Hope Sundered

Lady Hessa watched the battle from the safety of her private balcony in M’klarin Keep. Everyone on the battlefield below seemed so small, like armies of ants clawing and gnawing at each other, but she knew their deaths were just as painful as if she was close enough to hear their screams. That thought made her shiver; these were the sons and brothers and fathers of her people, her neighbors, giving their lives for the survival of those they left behind.

A single tear traced the delicate curve of her cheek. Even if the brave allies somehow managed to win the day, many of them wouldn’t return to celebrate the hard-earned victory. Too many. Without thinking she placed a protective hand on her abdomen.

An urgent knock on the pair of tall oaken doors at the entrance to her chamber startled her, ripping her gaze away from the field. She made her way to the anteroom, her mind considering a myriad of possibilities in that short span. She opened one of the doors to find a man she didn’t recognize. He had short black hair and cold blue eyes.

The man bowed low. “My deepest apologies for disturbing you, my lady. Lord Bel’ami asked me to fetch you.”

Hessa’s heart jumped. “Right now? Is he alright?”

“He’s well, my lady. He’s also instructed me to ask you to dress for riding and bring a warm coat.”

“Why? Where are we going?” Her mind struggled to put the strange instruction into context. Had the city been breached? Surely they weren’t fleeing! The very thought of abandoning her people to save herself made her sick to her stomach. On the other hand, the thought of anything happening to her unborn child was too profane to warrant any pondering.

“Forgive me, my lady. I've told you all I know.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. Wait here; I’ll only be a moment.” Hessa hurried back to the wardrobe in the back of her private room. She was confused, but she had no desire to compound her husband’s stress during this time of crisis. She’d have her explanation soon enough.

She returned to the anteroom where the dark-haired messenger was waiting. He inspected her outfit: riding pants and boots, a long-sleeved blouse under a leather vest, and a hooded cloak that stopped around her knees. Nodding his approval, he motioned to the door. “After you, my lady.”

⸞ ⸎ ⸟

Bel’ami noticed two people approaching from the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he recognized his wife, but the man with short black hair and cold blue eyes walking close behind her was a complete stranger. Her face was stony, but her eyes were wide with fright. Something was wrong.

“Hessa?” he began, and took a step toward her, but froze in his tracks when she turned—or was turned, rather—to reveal a dagger pressed against the right side of her lower back.

“That’s far enough, your lordship,” the dark-haired man with the dagger said.

“Who are you? What do you want with my wife?” Bel’ami cried as confusion, anger, and fear battled for dominance within him.

“Varzeth? What’s the meaning of this?” Losigalender demanded from beside the patriarch.

Bel’ami whirled on Losigalender, incredulous. “You know this man?”

“Indeed he does, but not from where he believes,” Varzeth answered for him.

Losigalender traded glances between them until instinct prompted his hand to reach for his hilt.

“Don’t try it, Governor,” Varzeth warned. “Captain Endari won’t be riding in to save you this time.”

Losigalender stiffened at the mention of the cavaliers. “You were there,” he whispered as a chill coursed his spine. “Maker’s mercy, you’re one of them!”

“In a manner of speaking,” Varzeth replied. “But make no mistake; while I’ve no desire to harm Lady Hessa, I’ll kill her without hesitation if anyone attempts to hinder my plan.”

Hessa whimpered and clenched her teeth. Her body convulsed with terrified trembling.

“What plan?” Bel’ami asked.

“Escape, obviously.”

“I don’t understand,” Losigalender said, shaking his head. “You’ve been at the Wall’s Shadow all this time. How did you even get inside the city?”

Varzeth offered a coy smile. “Mysteries have a way of revealing themselves in due time.”

“You can rot in the abyss,” Losigalender spat. “We shared an understanding near this very spot. I actually felt sorry for you. Everything you told me was a lie!”

“Not everything,” Varzeth replied. “And my advice was offered with the utmost respect.”

“Let her go,” Bel’ami pleaded, trembling as he spoke. Tears streamed down his face. “Take me instead! I’m begging you. For Maker’s sake, she’s with child!”

“I’m well aware of that, Sire. It’s that very fact I’m exploiting to prevent your interference today while ensuring your pursuit tomorrow.”

Varzeth ushered Hessa at knife-point down the nearest parapet stairs. With Losigalender on his heels, Bel’ami followed, not wanting to let Hessa out of his sight. The ravenous beast of helplessness began ripping his soul to shreds.

Demarron was waiting at street level with a pair of saddled horses. He helped Varzeth and his prisoner into one saddle before mounting the other one. Varzeth repositioned his knife under Hessa’s chin and held her close.

She remained stoic in posture, but her gaze was apologetic when it met with her husband’s, pleading with him to save her. By now curious bystanders saw what was happening and cried out in alarm.

“We’ll be waiting for you in Dioria,” Varzeth told Bel’ami.

“Mark my words: I will come for my wife, even if I have to march over every last Azrahteran corpse to get her.”

Varzeth looked the tortured man in the eyes. “I sincerely hope you do, Sire.” With that he spurred his horse into motion, following Demarron through the eastern gate.

“I’ll get her back or die trying!” Bel’ami declared, turning to head for the stables.

Losigalender grabbed his arm. “Then let her go.”

Bel’ami whirled on Losigalender, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and rage. “What did you just say to me?”

“I don’t believe he has any intention of hurting her. In fact, the more I think—”

“Have you gone insane? He’s the enemy!”

“Please hear me out, Sire. He was present when the Azrahterans burned Chastin to the ground, which means he somehow got inside Wyndham after the siege began, yet he did nothing until today. Why is that?”

“Because he’s using her as leverage! He told us plainly she’s his means to escape. Once he’s clear of any danger he’ll kill her!”

“No, Sire, think about it! With the gates now open he could’ve slipped out on his own. He doesn't need a hostage. Besides, he could’ve taken her without your knowledge, yet he went out of his way to reveal himself. She may be leverage, but he must be up to something else.”

“Then why in Yajuel’s name are you stopping me?” Bel’ami lunged forward, but Losigalender held him fast.

“Because if he doesn’t make it off that battlefield alive, neither will she!” Losigalender stared hard at the patriarch.

Bel’ami’s eyes grew wide with panic, his mind putting the pieces together. “The archers,” he whispered. He spun in the other direction and began sprinting up the stairs to the parapet, shouting for his men to stand down.

⸞ ⸎ ⸟

The last arrow.

Lark Prentice had been saving it for a second shot at Zordecai if necessary, but since that monster was now dead, he had to find another deserving target. Someone of rank perhaps, if he could make such a distinction with everyone caked in sludge. Ally and foe were beginning to look alike from this height.

The Nokri warrior who decapitated Zordecai was amazing. Lark was certain she was a woman. He'd seen several women among the Nokri ranks, each of them just as capable of fighting as their male counterparts. He respected them for that, wishing more Avelirian women shared that trait.

Like Keila had.

The woman who slew Zordecai reminded him of her. They were roughly the same size and build, with the same long reddish-brown hair, though he blamed his imagination for deceiving him. She was much more aggressive than Keila had been, even though the element of grace in her movements was so familiar.

“Time to focus, Lark,” he said aloud, shaking his head to clear his mind.

A pair of horses galloping north caught his attention just then. A man and a woman rode together on one horse, while the other carried a single male rider. They didn’t appear to be Azrahterans—they were clean and not wearing any uniforms—but why were they leaving the battle?

Wait, the man sharing his saddle was shouting something…and the Azrahterans were responding. Some of them seemed to recognize him and run after him; not to stop him, but to follow.

Lark had found his last target. He nocked his arrow and pulled the bowstring taut, gauging the rider’s speed and distance to determine the timing and exact placement of his shot. He heard someone shouting in the distance, but his discipline blocked out the noise, granting him singular attention.

Satisfied with his mental calculations, Lark Prentice gave one last tug on his string for maximum power before letting his arrow loose. This Azrahteran would not escape.

A powerful force collided with him at that moment, knocking him to his back and sending his ammunition careening off into the sky.

The Azrahterans were in the city! He let go of his bow and struggled to reach his boot knife. He was now in a fight for his own survival. He had to win. He had to find Losigalender and Captain Endari and Lord Bel’ami and—

“Lark, stop!”

He looked into the face of his opponent and stopped resisting at once. “Sire? What are you doing? Why did you stop me from killing that Azrahteran? I had him!”

“And he has my wife!”

“He—wait, what? The woman? In the saddle…?”

“It’s true, son,” Losigalender said, appearing next to the patriarch. He was sweating and out of breath. “Lady Hessa was abducted.”

“I couldn’t risk you hitting her,” Bel’ami said as he extricated himself from Lark, helping the confused archer up as well. “And even if you had hit him, it may have caused her to fall. She’s with child, and I just couldn’t…”

Lark’s eyes went wide with horror. He looked from Losigalender to Lord Bel’ami, his mind struggling to accept what he’d just learned. “Maker’s mercy, I almost…please forgive me Sire!”

Bel'ami stood and exten“You didn’t know, Lark. You couldn’t have. Please accept my apology for tackling you, though.”

“Think nothing of it Sire, but…that was my last arrow.”

Losigalender clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. “Zordecai’s dead, son. You shot the one that mattered most.”