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Jun. 16th, 2009 07:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
spryngChapter four of Mili is done, but oh, it's so so bad. It'll need a drastic rewrite, but right now, it also needs to ferment. I think the only thing that will really improve it is finishing more of the story and finding out what really needs to be done there. Yes, we need Raelos and a certain scene, but maybe I should just cut it down. With the axe of god.
Anyway, three is behind
Chapter Three
“The river,” announces the driver, pulling up his horses.
Not so bad, thinks Mili, sitting up in the seat. She wipes a small bit of drool from the corner of her mouth that had accumulated while she was asleep. Judging by how sore her neck is from the way she was dozing, propped against Arjen's shoulder, it only took them an hour.
“Thanks,” says Arjen. He places a handful of coins from his satchel into the driver's hand. “May Kisus light your way.”
“May he indeed,” replies the driver with a meaningful glance at the thin sliver of the moon. “Ta!” he yells at his horses, and they break back into a fast trot, steadily disappearing into the night once they cross the bridge.
“Where do you think he's going?” asks Mili as the two of them set out along the path that follows the river and leads to Arjen's estate.
“The next town would be Asarek,” says Arjen with a frown. “But maybe he's headed to Chellan.”
“Long way, that.”
“Who knows? It's not our business.” Arjen shakes his head. “No, our business is hiding and alerting the others that they should hide. Because if they knew about Flen...”
“How do we know it's safe at your estate?”
Arjen's strides falters, but he catches himself and keeps walking. He doesn't turn to look at Mili. “I don't know.”
“Then let me go first,” says Mili.
Arjen does stop this time and very pointedly looks her up and down. “Mili, you're wearing a white dress.”
Mili glances down at herself. “Kem take it.” She casts around the area. “There's dirt and the river, so mud, and there's grass... oh, what am I saying. That won't do.”
“You'd only give the slaves another reason to stab you,” says Arjen helpfully.
“Bah.” The sour taste in her mouth makes Mili want to spit, but she holds back in front of Arjen. The dress was sufficiently inconspicuous in the city, but out of it, on the plains and in the dark, she could hardly be less conspicuous than the towering Arjen. “Still, I'd better go ahead. I can at least scope it out a little.”
She starts to move forward, but Arjen grabs her arm. “No. There's no point. We'll handle whatever it is together better than apart.”
Mili looks at him, her argument dying in her mouth at his resolute expression and knowing full well that once Arjen sets his mind to something there is no point trying to change it. So she shrugs and Arjen lets go of her arm. Together they walk through the semi-darkness, the stars like far-off candle flames burning the night sky.
The large mass of Arjen's family estate comes into view as they round a bend in the river, the sparse trees disappearing altogether in favor of muddy fields. The estate is set on a particularly high point of the field in a useless attempt to escape the high waters of the river when it floods in early spring. What makes the lowlands west of Kis so excellent for farming makes them even more difficult to live on. Nevertheless, year after year the slaves haul out bags of sand to keep the water at bay and year after year the floors of the estate are inch deep for a month, the halls musty for the rest of the summer.
Dots of flame move slowly around the periphery of the estate – slaves on the look out for wild animals or bandits. They are also there for show: an estate with enough slaves to spare a night guard outside is certainly a rich estate. Arjen and his family had never been left wanting, and it was mostly due to his funding that Flen was able to remain in the Senate as long as he did. Flen had long since spent most of his estate building their rebellion; the small house in the city was all he'd had left of a number of other houses and a sprawling estate in the hills west of Kis. When Mili first met Arjen, she often wondered if his money was the only reason he was there. Now she wonders if decisiveness was a larger factor.
Mili and Arjen walk up the main path, Arjen with his head held high and his shoulders back like a proud goose and Mili unconsciously keeping a few paces back and within his shadow. None of the slaves walking the perimeter appear to notice them. They reach the entrance, a thick wooden door in the chest-high wall that encircles the outer courtyard, and Arjen knocks it open, striding up to the table where the slave on guard appears to have dozed off. Mili can hardly blame him, feeling the tendrils of sleep wrapping around her body. Arjen raps the slave on the shoulder. The slave, however, remains slouched forward, his chin against his chest. Frowning, Arjen grabs both of the young man's shoulders and shakes him. The slave's head falls back, too far back, and the light from the torch on the wall next to him catches the mass of blood still oozing from his neck. It glistens sickly.
Arjen stifles a cry with one large hand and lets go of the slave. Mili steps closer and examines the corpse in the flickering light. From the looks of it, the slave had been taken by surprise and put up little to no fight. His hands are bloodied, but probably only from grabbing at his own neck. How good the assassin might be, or how silent, still remains impossible to tell – anyone can sneak up on a dozing slave. She shakes her head and looks up at Arjen, who has gone pale and green. Then her gaze slides past him and to the approaching light of one of the slaves who just rounded the far corner of the building. Without a word, she grabs Arjen's hand and drags him into the shadow of the gateway.
“That's not one of your slaves,” she whispers and nods towards the light.
“What do you mean? Of course he is!” answers Arjen, his gaze still on the body of the dead slave. “How dishonorable to speak of him like that... Gredos was a fine slave...”
“Not him,” hisses Mili. “The others. The ones still alive. Why not take them out first? This,” she gestures at the corpse, “is a message. Let's just go. Now.”
“Not until I know what's going on at my own estate,” snaps Arjen. He takes a step forward and pulls the slave's sword from its sheath. “I will not allow such threats.”
“I don't think they're threats,” says Mili, but her comment passes Arjen by. She shakes her head and grabs the dagger from the slave's boot as Arjen moves back into the light.
“Halt!” says Arjen to the approaching torchlight. “Stay where you are and state your name and position.”
The person carrying the torch, their face obscured in shadow as they hold the light just far enough away, says nothing and does not pause. They appear to be wearing the clothing of a slave, but that means little now. Mili urges her body to remain still as her fingers twitch in nervous anticipation.
“I ordered you to stop,” says Arjen, his voice filled with anger and a tinge of the same nerves Mili feels.
The torch moves a hair's breadth closer to the face and Mili's gut twists. Something is very wrong with the person approaching them. Their hood is up, covering most of their head, but some of the light illuminates the face for just enough time for Mili to suck in a breath. The face is distorted, grey, and hopefully only a product of Mili's currently over productive imagination.
“I cannot have you disrespecting my orders,” says Arjen. He raises the sword. “Stop now. I'm not saying it again.”
The person stops a mere yard and a half away. The crackle of the flames is just audible over the beating of Mili's heart in her ears. Slowly, Mili crouches down, one hand on the dirt and one wrapped around the handle of the dagger, hoping that she still hasn't been seen. The smell of the slave's blood pooling nearby overwhelms the other smells of the estate. The person stands rigid, caught in a stare-off with Arjen, although the hood obscures their eyes. And why? wonders Mili. Without another thought she looks behind Arjen. It takes all of her resolve to remain still – another approaches from the other side of the house.
“State your name and position,” repeats Arjen, taking a hesitant step forward with his sword fixed on the person's chest. “Now.”
Mili reacts to the twitch of movement before Arjen does and is on her feet as the hooded figure throws the torch at his face. Arjen manages to knock it aside with the flat of his sword, but that motion leaves him open to the figure's next move. It leaps at him.
“Arjen!” cries Mili, despite herself.
Mili charges forward and grapples the figure, now clawing at Arjen's face, now trying to pry the sword from his hands. The figure tries to shake her off, but Mili holds on tight, using what little weight she has to leverage the figure off of Arjen. Strangely, the figure is even lighter than Arjen, although the same height as him, and Mili detaches it with ease. With a hiss the figure turns on Mili and it eats up the rest of Mili's resolve to bring up the dagger when the hood falls back.
Distorted and grey would have been a compliment. The face which meets the light brings bile seething up into the back of Mili's throat and into her mouth, which she spits out. Soured skin clings tight to a skull, so tight that the skin on the cheek has snapped and hangs down like a curtain, revealing fungus-tinged muscles beneath. Its lips are putrid and chewed away and part of the nose is missing along with one eye. The other eye, yellow and sunken, tracks Mili as she weaves, dagger up.
“What in Kem's name are you?” asks Mili, more to hear her own voice and know that she is still conscious than to receive an answer.
“We are the Eternal,” says the monster in a voice that is half gurgle and half hiss. Mili decides then that she doesn't need to know what the rest of the Eternal looks like if it sounds like that.
It swings at her. Mili ducks and seizes the opening to drive the dagger into the monster's unguarded flank. It jerks to the side and Mili loses her grip on the handle, leaving the dagger impaled in the monster. The thing ignores the metal protruding from its side and throws itself forward, hands outstretched. Mili drops and attempts to roll out of the way, but is stopped by the monster's vice-like grip on her shoulders. Its fingers dig into her muscles and Mili yelps. She kicks out, but the monster only shifts its grip to her neck.
Mili catches sight of the wooden board in her peripheral vision a half second before it connects with the side of the monster's head. The crack of the wood on bone echoes through the courtyard and sings in her ears and for a moment the monster’s one eye is unfocused. Mili kicks up again and manages to move the monster's body off of her this time. Arjen swoops in and wraps one arm around the monster's neck, giving Mili the opportunity to roll away.
Mili stumbles to her feet and rubs her neck, then her shoulders, still aching from the monster’s grip. Her hands slide across a wet film there and come away dark with blood. She wipes her hands on the bottom of her dress, no longer so white. Arjen has wrestled the monster to the ground next to the slain slave's table. Mili rushes forward and grabs hold of the dagger handle still in its side. She jerks it out and rams it into the chest of the monster. It flinches, but continues struggling against Arjen.
“By Kem - ?” gasps Arjen.
“We are the Eternal,” says another voice from behind Mili.
Mili whirls around and finds herself face to face with several more of the hooded figures. She backs up, swallowing loudly. “Arjen.”
Arjen jams his knees into the monster’s back, keeping it face down in the mud. He takes his chance to look up and in the direction of the approaching throng. Even in the weak, flickering light of the torch and moon, Mili can clearly see the blood draining from his face. Arjen slams the monster’s head down into the mud hard and then stands up. He moves closer to Mili, who has maneuvered herself behind the dead slave’s table, and grabs her hand.
“When I say ‘run’, run,” whispers Arjen out of the side of his mouth.
“What’re you going to do?”
Arjen doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs the dead slave by the shoulders and rolls him off of the chair. The chair itself Arjen grabs and hefts into the air. The monsters have halted their progress forward and stand watching Arjen from a few feet distance. The monster with its face in the mud begins to stir.
Then Arjen charges forward, chair held before him like a battering ram. “Run!”
Mili’s legs obey and she flees in the opposite direction, past another monster that has just emerged from the night and past the gates. Only once does she glance back. When she does, Arjen has forced his way past the monsters and is running towards the buildings, roaring like a madman. The tactic appears to work; the monsters give him just enough room to rush by, then follow in his wake. Mili nearly trips into a muddy hollow and she refocuses on the ground rushing by beneath her feet.
The thudding of her steps on the soft ground reverberates up her legs and to her clenched jaw. Her shoulders throb in step with her feet and her heart pulses at the back of her mouth with each sharply inhaled breath. The few weeks she spent holed up in the senate’s jail had already stripped away much of the strength and endurance she’d once possessed and the sprint from Flen’s house earlier brings the burn back into her leg muscles almost immediately. The hem of her dress hampers her stride, so she pauses long enough to rip off the bottom foot, tying the length of fabric around her waist. Freed, she keeps running. At some point she loses a shoe, although when exactly she is uncertain. A few paces before she has both, then a few paces onwards the mud is squishing between her toes, sucking at her skin.
She finds and crosses the river, the waist-high water slowing her down substantially. She would probably cross faster if she gave in and swam, but fear of being swept downstream keeps her upright. The river is wide, but becomes much shallower as she reaches the other half. When she clambers up the bank on her hands and knees, she takes a moment to stop and breathe.
A bird sings to the night, possibly startled awake by her arrival and now thinking that it's morning. Mili strains to hear anything else, but the bubbling of the river drowns out any other noise. Wisps of clouds skitter across the sky and occasionally cast shadows on the landscape. The moon is hardly there, but Mili's eyes have already adjusted to the dim light. Reeds by the river sway in the gentle but persistent breeze from the nearby coast. Mili fancies she can even smell the brine on the wind despite the mud and blood that is much nearer.
The blood. Mili touches her shoulder as it begins to sting, now that she's acknowledged it. Her once white dress is almost entirely brown and black. She drops a muddied hand on one of the last remaining white patches. Another hand reaches up to her face, which also receives a coating of mud. It wouldn’t make her invisible, but it might help keep her from sticking out in the landscape.
She stares out, across the river and back the way she came. Nobody seems to have followed her. She can just make out the dark shadows of the estate, a light here and there from the torches. Except... Mili squints. The lights are too large at this distance to be just torches. As if triggered by her thought, the estate combusts, sending a rolling fire ball into the sky. An inhaled breath later and the boom crashes around her, bending back the grasses with its gust. Now what's left of the estate burns heartily, brightening the landscape all around it as if it were a sick autumn day, and easily eclipsing the frail moonlight.
Mili stands and takes off running again as best she can. Such a blast would bring attention. She knows the monsters, the Eternal, wouldn't have planned on immolating the estate. Arjen must have done it. Her heart patters, inconsistent with the running beat she has set. Arjen is still alive. If he hasn't sacrificed himself to set the blaze, she reminds herself. But Arjen isn't the type for sacrifices. For a moment Mili falters – maybe she should go back and see if he's all right. Maybe he's lying somewhere, hurt, but his revenge complete. The Eternals surely couldn't survive a fire, no matter how nonplussed they were by standard weapons.
But Mili doesn't turn back. Despite guilt at leaving Arjen behind and guilt at having let him be the distraction which gave her a chance to flee, fear overrules the guilt and controls her legs. Muscles seizing up and exhaustion creeping throughout her body like poison, Mili stumbles through the low brush and the thick mud. She begins to wonder if she should just stop and lie low until morning when running through the countryside would be slightly less treacherous. Then she spots the light ahead.
The light, she decides, must be a neighboring estate. She can go there, request asylum, and maybe gather together a small group to go back and save Arjen. Mili knows that the chances of such a plan being fulfilled are unlikely, but the hope keeps her going. At least it might mean a dry place to sleep. She doesn't notice at first that the light is moving. She doesn't notice until too late that there is only the one light.
Mili's stumbling, blundering journey through the brush alerts whoever is carrying the light and it starts moving towards her. She slows, hope evaporating. Panic replaces it, along with anger at herself for being so stupid. Mili drops, hoping that the brush will cover her and keep her hidden from the bandits she had just been running headlong towards.
"Oy, come out, friend," calls a voice. Twigs crack and mud squelches as the group closes in on her. "No use hiding when you've announced yourself so thoroughly. Why don't you come on out now and we'll introduce ourselves?"
A strong hand grabs her forearm and hauls Mili to her feet. She stands in front of a group of five bandits, swaying as the adrenaline in her blood thins out. They're a ragged and diverse bunch wearing dark tunics and scabbards. The one with his hand gripping her arm is the oldest and apparently the leader. He lets go and takes a step back to look her up and down, confident in her inability to escape as the other four encircle them.
"Why boys, it looks like we've got ourselves a runaway," says the man. His hand touches the hilt of his sword. "Isn't nice of you to run away from your master. Why don't you tell us where you belong and we'll go escorting you on home?"
Mili mentally checks herself. She is a muddy mess and she left her borrowed dagger back at the estate, in the chest of one of the monsters. Both of her shoes are now missing and her hair is still shorn short from jail, but she lacks the telltale piercings of a slave. Not that the bandits can tell in the dark, nor would they bother to check. They would give her the piercings if they had to and then sell her on the islands. To go from the undead horrors to such a banal threat as slavers makes Mili want to both laugh hysterically and sob. Instead of either she continues to stand there, mute with exhaustion.
"Don't want to answer me, eh girly?" The head bandit smiles and looks around at his fellow bandits. "Maybe she's mute, eh? Then we don't have to worry about her waking the neighbors." He laughs and the other men laugh with him. Then he slaps her across the cheek and his smile vanishes. “Bind her.”
Rough hands grab at her, jerking her arms behind her back and binding them together with rope. Another bandit steps in front of her. He is the youngest of the group and hesitates before her. Then he undoes the ripped piece of cloth she has tied around her waist and tears off one end of it. This he stuffs into her mouth and holds in place with the rest of the cloth, which he secures in a knot at the back of her head. Mili stands still throughout the process, bidding her time and energy. No use doing anything now, when all their attention is on her.
“Good girl,” says the leader. He checks her bindings by jerking her arms and appears satisfied with them.
Then he turns to the rest of the bandits and with a silent gesture they withdraw from the open fields into the relative seclusion of the nearby stand of trees they had been hiding in. The youngest grabs Mili by the arm and pulls her along, although not as roughly as she expects. She glances at him, but he stares resolutely forward, his face thin and angular in profile.
When they reach the bandits' camp, the leader gives orders for her to be tied against a tree and Mili spends the night like that. Her back grows sore as it is held straight against the bark of the thick oak and her arms tingle with a lack of circulation. But she manages to doze off for a short time, if only out of pure exhaustion.
The photography project from this weekend, although over, only continues to foster more excitement in my bones. I can't wait to link to the finished project but - avast - it's not yet finished. There are murmurings of a continuation of the project amongst the participants that I hope takes some root.
I might take my camera with me to work tomorrow. The rapture that the camera instills in me is overcoming the fear of possible embarrassment at lugging around such a big thing in public. Which, if you really know me, speaks volumes to said rapture. Maybe I'll make my lunch breaks into photo projects; it's not like downtown Seattle is lacking in interesting subjects. Either way, this weekend will see many photos uploaded to FB and flickr.
Although, I really need to focus on Mili. I would really like to get her to Asarek so the plot will finally feel like it has some direction. Also, writing. Just need to be writing. Playing with my camera, even though it's instant gratification, should not be taking precedence over that.
Also, I'll probably be rather cranky these next few days. I'm cutting back on the caffeine again because the attacks are back. I'm getting quicker at recognizing them for what they are and clamping down on them, but they still persist in the back of my head, questioning every single pain. I hate it, but it's partially my fault. I know this happens when I don't exercise and eat poorly and over stress. I can get a handle on this. I can. I'm not crazy. Not clinically.
So - ! To writing. And not to getting distracted by the revolution in Iran, no matter how riveting it may be.
Anyway, three is behind
Chapter Three
“The river,” announces the driver, pulling up his horses.
Not so bad, thinks Mili, sitting up in the seat. She wipes a small bit of drool from the corner of her mouth that had accumulated while she was asleep. Judging by how sore her neck is from the way she was dozing, propped against Arjen's shoulder, it only took them an hour.
“Thanks,” says Arjen. He places a handful of coins from his satchel into the driver's hand. “May Kisus light your way.”
“May he indeed,” replies the driver with a meaningful glance at the thin sliver of the moon. “Ta!” he yells at his horses, and they break back into a fast trot, steadily disappearing into the night once they cross the bridge.
“Where do you think he's going?” asks Mili as the two of them set out along the path that follows the river and leads to Arjen's estate.
“The next town would be Asarek,” says Arjen with a frown. “But maybe he's headed to Chellan.”
“Long way, that.”
“Who knows? It's not our business.” Arjen shakes his head. “No, our business is hiding and alerting the others that they should hide. Because if they knew about Flen...”
“How do we know it's safe at your estate?”
Arjen's strides falters, but he catches himself and keeps walking. He doesn't turn to look at Mili. “I don't know.”
“Then let me go first,” says Mili.
Arjen does stop this time and very pointedly looks her up and down. “Mili, you're wearing a white dress.”
Mili glances down at herself. “Kem take it.” She casts around the area. “There's dirt and the river, so mud, and there's grass... oh, what am I saying. That won't do.”
“You'd only give the slaves another reason to stab you,” says Arjen helpfully.
“Bah.” The sour taste in her mouth makes Mili want to spit, but she holds back in front of Arjen. The dress was sufficiently inconspicuous in the city, but out of it, on the plains and in the dark, she could hardly be less conspicuous than the towering Arjen. “Still, I'd better go ahead. I can at least scope it out a little.”
She starts to move forward, but Arjen grabs her arm. “No. There's no point. We'll handle whatever it is together better than apart.”
Mili looks at him, her argument dying in her mouth at his resolute expression and knowing full well that once Arjen sets his mind to something there is no point trying to change it. So she shrugs and Arjen lets go of her arm. Together they walk through the semi-darkness, the stars like far-off candle flames burning the night sky.
The large mass of Arjen's family estate comes into view as they round a bend in the river, the sparse trees disappearing altogether in favor of muddy fields. The estate is set on a particularly high point of the field in a useless attempt to escape the high waters of the river when it floods in early spring. What makes the lowlands west of Kis so excellent for farming makes them even more difficult to live on. Nevertheless, year after year the slaves haul out bags of sand to keep the water at bay and year after year the floors of the estate are inch deep for a month, the halls musty for the rest of the summer.
Dots of flame move slowly around the periphery of the estate – slaves on the look out for wild animals or bandits. They are also there for show: an estate with enough slaves to spare a night guard outside is certainly a rich estate. Arjen and his family had never been left wanting, and it was mostly due to his funding that Flen was able to remain in the Senate as long as he did. Flen had long since spent most of his estate building their rebellion; the small house in the city was all he'd had left of a number of other houses and a sprawling estate in the hills west of Kis. When Mili first met Arjen, she often wondered if his money was the only reason he was there. Now she wonders if decisiveness was a larger factor.
Mili and Arjen walk up the main path, Arjen with his head held high and his shoulders back like a proud goose and Mili unconsciously keeping a few paces back and within his shadow. None of the slaves walking the perimeter appear to notice them. They reach the entrance, a thick wooden door in the chest-high wall that encircles the outer courtyard, and Arjen knocks it open, striding up to the table where the slave on guard appears to have dozed off. Mili can hardly blame him, feeling the tendrils of sleep wrapping around her body. Arjen raps the slave on the shoulder. The slave, however, remains slouched forward, his chin against his chest. Frowning, Arjen grabs both of the young man's shoulders and shakes him. The slave's head falls back, too far back, and the light from the torch on the wall next to him catches the mass of blood still oozing from his neck. It glistens sickly.
Arjen stifles a cry with one large hand and lets go of the slave. Mili steps closer and examines the corpse in the flickering light. From the looks of it, the slave had been taken by surprise and put up little to no fight. His hands are bloodied, but probably only from grabbing at his own neck. How good the assassin might be, or how silent, still remains impossible to tell – anyone can sneak up on a dozing slave. She shakes her head and looks up at Arjen, who has gone pale and green. Then her gaze slides past him and to the approaching light of one of the slaves who just rounded the far corner of the building. Without a word, she grabs Arjen's hand and drags him into the shadow of the gateway.
“That's not one of your slaves,” she whispers and nods towards the light.
“What do you mean? Of course he is!” answers Arjen, his gaze still on the body of the dead slave. “How dishonorable to speak of him like that... Gredos was a fine slave...”
“Not him,” hisses Mili. “The others. The ones still alive. Why not take them out first? This,” she gestures at the corpse, “is a message. Let's just go. Now.”
“Not until I know what's going on at my own estate,” snaps Arjen. He takes a step forward and pulls the slave's sword from its sheath. “I will not allow such threats.”
“I don't think they're threats,” says Mili, but her comment passes Arjen by. She shakes her head and grabs the dagger from the slave's boot as Arjen moves back into the light.
“Halt!” says Arjen to the approaching torchlight. “Stay where you are and state your name and position.”
The person carrying the torch, their face obscured in shadow as they hold the light just far enough away, says nothing and does not pause. They appear to be wearing the clothing of a slave, but that means little now. Mili urges her body to remain still as her fingers twitch in nervous anticipation.
“I ordered you to stop,” says Arjen, his voice filled with anger and a tinge of the same nerves Mili feels.
The torch moves a hair's breadth closer to the face and Mili's gut twists. Something is very wrong with the person approaching them. Their hood is up, covering most of their head, but some of the light illuminates the face for just enough time for Mili to suck in a breath. The face is distorted, grey, and hopefully only a product of Mili's currently over productive imagination.
“I cannot have you disrespecting my orders,” says Arjen. He raises the sword. “Stop now. I'm not saying it again.”
The person stops a mere yard and a half away. The crackle of the flames is just audible over the beating of Mili's heart in her ears. Slowly, Mili crouches down, one hand on the dirt and one wrapped around the handle of the dagger, hoping that she still hasn't been seen. The smell of the slave's blood pooling nearby overwhelms the other smells of the estate. The person stands rigid, caught in a stare-off with Arjen, although the hood obscures their eyes. And why? wonders Mili. Without another thought she looks behind Arjen. It takes all of her resolve to remain still – another approaches from the other side of the house.
“State your name and position,” repeats Arjen, taking a hesitant step forward with his sword fixed on the person's chest. “Now.”
Mili reacts to the twitch of movement before Arjen does and is on her feet as the hooded figure throws the torch at his face. Arjen manages to knock it aside with the flat of his sword, but that motion leaves him open to the figure's next move. It leaps at him.
“Arjen!” cries Mili, despite herself.
Mili charges forward and grapples the figure, now clawing at Arjen's face, now trying to pry the sword from his hands. The figure tries to shake her off, but Mili holds on tight, using what little weight she has to leverage the figure off of Arjen. Strangely, the figure is even lighter than Arjen, although the same height as him, and Mili detaches it with ease. With a hiss the figure turns on Mili and it eats up the rest of Mili's resolve to bring up the dagger when the hood falls back.
Distorted and grey would have been a compliment. The face which meets the light brings bile seething up into the back of Mili's throat and into her mouth, which she spits out. Soured skin clings tight to a skull, so tight that the skin on the cheek has snapped and hangs down like a curtain, revealing fungus-tinged muscles beneath. Its lips are putrid and chewed away and part of the nose is missing along with one eye. The other eye, yellow and sunken, tracks Mili as she weaves, dagger up.
“What in Kem's name are you?” asks Mili, more to hear her own voice and know that she is still conscious than to receive an answer.
“We are the Eternal,” says the monster in a voice that is half gurgle and half hiss. Mili decides then that she doesn't need to know what the rest of the Eternal looks like if it sounds like that.
It swings at her. Mili ducks and seizes the opening to drive the dagger into the monster's unguarded flank. It jerks to the side and Mili loses her grip on the handle, leaving the dagger impaled in the monster. The thing ignores the metal protruding from its side and throws itself forward, hands outstretched. Mili drops and attempts to roll out of the way, but is stopped by the monster's vice-like grip on her shoulders. Its fingers dig into her muscles and Mili yelps. She kicks out, but the monster only shifts its grip to her neck.
Mili catches sight of the wooden board in her peripheral vision a half second before it connects with the side of the monster's head. The crack of the wood on bone echoes through the courtyard and sings in her ears and for a moment the monster’s one eye is unfocused. Mili kicks up again and manages to move the monster's body off of her this time. Arjen swoops in and wraps one arm around the monster's neck, giving Mili the opportunity to roll away.
Mili stumbles to her feet and rubs her neck, then her shoulders, still aching from the monster’s grip. Her hands slide across a wet film there and come away dark with blood. She wipes her hands on the bottom of her dress, no longer so white. Arjen has wrestled the monster to the ground next to the slain slave's table. Mili rushes forward and grabs hold of the dagger handle still in its side. She jerks it out and rams it into the chest of the monster. It flinches, but continues struggling against Arjen.
“By Kem - ?” gasps Arjen.
“We are the Eternal,” says another voice from behind Mili.
Mili whirls around and finds herself face to face with several more of the hooded figures. She backs up, swallowing loudly. “Arjen.”
Arjen jams his knees into the monster’s back, keeping it face down in the mud. He takes his chance to look up and in the direction of the approaching throng. Even in the weak, flickering light of the torch and moon, Mili can clearly see the blood draining from his face. Arjen slams the monster’s head down into the mud hard and then stands up. He moves closer to Mili, who has maneuvered herself behind the dead slave’s table, and grabs her hand.
“When I say ‘run’, run,” whispers Arjen out of the side of his mouth.
“What’re you going to do?”
Arjen doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs the dead slave by the shoulders and rolls him off of the chair. The chair itself Arjen grabs and hefts into the air. The monsters have halted their progress forward and stand watching Arjen from a few feet distance. The monster with its face in the mud begins to stir.
Then Arjen charges forward, chair held before him like a battering ram. “Run!”
Mili’s legs obey and she flees in the opposite direction, past another monster that has just emerged from the night and past the gates. Only once does she glance back. When she does, Arjen has forced his way past the monsters and is running towards the buildings, roaring like a madman. The tactic appears to work; the monsters give him just enough room to rush by, then follow in his wake. Mili nearly trips into a muddy hollow and she refocuses on the ground rushing by beneath her feet.
The thudding of her steps on the soft ground reverberates up her legs and to her clenched jaw. Her shoulders throb in step with her feet and her heart pulses at the back of her mouth with each sharply inhaled breath. The few weeks she spent holed up in the senate’s jail had already stripped away much of the strength and endurance she’d once possessed and the sprint from Flen’s house earlier brings the burn back into her leg muscles almost immediately. The hem of her dress hampers her stride, so she pauses long enough to rip off the bottom foot, tying the length of fabric around her waist. Freed, she keeps running. At some point she loses a shoe, although when exactly she is uncertain. A few paces before she has both, then a few paces onwards the mud is squishing between her toes, sucking at her skin.
She finds and crosses the river, the waist-high water slowing her down substantially. She would probably cross faster if she gave in and swam, but fear of being swept downstream keeps her upright. The river is wide, but becomes much shallower as she reaches the other half. When she clambers up the bank on her hands and knees, she takes a moment to stop and breathe.
A bird sings to the night, possibly startled awake by her arrival and now thinking that it's morning. Mili strains to hear anything else, but the bubbling of the river drowns out any other noise. Wisps of clouds skitter across the sky and occasionally cast shadows on the landscape. The moon is hardly there, but Mili's eyes have already adjusted to the dim light. Reeds by the river sway in the gentle but persistent breeze from the nearby coast. Mili fancies she can even smell the brine on the wind despite the mud and blood that is much nearer.
The blood. Mili touches her shoulder as it begins to sting, now that she's acknowledged it. Her once white dress is almost entirely brown and black. She drops a muddied hand on one of the last remaining white patches. Another hand reaches up to her face, which also receives a coating of mud. It wouldn’t make her invisible, but it might help keep her from sticking out in the landscape.
She stares out, across the river and back the way she came. Nobody seems to have followed her. She can just make out the dark shadows of the estate, a light here and there from the torches. Except... Mili squints. The lights are too large at this distance to be just torches. As if triggered by her thought, the estate combusts, sending a rolling fire ball into the sky. An inhaled breath later and the boom crashes around her, bending back the grasses with its gust. Now what's left of the estate burns heartily, brightening the landscape all around it as if it were a sick autumn day, and easily eclipsing the frail moonlight.
Mili stands and takes off running again as best she can. Such a blast would bring attention. She knows the monsters, the Eternal, wouldn't have planned on immolating the estate. Arjen must have done it. Her heart patters, inconsistent with the running beat she has set. Arjen is still alive. If he hasn't sacrificed himself to set the blaze, she reminds herself. But Arjen isn't the type for sacrifices. For a moment Mili falters – maybe she should go back and see if he's all right. Maybe he's lying somewhere, hurt, but his revenge complete. The Eternals surely couldn't survive a fire, no matter how nonplussed they were by standard weapons.
But Mili doesn't turn back. Despite guilt at leaving Arjen behind and guilt at having let him be the distraction which gave her a chance to flee, fear overrules the guilt and controls her legs. Muscles seizing up and exhaustion creeping throughout her body like poison, Mili stumbles through the low brush and the thick mud. She begins to wonder if she should just stop and lie low until morning when running through the countryside would be slightly less treacherous. Then she spots the light ahead.
The light, she decides, must be a neighboring estate. She can go there, request asylum, and maybe gather together a small group to go back and save Arjen. Mili knows that the chances of such a plan being fulfilled are unlikely, but the hope keeps her going. At least it might mean a dry place to sleep. She doesn't notice at first that the light is moving. She doesn't notice until too late that there is only the one light.
Mili's stumbling, blundering journey through the brush alerts whoever is carrying the light and it starts moving towards her. She slows, hope evaporating. Panic replaces it, along with anger at herself for being so stupid. Mili drops, hoping that the brush will cover her and keep her hidden from the bandits she had just been running headlong towards.
"Oy, come out, friend," calls a voice. Twigs crack and mud squelches as the group closes in on her. "No use hiding when you've announced yourself so thoroughly. Why don't you come on out now and we'll introduce ourselves?"
A strong hand grabs her forearm and hauls Mili to her feet. She stands in front of a group of five bandits, swaying as the adrenaline in her blood thins out. They're a ragged and diverse bunch wearing dark tunics and scabbards. The one with his hand gripping her arm is the oldest and apparently the leader. He lets go and takes a step back to look her up and down, confident in her inability to escape as the other four encircle them.
"Why boys, it looks like we've got ourselves a runaway," says the man. His hand touches the hilt of his sword. "Isn't nice of you to run away from your master. Why don't you tell us where you belong and we'll go escorting you on home?"
Mili mentally checks herself. She is a muddy mess and she left her borrowed dagger back at the estate, in the chest of one of the monsters. Both of her shoes are now missing and her hair is still shorn short from jail, but she lacks the telltale piercings of a slave. Not that the bandits can tell in the dark, nor would they bother to check. They would give her the piercings if they had to and then sell her on the islands. To go from the undead horrors to such a banal threat as slavers makes Mili want to both laugh hysterically and sob. Instead of either she continues to stand there, mute with exhaustion.
"Don't want to answer me, eh girly?" The head bandit smiles and looks around at his fellow bandits. "Maybe she's mute, eh? Then we don't have to worry about her waking the neighbors." He laughs and the other men laugh with him. Then he slaps her across the cheek and his smile vanishes. “Bind her.”
Rough hands grab at her, jerking her arms behind her back and binding them together with rope. Another bandit steps in front of her. He is the youngest of the group and hesitates before her. Then he undoes the ripped piece of cloth she has tied around her waist and tears off one end of it. This he stuffs into her mouth and holds in place with the rest of the cloth, which he secures in a knot at the back of her head. Mili stands still throughout the process, bidding her time and energy. No use doing anything now, when all their attention is on her.
“Good girl,” says the leader. He checks her bindings by jerking her arms and appears satisfied with them.
Then he turns to the rest of the bandits and with a silent gesture they withdraw from the open fields into the relative seclusion of the nearby stand of trees they had been hiding in. The youngest grabs Mili by the arm and pulls her along, although not as roughly as she expects. She glances at him, but he stares resolutely forward, his face thin and angular in profile.
When they reach the bandits' camp, the leader gives orders for her to be tied against a tree and Mili spends the night like that. Her back grows sore as it is held straight against the bark of the thick oak and her arms tingle with a lack of circulation. But she manages to doze off for a short time, if only out of pure exhaustion.
The photography project from this weekend, although over, only continues to foster more excitement in my bones. I can't wait to link to the finished project but - avast - it's not yet finished. There are murmurings of a continuation of the project amongst the participants that I hope takes some root.
I might take my camera with me to work tomorrow. The rapture that the camera instills in me is overcoming the fear of possible embarrassment at lugging around such a big thing in public. Which, if you really know me, speaks volumes to said rapture. Maybe I'll make my lunch breaks into photo projects; it's not like downtown Seattle is lacking in interesting subjects. Either way, this weekend will see many photos uploaded to FB and flickr.
Although, I really need to focus on Mili. I would really like to get her to Asarek so the plot will finally feel like it has some direction. Also, writing. Just need to be writing. Playing with my camera, even though it's instant gratification, should not be taking precedence over that.
Also, I'll probably be rather cranky these next few days. I'm cutting back on the caffeine again because the attacks are back. I'm getting quicker at recognizing them for what they are and clamping down on them, but they still persist in the back of my head, questioning every single pain. I hate it, but it's partially my fault. I know this happens when I don't exercise and eat poorly and over stress. I can get a handle on this. I can. I'm not crazy. Not clinically.
So - ! To writing. And not to getting distracted by the revolution in Iran, no matter how riveting it may be.
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Date: 2009-06-17 03:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-17 03:57 pm (UTC)