It was only just past noon and Scythese of Sapho was well into his midday studies when he heard the violent clanging of alarm bells on the warm sea breeze. At first, he paid them no mind. The ringing came from somewhere off to the north, through the harbor district. Crime was always a danger near the harbor. With the constant flow of goods and money, there was more than enough incentive for petty thieves to risk their necks. Not usually during daylight, and rarely meaningful enough to sound an alarm but Scythese had faith in the guards to see to whatever it was. Besides, he had other things to do that afternoon. He could not afford to be distracted.

He sat perched on a balcony overlooking the great Monarch’s Square that was situated just in front of the gates to the palace. By far the largest and most well used gathering place in Maerin, the Square was nearly always filled to the gutters along the edge with all manner of people buying, selling, or just taking a rest from their daily routine. It was because of that press of people that Scythese was there at all, it was them he was meant to be studying, but it was beginning to become harder and harder to pay attention as time passed.

He had been sitting there on the balcony attached to a tailor’s shop for at least three hours now. The proprietor had been kind enough to leave him a pitcher of water and a simple silver cup for the day was still warming and he would not leave for some time yet. But it was not the balcony nor the tempting water that drew his attention now.

The small cut on his left leg that he had earned in a duel a few nights before still bothered him even though it was scabbed over now. It was not painful or even really noticeable at all when he did not think about it, but therein was the problem. Scythese had never been one for duels. Had he not been compelled to go, he would not have even attended the party. Usually his interests fell more into the realm of academics. But for some reason he could not keep his mind off of that duel that had eliminated him from the competition. He had fought well, according to all of the texts he had read on the topic. He had even executed a very complicated disarming move against his opponent only a few moments before she had beat him. He should have won. He had done everything he was supposed to do. He had not known that she carried a slender knife in her boot. It was too late when he did find out.

Scythese shook his head and blinked forcefully, bringing his thoughts back to the present and his studies. He was meant to spend the better part of the day watching the people in the Monarch’s Square below and note what he found significant in their actions. The trouble was, he could scarcely keep his attention on the people below him at all. The instructions were aggravatingly vague like many of the tasks he had been given before, but this one was becoming more and more so each time he was set to it.

He had repeated the same exercise in futility as he saw it for the past week or more now, he could not remember how long exactly. He always watched from a different angle and he tried to focus on different people each time in hopes that they would reveal something he had missed. Every time he had taken meticulous notes about who talked with whom, which traders were most successful, which beggars were tossed the most coin, even which alleys men would surreptitiously enter to urinate. From his high vantage point, he could see much more than he really wanted to. But none of it had been enough thus far.

Each day, Scythese had returned with pages upon pages of thick reed paper and each day Stellaphrena, the great philosopher that called Maerin home for the time being, read them over studiously and then tossed them into the brazier that she always kept burning. Once, Scythese had believed himself to be her star pupil. It had even been widely accepted as fact in Maerin, or so he had thought. Now, as he sat in the rising heat staring blankly at the Square once again, he was beginning to question if she even wanted to be teaching him at all. She seemed to be putting in little enough effort.

Across the square from where Scythese sat, the massive palace gates were opening now. Maybe he would see something worth noting down, though he doubted if anything he had not seen before would happen this time. Each massive door was of dark, plainly polished wood and banded with iron in a display of wealth as well as martial power. Anyone who could afford to waste so much iron clearly had no concerns when it came to security.

The contingent of people who exited through the gates were a strange juxtaposition to those ominous doors, as they always were. The first people Scythese could see were the guards. Each man wore identically painted armor in dark blue and black, harkening back to the Monarch’s beginnings as the marshal of the navy. He rarely if ever used his house colors anymore. Each guardsman also carried a long spear that glinted with the reddish brown shine of bronze in the sunlight. Not a single guard carried a bit of iron from what Scythese could tell, not even the captain in his brilliantly crested helmet. It was strange, Scythese thought, but it was not his place to question the Monarch and it certainly was not his assignment.

The chariot that they marched in formation around, however, was another story. The ornate vehicle was painted blue and black for the most part, hiding the wooden construction, but it, like the gates it rode through, was trimmed with brushed iron. The dim silvery sheen was unmistakable. It was pulled by a team of four horses, each one the epitome of the sleek and powerful stock brought over on ships from Phoenaxia. Scythese would not have been surprised if they came from his own home city of Sapho. The breeders had begun to creep towards the coast as the demand for quality steeds had grown across the Phoenaxian sea.

The column of guards continued to march through the gates until the chariot was surrounded by a bristling sea of speartips five deep on each side. The show of force was unnecessary to be sure, even if assassins were lurking in the city --the tales of which Scythese put little stock in-- they would have been fended off easily with half the number of soldiers. It was unlikely that was the reason the Monarch brought them anyway. It was a show of force for the nobility, nothing more, in service to some plot or other that he was concocting now.

The elaborate posturing and scheming of the nobility was a significant part of why Scythese had dedicated his life to study. He had never had a mind for plotting in the shadows and he had proved only the other night that he was no soldier. His family had other sons to be made heirs. Scythese wanted none of it.

With a start, Scythese realized that as he was watching the marching block of armed men, he had been neglecting to take notes. Again. He had to find something new in what he had seen, even though there was nothing new about it. But he had to find something. If he came back with nothing, it would be far worse than presenting Stellaphrena with notes that she found insufficient. So, with his mind still occupied by feelings of anger and resentment towards the upper crust of noble society, he began to write. Stellaphrena probably did not even bother to read what he wrote fully, she would not notice his lapse in concentration.

***

Jormand had not been running for long when he stumbled for the first time. By his estimate, it could not have been more than a few minutes, he could still see the walls behind him when he turned to look. More importantly, he could still see the guards who were in hot pursuit despite the burden of their armor. They were closing the distance faster than he was comfortable with. Not long after his party had started their mad dash away from the gates, Jormand had begun to feel the strain on his already tired body. It was not the leaden weariness that he was used to after long days spent marching, no, that he could deal with as he had done since his first campaign. This was much worse. His muscles took just a hair too long to respond and would not move with the exactness that he needed. That he trained to maintain. That was beginning to cause him problems.

He managed to recover before he fell onto the smooth paving stones the first time, but only barely. As the stones were lunging towards his face, he managed to straighten just enough to maintain his balance but he knew he would not be able to do so for much longer. The rest of their little band was faring far better. A minor reassurance. Of the three others, only Ketrim seemed to be struggling at all and he was better off than Jormand who had begun to lag behind substantially.

Both Ketrim and the guard who was on foot just ahead of Jormand, managed to keep pace with the horse drawn wagon. Elyas, who was atop the horse, kept its pace slow enough for them to be able to follow. Any other day Jormand would have been able to just as well as his brother, if not better. But today was not a choice day for running. He felt himself start to stumble again but this time he was able to correct his posture before he began to fall. He was getting used to the sluggish manner in which his legs responded. He could not keep up with the others, but maybe he could outlast the guards chasing them.

Looking over his shoulder again, Jormand began to feel a little more confident in his ability to do so. They were closer still than last time, Jormand could make out three armored figures, their bronze armor reflecting the midday sun. But even though they were closer, Jormand could see that they were slowing. They were beginning to get far from their posts at the gates and their heavy armor would be like an oven in the sunny weather, even painted in light colors as it was. But more than that, Jormand noticed something about the figures following him and his companions that he had not noticed before. Ahead of the armored guards who all carried spears and shields as well that clearly distinguished them, ran another figure, one he had not noticed before. This one was much smaller and appeared to be widening the distance between itself and the guards. Jormand could not make out any particular details still, but he could tell that it wore no armor and carried no weapons. Perhaps the guards were not after them after all, of course now that they had run, they could not very well stop. There would be questions and he did not think he had any adequate answers.

Jormand turned back around to focus on the road before him as he saw the guards start to slow, feeling a cool wave of relief flow over him. He knew he could not run for too much longer and he was happy to not test the limit today. He pushed sweat-damp hair out of his face with one hand while raising the other to wave to Ketrim who was looking back again. Jormand could not see Elyas, who was blocked by the wagon’s covering, but Ketrim could relay that the guards were dropping their pursuit. Even as he raised his hand to wave, Jormand felt his toe catch on an uneven paving stone. His knee buckled at the impact and the road rushed to meet him. His arms were too slow to break his fall and he hit the road hard, face first onto the sun-warmed stones.

His vision went dark and he could not tell if he had lain there, sprawled out on the road, for mere moments or for longer when it cleared. His nose was squished painfully against his stone pillow and he could already taste blood thick on his tongue. His nose was certainly broken and he would count himself lucky if only a few teeth had been knocked loose. He could feel the injury if not the full force of the pain just yet.

He tried to push himself back up but his elbows buckled under the weight and he fell back to the paving stones. He groaned as the short fall jostled his nose and put pressure onto his ribs. They were bruised if nothing more. His mind had been foggy before but now it was sharply clear. He could hear the sound of running feet approaching. The guards had caught up to him and he could not even stand to fight them. The thought of it made him feel a little queasy but that could have been the pain. He tried once more to prop himself up, it was even more futile.

The footsteps were closer now, and slowing. Even if he could stand to run, he would already be within reach of their spears. Even still, he tried again to push himself up. He would not be taken without a fight. He knew it would not be much of one but he was unwilling to let himself go so easily.

His arms shook and protested as he pushed himself up but he ignored them and managed to get his equally weary legs to move but there he paused, on hands and knees, as he felt a hand against his back. He froze, his body tensing for the spear points that would be prodding him to his feet. They did not come. In his ear a voice was buzzing, a female voice. Had the guard come back for him? No, he recognized that voice and he had never seen that guard before and had certainly never spoken to her.

Then he heard another voice, this one he was sure of. The gruff, world weary voice of a career soldier. Elyas. Jormand looked up, feeling himself relax as much as he could given his injuries. He felt a few droplets of blood fall from his chin and heard them splatter on the stone but he grinned as he looked up. Into a face he did not expect.

Her head blocked out the sun almost exactly, making her mussed hair into a pale, blonde halo. Her face was in shadow at first, as Jormand’s eyes adjusted, but when they did, he had a hard time believing them. That pale face with its sunken, blue eyes was the last one he had expected to see now.

“Lana?” He sputtered through a mouthful of blood.

She was shaking his shoulder gently and saying something he did not quite hear. He shook his head which proved to be a mistake as it sent a jolt of pain from his nose across his face. But his ears stopped their ringing.

Then he heard the other voice again, Elyas was shouting orders in a manner that Jormand knew very well.

“Load him into the wagon, they’ll be back with horse, mark my words!” His voice was loud and none too far away. It was piercing to Jormand’s ears.

Then he felt himself being dragged up by sturdy hands under his arms and he struggled to get his feet to support him. He managed it, with help. His knees felt battered as well and he doubted if he could stand unaided, much less walk. But with the support of his brother on one side and the guard whose name he did not know on the other, he was guided towards the wagon where they dumped him onto the pile of their bundled packs so that he lay looking up at the fabric ceiling above. It was far from comfortable but it was better than the road.

Then the wagon began to move again, he could only tell from the jostling as it rolled and the small bit of sky that he could see over his toes out the back of the wagon. At least most of the bundles that he had been deposited atop of seemed to be clothes and bedding. It was not entirely uncomfortable and before long, the rocking of the wagon and relative comfort, combined with the exhaustion of having not had adequate sleep for days now, had his eyelids growing heavy.

Jormand did not sleep deeply or for very long on the wagon ride. But regardless, it was welcome. The past few days could hardly be described as restful and he sorely needed sleep. He only napped for about an hour here or there, judging by the movement of the sun, but each time he awoke again, he always found himself nodding off not long after. During those little windows of wakefulness, he would crane his neck back to look towards the driver’s seat where Elyas sat, lounging against the low seat back. Their pace had slowed considerably. That was good, it meant they were not being pursued any longer, at least not obviously. And they were still sticking to the road, the rocky clicks of the horse’s hooves were enough evidence for that. He could not see much outside of the wagon but he was willing to wager that the mix of plains and swampland outside of the city walls were long past.

Outside of the wagon, Jormand occasionally caught snatches of conversation, nothing he could string together in his groggy state but the people who spoke did not sound anxious or even too hurried. They talked at length and he even heard a laugh once or twice.

Once he woke while the wagon was stopped. He could tell from the angle of the sun that he had been asleep for longer than before, it was nearing evening and for a moment he wondered if they were stopping for the night but soon enough they were moving again, slower now.

Even though he was still quite tired, Jormand remained awake for the rest of the day. The bundles in the bed of the rocking wagon did not make for excellent bedding and the pain from his nose was beginning to overcome his exhaustion as he was jostled about. At least it was better than walking. When he tried to move, his arms and legs responded like normal, if a bit slowly. He thought he had recovered from the lapse but he knew well that it would take more time and a few good nights of rest before he was back in normal form. It was not an ideal way to start a long journey, far from it, but Jormand had spent his share of nights sleeping on the deck of a ship or under a bush by the side of the road. He would manage.

Their little party of five now did not go for much longer after that. The sun came from a lower and lower angle and the air began to cool slightly. Tinges of autumn flickered on the periphery of Jormand’s senses but it was there, and it was something pleasant to latch onto.

He did not want to think about what had caused their exodus from Maerin. He especially did not want to think about why their group was so small. The thoughts could not be kept out forever, he knew it. He still tried.

Autumn was his favorite season, the steady change all around made him feel alive. It was an odd contrast to the dying leaves and the departure of animals as they began to hibernate but there it was. When he smelled that crisp scent that foretold the coming change, he could not help but smile.

Except for now. It was there, in the air, that whiff of the coming season but today it did little to lighten his spirits. When he attempted to distract himself with scenes of home, his thoughts always strayed. When in his mind he fixed an image of the roaring hearth that he knew awaited him in Derranhall, it shifted, changed to be the cold stone of the hearth he had left behind in his chambers in Maerin. The darkened room with only the smoldering of ruined sheets to give light. His thoughts drifted, unconcerned with what he wanted. They took him captive and placed him back in his bed, a strange cold wind blowing across him, the haunting sound of it screaming through his windows.

He did not want to remember, not now, not ever. He tried to push the unwanted images down somewhere in the back of his mind. Grief was not something he could afford now. That did not make it go away. But it was softer. He had other things to do. If he wanted to honor his father, he would go to Derranhall as Martim had wanted. From there he could reason out what to do next.

One step at a time. That was how it was done on a ship. It had worked for him before and it would work now. When there was too much for Jormand to handle, he looked down, one step ahead and then he walked. Nothing else existed but the next step.

Slowly, slower than usual, Jormand felt his tension release. Just focus on the next step. That night, he would see to his new injuries. He would have to set his nose correctly, something not easy to do in a moving wagon, and he would need to find something to bandage his ribs if they were indeed more than bruised. Anything beyond that, he ignored. That was the next step. It was all that mattered, all that was. When the wagon stopped, Jormand had a plan. A short plan but one to follow. He could turn off his mind and just do what needed to be done.

When he pulled himself out of the wagon and back onto his feet, he found himself at the edge of a sizable clearing in the carpet of short, dry, trees that dominated the landscape north of Maerin. They would have already passed the swamp that lay directly north of the harbor long ago and were about to enter the flatter plains through which they would travel for the rest of their trek. They had made good time after Jormand’s fall.

Jormand immediately began to follow his plan. No time to think or to do anything else. Firstly he searched for dry, dead, wood that could be used to make a fire. Luckily there was no shortage of that here. The trees were gnarled and twisted, low to the ground and dry to the touch. He did not bother chopping any wood, he did not know if they had even brought hatchets at all and there was plenty of firewood to be found near the bases of the trees.

He came back to the clearing with an armful of smaller sticks to start the fire and another of large ones to keep it going. Upon his return, he was glad to see that Elyas had already constructed a crude firepit from a shallow hole he had made surrounded by rough stones. As dry as it was and with so much underbrush, a fire would be a danger but it was necessary for his plan.

Jormand had a fire going quickly enough and a pot of water set to boil by the time that the others were done fussing with the contents of the wagon and joined him, sitting on the ground around the small fire. All except Ketrim who stood as if unwilling to dirty his rough travelling clothes. They began to chat amongst themselves but Jormand did not join in. He had a task to complete and no attention to spare.

Once the pot of water had boiled and Jormand had said the necessary words to ward off infection that he had been taught during his childhood. Many in Maerin called it soldier’s superstition but it had not done him any wrong so far. He set the pot aside to cool while he prepared himself for the painful task of resetting his nose. The break could have been worse, from what he could tell by poking around his swollen face. It would be a quick fix but he did not relish having to do it, especially so long after the fall. He should have done it sooner, it would only be more painful now.

He did not give himself time to reconsider. One quick jerk of his hands was all it took. The bone snapping back into place sounded like a branch breaking from inside his head and despite his clenched jaw, he hissed loudly at the pain. It was done. The pain still radiated out through his face like lightning but it would only get better from there. He used the hem of his rough shirt to dab at the cut on the bridge of his nose with the still warm water. It stung and he could feel both blood and water dripping down his face now but the cut could close again soon. It was better to clean it before that anyway.

Removing the blood that had already dried over tender skin was more of a chore. The harder he scrubbed at it, the more it hurt but the cloth of his shirt still got steadily darker as it pulled more and more of the crackling mess away from his face. He tried scrubbing harder but it only caused him more pain. The bruise spread across nearly half of his face, swelling his left cheek and a portion of his brow. Despite his perseverance, he could not get the blood to disappear. He could still feel it, pinching his skin when he moved.

He was raising the damp portion of shirt again to try once more when he felt a strong grip on his shoulder. Jormand turned his head to see Elyas, who he had not noticed approaching, with a worried expression on his face. He squeezed Jormand’s shoulder, not painfully but enough for him to pay him attention.

“That’s enough of that, son” He said softly, only for Jormand to hear. “It's gone now, you can let up.” Elyas spoke with the gruffness of a long time soldier but Jormand could detect the notes of sympathy. Sympathy and pity. A soldier his age had undoubtedly seen more than his fair share of broken noses. And his fair share of tired men carried away with their treatment. That was all it was.

Jormand stopped and looked down at the hem of his shirt that he still held in a clenched fist. It was slightly darker from the blood but nothing near what it should have been. After a moment, he could feel the skin on his face begin to tingle, rubbed raw by the rough fabric. It stung, but not so badly as his nose itself. He had to consciously will his fingers to let go but they did, eventually.

It was substantially darker than when Jormand had begun. The sun was nearly below the horizon off towards the sea. They were still not far from it. They would not be more than a few miles away until they reached the northern border.

The others were still gathered about the fire, none of them even glanced at him which made it all the more conspicuous. Jormand felt a flush rising in his face. He still wanted to remove the dried blood that he knew was not there, his fingers itched to be useful, but that task was done. The trouble was that he did not have another. He could already feel his mind wandering. Thoughts that he quickly pushed down again bubbled up repeatedly and with increasing frequency without a distraction.

Everyone else was talking around the fire as the sun continued to set. They spoke quietly and in dark tones, it brought to mind a visit to a grave. An unpleasant thought to be sure and no doubt caused by Jormand’s own dour mood. But conversation was a continuous source of distraction and he did have questions. Foremost among them was the reason why Lana was with them. At the moment, she sat to the left of the guard whose name Jormand still did not know, across the fire from him. They were talking more animatedly than Ketrim and Elyas were, who sat just to the side of Jormand. Ketrim had finally chosen to sit but Jormand did notice that he sat on the flattened form of his empty pack. With how plain his trousers were, it was a wonder that he cared at all about them, but that was Ketrim’s way. He would always hold himself to propriety if there was no one else to do so.

Listening in on Elyas and Ketrim, it became clear very quickly that they were still very worried about the guards that had been chasing their party. Apparently they had seen no sign of them since Jormand’s fall, but they were still well within the Monarch’s grasp, as far as they were from the border. Even then, the near north was only self-governing in name. Most officials and even local lords would be happy to turn over fugitives. The Monarch could afford to make it worth anyone’s while.

“We ought to leave the road altogether. Going will be slower but we cannot risk being caught! If they come after us with horses or chariots, we will be entirely at their mercy.” Ketrim was saying. He clearly overestimated their wagon’s ability to traverse any sort of terrain. Elyas was not slow to correct him.

“Even if we stayed off the road, we can’t move through forest, not without slowing ourselves to a crawl, and in those plains we’ll be just as visible. No, better to take our chances on the road and make good time while we still can.” Direct and even aggressive tone aside, Elyas had a point. A point it seemed he had been trying to make for some time now. He was getting exasperated. Ketrim on the other hand was not taking well to being lectured by a soldier in his employ. His mouth was twisting into a sneer and Jormand could tell he was getting read to dig in his heels. Ketrim did not like being told what to do, especially by those who he was supposed to be commanding.

“You should listen to Elyas,” Jormand said before Ketrim had a chance to make his stand. Once he made his objection known, there would be no going back. Jormand knew his brother was good for his word, even when it was not convenient. “We’ll make much better time on the road and we can sell some of our things for changes of clothes and dyes at the next town. Those guards didn’t get a good look at us, some simple disguises should do the trick.” Ketrim abated at that and his sneer turned to a thoughtful frown. That would have to be good enough.

Elyas certainly seemed to think the matter was settled. He nodded sharply and then grinned. “Good. It’s decided then.” He said in a much more cheerful voice than before. He waved to the other across the fire as he stood. “Lana, Gisela,” He shouted, louder than was necessary in their small clearing, “Join us for some supper won't you? We’ve got bread that’ll go stale and enough wine for a month!” He laughed raucously. Elyas may have been well past his days of fighting in a shield wall, but he was a soldier through and through and Jormand had never met a soldier who was not fond of good food and drink. Confronting one’s own mortality tended to have that effect.

The five travellers ate well that evening, more than they probably should have, given their limited supplies and the addition of another person, but Elyas was right. The bread would have gone stale soon enough anyway and it did not hurt to indulge once in a while. The wine was welcome to Jormand and with it came easier conversation which was even more welcome.

Around their clearing as the sunlight dimmed, field crickets began to chirp and the calls of nightbirds accompanied them, blending to form a pleasant, persistent background noise that made their little camp seem all the more cozy. After the sun finally set, a bit of an autumn chill came over the clearing. Just enough to allow the day’s sweat to dry, enough to lift the spirits of those around the fire as well.

Not long after the sun had set, while the fire still had flame enough to give light, Gisela pulled a long, leather case from the wagon and opened it to reveal a long-necked lute, its body made of a polished turtle shell. The instrument’s polish glittered in the firelight, the sheen made what was surely a commoner’s piece look magnificent enough for the imperial palace. She plucked the strings to tune and then began to play without a word.

She played tunes that Jormand knew well, old rowing and marching songs that he had learned in his youth from sailors and soldiers who he had trained with. Before long, Elyas began to sing along, his voice was rough but he knew the tunes well and seldom missed too many notes. After a time, Jormand joined him and Gisela began to complicate the songs she played. They were still recognizable and Jormand and Elyas could match them consistently but she managed, without much visible effort, to turn rough sailor’s songs into things of beauty with her instrument.

They sang, ate, and drank for hours after the sun ducked behind the horizon, until the last of the firewood was spent and the flames had died. Then they banked the fire with soil Elyas had set aside and sought their blanket rolls. The air was pleasantly chilled and Jormand was exhausted from their travels. His nose and cheek ached but he lay down on his bedroll with a smile on his face and a song in his head that swept him off to sleep before he had time to let any other thoughts take ahold of him.