Tenth moon, first year of the reign of King Corvus
South Gate, First Circle, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
The merchants’ quarter had supplied Rillirin with an old gown, some boots that were a little too big, and a shawl to fasten a sling for her baby.
My baby, my little girl. Hello, Macha, my little warrior. Seems like we did it after all.
Salter and the surviving prisoners had raided houses and cellars for food, clothes, weapons, the latter being almost impossible to find. A few wood axes, some kitchen knives, an unstrung bow.
Fortunately, they hadn’t yet run across more than a few Mireces, quickly dispatched.
‘Gods alive, what is that?’ The panic in the voice and the pointing finger had Rillirin wobbling around in an unbalanced circle to peer back the way they’d come. It was hard to see past the crowd of thin, desperate soldiers and over the rubble and the buildings still standing, the smoke and dust clouds roiling, but there was … something rising over the temple district. A jarring outline of red and black and whipping tentacles.
‘Go,’ Rillirin said, when the soldiers clumped together and stared back towards the temples. ‘Let’s go,’ she repeated, a little louder. Salter proffered her a skin; watered wine, heavy with honey. It was like a drink from the gods, replenishing a little of her energy. She shambled on, Salter’s hand under her elbow and the rest flooding around them into formation again. So tired.
‘It’s coming,’ Salter shouted, yanking her to a halt. ‘Back into the houses, quickly. We’ll be clear targets on the road or outside the city. Take cover!’
Soldiers scattered, civilians following, and Salter hauled Rillirin towards the nearest building. They half fell inside, kicking the door shut. They were in a small kitchen, a jug on the table, a pot still bubbling over the fire.
Salter held a finger to his lips and gestured her beneath the table, passing her the jug before taking up position by the small window to the left of the door. Milk. She drank, poking her tongue through the thick layer of cream to reach the liquid beneath. Like the wine, it alleviated a touch more exhaustion, although that could be yet more fear flooding her veins with the urge to run, to fight, to stand over her cub and snarl her threat at any who came for them.
All was silence. Cautiously, Rillirin slid from beneath the table, wrapped a cloth around the handle of the pot and hoisted it from the fire, before retreating with it and a spoon back under the table. I should be too scared to eat, she thought to herself as she shovelled scalding stew into her mouth, but, gods, I’m so hungry. I could eat a horse.
That thought triggered another and Rillirin dropped the spoon into the pot and, fumbling with anxiety and the worry of getting it wrong, she pulled down her collar and breast band and guided Macha’s mouth to her nipple.
The babe knew what to do, and after the initial sharp pain had faded they were both eating, Rillirin pausing every few seconds to marvel at the sensation of that tiny mouth and surprisingly powerful suction.
Sounds of destruction and the roaring of gods broke their mutual contentment. ‘Nope,’ Salter muttered. ‘We need to go.’ He looked back, mouth dropping open at the scene, and then dismissing it just as fast. ‘On your feet.’
‘We should get supplies.’
‘We stay here we’ll be dead in minutes. Come on.’
Rillirin adjusted the sling so Macha could continue feeding and then dragged herself to her feet.
They flattened themselves against the outside wall and Salter let out three low whistles. All along the street the prisoners emerged from hiding. A series of gestures Rillirin didn’t understand and the soldiers were moving again, some ahead, others behind, while the civilians huddled around Rillirin.
Quartering the approaches as Dom had taught her so long ago and trying to force down yet more fear, so much swallowed it almost made her sick, Rillirin and the others crept to the South Gate and out of Rilporin. They sidled around the slumped, poorly repaired tower called First Bastion and then they were in the open, in the Wheat Lands with a hundred miles to walk to reach Deep Forest and Mace and Dom. The distance undermined her determination but the Rankers were moving already, checking behind and to the sides and she was in their midst with a score of civilians, and they were out. They were escaping. Free.
The road from the city into the Wheat Lands would curve and split and divert but it would, eventually, take her to Dom, and Dom was home, he was her guiding star and she could do no more than steer a course towards him, and if that meant walking a hundred miles in too-big boots then that was what she’d do, she and Macha, walking home. And when they were all back together, she’d stop moving, just settle, him and their babe and whoever was left of the people she loved. Just stop, and build a home, and be peaceful.
She told Salter as much, and he agreed that that sounded like a good plan, and that the best way to find Dom was to find Mace, because he was their Commander and their king. If there was still fighting to be done, Salter and the rest were Rankers and they wanted to be a part of it.
‘But we have to wait for Tara,’ Rillirin added in an exhausted monotone.
‘Major Carter’s orders were very specific, miss,’ he said with an effort, ‘and I for one am far too scared of her to disobey.’ Numb fatigue crashed into her like a giant wave and she stumbled; Salter put his arm around her waist and then a huge man, a civilian so big there were almost two of him, scooped her up in his arms and began to walk. ‘Name’s Merol,’ he said, ‘and I reckon you could do with a bit of a rest.’
She tried to tell him to stop, that they had to wait for Tara. Instead she slept, her daughter pressed warm and vital and alive against her skin.