More Rabble than Rebel
Alar wasn’t as nervous as he should have been. At least, he wasn’t as nervous as his fellow rebels. They peered at him through the underbrush with wide eyes. Seeking reassurance. He gave Lief, the youngest member of their party, a smile and nodded toward the road. The ambush would be the boy’s first taste of the kind of violence Alar was used to. He promised himself he would keep the boy alive. If possible. Lief, his face even paler than normal, nodded stiffly and looked away.
It was a beautiful day. The sun, finding its way through the green canopy, was a warm contrast to the cool breeze wafting down from snowcapped mountains to the east. A typical summer day in the foothills of western Argen. A nervous giggle joined the chatter of a gregarious flock of sparrows. He followed the sound to the branches of an old oak across the road and caught a flash of Tove’s red hair. Their only archer’s face appeared, breaking into a nervous smile when she noticed him watching her. Suddenly, the birds hushed, and in the silence, a horse whinnied. Tove looked toward the sound, glanced at Alar, and retreated from view.
The horse whinnied again, joined by the jangle of a wagon’s traces and the driver’s shouted encouragement to his team. Alar leaned out and peered at the heavy wagon as it mounted the steep slope of the hill on which they waited. A hint of movement through the narrow, barred windows of the wagon was the only evidence of his unfortunate countrymen inside. Slaves on their way to a grim fate. He settled back and caught Sten’s eye, lifted two fingers, made a fist, then lifted two fingers again. Two riders, followed by the wagon, then two riders bringing up the rear. The older man, the leader of their small band, nodded. Five Imperial soldiers, including the driver. One would think the Imps would bring a larger escort deep into Argren, but they had learned to rely on the Alle’oss’ peaceful nature. They would learn a different lesson this day.
He held his breath, studying the first two mounted guards through the tangled branches of an elderberry as they passed. Bored, exhausted … unsuspecting. His comrades’ tension, as of drawn bowstrings, was so palpable he couldn’t believe the soldiers didn’t feel it. Taking a deep breath, he sighed it out and forced his sweaty fist to loosen on the hilt of his sword.
The wagon topped the hill. The moment had arrived. But, still, the signal didn’t come. He was wondering whether he should simply lead the attack himself when Tove’s arrow flew. They knew it was coming, were waiting for it, but when the arrow struck one of the trailing soldiers on the arm, there was a breathless, startled moment before they burst out of the forest on both sides of the road, whooping and brandishing their swords.
They expected the guards to flee. After all, the rebels outnumbered them two to one, and Alle’oss slaves were cheap. Instead, the Imps responded aggressively, gleefully laying about with their swords from atop their massive destriers. Even the sergeant Tove wounded joined in, the arrow shaft protruding from his arm, waving like a banner. The rebels’ triumphant shouts died quickly, replaced by the bright clang of steel on steel.
The plan required Alar and Lief to free their countrymen while his companions kept the guards busy. He leapt from the underbrush beside the wagon, a nervous Lief close by his side. With a quick glance toward the front, he ensured Frode and Erik were keeping that guard busy. He turned toward the back of the wagon, expecting to find Sten and Estrid busy with their task. Instead, the Imp on his enormous black horse filled his vision. On instinct, Alar shoved Lief into the elderberry bush before spinning away. The act took half a heartbeat, but it was too long. The massive horse swiped him as it passed, throwing him violently against the side of the wagon.
Alar’s eyes fluttered open to panicked shouts, guttural laughter, the crunch of horses’ hooves on crushed stone. He lay on his back, squinting, trying to understand what he was looking at. Wide, weatherbeaten oak planks spattered with mud from a recent rain. The underside of the wagon. In the time it took him to orient himself, the sounds of battle died away. Only moments into the fiasco, it was over.
He rolled to his hands and knees in time to see Frode disappear into the trees. The last of the mounted soldiers followed, calling “Taa-hoo-aloo,” like a lord on a fox hunt. Alar crawled out from under the wagon and pulled himself upright on the spokes of the wheel. Putting his back against the wheel, he brushed dirt from his hands and glanced around. He was alone. A small smile touched the corner of his lips. Despite everything, there was still a chance for success.
Pushing himself upright, he teetered for a moment on unsteady legs, then he scooped up his sword and stumbled toward the back of the wagon.
“Alar, look out,” Tove shouted from high in the oak tree.
He rounded the corner and came face-to-face with the wagon’s driver. The burly Imp was peering into the interior of the wagon, the big iron lock that secured the door in one beefy hand. At Alar’s appearance, his head snapped around. The surprised expression on his lopsided face would have been comical under other circumstances. As it was, all Alar could see were the copious scars crisscrossing the Imp’s face, a roadmap of a violent life. Alar’s legs quivered with the need to run, but still woozy from his momentary departure from the world, he could only watch, fascinated, as the Imp let the lock drop on its thick chain, then pivot toward him, bringing his sword up.
“And here I was thinking I was going to miss all the fun.”
Thok. Tove’s arrow rebounded off the hard oak planks of the wagon door into the Imp’s face. He swatted at it as if it were a mosquito, and in the moment of distraction, Alar’s sword flicked out and nicked the man’s forearm. Both men froze. Watching the driver gaping at the bloodstain growing on his sleeve, Alar had to suppress an irrational urge to apologize. The driver’s head snapped up at Alar’s strangled giggle.
“Why, you little—”
Alar ran. He intended to follow his comrades into the forest, but the Imp followed surprisingly fast for a such a hulking man, forcing Alar to turn and defend himself. He backpedaled in the narrow space between the wagon and the forest, frantically blocking a flurry of indignant blows. The end came so quickly, he wasn’t sure how it happened. One moment, Alar was congratulating himself on his fine swordsmanship, the next moment his weapon was spinning away into the underbrush. Defenseless, facing a trained killer, Alar’s death seemed imminent. Fortunately, his opponent allowed himself a moment to gloat, sneering and twirling his sword. Alar plunged into the forest.
At first, his slight frame allowed him to weave through the trees and open the gap his sudden departure gained him. But his last substantial meal, a loaf of bread he stole from a baker’s cart, was a distant memory, and adrenaline could only sustain him so far. It wasn’t long before he was flagging. His only hope, that the soldier would lose interest, was dashed by bellowed threats that carried a promise. And they were getting closer. Alar could not outrun him. Heart galloping, breath coming in ragged gasps, he careened drunkenly through the dense undergrowth on wobbly legs. Ducking his head to plunge through a line of densely packed firs, he stepped into air.
In the moment before he pitched forward, he glimpsed a man standing in a narrow road at the bottom of a muddy embankment, his face just beginning to register his surprise. Then Alar was rolling head over heels down the slope, coming to a sudden, violent stop on the hard-packed surface of the road. With a groan, he opened his eyes and looked up at the stranger staring down at him.
“You can’t run forever, you scrawny l’oss!”
Alar and the red-headed stranger looked up at the driver’s threat. “Run!” Alar shouted, and without waiting to find out if the stranger complied, he jumped up, sprinted across the road and scrambled up the bank. Hauling himself the last few feet using an exposed root, he managed to get his upper body over the lip, then scrabbling with his feet against the muddy bank, he dragged himself into the bushes. Lurching to his feet, he pitched forward onto a small sapling. The thin maple gave with his weight until he rolled off, releasing the tree to spring upright.
He lay, spread eagle, staring at small patches of blue sky, counting what were undoubtedly the last thudding beats of his heart. This was it. He had nothing left. The Imperial soldier might decide he had more value as a slave than a corpse, but Alar doubted it. The small cut he inflicted on the Imp’s arm signed his death warrant. He let his eyes close, waiting for approaching footsteps.
“You!” It was the same voice that had questioned his parentage, but it wasn’t nearby.
“What?” Another voice. It must be the stranger Alar saw on the road.
“You’re with those rebels.”
“Reb—” The voice rose several octaves. “What?”
“What are you doing on this road all alone?”
Alar rolled onto his stomach and crawled toward the road.
“I was in Richeleau. On business. I’m going home.”
“Took the wrong road, son.”
“You’re looking for that other guy, the … rebel. He went that way.”
Alar peered at the men from beneath a mountain laurel. The soldier, bent over, one hand on his knee, waved the tip of his sword toward the red-headed stranger, who appeared be near Alar’s age, sixteen or seventeen at the oldest. The Imp straightened, kneading his lower back with his free hand. Alar couldn’t help grinning when he noticed the blood moistening the man’s sleeve. The kid backed slowly away, one hand held up as if warding the Imp away and the other pointing to where Alar escaped into the forest. He was Alle’oss, one of Alar’s countrymen. The beads entwined in the thin braids by his left ear suggested he was from central Argren. He was a long way from home.
The soldier glanced in the direction the boy pointed, his eyes going to the scrapes Alar’s feet made in the mud, but made a dismissive gesture. “I’m tired of running. ‘Sides, it’s all the same to me, one l’oss or another. By the looks of you, you’ll last longer in the mines than that skinny whelp, anyway.”
“Mines?” The boy adopted a tone that suggested he had finally gotten to the bottom of the misunderstanding and could now explain. “No, see, I went to Richeleau for my father. He let me go pay our taxes and meet potential buyers. Imperial buyers.”
Alar shook his head. The boy said that last bit as if he thought it would make a difference.
Rummaging through the satchel hanging from his shoulder, he pulled out a slip of paper. “Look, I got the receipt. For the taxes.”
Alar let his head drop into his arms. He had seen too many scenes like this. It wouldn’t matter if he had a note from the emperor, he was Alle’oss and the soldier had decided he was a slave. Nothing was going to change his mind. He looked up in time to see the man rip the receipt from the boy’s hand and toss it aside. Instead of displaying the fear he should have, the stranger stood straighter, an outraged scowl on his face.
Alar ignored his retort and backed away. This kid was just unlucky, like so many others. Wrong place, wrong time. Looking back, he listened to the boy complaining bitterly. He watched through tangled branches as the soldier prodded the boy forward at the point of his sword. If he truly was destined for the mines, he would likely never reach his twentieth summer. Alar watched them, gritting his teeth. He should just go. Count himself lucky for a miraculous escape. But even before the thought was fully formed, he knew he couldn’t leave. The boy was, after all, only in the wrong place because Alar led the soldier to him.
He eased forward and peered down the road. From the top of the embankment, he could see the bald patch on top of the soldier’s head. Alar lost his sword, but as he studied the situation, a plan began to take shape. It was foolish, but he had been riding the ragged edge of foolish since he joined the resistance six years before. He worked his way backward, until he could get to his feet, then moved as quietly as he could, paralleling the road until he found a small gap between the trees ahead of the two men.
He held his breath and listened, judging their position by the boy’s plaintive objections. Now! Alar bounced on the balls of his feet twice, took a breath, whooshed it out, then sprinted toward the opening.
The pair on the road looked up at Alar’s sudden appearance. He had only a moment to realize he mistimed his attack. Arms pinwheeling, he pivoted and spread his legs to avoid kicking the boy in the head. Instead, he collided with him and rode him to the ground, landing light as a feather on the boy’s chest. He looked down between his legs at the stranger’s pained expression, then rolled away only to find himself looking up at the soldier’s leering face.
“Nice try, little l’oss,” he growled. He bent over, laughing and blasting Alar with surprisingly minty breath. “They’ll like that spirit where you’re going. You might last a couple of months.”
Alar kicked upward, driving his foot into the man’s groin. The soldier squealed, bent over, bringing his hands to his injured nethers. Alar pressed himself back against the hill, lifting his chin as the tip of the man’s sword swung across, leaving a small stripe along his jawline.
“You’re dead now,” the soldier spat past clenched teeth.
Alar scrambled to the side, away from the sword. The boy, still trying to catch his breath, gasped as Alar’s weight landed on his stomach. Crab walking backward across the boy’s body, Alar felt something hard.
The soldier, growling through bared teeth, a hand still covering his injured parts, swiped weakly at Alar with his sword. Alar wrapped his hand around the hard object, pulled it free of an obstruction and swung it at the man’s knee. The high shriek that emerged from the burly man was so unexpected Alar let out a bark of laughter. He scrambled away from a wild swing of the Imp’s sword and stood gaping at the hilt of a knife protruding from the soldier’s knee. The Imp wrapped his hand around the hilt, bellowing incoherently. Casting about for a weapon, Alar found the boy’s satchel lying at his feet. He scooped it up by the strap and swung it with all his might. The hollow thunk of the satchel impacting the soldier’s head reminded Alar of the time he threw a honeydew melon from the barn roof. The soldier dropped like a sack of potatoes and lay still beside the stranger.
In the sudden silence, Alar grinned down at the boy, hefted the heavy satchel and said, “What you got in here?”
The boy’s head swiveled from the body toward Alar. “What did you do?”
“What? Save your life?” Alar asked, smirking and offering the satchel.
The kid clawed himself upright on the embankment, snatched the satchel and backed away from the body. “He could have told everyone I didn’t have anything to do with … whatever you did.”
Alar looked down at the blood pooling in the dirt. “I don’t think he’s going to tell anybody anything now.”
“He’s—” The boy froze, his face going slack for a moment before something like fear climbed into his expression. He pointed at Alar, backing slowly away. “You’re going to hang for this.”
“They’ll have to catch me, first. Besides, I’d hang for a lot more than this.”
They stared at one another for a moment, then the boy’s face cleared. He straightened and looked around. “I’m getting out of here.” He started walking, stopped, turned around and walked back the other way. When he reached Alar, he moved as far to the other side of the road as he could, glaring as he passed.
“Good idea.” Alar looked down at the soldier’s sword. “Hold on,” he called, bent over and unbuckled the soldier’s belt.
“You’re robbing the dead?”
Alar looked up. The kid had stopped and was watching, incredulous. “Well, he doesn’t need it anymore.” Alar pulled the belt free, rolling the corpse over in the process. He searched the man’s pockets and was delighted to find a small coin purse with a handful of iron pennies in it. He jingled the contents next to his ear, then stuffed it into a pocket and picked up the sword. It was no great shakes. The edge was notched and rolled in spots, but it was a far cry better than the one he lost. With a shrug, he sheathed it and walked toward the boy.
“Where do you think you’re going? Get away.”
“You, uh, don’t have any food in that satchel, do you?”
“Go away.”
Alar stopped and watched him until he disappeared below the crown of the hill on which he stood. “Now what?” he murmured. Turning around, he gazed at the Imp’s body. Who would miss him? A spouse, children, friends? Unlike some of his comrades, Alar knew killing Imps wouldn’t drive the Empire from Argren. The soldier undoubtedly deserved death. His role as the driver of the slave wagon was guilt enough for Alar. If he was anything like the other Imps occupying Alar’s homeland, he had much more to answer for than one slave caravan. But this man’s death meant next to nothing to their Imperial oppressors. No, killing a few Imps would not free their homeland, but he would feel no guilt. Alar closed his eyes, enjoying the cool breeze on his face. It was a beautiful day, and he was happy to be alive.
“Wish you were carrying some food,” he said before noticing the knife still embedded in the soldier’s knee. “Hey!” he shouted after the boy. “You want your knife?” He slapped a hand over his mouth and winced. “Stupid,” he mumbled and listened. A grumbling squirrel, a pair of flirting goldfinches, the wind in the trees. No sounds of pursuit. Still, the other Imps would undoubtedly be along soon. He bent over, grasped the hilt of the knife and heaved, stumbling backward when it popped free.
After wiping the blade on the soldier’s uniform, he strolled in the direction the boy took and examined the knife. It had a curved blade that was much shorter than the hilt. “Paring vegetables, maybe?” Noticing a wadded-up piece of paper next to his boot, he bent to retrieve it. It was the tax receipt the boy offered to prove his innocence. “Ukrit Woodsmith from Lirantok.”
Alar’s heart sank. The slave wagon was coming from Lirantok. The village was in a valley between two spurs of the Na’lios mountains in central Argren, an area that had been relatively free of Imperial depredations. Fertile ground for the slavers. It was Lief who told them about the wagon. The boy was from one of the other villages in the valley and was visiting family when the Imps arrived in Lirantok. Alar let the receipt hang from his hand and gazed down the road, catching sight of Ukrit cresting the next hill. Should he catch him and tell him what he was returning to? No, what good would it do? The walk to Lirantok would take days and there was nothing the boy could do but worry until he got home. He stuffed the receipt into a pocket. Nothing to do but return to their base and discover the fate of his fellow rebels. He shook his head and chuckled. Rebels? More like rabble. His grin faded at the memory of Lief’s pale, worried face, looking to him for reassurance before the ambush. He hoped everyone survived.
