Dance of Burning part 1- New Companions

Dance of Burning

Chapter One: New Companions

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The shelter was barely more than a worn piece of canvas stretched out under the low branches of a huge Fortune tree, clearly a makeshift measure erected with a great deal of haste. In the forest around the tree—shaded gray and silent by the thick, steady downpour of rain—a mottled stallion stomped occasionally and shook water off his coat as he browsed, undisturbed both by the rain and the silence around him. Contentedly, showing a practicality unknown by most horses, he stripped leaves and bark off low hanging branches like a deer, one gracefully pricked ear always cocked towards the shelter beneath the Fortune tree.

Under the shelter, the sound of the rain was muted to a dull murmur in the low darkness, joined only by the soft sound of the single occupant's breathing as she slept curled under a worn trail blanket beside the embers of the dying fire. The low glow from the embers cast more shadows than light, making the shapes of saddlebags, tack, and boots seem to loom oppressively against the worn canvas walls, and the coals no longer did anything to ward off the encroaching cold.

The slender form under the blankets stirred, the soft rhythm of her breath faltering for a moment as the growing chill drew her from dreams of wind-blown sand and the burning touch of the sun. She shivered in her half-sleep, and pulled the blanket closer to her. The sound of the rain falling against the branches above seemed to intensify as the cold only grew, washing away the last traces of her dream, and leaving her feeling suddenly bone-deep cold and angry. Rain—she was so sick of rain. So many centuries of rain; didn't this land ever dry out?

For a moment, she lay still under the blankets, her huddled form practically reeking resentment, then the edge of the blanket was pulled down just enough for one bleary crystal green eye to peer out. Rumpled and mussed pale gold hair stuck up around the fair-skinned and scowling face as her pale green eyes focused sleepily on the glowing embers. Out again—hadn't she just fed it? No, it was already mid-afternoon; she had fed it that morning. Wasn't Ayn back yet?

The girl gave a low moan of denial, and sulkily disappeared back under the blankets. There was a moment of silence, almost appearing as if she'd gone back to sleep, but then a slender arm extended gingerly out from under the blankets in the direction she had placed the stock of firewood the day before. The rest of her remaining under the still somewhat-warm blankets, the arm swept back and forth a couple times, but found nothing as the cold seemed to grow more piercing with every second. The arm stilled, then withdrew back under the blankets, and with yet another moan of denial, the girl presently called Fleeting flung the blanket off and sat up in a rush.

Fleeting—or the Green-eyed, as she was inevitably called by any people or nation she had ever come to the attention of—raked her fine golden hair back out of her face as her green eyes glittered in the faint light from the embers. In look—besides her obviously foreign lineage—there was almost nothing to say that she was even a day above a slender seventeen years old, maybe twenty if you factored in a certain cold, calculating look in the depths of her eyes and the way their corners remained perpetually tight. Childishly slender and fair, her golden hair cropped unevenly around her face and the shade of her green eyes depending on her mood, she was something delicately exotic in this land of earth-toned people, but not inhumanly so. Certainly there was no reason to suspect upon seeing her that she was no more human than the tree she sat under; a secret she took painstaking care to prevent from being found out.

Still sleepy despite her irritation, it took her a moment before her mind would process the empty patch of damp ground that marked where the firewood would have been—had there been any firewood. It took her a moment longer before she turned her sleepy gaze towards the entrance of the shelter, where the canvas had been draped and tied at a semi-break in the Fortune-tree's boughs in an effort to provide shelter from the blowing rain. There, in the damper ground under the edge of the canvas, large boot prints could still been seen—filled with water and seemingly proof of the miserable nature of this single point in her life.

Lip curled in self-disgust, she turned her attention to the dying embers as she hunched over her knees, flexing the cold fingers of one hand. The air was bitingly cold, and the damp seemed able to freeze her very bones; she wanted nothing more than to curl back up and loose herself in dreams. Maybe this time she would freeze to death for good. That would serve him right. What did he mean, a short errand--he'd already been gone two days! And he'd said he didn't need her to come along with him.

“Tch,” she said, the small sound of irritation drowning out the rain for a heartbeat. The next moment, the steady, ever-present sound had resumed as she stretched her hand out over the dying embers, tensing her fingers as she generated flame from her skin. For her effort, she got the barest flicker of a flame that curled for a heartbeat around her finger—as if reluctant to touch the cold air—and then went out. She did it again, and the next flicker sputtered against the damp and disappeared, not even leaving a wisp of smoke to mark it's passing. The third flicker wrapped tightly around her index finger and refused to let go.

Letting her hand fall back to the blankets, Fleeting grimaced as she moved her shoulders in an attempt to ease the aching in her back that she knew was doomed from the start. The scars there always ached, especially when it rained, and she could feel the icy cold spreading away from them as a sharp contrast to the delicious heat that should come from her fire magic. What was carved into her bones wouldn't fade, and it would never let her rest.

Steeling her nerves, she stretched out her hand again and worked her cold fingers for a moment in an attempt to get the blood moving properly. This time when she tried to generate flame, fire exploded around her hand with a pain like an strained muscle, igniting the coals and sending flames crackling upwards. Steam hissed from the soaked canvas overhead, and the edge of her blankets and her sleeve caught fire. With another irritated sound, Fleeting extinguished them with a mental hand, scowling openly at the singed fabric. Her sleeve was no loss; she was a broke, penniless wanderer this time, and she had dressed to fit—as had Ayn. A cheap and easy enough guise to wear. Too-large homespun shirt and pants of dubious quality, rough, worn, and mended more than once. Soot and dirt to stain the rings and studs in her ears, till their true value was impossible to see. Quilted boots with wooden soles and several places where tears or worn spots had been inexpertly mended. All that, as well as the poor quality shelter, should go a long ways towards convincing anyone who happened upon her that she was merely what she appeared to be—a penniless, drifting foreign-born a long way from home.

It was by no means a foolproof disguise. Anyone who cared to look beyond the surface would notice that though her tack was foreign, aged, and well worn, it had once been of fine quality and had been well maintained, and that despite his unfavorable coat pattern, her mount was far from ill-bred. Her weapons also were very fine, but if they got close enough to see that they were heartbeats from dying anyway, so that wasn't an issue.

Sighing, she ran a hand back through her hair, doing nothing to convince it to lay down in some semblance of order. “Shut up, Fleeting,” she told herself, not bothering to keep her voice down since there was no one but her to hear. As if in answer, her stomach rumbled loudly and sent a pang through her gut. She winced, and huddled into a tighter curl. The last of the food had been eaten yesterday, and there wasn't a chance of finding game in a rain like this. Ayn was supposed to bring back some supplies along with replacements for what they'd lost fleeing Baron Dumalt's keep as well as whatever message he got from his 'duke's man', but he wasn't back yet. Had something happened? Had he been forced to run? Or had he finally come to his senses and left completely? It was a wonder that they had traveled together for so long, him being a good—if somewhat mysterious and conniving—son of the Kasvon Empire, and her a foreign-born.

She shook her head in answer to the creeping doubts, and stuck her feet in the fire, wiggling her toes as the flames playfully curled around her ankles and blackened the hems of her trousers. “No,” she told herself. “He keeps 'is word, and 'e said 'eed be back.” But what if he'd been unable to?

Why was she even worrying?

“Tch,” she said again, raking her golden locks back off her forehead with a rough hand as her eyes darkened with disgust. Shoving the thought of her absent companion out of her mind, she leaned over to grab her boots. They were damp, so she held them in the flames and watched sourly as steam rose from their thick, supposedly waterproof canvas. Head propped on her knees, she waited till they were completely dry and warmed before slipping them on and getting reluctantly to her feet. She was short as well as slightly built, but the low ceiling of the shelter still forced her to crouch awkwardly to put on her poncho. As nice as it was to simply sit and enjoy the comfort of the fire, right now the flames were feeding only on the energy she gave it. If she didn't want to use up all her precious energy, she would have to find some wood to burn. Use up too much of her energy and she wouldn't have enough left to handle an emergency; not with the majority of her magic still sealed away.

The reminder made the scars on her back give a sudden throb that reached clear to her fingertips, and she stilled, her eyes paling to an icy color that was nowhere near human and barely even green. For a heartbeat she stood without moving, not even breathing as the memory of that sealing and betrayal gripped her, then she pushed it away and started moving again. The poncho felt like a cloak of stone on her shoulders as she brushed the canvas flap aside and stepped out into the rain.

Eyes once more a deep, irritated green, her nose wrinkled in disgust as rain immediately started slicking her hair against her scalp. “It's wet,” she muttered to herself, lifting one foot and grimacing at sound it made pulling free of the mud. “Why is it always wet 'ere?” It wouldn't have been so bad if she'd still had her hat, but that had been another thing they had been forced to leave behind in the flight from Baron Dumalt's keep. Along with their good tent, and most of their food supplies.

The thought of the paunchy baron made her lip curl up in a silent snarl. She'd disliked him from the first moments after meeting him, from the point where he'd tried to cop a feel on her when Ayn's back was turned. She wasn't sure and didn't really care what Ayn had been supposed to 'inform' him of—beyond hoping that it was something unpleasant that would cause much trouble for the Imperial noble as possible—but whatever it was, he hadn't received it with any goodwill.

With a snort, she focused her attention on her surroundings. After fleeing Baron Dumalt's keep, they had headed north towards the central mountains, out of the Baron's territory and towards a town where Ayn had contacts and could get some supplies and replacements. He had returned with no supplies and a message telling him to go to another town and retrieve a 'duke's man'. Probably another get-him-out-of-wherever-alive type of job.

So now she was somewhere in the backwoods of Rughanin, a territory controlled by a lesser affiliate of the Aqura house—one of the eleven great houses tracing their lineage all the way back to the founding of the Kasvon Empire. One of the Empire's old forests, this area was little traveled despite it's proximity to the Old Road. Huge trees—mostly various kinds of native hardwoods, with a scattering of the bell-shaped Fortune trees and brushy Lament—grew to towering heights and blocked out the sky. Gale force winds shook the branches far overhead, and enough rain was filtering through them for a steady downpour. The thick, purplish ropes of Lads-bane twined up many of the enormous tree-trunks and carpeted much of the broken ground, draping over roots and eroded ground to form the dangerous illusion of solidity. When the vines reached far enough upwards to twine in among the trees' branches, the plant created holes in the forest's canopy through which almost solid pillars of water poured. Where the ground was free of the fast-growing and persistent vine, it was covered by a thick, springy coat of fallen leaves and the tightly matted fibers of Maidens-weave—the short-lived, mossy flowers so abundant in this region during the spring months. Thanks to the storm raging overhead, water ran an inch deep over most surfaces, washing the miniature gullies deeper as it formed treacherously swift creeks and rivers.

Fleeting had once spent a lot of time in the old forests—there was a time where she'd almost never left them, in fact—and she'd known them well. More than two centuries might have passed since then, but they hadn't changed that much. Even such over-abundant quantities of water as this would be gone in only a few days, and when that happened, the forest would be an enjoyable place. Until then, though, it was little better than hell to desert-born Fleeting.

A small sigh escaped her as she looked around with narrowed eyes. The mottled stud that had been happily stripping the Lads-bane of leaves and bark was nowhere in sight, probably gone to seek his own shelter underneath another of the Fortune trees. The thought of calling him closer for company flickered through her mind, then was dismissed as she sighed again and started moving. It wouldn't be right to use him so, even if he would greet such a thing with all enthusiasm.

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she picked her way to the closest Lament tree—about two ridges away, it's thorny branches drooping low to the muddy ground—with all the finicky disdain of a cat. Bracing herself on the slippery slope, Fleeting tried not to think of how hard it would be to get the mud off her boots, as she slipped a thick leather glove out of her belt pouch and slid it over her off hand. Once protected from the tree's thorns, she grabbed hold of a likely branch as her other hand flipped her belt knife out of it's sheath on her leg. The knife spun once around her hand—an old habit she kept to test the weight and balance of any weapon—then she started stripping the bark and thorns off her chosen branch. Once free of the sharp, penetrating spines, it would be easier to break the branch off, and certainly make carrying it much more pleasant.

She'd barely stripped the first side with sure, strong strokes, when a sound reached her through the rain, making her stiffen and raise her head. Her green eyes darkened to cool emerald as her fingers tightened on her knife hilt. Stupid, stupid, stupid; she cursed herself mentally for letting herself get caught away from her gear. This was no place to let down her guard.

The Kasvon Empire was not a friendly place for either magic users or foreigners. Once it had been home to the most skilled and powerful of all magi, home of the Lamront Magi's guild—most powerful of all the magi organizations—and even hosted the Imperial Collage of Free Magic in the capital city of Kasvonien. But that had been before one of their own rose up and threw the entire continent into chaos and war. Not just the Kasvon Empire, but all the kingdoms and nations of Andaril had been sucked into the resulting War of the Wizard, and afterward, each had their own reaction. The Kasvon Empire's had been to turn their back on magic. It had banned all forms of magic by imperial decree, put all of it's own magi that couldn't escape across the border in time to death, and withdrawn into itself for over five hundred years. Trade had continued with some of their former foreign allies, but even now, so long after the Wizard's War, very few foreign traders were willing to risk the hostility and suspicion of the Empire's residents even for the Kasvon Empire's fabled wealth and resources. For a foreign-born woman alone in the forest, the Kasvon Empire could easily become hell. For a foreign-born woman alone that also held magic—even if there was almost no chance such a thing might be discovered—the Kasvon Empire would be a death sentence, and it would be no easy death. A bothersome, painful experience, even if Fleeting wouldn't stay dead.

Grimacing, she dropped to the ground, catching herself lithely on the tips of her free hand and the toes of her boots, before she connected with the water running down the slope. She was glad of the glove still on her hand as she spider-crawled up the slope so that the upthrust roots of a large hardwood would shield the brightness of her hair from anyone looking from the direction of the sound. As for anyone else; well, there wasn't anything she could do about that, and the possibility was low, so might as well not worry about it. Life came with risks, and if you walked the way of the blade, you had to be able to accept that death walked always at your side. 'Death on one hand, and life on the other' as the saying went.

She reached the top and peered over through the falling rain. There was something moving between the trees to the east of her position, and her stomach clenched. She missed the weight of Ve'ro St'taro, her weapon from her homeland, on her back; her fingers dug into the wet leaves beneath her as her eyes went to the shelter.

A heartbeat later, reason and experience overrode the urge to dash beneath the tree. They—whoever they were, all she knew now was there was more than one—might not even know she or the shelter was here. She and Ayn had constructed the shelter with camouflage—even before their 'penniless wanderer' seeming—as priority. Luckily, the two goals meshed in this case. But if she moved and one of the strangers caught the movement out of the corner of their eye, it might spark curiosity that would otherwise never arise. You were always at advantage when you knew where your enemy was, and they didn't know where you were.

Voices came faintly through the rain as she listened, audible at the edge of her hearing only thanks to the dampening effect of the falling water. If not for her inhuman breeding, she would never have heard it at all. It was a rare few in this world that were her match in hearing, and even fewer her match in sight—a gift given by her mother's and father's people both. It was a secret she kept almost as close as her ability to call flame and set it to her will—undeniable proof of her breeding, and the ace card up her sleeve.

After only a few snatches of conversation, the voices quieted, replaced by the sound of hoof beats and the creaking of wagon-wheels. Figures appeared through the rain as indistinct silhouettes, then solidified—three riders and a small wagon pulled by a huge draft beast, one of the massive, hunchbacked, curly-coated beasts native to the northern steppe region of the Empire. Fleeting's whole body tensed as she sank lower to the ground in response, considering her options. She could take them out, but not without betraying her heritage. Not a problem if they all died, but there was a chance that one of the riders could get away, if they ran as soon as they saw her.

Her mind ran through the possible options, then paused as one of the riders kicked his mount into a canter, the dark horse scrambling up and sliding down the slopes as surefooted as a goat. Once in normal hearing range, the rider cupped both hands around his mouth and yelled, “Ahoy! Fleet!” The tension had already slipped from Fleeting's limbs, and she swayed backwards onto her feet as he yelled again, “Ey, Fleet! I'm back!”

His head turned as she scrambled above the crest of the slope she'd hidden behind, the knife a brief silver glint in her hand as she flipped the blade to rid it of any moisture, then sheathed it in one swift movement. “Ayn,” she greeted, leaping catlike from the crest of that slope to the next, and not bothering to hide her unusual agility from him.

Aynrennian veca Lenorn ka'Tress reined in his mount in a spray of leaves and rainwater, his mare circling restlessly in the dip as he grinned down at Fleeting from under the wide brim of his hat. He seemed completely unaffected by the rain, the clearly disgusted nature of his bay mare, or Fleeting's irritated look, even though the rain was cascading from the brim of his hat to run in thick rivulets down his northern-style slicker, glinting in the pale light and casting reflections in his mischievous gray eyes. He was still fairly young, though a respected and well-known horse-singer known most areas of the Empire, with a rider's slim build and a nose that was too prominent for him to be called handsome. People liked him, for his wit, ready laugh, and easy going, teasing spirit—even people determined to dislike him as a 'pampered', though prodigal, son of one of the eleven Great Houses. If he had been as handsome as he was likable, he would have been unbearable.

Now, he was laughing down at her, a warm, rich sound that had known to make even the most sour of people smile with it's sheer friendly spirit. “Get your things, Fleeting, my sorry friend!” he proclaimed, making an elaborate gesture with one hand. His eyes were sparkling with mischief and laughter as he grinned down at Fleeting's dour face. “Rain makes rainbows, you know,” he told her, still laughing, “and we are off to better horizons!”

Fleeting's eyebrows rose as she gave both him and his disgruntled mare a dubious look, skepticism clear in her leaf-green eyes. Pushing her soaked golden locks off her forehead, she wished she looked less like a drowned cat as she replied dryly, “Rain, makes mud.” Her eyes narrowed irritably, and she continued, “You're late, you know. You said you'd be back before noon—the day before yesterday.” Her tone was prickly with annoyance due only in part to her stomach reminding her once again it was empty.

“Bah,” Ayn said dismissively with a wave, settling his restless mount with an ease that very few people could even hope to gain, and fell in beside her as she started to pick her way back towards the shelter. “Details, details,” he said airily. “You are a sorry, gloomy wretch,” he continued, a tone of interest creeping into his voice as he warmed to the subject. “A drowned kitten. A wet hen. A soggy sheep. A--”

His voice broke off as Fleeting slapped his mare's rump and made the bay crow-hop away with a whinny, knowing he could go on declaiming like that for far longer than she was willing to listen. He stopped talking obediently, even though he wasn't even close to loosing his seat, and the mare was settled back into place beside her before she could take more than two steps. There was a smile on his face.

Fleeting looked up at him from under locks turned burnished gold by the rain, noting the smile. “You are a cheerful cockroach,” she told him dryly, a trace of amusement running through her voice, and he laughed, white teeth flashing in his dark brown face.

They'd reached the shelter by that time, and she ducked back under the boughs of the draping Fortune tree. Swiftly, with the ease of long practice, she shook out her bedroll and rolled it into a tight bundle as Ayn dismounted noisily outside. By the time he ducked his head inside the shelter, she had nearly finished gathering all her things, saddlebags and tack slung over one shoulder and the long length of Ve'ro St'taro slung over her back in it's leather casing.

He caught her bedroll as she tossed it to him, knowing from past experience that she would take it amiss if he tried to help with packs or tack. “Sorry I was so late. I ran into some unexpected trouble,” he said, stepping back as she came towards him, and holding the canvas aside so she could get through without trouble.

Ignoring his apology, Fleeting let out a piercing whistle as soon as she'd stepped free of the Fortune tree's boughs. Beside her, Ayn winced and rubbed his ear, his expression slightly rueful and slightly amused, but mostly that peculiar look he got when he knew he'd made her mad and was wondering what he could do to get back on her good side. After a moment of weighty silence, Fleeting snorted, then asked derisively, “Problems with your Duke?” The tone itself spoke volumes about her opinion of most of the upper class.

“No ...” Ayn said slowly, “Not exactly.” Tilting his head, he gave her a quirked smile. “Just some local toughs that thought they could be more.”

She raised an eyebrow in exaggerated surprise. “Fancy that,” she said dryly. He snorted, lips curling in appreciation of her dry sarcasm, and she jerked a thumb towards the waiting men and wagon. “Is that bit of not-trouble why you came back with extras?” she asked, tone even dryer that before if that was possible. “You said there would only be one.”

Before he could answer, her head turned away from him at some sound he couldn't hear, her eyes lightening to clear crystal-green in welcome. A moment later he could hear the hoof beats as well, but by that time, the mottled stallion had already surged up into sight from one of the miniature ravines. Every movement carried a grace and poise that made at least two of the watching strangers catch their breaths, despite the unfavorable mottled color of his coat. The big stud now splashing through the mud towards her, head and tail held high, was a pure-blooded ramhet—or king-stallion—of the horan bred by her father's folk; as far apart from the horses of the Empire and the surrounding lands, as a high-bred wolfhound was from a street mongrel.

Fleeting stepped forwards to greet him, and the big stallion tossed his head as he sidled up to her, unbound mane sweeping through the rain. He nuzzled at her chest and face to check that nothing had changed since the last time he had examined her, and Fleeting's lips curled into a small smile. Catching hold of his head, she laid her forehead against the big stud's as she whispered an endearment in her father's lilting tongue, almost forgetting that she'd asked Ayn a question. Och'daya L'jin—Mottled Moon in the common tongue—had been her one constant companion since she was a child, brought with her when she'd been called to this world so long ago.

Ayn snorted from where he'd started wrestling the canvas down from underneath the Fortune tree, reminding her that she had asked a question. “I said probably,” he said in fond amusement and chiding rebuke. “Really, Fleet, not everyone,” he said, pausing for a moment as he tugged at one particularly stubborn piece of canvas, “Is trying … to kill you.” The canvas came free in a shower of rain-drops, making him curse and scowl a bit as he started shaking as much of the water off the canvas as he could before folding it. “Sometimes people are just people,” he said with a sideways look towards her.

Fleeting snorted as she slipped the hackamore over L'jin's pricked ears, settling it into place with the ease of long practice. “Really,” she muttered under her breath, then murmured a soft word to her mount as he tossed his head and pawed the ground restlessly. The big stud settled immediately, craning his head around to watch as she smoothed the creases out of the long saddle-blanket and asked in a louder voice, “What did you tell them about me?”

Ayn grinned as he whacked the folded canvas against the side of his leg. “What did I say about my dear, dear friend and companion, the lovely, gloomy Fleeting Foreign-born?” he asked teasingly.

She paused in cinching the girth tight to shoot him an look from eyes that had darkened to a deep, annoyed emerald. He beamed at her innocently, eyes sparkling. Her eyes narrowed. “Ayn ...” she growled in warning.

“I said you were a friend and a road companion, and a fellow horse-singer even better than I am,” he told her laughingly before a glint of steel appeared in his eyes. “I also made it clear that you were your own master, and were to be treated with the respect of such. There will be no trouble from them.”

“Ah,” she said, eyes lightening. Then she turned and mounted L'jin with a fluid grace that spoke of years spent in the saddle. The stallion snorted playfully, then wheeled towards Ayn at some unseen shift, the years horse and rider had spent together showing in the invisible way her commands were sent and received.

Ayn was tying the worn canvas that had made up the shelter to the back of his saddle, on top of his packs. They had been the owners of a much nicer tent—not as good as nobility would have used, but something well in the range of a couple of wandering horse singers—but it had been among the things they had been forced to abandon after their 'difficulty' with the Baron Dumalt. Such was the life she'd had after joining Ayn, wavering between misfortune and high-living without a shred of warning before their fortunes changed.

Fleeting snorted a little at the thought as L'jin danced restlessly under her, then generated a faint wisp of flame under the cover of her poncho to dry out her trousers and the seat of her saddle. Ayn gave a short whistle, and she had to let the tiny flame die abruptly in order to catch the bedroll he tossed to her. After she'd strapped it on behind her saddle with the ties placed there for that purpose, she glanced towards the waiting figures through the rain. You would think that the huge trees would soften and slow the rain some with their bulk—if this was what it was like after they muted the storm's bite, she hated to think of what it was like in the open.

“They're good men, Fleeting,” Ayn said with some amusement, and she looked back at him to find he'd mounted and was nudging his mare closer to L'jin. “I've worked with them all before. They're honorable men.”

Fleeting looked away, then shrugged. “There's lots of honorable men in the Empire who wouldn't think twice about cutting a foreign-born down in the streets for the mere act of living,” she told him. It wasn't the reason that she didn't like soldiers, but that didn't make her statement any less true.

Ayn made an unhappy noise deep in his throat and nudged his mare forwards towards the waiting soldiers, Fleeting falling in beside him as their mounts wound back and forth through the eroded landscape in an attempt not to have to scramble over one of the steep ridges. After a moment, he made a startled sound, dug around in his saddlebags as she turned to look at him inquiringly, and then tossed her a small sack. She caught it automatically, and he grinned, that sideways grin that always hinted at further mischief to come. “Bread, cold ham and some cheese,” he told her. “Might be an apple in there too. I thought you might be hungry.”

She snorted, the corner of her mouth curling up despite herself as her eyes lightened. “Starving,” she admitted as she dropped the reins to L'jin's neck in order to start pulling food out of the sack.

“I really am sorry to leave you waiting so long without supplies,” Ayn said with a soft laugh. He eyed her sideways as if considering saying more, but at that moment, the two soldiers nudged their mounts forwards to meet them, apparently tired of waiting.

L'jin snorted, ears flattening as he whistled a warming at the strange horses. Then his head came up as they shied away and gave ground. “Eyh, kalya, be still,” Fleeting murmured, and the big stud froze, his entire being coming to abrupt stillness at just that soft command. The other horses needed some time to adjust to the mottled ramhet before he would be able to command them and gain their instinctive lead; till then, they would spook away from his not-quite-right smell and herd-strength.

The rider of one of the geldings had spun the big gray in a circle in a bid to stop his shying, reining him back into place with the sure hand of a long-time rider. “Are you done here, ka'Tress?” he asked, his voice carrying the rise and fall of near nobility—marking him as manor-born, maybe from an affiliated house of one of the lesser nobility—as well as the tones and assurance of command. “We need to get on the road soon if we're going to make the nearest inn by nightfall.”

Fleeting's eyes flicked to Ayn as he nodded. “Aye, Drmach. We're done,” he told the man before turning slightly to gesture between Fleeting and the two solders. “I'd like to introduce you to my partner, Fleeting Foreign-born. Fleeting, this is Drmach dr'Hansova and his second, Branden Leoith, an expert woodsman and veteran fighter.”

The two soldiers had already been sizing Fleeting up in the way fighting men automatically did anyone they met; now the Drmach gave her a reserved nod. He was an older man with the common black hair and dark skin of the Empire, level black eyes, and an easy, confident seat on his gelding. He wore the traditional split poncho the Empire's military had worn for more than three hundred years, marking him as something of the traditional sort, and his hands were callused from handling a sword. Fleeting's eyes flicked over him in search and found the hilt of a two-handed broadsword at his side, looking like it had seen much use and was well cared for. This Drmach seemed like a man to watch in a fight and the possessor of a sharp mind, as someone who had attained the rank of Drmach (a special rank equal to captain that operated independent from normal chains of command) should be.

The other solder, Branden Leoith, was sitting on a mean looking black with fine lines and scars from fighting. Not many horses raised by human hands would be allowed to gain those scars—had the horse been wild stock, from the north steppes perhaps? The man himself looked to be just as mean, with hard brown eyes that held no liking as they looked at her. She had seen his kind before. Hard men who had seen so much that they were no longer all human, and who only held one true love in their lives. Whether that love was for their country, their leader, their women, or their horses, they would do anything for that love and nothing else would ever quite measure up. A dangerous man. He too carried a sword and bore the marks of one who used it often and well; in addition he carried a bow and quiver of arrows. Ayn had said he was an expert woodsman though, so that was to be expected. You didn't hunt deer with a sword.

Ayn seemed unaware of the intensity of their gazes as he pointed towards the wagon waiting on the narrow track that led to the nearest town, drawing her attention to the third and final solder. “That's Raendan Togryd; don't let his innocent eyes fool you. He's a real cardsharp. He can make those cards do practically anything,” he said, grinning as the young soldier's face flushed. Togryd had the face of a farm boy and held the reins of the furry drafter like one too; Fleeting could see how that face could be very beneficial in a game of cards. There wasn't any weapons visible on his person, but she would bet that there was a sword or crossbow stashed under the seat. These soldiers didn't seem like the types to take any chances, and she doubted that two such veterans such as Leoith and dr'Hansova would ride with the innocent boy Togryd's face would have him be.

Ayn's hand came up to tease her hair in a familiar habit he'd gotten, and Fleeting dodged, her eyes darkening slightly in irritation. Why did he even want to when her hair was soaked and stuck to her scalp like the fur on a wet cat?

His eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement at her reaction, his mouth opening in preparation to speak—undoubtedly some further amusement on his part. The Drmach cleared his throat in a way that made Fleeting's eyes lighten slightly in amusement. It seemed the Drmach was familiar with Ayn and his ways.

“Alright, let's get going,” the Drmach commanded, wheeling his big gray around. Leoith followed as if in formation, and Togryd flipped the reins at his big drafter. The huge beast groaned and wheezed, flipping long lips in a drafter's habitual disgust, then started to slowly move. All three men moved as if they had been working together for so long they didn't even have to think about it.

Ayn grinned at her as if to say, 'I told you they were good men—isn't this going to be fun!', then nudged his mare into a canter, catching up to dr'Hansova and falling into place beside him. Fleeting's eyes darkened as she watched him go, then she gave L'jin rein and he snorted, leaping forwards to overtake the wagon in two powerful bounds. There, she held him back to a walk, listening with half an ear as Togryd snapped the reins at his balking drafter, shouting and coaxing in turn as he alternated between promising the beast sweet oats if it just did what he wanted without fuss, and insulting it's lineage and the lineage of all drafters in general when it didn't. It was a familiar litany that she had heard all over the continent at some time or another, somehow the same whether it was spoken in Tusivac or in the Empire's own Kushval.

Licking the last of the crumbs off her fingers, she looked ahead at Ayn and the Drmach as they broke out of the trees and onto the old trading road, their figures immediately made almost unintelligible by the force of the rain. A moment later the wagon followed, the drafter giving a mournful groan as it heaved the wagon up the small ridge to the paved road. The clatter of the wheels came only faintly back to her through the pound of the rain, and she eyed it balefully Beneath her, L'jin snorted at her reluctance and lunged powerfully up onto the road. The rain hit like the force of a driving bull, and she hunched her shoulders and ducked her head lower, wishing again for her broad-brimmed hat as L'jin sidled closer to the wagon. The shapes of Ayn and the Drmach could barely be seen where they rode ahead. Hard-eyed Leoith she couldn't see at all—where had he gone? Could be anywhere in this rain. Did it matter? Only if he was an enemy. Ayn trusted him.

Tugging the collar of her poncho higher, she blinked water off her lashes. The old road had been neglected for some time, trees growing in on the grassy byways to either side and mud and clutter buried the worn paving stones in places, but the trees had not yet gained the middle of the fully four wagons wide main way. Once, before the blood and flame filled days of the Wizard War, there would have been a magical roof to keep off the elements stretching from the roads beginning at the eastern coast clear to the Capital, but there had not been such a thing for generations now. The pitiful ruins of glory they rode now were a far cry from that splendor, but for those people who had lived through the war and had seen four out of five of their neighbors killed or twisted by the Wizard's magic, the price of relieving their fear and tormented memories had been the destruction of anything remotely magical. Strange how it seemed logical now, though regretful.

She blew water off her nose with a snort and tugged her collar a little higher. Then, she closed her eyes and drifted into a light doze with the ease of someone who never knew when they might get the chance next.

- - -

Fleeting woke abruptly from her sleep, all her senses suddenly hyper aware of her surroundings in a flood of excruciating detail. The thin rain coating everything with a fine sheen—the trees beside the road, the paving-stones beneath L'jin's hooves, the fallen leaves heaped by the roadway—and tinging the air she breathed with the sharp scent of rain, moisture, and wet earth. L'jin snorting beneath her, aware of her sudden tension. The wagon rumbling on beside her with Togryd on it's bench seat, the Drmach and Ayn dark figures on the road ahead. Hoof-beats coming from behind, sparking L'jin's angry snort and jump sideways to bring the rider into view—Leoith on his mean gelding. The trees, brush, and Lads-bane at the sides of the road reaching to the sky, too much like walls hemming her in, trapping her against the ground and away from the empty gray clouds above. Leaves slick on the ground, paving-stones only visible in places, but no traps or tricky footing. No reason why she had woken with such a heavy presence of danger driving her down in the saddle as her spine crawled.

L'jin snorted, then let out a shrill whistle as he danced under her, her fingers dropping from the reins as her breath shortened. Togryd turned his head at the sound, his eyes large and surprised as he pushed back the brim of his hat. “What's wrong?” he asked curiously, a strange expression visible for a moment on his face as he caught a glimpse of her eyes, so pale there was almost no color left to them.

Fleeting barely heard him as she flicked wet locks off her forehead with a sharp toss of her head. L'jin snorted, his ears flicking back and forth as he too searched for the danger. Then the powerful ramhet lunged forwards as her attention went back to Ayn and the Drmach riding side by side. He needed to be--

Movement flickered at the corner of her eye; she spun L'jin, Ve'ro St'taro coming to hand without a thought, it's sleek chain keening high at the edge of her hearing as it traced a silver ribbon through the air and into the leaves of the Lads-bane. A flick of her wrist brought it back, it's gleaming blade trailing drops of red behind it, and for a heartbeat, everything seemed to freeze as the body of a man fell out of the undergrowth, his hands clutching at his throat as his bow dropped unheeded to the ground.

Someone yelled; others crashed out of the brush, drawing bows or swords. L'jin screamed, ears snapping back as he leapt to attack—ahead on the road, Ayn's mare went down with a whinny. A bandit armed with a broadsword turned to attack Fleeting—Ve'ro St'taro's keening length streaked through the air to take out his throat before he could finish the movement, as another went down screaming to L'jin's hooves and teeth. The keen grew, Ve'ro St'taro's silver chain flashing around Fleeting in a blur that ate anything that came within reach. L'jin spun on his hindquarters and shot forwards to catch a bandit in the shoulder with his teeth, throwing him down where he could trample him—another of the bandits attacking Fleeting broke and ran, Ve'ro St'taro catching him in the back before he could gain the brush line.

The unmistakable sound of Ayn's war cry sounded from ahead on the road; Fleeting's attention flickered for a moment as she realized she'd forgotten her companions. L'jin lunged back towards the road the same instant a shout came from the trees, and the bandits turned to run. L'jin spun under her, and Fleeting caught two more bandits before they could disappear into the undergrowth, then reined in L'jin as the ramhet screamed and leapt to pursue, his blood up. For a moment longer, Fleeting kept Ve'ro St'taro circling around her in a deceptively lazy motion, then flicked it back, the chain disappearing as it snaked back into the hilt and the blade snicked home. Fleeting sheathed it as L'jin turned towards where she had last seen Ayn.

Ayn was up and standing between corpses, his swords bloody. He fought with the twin bladed style found among the old nobility of the Empire, but in the old way that was formed to kill on the battlefields of legend, rather than the flourish filled art form that was more common now among the upper classes. The Drmach sat on his big gray gelding near him, the broadsword still held in one hand also bloody.

L'jin snorted, still full of battle-spirit, and jumped delicately over a corpse as Fleeting nudged him towards Ayn. “Hurt you are?” she asked, eyes flicking over his surroundings and noting the two dead bandits. His mare was lying on the road near him, unmoving. “Your mare?” she asked as her eyes fell on it's still form, her tone—if anything—even more concerned than before.

Ayn flicked the blood from his slender swords with a flick of his wrist, then sheathed them in a clean movement. “A scratch, that's all. Wind ...” his voice trailed off as he glanced at the mare, lips tightening, then shook his head. He'd lost his hat sometime during the fight, and his black and silver streaked hair had been left open to the rain. Now they matched, something that made Fleeting inordinately pleased. “One of them got her,” he said, sounding disgusted but otherwise unhurt. Then his head came up as he looked at her. “What about you?”

“Eh?” Fleeting said, surprised out of her thoughts, then realized what he was talking about. “Ah,” she said, head ducking as she checked herself over briefly, then did a slower check on L'jin. “Nothing major.”

He nodded, not surprised, and looked up at the Drmach, but dr'Hansova had already—apparently deciding that they were fine on their own—started his gelding back to where Leoith and Togryd were. Shrugging to himself, Ayn scratched his head, and then began looking around for something—probably his hat.

Wary of a second attack, Fleeting looked up to scan the trees as L'jin snorted and tossed his head beneath her. Nothing moved in the still falling rain but a few leaves as a breeze brushed past down the road. She didn't have the feeling that another attack was imminent, but remained wary regardless.

Slipping easily from the saddle, she ran her hands down each of L'jin's legs as the big stud snorted, picking each of his hooves up to check his fetlocks for damage done during the fight. His training—the training any mount of her father's folk received—minimized the injuries given by armor or such, but there was always the chance of a misstep or a jutting piece of metal. When she finished the quick look—she would do a more thorough one when they stopped for the night—she straightened to let her eyes run over the dead.

From her rough estimation, there was about a dozen laying dead on or around the old road. Ayn and the Drmach had taken down five together, it looked about that many down by the wagon, and she and L'jin had taken down at least three confirmed kills, not counting the one she'd killed before the melee. About that many had fled successfully. Why had such numbers gathered on the old road? There wasn't enough traffic down it anymore to warrant a strong presence of banditry, and to attack an armed force consisting of mainly soldiers with nothing but a small wagon to promise goods?

Her suspicions aroused, she began stripping the nearest bodies of anything that might be valuable. There was two gold pieces in the belt pouch of the first—two more in an inner pocket on the next. Bandits with gold in their pockets would be in a town buying Night-flowers and beer, not ambushing small parties of relatively threadbare but heavily armed travelers on a little-used road. Fleeting sat back on her heels, absently flipping a curved dagger she had found in one of the bandits boots around her left hand as her eyes darkened to a deep, thoughtful shade of emerald.

Bandits with gold in their pockets? Just what had Ayn gotten her into this time?