He wasn’t sure what gave him away, maybe he was overtired, but he was on the defensive as a knife-wielding shadow attacked him. Allowing the momentum to take him back, he accepted the initial slash as his due and twisted into the man. Displacing his opponent, he attacked. They jostled for position, back and forth, daggers clashing and chinging off each other. Blades flickered between them until Jerrol saw the slightest opening and took it, committing himself to the move and the kill.
Gasping for breath and feeling a little lightheaded, he levered himself off the still body. He tensed, listening for the others. He knew they were out there; why had they dropped back and not charged him? He circled as he searched the deepening gloom and stumbled over a body. Frowning, he felt for a pulse, but the man was dead, though he couldn’t find a wound. Recent as well – one of his trackers? Had they had a falling out?
He spun as they rushed him all together, getting in each other’s way. They were larger and persistent, and although he disabled two of them, he began to tire. When an unexpected fifth man jumped him from behind, delivering a stunning blow to his head, he sagged, dazed.
The remaining men stood, sides heaving. “I never saw such a scrapper,” one of them said, a tinge of respect in his voice.
“Scrapper or no, he’s done for the ’atchet, we ain’t gonna get our money now,” a low voice complained.
“Yeah, stick ’im one and toss him in the river, no point dragging him back,” another rough voice agreed.
The men grunted in agreement and Jerrol was dragged across the ground, the matting of pine needles pricking his skin. From what felt like the bottom of a deep well, he heard a low-voiced argument going on around him as to who would get to stick ’im one. The voices echoed painfully in his temples.
A high thrum, a low curse, and one of his captors let go of him. An unexplained stumble and another man lost his balance, and they slipped and skidded down the steep slope. They flailed, trying to grab the thin saplings that bent under their weight, and they lost their grip on Jerrol. His body rolled the last few feet and splashed into the water, sucked under as the men watched. The water roiled and then calmed, returning to its smooth deep green flow, and continued on its way as if nothing untoward had happened, all traces of infamy gone. The men stared around them with caution before beginning the climb back up the steep bank.
Jerrol had a vague memory of rough handling and then the shock of being consumed by the cold water. He was sucked down by the current, out of sight and out of breath.
As he struggled to reach the surface, the realisation sank in that he wasn’t in the water, he was kneeling on solid land. He coughed out water and dragged in a breath. He sensed a presence and opened his eyes. Thin saplings grew in a curve up to the riverbank, blocking the sky and the moonlight, providing a dim glade lit by a soft green glow filtering through the leaves.
In the centre, a slender young woman stood in front of him, patiently waiting. “Where am I?” he asked, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. He wiped his face with his dripping sleeve.
The woman mused for a moment. “There is a place betwixt life and death where the essence of time shimmers like a mist and allows me to reach your soul and bespeak it.”
“Am I dead?” Jerrol asked, confused by her words.
“Not quite. You are my Captain, and you have yet to fulfil your duty.”
Jerrol stiffened and lifted his eyes to her face, taking in her flawless complexion and sparkling emerald-green eyes. He swallowed as he realised who stood before him, speaking of his death so casually. She was the Lady Leyandrii, the deity worshipped by at least three of the four kingdoms of Remargaren.
“The Ascendants grow bold,” she said.
“The Ascendants?”
“They return to finish the deed.”
“Deed? My Lady, why am I here?” Jerrol staggered to his feet and stood, swaying.
“Bend your head.” Stepping towards him, she reached out and placed her hands on either side of his face. Jerrol tensed as her power surged through him, almost dropping him to his knees, but he was held in place by her will alone. “You are my Captain,” she repeated. “You have the sight. You have the depths. Only you can find the truth. Restore the forgotten, heal the wounded.”
Leyandrii raised Jerrol’s head and stared deep into his eyes as if she could see straight to his heart and his innermost self. He felt exposed to the core. “Soothe the Land and make her your ally. She misses us as we miss her. You have the knowledge, the courage, the heart and sight. What was sundered cannot be reformed, but a true heart may restore.”
She looked off into the distance, a small smile curving her lips. “Help is at hand. You are relieved of your immediate assailants, my Captain. You do seem to be able to put yourself in danger’s way. You should be more adept at avoiding trouble.”
Jerrol stared at her, stunned and confused. He had always followed the Lady, been hers to command, but this felt a bit more definite. She spoke in riddles; he was unsure what it all meant. Warmth suffused him as she stepped back. “Wake them. They will help you. There is one I cannot see, the deceiver. Watch for him, my Captain. He stirs. Be well,” she said as everything started to shimmer, and he felt himself spinning and tumbling against the current.
His shoulder glanced off a submerged rock, the shock making him inhale a mouthful of water. He choked.
