Rough #1
Most nights across the wilderness called Falstadt were calm, peaceful, and even disarmingly quiet. As the evening stretched on and the sun blinked goodbye, red-tailed deer and fallow birds would dance and play in the thick meadows and woodlands of this seemingly forgotten corner of paradise. The air was crispy and cool in the near-autumn, and the songs of streams and narrow rivers turning into languid pools of swamp water could be heard no matter what direction you walked. Most days, the Falstadt could almost separate travelers from the stress of life. And at times, peace was simple to come by, as if the world had taken care of the hard part and all you needed was a starry sky and a firm forest trail to feel happy.
This night was not one of those nights. No, this was the other side of nature, the cold and terrible face of the borderlands.
No moon. Pouring rain and terrible wind ravaged the trees and caused the reeds to whistle. Peals of thunder tore across the sky like angry scars, revealing rough and untraveled paths for only a split second. No sane being, animal or man, would travel the Falstadt in such weather by choice, and even the carnivorous grendels, whose deep and almost melodious calls echoed through the canyon, were reluctantly keeping to their caves. And yet, one traveler raced across the fields, weak and terrified, exhausted and alone.
Dear Goddess, please let me be alone.
Aden chose a path in the light of the lightning, keeping his left side close to the thickest overgrowth. He could feel tree limbs and twigs tearing at the ratted cloak slung from his shoulders like the bony fingers of his ancient dead, the knots in the trees the wrinkles of their haggard faces. Truth be told, he hated the morbid and gothic designs of Liandrian chapels, yet he could see their twisted forms and arches in the leaves and the mud.
The boy’s mind struggled to remember the map he’d studied only an hour ago. He was travelling west, towards the sea, following the trees until he reached the isthmus that led to the borders of Sen’tina. There, he’d be free. Free of slavers and whippings. Free of masters and endless chores. The wilderness of the Falstadt certainly fell outside the regular borders of the nation of Liandri, but the damnable laws of king and country stated that any branded slave caught within the borderlands could and would be returned without recourse. While the invisible boundary of Sen’tina offered little protection from bloodhounds and muskets, no roving band of Liandrian lawmen would knowingly follow a slave into the country. Nor would any outlaw, unless they were desperate enough. Sen’tina may have been a free land, but it was also a lawless and savage one as well. If half the stories Aden had been told of the land were true… Well, the bladed tails and nine-inch fangs of grendels would be the least of his worries.
Getting eaten by beasts was not on Aden’s to-do list. But neither was getting caught by the men following him. Men that were surely following him. He’d seen one, or so he thought, watching him from atop the cliffs of the canyon he’d descended into. No, fell into, as the bloody cuts and scratches that covered his knees and shins could attest. He could no longer hear the howls of the dogs over the roar of the wind, but he wasn’t about to stop and listen.
His breathing was heavy and labored but steady. He’d never traveled this far on his own, let alone in such weather. For a split second, he allowed himself to pause as the rocky ground beneath him sloped downward much quicker than he anticipated.
Twenty-two miles to the outlet of Belstadt River, south one mile to the isthmus. Don’t fall in the ocean. West until you can’t walk anymore or until you see open desert dunes. The sand is your salvation.
Simple enough to remember. Easy enough to read on a map. Not forgiving on your ankles.
The lightning flashed above, sending a peal of lightning down upon a nearby ridge—the sound alone shook the earth and partially deafened the poor slave boy. Ex-slave, Aden thought to himself. Yet even if he were crown prince of Liandri, the violent wind and rain above his head wouldn’t care, and it showed no signs of slowing down.
Like the roar of a lion, the thunder burst again, this time much closer. And this time, it took Aden completely by surprise, sending landing Aden flat on his back with a dull thud. Nothing jagged or sharp tore at his back. But the air escaped out of his lungs like he’d been punched in the gut. He laid there for a moment, matted hair stuck to his face and eyes sealed shut against the rain, grunting and struggling to regain oxygen.
“Damn it,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. Half a minute passed, and another bolt of lightning jarred the valley floor. Softer, perhaps.
Then something absolutely terrifying behind the din of the storm: voices. Howling.
They slavers were still following him.
Blind fear filled Aden’s nerves and mind as he scrambled to his feet. The black forest became a grey blur, and he tore through the tall grass and thorny growth with hardly a thought for gravity, balance, or pain.
Aden hadn’t escaped by accident. That much he knew. Not that he could in good conscience call his flight planned. A single slave revolt a short month previous had turned into two, then three. While the masters had called it and those that followed it merely ‘slave incidences’, Aden and the other older slaves had named it the Fall Dam Uprising. Apparently, some magistrate from the capital city thought it would be wise to put more than a thousand slaves in charge of constructing a dam high above the frontiers of the Liandrian south. When one of the sluice gates inexplicably failed on the day of the reservoir’s filling, the panicking lawmen and overseers suddenly found themselves staring down a small army of surprisingly organized workers.
Aden and the others never learned how they coordinated such a plan. Or just how effective it had been. All he knew was that Fall Dam led to a riot in Farasil, then another in Arenok. Then he heard no more. Wouldn’t want slaves getting any thoughts of salvation, after all. Then the gunshots came. Only at night. Softly at first, off in the distance. Then during the day. Nothing to worry about, the taskmaster would bark. Aden almost believed him.
Then, as Aden planted potato eyes beneath that man’s watchful eye, a Minnie ball took his arm off.
All Aden registered in that frantic moment (besides a stunning amount of blood) was the sight of a young woman. No, a girl with pale skin and frighteningly crimson eyes, dressed much like a milk maid in a simple cotton dress. She severed Aden’s chains with a pair of rusty clippers, thrust a piece of paper into the boy’s hands, pointed to a rough drawing in the center of the tattered page, and said a single word.
“Run.”
