Chapter The First: The Night Begins
Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on them – will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn't even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.
The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the no ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way.
Who don't speak languages, but dialects.
Who don't have religions, but superstitions.
Who don't create art, but handicrafts.
Who don't have culture, but folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have names, but numbers.
Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the police blotter of the local paper.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.
- The Nobodies, Aimee Rozen
Kyra's mouth tasted of blood and iron.
The face of the mountain was difficult to scale, and the only sounds whispering to trees were her raspy breaths and the crunching of snow under boots. Precipices and sheer cliffs pierced through the dark mists like jagged fangs. Every one of the frost-bright stars that hung above was out – even the baby ones – and the night air was so frigid and clear, it shivered.
The path up twisted dangerously, the mountainside laced with creeping shadows and trailing vines, all the uneven surfaces conspiring to kill her. The boundary between stone and air was easy to miss – one false step and the night would rush up to meet her. Her bag dragged on her shoulders, conspiring to lure her to her inevitable doom. Twice now, Kyra had encountered wild boars and mountain coyotes, and it was perhaps out of sheer luck that she survived unscathed. The foam-white waters of the Danube River roared below, a reminder she was in constant peril.
The Danube River. It had been one of the landmarks on her map, and hearing it brought to Kyra a sense of grim determination. She was going to see this through to the end. And if she did die, at least she would take comfort in the knowledge that she had come this far. Ma, Healer Illona, Blacksmith Garrick, Ranger Tristam, Rowan, her closest friend and almost-to-be lover – everyone that she knew and left behind – would certainly miss her.
Not long now, Kyra reminded herself. About three days' travel to go. She packed lightly when she left home; with her now were two potatoes, a weather-beaten map of Scalia, half a pint of water and a square bandage of disappointing proportions, already half-soaked in her blood, a winter coat she huddled with in the coldest on nights and a blunted dagger she strapped to her thigh.
She has been traveling for months. Her back was a mess of scars, and she was constantly hungry, tired, wet and sore. Kyra's muscles begged for rest, but she knew if she gave in, it would be harder for her to find the motivation to continue. She resorted to looking on the ground, counting the steps, conserving the remainders of her energy even as pain sung through her shoulders. She knew the route to take by heart now – past the Danube River, the Applichin Mountain Range, follow the bend of the bay and the Caravan's Route. And out beyond lay the shining city of Forge. Where traders created crafts beyond compare – wines that altered memory, perfumes legendary enough to make you trust the wearer even as he slit your throat, and cheeses that made you hallucinate.
Perhaps there, she would find what she came for – the coveted elixir of life.
A rustle in the foilage behind jolted her dead in her step. Slowly, she turned around.
There, in the bushes beyond, a man emerged. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his big boots making heavy rhythmic chipping sounds on the gravel, solid and regular like a shoulder. His face was filthy but had tension flashed in his eyes. Kyra spied his calloused hands fish out a deer-skin water bag and a map from his backpack. He studied the map intently. Kyra stayed in the shadows, afraid to breathe, afraid to create the slightest disturbance that broke the stillness of the night. From here, she could make out his facial features. His hair was unkempt and ragged, his beard unshaved. Kyra decided he looked like a goatherd.
The goatherd threw the map back and headed down the mountain – away from Kyra. She let out a breath and felt her chest contract. He had not seen her.
She was about to turn around and continue her track up the mountain when there was another disturbance in the foliage. This time, however, she darted for the nearest tree. Peering out from behind her cover, it was not a man she saw first, but a glint of silver. Her eyes followed the silver, tracking its glint. A leg emerged from the leafy darkness, then a gloved hand, then a hood, pulled down low to cover the face. Finally the hooded figure stepped soundlessly into the clearing. A dagger came into view, its silver blade catching the moonlight.
The hooded figure glanced left and right, as if checking for something – or someone. Then it took off in the direction the goatherd had gone, sprinting silently, the glint of his dagger disappearing into the night.
It took Kyra several precious seconds to piece together what was going on, and several more to come to a decision. She spun on her heels and ran down the mountain, tripping over her own feet. The hooded figure bobbed up and down of view.
She saw the goatherd, oblivious to the impending danger behind him. The distance between the bandit and the goatherd was decreasing; the distance between her and the bandit was increasing. She was too slow. Time was running out.
Run! She wanted to scream. Why are you so careless about your surroundings?
So she did. Her warning seemed impossibly loud in the silence of the night, and for an instant, the bandit froze. With a battle cry, Kyra leaped over a bush and onto the hooded figure. Both man and girl rolled down the mountain. Kyra felt a dagger dig into the depths of her stomach. She tried to scream but choked on her own blood. When a gentle stream broke their fall, she was on top, wrestling with the hooded figure for control. Firm hands grabbed her wrists and twisted it forcefully, and lightning lanced through her arms. She kneed him in the groin. The grip on her wrists relaxed. Out of the corner of the eye, she spotted the astonished goatherd, root-still and gawking at her.
"Are you a half-wit?" Kyra shrieked. "Get away!"
Two sharp kicks to her ribs and her vision blurred. Something ice-cold ran through her face and seeped into her tunic. She had fallen into the stream, the icy waters surrounding her already turning a milky red. Meanwhile, she saw the hooded figure take off into the trees, vanishing as silently and smoothly as he came.
Grimacing, she rolled to her side, using her hand to support and heave herself up. The goatherd was still standing there, unmoving. A hand was pressed to her stomach – and it took Kyra a moment to realise that it was her own hand. Warm, red blood like honey trickled down her wound, soaking her tunic.
With the heat and fray of the battle gone, she could clearly decipher the goatherd's expression. And it was not surprise or astonishment that she registered, but anger. Frustration. Why was he angry at Kyra for saving him?
"W—why didn't you r—run?" Kyra muttered through gasps. But the goatherd just stayed silent.
There were muffled cracking sounds through the canopy of the trees and a swishing of a branch. A second figure landed gracefully from above with a soft thud.
The mysterious newcomer surveyed the scene. His gaze rested on Kyra, now a bundle of nerves, soft and wet hair, wounds, blood, and mud. The back of her tunic was stained brown and smelled of wet earth and rain.
"What happened here?" The newcomer asked.
"This girl – she…she fouled our plans up." The goatherd was speaking, and it was evident that his face was flushed with anger.
"Excuse you! I just saved your life!" Kyra exclaimed.
The goatherd regarded her with fiery disdain. "I would have caught him. This mission would have succeeded if you hadn't jumped in and messed things up."
"I didn't -, " Kyra started, but a wave of nausea surged over her. Strangled coughs rackled her, and her hand flew to her mouth. When her hand came away, her palm was stained with a cloth of red.
"We should question her. Find our what she knew about our plans."
"I'd say she was just some stupid girl who went missing on the mountains."
The world was muffled, somehow. It was as if someone had put a blanket over Kyra's head, and it was getting tighter and tighter, staving her of air. She struggled to take in air, but her breath would not catch. And since when did the stream become so warm, the trees so twisted, the stars so blurred?
"Let's just take what's valuable. She's clearly beyond our help now."
Kyra did not hear the words exchanged between the two men. She did not feel their hands as they rummaged through her pockets and bag.