discordance of bark and bramble, of nettle and needle, of thistle and thorn, there was no more path, only open field and the moons above them.

They left the woods behind, following a straight line into the unknown. They rode with the wind, with beating hearts. They rode for hours, left behind green land, followed forested field borders, forest edges, found a small path and left it again. And finally they reached a narrow river and followed it upstream.

For the entire time, they did not speak a single word. What was there to say? Their situation was bad. Sentenced to death and on the run. Áed didn’t know his way around these parts and trusted that Sara did and he followed her. She was wounded and he did not know how much longer she would survive without a medic. He said a silent prayer to the night sky above them that Naomh Cairistiòna would not take her yet.

#

A first thin red line started gleaming on the horizon as the river led them to an old millhouse in the early hours of a new morning. Its wheel didn’t turn anymore and the icy water only ran across the wooden paddles indifferently. Just behind the house there began a forest that seemed to be clinging to life with the last of its strength before winter finally put an end to it. Here the world was still, without the wind and the clamour of hooves; everything was asleep and Áed, too, was at the end of his rope.

“Should we rest here?”, Áed asked as they rode gently towards the bridge that would take them across the stream. “We can’t go on like this. The horses need rest. And so do you.” And by the saints, so did he. Sara scoffed, but he could tell by the way she was sitting: She had reached her limits, too. Here they could rest, it was remote, nobody would find them and when they had regained their strength, they could follow the road. There had to be a town nearby, or a village at the very least.

“I don’t need a break”, she replied brusquely, but then added more gently: “But the horses do.”

Áed almost rolled his eyes. “Fine, the horses and I then, but we rest here. I’m done.”

They crossed the bridge made of massive, old and weathered beams; the river below murmuring its steady prayer to gods that no one in these parts worshipped anymore. The yard on the other side consisted of three houses, the mill itself, a stable and a small house for the miller. Half-timbered with dark beams, white plaster, red roof tiles and green shutters.

The horses they brought into the stable. There was still hay and Áed went to fetch some water from the river. Then they themselves went to the house. Sara had refused Áeds help getting off her horse. She had fallen more than she’d dismounted. Her bandages were dark-red-wet, her face pale and despite the cold there was sweat upon her brow. She limped with every step her leg threatened to give in, but she refused to make a sound.

The knocked on the door and received no answer. Neither on the second attempt. Áed looked through a few of the windows and found no one inside. “There’s no one here”, he said.

“Then we won’t disturb anyone.” Sara opened the door - it wasn’t locked - and entered. The morning sun painted the yard in the warm oranges of a new autumn day, but Áed was ready to collapse onto a bed.

The house, the kitchen, the living room, was clean, tidy, everything in its place. The pantry wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty either and there was a neatly made bed in the bedroom.

“We should move on around midday, but until then this is ours”, Áed said as he returned with some stock from the pantry. Stale, dark bread, apples, cheese and salted meats. Sara dropped onto a chair, exhausted and felt her thigh; she drew in a sharp breath when her fingers touched the centre of the red mark. “Can you go see if our host has anything we can use to rebandage my leg? It would be a shame if I bled all over the bed.”

#

It was still cold in the living room but thanks to the fire in the stove a cosy warmth was slowly settling in. Water began to boil in a pot on top of it. Áed had found a shirt in a closet in the bedroom and cut it into wide strips, which he then boiled. In the meantime, Sara removed her old bandage. Sticky strands stretched between cloth and flesh and cloth. The linen hung wet between her fingers and painted her hands red. The wound was still bleeding, albeit less profusely.

“I hope we’ll find a medicus in that village down the road. That has to be cleaned”, Áed commented as he tossed the bloody bandages into the fire.

“Or you could see if our host has any schnapps. I don't want to have to rely on our luck.”

Áed nodded, too tired for a proper reply. He had no idea how large the next settlement was, maybe there was nobody who could help them. And the less attention they attracted, the better. After a short search, he found a dark-glass bottle on a shelf. He uncorked it, smelled it and then grimaced. What were people distilling here in the countryside? But it would do the trick.

“Thanks.” Sara took the bottle, had a big draught and then grimaced as well. “Well then…” But she didn’t sound so sure about it. She pressed her lips together trying to suppress any sound fighting its way out through her throat as the schnapps burned through her wound. She took another swig and handed the bottle to Áed. He too drank. It tasted as disgusting as it smelled. Afterward they bandaged Sara’s leg with the clean linen and Áed sat down on the bench, happy to not have to stand anymore. He nodded towards the bedroom. “You should lie down. The bed is yours. You need the rest. We still got a couple of hours until midday. Who knows when we’ll get another chance.” He lied down on the bench. “In a couple of hours we continue on. Make use of that time.” We should also take as much supplies as we can carry. Maybe there is even some silver to be found, he thought.

If Sara - in her pride - wanted to protest, she didn’t. Most likely she was too tired as well. She limped over to the bedroom and shut the door behind her. Then Áed was alone in the living room and alone with his thoughts. They crawled through his mind, whirring, buzzing, too chaotic, too many to drive away. In every moment of calm they returned. Thoughts ever returning to the attack. To the decaying bodies of flesh and carapace, to claws and split jaws and drool. What in all hells was that? What in all saints was that? What in all gods was that? They had razed Cruidín with an effortless brutality. Felled Áeds comrades and eaten them where they lay. That was it, from which the elves had fled. Death by bolt, arrow or spear had been a better lot to them than this. And Áed understood the desperation with which they had thrown themselves against the border. Again and again and again. Saints– And we killed them. For Empire and for Emperor.

He held the pendant he had found outside Cruidín between his fingers and traced the crescent of the moon with his thumb. Who had worn this necklace before they had met an ugly end just outside the wooden palisades of Cruidín? A hunter from the Iron Forests? A rider from the steppe? Elder of a clan? A parent desperately trying to get their child to safety? The child themself? And Áed began to feel something he would have thought the months on the frontier would have beaten out of him: Pity. And guilt.