Silas
Silas heard the sound of a horse racing down the road. In the darkness of night, he couldn't make out the cloud of dirt that he knew would trail behind, but the sound was enough. He scrambled off the road at a run, sliding on his knees along the grass and coming to rest behind a tree.
"Lucky I was here, and not back there," he whispered. He had only gotten beyond the farmlands between Root and Elling a short time ago. It was a segment of the road that offered nowhere to hide.
The rider was a messenger, in light black cloth and riding a Portnis stallion, a larger but leaner horse from the province of the same name, located on the other side of the Killorn Mountains. Portnis stallions were famous for their speed and stamina, but also for their skittishness. They made excellent mounts for messengers, and terrible mounts for soldiers.
He flew by Silas' hiding spot, the expression on his face one of worry and excitement. Silas watched him until he vanished into the darkness, and then moved back out onto the road. He would walk for as long as his legs would allow, and then find a spot by the Baden where he could rest out of sight.
It hadn't been an easy thing to do. The road between Root and Elling was crowded with merchants, soldiers, nobles, and others, all headed to or from the capital. He had seen the soldiers stopping some of the merchants and talking to them. He had heard the whispers; that they were searching for him, and a Cursed. A girl, who had somehow managed to escape the soldiers and the Mediator sent to retrieve her. He had smiled when he had heard that one.
The faded cloak had been an unexpected blessing. It had allowed him to blend in more easily, covering his long white hair and keeping his blue eyes shaded and less obvious. He tried to disappear in plain sight, walking with his head down, always listening, but never changing his posture or the direction of his head. At least not when there were others sharing the road with him, unless he was trading his coin for a meal. He had been tempted by ale more than once, but had fought the urge to forget, the incessant voice always whispering in his mind whenever his thoughts began to stray.
Murderer.
Otherwise, the soldiers and the other travelers paid him little mind. As far as they were concerned, he was just another old man in search of work in the city.
He had only been walking for a few more minutes, when he heard the sound of a horse, heading in the other direction.
"Not horse," he said. "Horses."
He ran off the road, but he didn't see anywhere to hide that he could reach in time. He dropped down, flattening himself against the grass and hoping they were in too much of a hurry to notice.
They were. Six horses rode by at a full gallop, the Portnis among them. The messenger, four soldiers, and a Mediator. Silas saw that the Mediator had someone on their horse with them. A girl with short brown hair.
They didn't notice him, their eyes fixed on the road. He noticed them. He rose up behind them, watching them leave. In his mind, he saw Calum Hess laying on the ground in the barn, about to be taken by the flames.
"Remember," he had said.
The girl had been captured, not killed, which was a good sign. He knew they would be taking her to a collection point, before moving her on. That meant he had time to catch up.
Silas remembered passing by a group of minstrels who had made camp for the night, not that far back. They had possessed a covered wagon, a carriage, and six horses. He headed that way at a run.
***
"Be quiet Sena," Robar Quall said to his wife with a laugh. "I was not that drunk."
"You were too, Robar," she replied. She turned to the rest of the minstrels sitting around the small fire they had made. "So there he is, standing up in front of the Overlord, singing 'Your Merry Stones' at the top of his voice."
The others were laughing hard, their chirps and guffaws echoing into the night. They knew they had little to fear on the Elling road, especially right now, when the soldiers had increased their patrols in search of the killer and the Cursed.
"So what did he do?" Jeson asked between wheezing breaths and laughter.
"He..." Robar laughed. "He..." He laughed again. "He-"
"Excuse me." Silas stepped out of the darkness, and into the light of their fire, cutting off the musician before he could finish his tale. He had his hood up, and his sword drawn. He put their theatrics to shame, stepping into the flickering firelight and lowering the hood, allowing them to see his white hair and blue eyes reflecting the flames. "I need to borrow a horse."
All of the laughter stopped, the six minstrels falling dead silent. They looked at him with fear in their eyes, but didn't respond to his request.
"Helllpppp," Jeson shouted into the night. "Murderer!"
Silas was on him in a blink, leaping over the fire, grabbing the drunk bard from behind, and putting his hand over his mouth. He tried to shake off the pain and guilt that had blossomed in him at hearing the man call him that.
"Be quiet," he whispered. "A horse," he said to the rest of them. "I only need borrow it, and I will return it to you, if not on the road then in Elling."
"What if we just call for the soldiers again?" Sena asked. She had found a small knife somewhere, and she held it out in front of her.
"The soldiers are gone," Silas said. "Didn't you hear them ride off?"
"I think I did," Jeson said, the words coming out muffled through Silas' hand. "I think I did," he repeated when Silas released his mouth.
"Please," Silas said. "I don't want to harm any of you, but I have to take one of your horses."
"What for?" Robar asked.
"To chase after the soldiers," Silas replied.
Robar began laughing again. "You want to chase them? That is rich. Take the dapple at the front of the carriage. She's worth the story I can make out of this. If you live, come back and tell us what happened, and I'll even give you some coin."
"Robar!" Sena began to complain, but he put his hand up.
"Not now," he said. "Think about it, my dear. This is the work of Amman to bring us such inspiration."
She still didn't look happy, but she nodded. "I'll help you unhitch her."
Silas let go of Jeson and trailed behind Sena.
"These are crazy times," she said. "I've never seen so many Cursed being brought in from the countryside. It's like there's something in their water, or something."
"What do you mean?" Silas asked.
"We crossed over the Killorn Mountains from Portnis a couple of weeks ago, on the way to Elling. We passed at least four Mediators. I haven't seen four on the road between Elling and Portnis in all of the eight years we've been playing this route. In fact, I heard from some others that they're having a shortage. They've had to start sending soldiers out to get the Cursed without a Mediator present."
Silas wasn't sure what to think about that. He knew they'd had to send for Roque from Elling because Root's Mediator had been busy. Had that been the one riding with the Cursed girl he'd seen?
Sena brought him over to where the horses were grazing. She took the dappled mare's head in her arms and rubbed her muzzle. "This is Binney. She's the youngest and fastest we've got."
He looked the horse over. Youngest and fastest didn't mean young and fast, but she would have to do. "If I don't have a chance to return her to you here, I'll leave her at the stable closest to the south gate of the city. You can pick her up there."
"Be nice to her. She isn't a warhorse." Sena looked like she was going to cry.
"I'll keep her out of harms way." Silas put his hand over her neck and pulled himself up onto her bare back. He trotted her away from the rest of the group, and then ordered her into a full gallop.
The horse was faster than she looked, and Silas found himself well beyond the point where he had dropped to the grass in no time. He rode her hard, but not at a deadly pace, keeping an eye out for any sign of the soldiers, which was difficult to do in the darkness.
He didn't find them riding up the Elling road. Not directly. What he did find was a bit of trampled earth that led off through a small field and into a thick growth of trees. He would have missed it, but the dirt was newly thrown, moist and dark against the dry road it had landed on. There was no guarantee it had been the soldiers, but he didn't need to be a woodsman to guess that heavy chargers at a run would cause that kind of destruction.
"I guess you'll have to wait here, Binney," Silas said, sliding off the horse. He hoped she wouldn't roam too far with a nice field of grass for grazing on.
He entered the trees cautiously, his nicked and dull sword in hand. He kept his hood up and his cloak wrapped tight around him while he slinked from the cover of one tree to another. It was easy enough to follow so many horses, with all of the damage they caused to the surrounding brush. He tracked it from cover a few years away, mindful of every step. The movement was slow, but he soon reached his quarry.
He saw the fire first, belching out flame and smoke into the night air, cracking and spitting from the heat. He saw the soldiers next, three of them sitting around it, along with the messenger. He was still a bit distant, but they were easy to spot with their mail and helms. They were talking amongst themselves, loudly enough that he was sure they weren't concerned about anyone coming across their camp. Who would cross paths with his soldiers intentionally?
"Where are you?" Silas said, trying to use the light of the fire to locate the Mediators. He didn't see them. "I'm not close enough."
He ducked down, getting on his hands and knees and moving at a snail's pace through the woods. Insects skittered away in front of his face, and he wound up sliding across one of the charger's offal, leaving him with the smell of manure climbing up to his nose. The progress was excruciatingly slow, but he knew if the Mediator saw him, he was as good as dead. He might have escaped from Roque, but he'd had help.
He circled the camp like that, locating the fourth soldier leaning against a tree not twenty feet away from him, keeping guard over the camp. Silas was tense the entire time it took him to slither past the man and continue his circuit, searching for the Mediator and the Cursed girl.
When he found them, he nearly wept. The soldiers he had gone around were only the guards, a tiny camp keeping watch for a much larger one. He lifted himself up over a fallen log, giving himself a clear view past a pair of canvas tents and into the center of the true outpost.
There were at least two dozen soldiers there, sitting around multiple fires, talking and laughing. Beyond them, he saw a much nicer tent of red and gold, where he assumed the Mediator he had seen ride by, and possibly more, were stationed. Next to the tent, he located the Cursed girl.
Except, she wasn't alone.
She, and at least six others were in the back of a large wagon, covered over the top by canvas, and enclosed completely in iron bars. She was standing at the bars, looking out at the soldiers, with tears in her eyes. The others with her were either standing or sitting, their heads bowed, their expressions that of total defeat.
He heard Calum Hess' voice in his head, begging him to remember his promise. He heard the other voice too, scorning him as a murderer. He knew he had to find some way to help them, but how? He wouldn't be able to get them out with the Mediator's tent right next to them. With seven Cursed, that could mean as many as seven Mediators. There was no way he would survive that.
He decided the first thing he needed to do was get closer. He would fail before he could try anything if he couldn't get himself near the wagon unseen. He couldn't be sure how the Cursed would react to him, so he had to avoid them too.
It was even slower going, sliding along the ground, maneuvering himself around behind the Mediator's tent and to the other side. At one point, he saw the messenger appear, taking a few rabbits he had roasted at the smaller fire and bringing it in to them. He announced himself at the door of the tent, and waited for some signal before entering.
Silas stopped his crawling when he reached the trunk of an old oak tree, tucking himself down between the tree and its roots, and finding a vantage point where he could watch the motion of the camp from a relatively short distance. He allowed himself to take one deeper breath, and settled in. Somehow, he needed to get the Cursed away, by himself, without being seen or captured.
"I picked the wrong time to stop drinking."