Revised September 2022

Collision

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III III III

For a moment, the only sound was the steady drumming of the rain that came down in pelting sheets now. The odd wailing noise had ceased, yet no one spoke a word. Even the horses were quiet, save for a nervous snort now and then, sensing the sudden tension around them.

Anne sat frozen in an uncomfortable crouch, her fingers clenched around the edge of the wagon wall. She was distantly aware of her thighs beginning to cramp as she listened to her own breathing, coming flat and short. Her chest was tight, something cold seemed to slither down her stomach. Everything felt bizarrely out of place — the people and animals around her, the smell of horses and wet wool; the nuzzling scent of rain on sun-baked earth that ran foul of the icy dread nipping at the back of her mind; herself on this wagon, the weight of her drenched cloak, and the rasp of coarse linen against her sweat-damp skin.

The sense of wrongness dimmed as rain pelted against her forehead, and Liecia gave a soft, choked gasp, as though she had been holding her breath for too long.

Wrenching her stiff limbs into motion, Anne twisted around once more, vaguely noting others doing the same. She looked back towards the forest but was unable to make out anything other than grey tree trunks and water dripping branches.

One of the younger men — Anne thought she had heard others call him Anselm — turned his horse around so that he was facing Nardil.

"What are we waiting for?" he shouted, his voice slightly high-pitched, agitation plain on his face. "We should—"

He never finished the sentence. For several moments, Anne did not realise what had happened. One second, Anselm was still speaking while on the edge of her vision, Nardil flinched, hissed something and made a harsh gesture in the younger man's direction. The next second, Anselm was groping at his throat, eyes wide, seemingly as uncomprehending as Anne was herself. The rainwater running down his neck and into his collar turned crimson. Something was sticking out of his throat.

The young man made a horrible noise, retching and gurgling, and his face seemed to turn white and whiter, even as Anne looked on, frozen in shock. Somebody screamed and Nardil shouted — it might have been something about the wagons, Anne wasn't sure. She was sitting transfixed, unable to do anything but stare at Anselm, who was now teetering in his saddle.

Someone roughly grabbed her arm; the abrupt pain caused her to start and turn, to stare into Liecia's pale, frightened face. Anne clued into a certain amount of tumult around them and Nardil's shout —

"Everyone, get down ! Get off the carts!"

There was a heavy, sickening thud behind Anne. Despite Liecia pulling at her arm, she turned back around, to the source of the noise; Anselm's horse, now riderless, was prancing sideways, then veered off and fled. Just before Liecia dragged her from the wagon, she caught a glimpse of the motionless body on the ground — then she was on the ground herself, next to one of the tall cartwheels. Her hands and knees were pressed several inches deep into warm mud that seeped through her skirt, tendrils of trampled heather and wilted blades of grass caught between her fingers.

Anne heard the screams and shouts, was aware of Liecia's fingers digging into her arm; she felt the dull stinging pain on her shin, where she had grazed herself while sliding from the cart, but her mind seemed to have been left behind, staggering helplessly now to keep up.

"Down!" Nardil yelled again. "Get off the horses, get to—NO!"

Another wet thud and the wet splattering of dirt — a second body landed only a couple of feet away from Anne, face down on the muddy ground. A short, grey-feathered arrow had pierced in the back of his neck. She stared at it and still felt nothing but vague confusion at the surreality of it all. There was a low hiss that ended abruptly; another arrow had hit the fallen man in the lower back. A few inches from Anne's hand.

Her mind caught up.

Stomach-turning fear washed over her like a glacial wave.

"Run! RUN!"

The Ranger's voice rang through the panic-stricken screams, somehow, miraculously, reaching Anne's ears. She didn't know how she had gotten to her feet, although Liecia might have shoved her, but she was already running; running away from the wagons, away from the screams and falling bodies. She ran faster than she thought herself capable of, with no purpose or destination, other than away .

Her legs were moving on their own accord, and it was a good thing they did because her mind still didn't seem to be working properly. Her heart was hammering, her blood rushing in her ears. She was nearing the edge of the forest now — the forest that had seemed so threatening before, suddenly represented the only place of safety she could think of. There was the rhythmic pounding of hooves behind her, and Anne staggered as she tried to look over her shoulder without stopping. She half expected an arrow to hit her back any second, but there was only another horse without a rider, galloping in roughly the same direction she was running.

She had reached the outer row of trees — something between a sob and hysterical laughter bubbled up her throat, incredulous, not daring to believe that she had made it this far, that she might be safe. Still, she kept running, until the underbrush grew thicker and forced her to slow down in her flight. More than once her cloak or skirt got caught in the branches, and every time panic scraped her throat and sent her pulse flying while she frantically disentangled herself. At last, feeling like she could not possibly take another step she paused, gasping, with her hands pressed into her burning sides. Promptly, her shaking legs gave out, and she staggered forward, onto the ground.

Crawling on all fours, Anne somehow made it towards the nearest tree. She scrambled into a sitting position, and leaned against the broad trunk, finding an odd sort of comfort in feeling the warm, rough bark against her back. She stared at the trees around her; beeches and pines, her brain supplied, inconsequential. Their canopy kept off most of the rain, so the ground was relatively dry, covered with old, crumbling leaves and pine needles.

Anne's mind gradually cleared, while her breathing calmed and her pulse and heartbeat returned to a normal pace. What had happened? Who had attacked them? Bandits, or perhaps those altered people everyone seemed so afraid and alarmed of? What did they want?

She thought of Liecia, of Nardil who had been so kind to her, and of Goda, whose parents had so desperately wished for her to be safe that they had been willing to part with her without knowing whether they would see each other again. Perhaps they were still together at least? Or were there others out there, like her, lost in the woods and alone?

Or none at all. What if all of them were...

Her eyes pricking, Anne tried her best to close her thoughts to horrible images of her companions' possible fates. Self-pity and gnawing fear were not far behind though, and she couldn't ward those off.

Please be alive. Please find me.

Somewhere in the high branches above her, a crow gave a series of harsh, raspy calls.

Anne curled in on herself, hugging her knees to her chest, and took one, two, three deep, shuddering breaths. No crying. Not now.

She started to shiver despite the stuffy air and swallowed down on a sob, feeling small, pathetic, and terribly alone. She drew the cloak tighter around her shoulders, pressing her back against the tree behind her, wishing it was hollow, and she could just crawl inside and hide.

There was a crack, like a dry twig snapping in half, somewhere in the copse-wood to her right. Anne's heartbeat quickened again as she stared into the gloom, but she couldn't see very far. What time was it? Late afternoon, surely? Were the shadows getting longer already? The sound did not repeat itself. Probably just a branch that had broken and fallen or a pine cone or something. Perhaps an animal.

After a few minutes of thus trying to soothe herself, Anne tore her gaze away from the shadows beneath the trees and glanced around. She swallowed through the dryness in her throat, realising with renewed alarm how thirsty she was. She had nothing with her, not even a waterskin.

There was nothing for it. She couldn't just sit here, waiting for someone to find her. She needed to make her way back to the road — or at least the edge of the forest — and find the others, if she did not want to starve or be eaten by whatever animals might live within the woods. Somehow, it was less frightening to think of dangerous beasts than of the people who might dwell in here.

Her legs still trembling, Anne struggled to her feet, steadying herself against the old tree, and with some reluctance turned her back on the meagre refuge it had provided her. She deliberately chose a direction that would get her away from the copse-wood, and couldn't help glancing back over her shoulder now and then. The rain had ceased, leaving the air humid and so heavy, Anne thought it was actually pressing down on her, making any movement more arduous. Sweat was trickling down the back of her thighs and between her shoulder blades, but Anne was wary of taking her cloak off or even leaving it behind. It felt like an extra layer of protection, small comfort though it might be.

She was limping slightly by now. The thorough wash she had given her boots left them hard and unyielding, cutting into her ankle and rubbing against her heel. Before their departure, Liecia had offered to lend her stockings but Anne had declined, appalled at the idea of adding another layer to the stifling warmth of her long skirts and shift in the summer heat. Now, of course, she realised her foolishness. In several places, the stiff leather had chafed the skin of her bare feet, leaving them throbbing and raw, and causing a dull, wrenching pain with every step.

After maybe twenty minutes of hobbling and stumbling along rather aimlessly beneath dripping branches, Anne stopped, sighing and wiping both sweat and rain from her brow. She had no idea if she was even remotely going in the right direction, and the thought that she might unwittingly stray deeper into the woods frightened her. Scanning her surroundings, she spotted something that sparked a modicum of hope. On the far side of a small clearing to her left, the ground rose to a low hill, or rather a densely wooded knoll. Low growing pines covered the slope almost like a thicket but the trees seemed to grow more sparsely further up.

Anne hesitated, reaching down to tug at the side of her boot where it galled her ankle bone. If she made it to the crest she might have a better view of her surroundings, be able to spot the edge of the forest. The climb would be difficult though, tender as her feet were. She was still deliberating if the possibility of a better vantage point was worth having her feet in shreds, when another loud snap pierced the stuffy silence.

Anne whirled around, her pulse racing. A rotten branch hit the ground with a brittle crack, not ten feet away, and furious cawing sounded from the canopy above.

A small, dark shape rose from one of the tall pines, wings beating ponderously and still croaking in a somewhat irritated manner as it took to the air. Anne watched the bird vanish beyond the trees' tangled limbs before turning back around, her fleeting relief already waning. She needed to get out of here. Gritting her teeth, she resumed her strenuous march, aiming for the foot of the hill.

In the end, she couldn't have said what alerted her. It might have been some age-old instinct, or, more likely, a movement caught from the corner of her eye that made her stop short, halfway across the clearing. Her heart pounding, she slowly turned her head. Tall firs and birches; low-growing shrubbery, some ferns, and—

Anne froze, her stomach lurched.

Perhaps twenty yards away, between two birches and half-hidden behind a trunk, stood a man. He was clad in muted shades, grey or brown, barely standing out from his surroundings. His hair was long, reaching past his elbows, and so light that it looked almost colourless in the gloom. Anne couldn't make out his features, but he appeared to be staring at her, silent and still — just as those strange figures had done the first time she had seen them back in Carrockton.

And then he stirred.

As though rooted to the spot, Anne watched for a few seconds as the stranger slid around the tree in a gliding, eerie, too-fluid motion, and started moving towards her. The back of her neck prickled. Jolted from her stupor, she stumbled a few steps back and turned, prepared to run, only to find herself faced with three more men — a lot closer — who were slowly advancing on her.

Their clothes were torn and filthy, their emaciated faces streaked with mud or grime. Their hair hung in lank, tangled strands around their shoulders, matted with dirt and... dried blood? As Anne stared at them in dull, overwhelmed incomprehension, they slowly fanned out while nearing her, consequently blocking off possible escape routes on all sides. There seemed to be something wrong with their eyes...

One of the men was dragging his leg behind him at an odd, twisted angle. A thin stream of spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth as he stared at Anne with an utterly vacant expression. Wild, choking, nauseating terror seized her, only half-understood, and Anne retreated for the second time, nearly tripping over her burning feet. The other man was alone, had been moving slowly; just one... she could get past one—

She spun around. The fair-haired man was directly in front of her. Anne's startled shriek turned into a gurgle as he seized her around the neck with a motion too swift to follow. She clutched at his hand with both hers, pulling and trying to pry open his fingers, to no avail. He wasn't strangling her — not yet — but his grip was vicelike. So much so that it struck Anne as unnatural, inhuman... Gasping and wheezing she stilled in his grip, suddenly terrified that he would simply snap her neck.

Despite the biting fear, her vision blurring, and the hammering thought that this was it , it was over , her perception seemed heightened to a disturbing degree of clarity. Her attacker towered over her like a young tree. He was beardless, his skin greyish pale, and the high cheekbones shimmered damp with rain. Something was not quite right about the man's face, about the angles, the sharp cut of the bones. There was a haunting, stark sort of beauty to his features, but Anne couldn't appreciate it. His eyes were black. No hint of colour, not the faintest ring of an iris. He was staring down at her out of bottomless holes, the white of the eyeball around it strangely dull and streaked with veins.

Anne felt like a large, ice-cold hand was squeezing her insides. Slowly, almost leisurely, the man cocked his head, as though to get a better look at her. A damp strand of his silvery pale hair brushed against her cheek. He showed not even a flicker of emotion as those black eyes trailed from her face down her body and back up. Anne breathed out on a whimper, and began tugging at his hand again; of a sudden she was imagining something vile, invisible but putrid, seeping from his touch into her.

The skin of his hand and fingers felt smooth and very cold against hers. He smelled cold too, like metal and smoke, and something else... like the air right before a thunderstorm.

"Please— don't—" The words left her constricted throat in a hoarse whisper.

He showed no signs of having heard her plea or caring for it. Suddenly he raised his gaze, fixed it on something behind Anne — then back on her face.

He tightened his grip.

The world darkened around Anne. She tried to speak, to beg, but only managed a feeble squeak. And then, abruptly, he pushed her away with so much force that it knocked the last bit of air from her lungs when she hit the ground. Wheezing and coughing, and spitting out dry leaves and dirt, she rolled onto her side. Her vision cleared, but the dizzying sense of relief was replaced by renewed horror and panic as several hands grabbed her arms and one of her legs. Two of the strange men were already upon her. One seized her hair, forcing her head down with a brutal yank; for a moment it hurt so much that Anne thought they must have ripped out a chunk of her hair. The other one was groping at her cloak, at her gown — violently wrenching at the fabric as though to tear it apart.

Eyes watering and gasping for air that didn't seem to come, Anne struggled. Somehow getting her arms free, she desperately tore and pushed at dirty hands, attempting to kick at anything she could reach. They were too strong, the hands grabbing at her too many. An overwhelming, rancid stench of unwashed bodies flooded Anne's mouth and nose, making her gag; stale sweat, urine, and other, worse things, and something metallic, nauseatingly sweet and putrid. One of them lost his balance and toppled over backwards when Anne, in her panic, managed to kick him in the throat.

Before Anne could even try to free herself of the second man, something hard collided with the side of her head — a sharp pain just behind her right ear, that seemed to vibrate through her neck and shoulder, and into the rest of her body. Her vision darkened momentarily. Somehow, at the edge of her consciousness, Anne's mind registered the fact that these men looked more... human, despite their hideous state. Different to the pallid, eerie features of the one who had grabbed her first. Even more distantly, she became aware that, whatever he was, he seemed to have disappeared.

Men and Elves... Perhaps the same that had attacked the Ashgroves back in Carrockton. It didn't matter now. The man dragging his leg behind him was drawing near, and the one who had fallen, sluggishly regained his feet, his head appearing weirdly crooked now. Her arms were being grabbed again and someone was sniffing at them.

This time Anne could not wrest herself free. The trees around her were spinning. The thought of Idonea struck her. And Herlewin, who had almost died trying to protect his wife. No one would protect her though, she realised with strangely detached, bland despair. As she blinked at the gaunt, vacant face above her with increasing, merciful numbness, it occurred to Anne that — like the pale-haired man — they hadn't utter a single word.

Suddenly she felt herself being furiously shaken, jolted around — her neck gave a painful twitch, her hipbone and ribs were bumped against the hard ground. Anne gasped for air, flung out her arm, and her bleary eyes found the man with the crooked neck. He had snatched handfuls of her skirt and was now biting, tearing and gnawing at the linen like a rabid dog.

What...

The material of Anne's shift tore with an ugly ripping sound. A new surge of panic hit her with the force of a sledgehammer, but with it came some last remnants of strength. Wrenched from her weakened, dizzy stupor, she struggled to break free but was cruelly pushed back down. Her already throbbing head was knocked against something unyielding, a stone or a root — pain lanced through her skull, she retched drily, and the world spun.

Anne raised an unsteady arm when someone started sniffing and pawing at her face, her hair — the man tried to snap at her defensive hand and she felt his foul, rancid breath on her face. Someone whimpered... And then, Anne heard the man above her make an awful, gurgling noise, and a moment later he collapsed, almost on top of her. For a moment she lay still, breathing heavily. The man lay utterly still, his upper body a heavy, dead weight across her middle.

Dead?

Horrified and shaken, Anne crawled out from underneath the corpse, away from the filth and the horrible smell. She raised herself up on trembling arms, jolted by a sudden and desperate rush of hope when she realised that no one was holding her down, nobody was trying to grab her. Swaying slightly, she looked back at the man, still lying motionless on the ground. A long arrow shaft protruded from between his shoulder blades. It was fletched with brown striped feathers, different to the ones she had seen before, even to Anne's ignorant eye.

She hurriedly scrambled backwards, looking around wildly. Her second attacker was already down as well, he too with an arrow in his neck. The third one had started staggering away from the clearing, but even as he gained some speed, another arrow hit him at the base of the neck. Carried by the momentum of his weight, he managed a couple more lumbering steps; then his body crumbled to the ground and he too lay still. Anne frantically glanced around for a sign of the silvery-haired fourth man but he was indeed gone. Shuddering and panting, she now turned, her hands scrambling over the ground, and peered through the trees in the direction the shots seemed to have come from. Had Nardil and the others found her?

Someone appeared from the twilight beneath the trunks, but it wasn't Nardil or anyone else from her group. Anne's heart dropped into her stomach and she felt nauseous.

The strange archer appeared to be a man, but something wasn't right... about the face, half-hidden beneath a hood, about the way he moved. A heavy, grey cloak hung off broad shoulders, obscuring most of the stranger's figure, but even so Anne could tell he was staggeringly tall. A few strands of dark hair hung down his chest, nearly reaching the waist. He carried a large bow made of white wood — Anne saw his free hand reach towards his hip as he slid around a tree and moved towards her. His tread had to be as light as a cat's, there was no sound to his steps.

Anne swallowed and staggered to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain in her head and trying to hold her torn dress together as best as she could. Now that the man was nearer, she saw that his face had clean, strong lines but was also pale and hollow-cheeked. Similar to the light-haired attacker who had grabbed her by the neck, there was something slightly odd about his features she couldn't put her finger on. His eyes seemed to be glinting from underneath the hood.

Anne's heartbeat quickened when the stranger nocked another arrow and slowly drew his bow. His hands were pale, long and slim, their movements so abnormally fluent that they just seemed wrong.

"No… stop," Anne whispered, almost inaudible. The fear seemed to have paralysed her vocal cords along with her legs. Stay calm, she told herself. He hadn't shot her yet, and perhaps she could dissuade him from doing so.

Wait, she wanted to say. Please don't hurt me. I'm not dangerous. Anne had no idea what exactly she could possibly say to save herself, or if he even understood her. It didn't matter. Instead of the words she tried to speak, only a hoarse croak left her throat. The next moment, the stranger lifted his bow a little higher, the arrowhead was now pointing at her head. He drew the bowstring yet a little further back until his hand was next to his jaw.

Anne could hear the low, creaking sound of the weapon's strained limbs...

She took the unmistakable sign as exactly what it was, turned on the spot and fled. It was a good thing her legs were working again. Even as she started to run, she could not help thinking, This is pointless, completely pointless, he is going to get me anyway—

Why exactly she still ran if this was the case, she had no idea. It was stupid and futile, but the desperate purpose of self-preservation gave her energy and numbed the aches and pain in her feet and head. Anne did not look back, but crossed the clearing at a hobbling sprint, and started to climb the slope of the hill.

Unfortunately, she had chosen a rather steep part and soon felt like she was moving at a mere crawl, her feet slipping and skidding on tree roots and wet leaves, or sinking into the too-soft ground. There was a strange, rushing sound in her ears now, and the trees around her seemed to shift and curve.

Anne stumbled on, at times on all fours, and distantly wondered why this new assailant hadn't stopped her yet. Still not daring to look back, she started to realise — to hope — that she had made it; for some miraculous reason, he had lost interest in her and let her go.

Then there was a whisper of fletched wood on the wind, followed by a dull thud and a hideous, crunching sound.

Anne felt the impact a split second after she heard it, centred somewhere around her right shoulder blade. There was an explosion of such caustic pain, she was certain the very bone must have been shattered to pieces. Her vision blurred, and her breathing turned into desperate gasps. The muddled, absent thought of trying to keep running swam around the remains of her consciousness, but she could just as well have tried to sprout wings and fly.

Anne hit the ground before she knew she had fallen. She instinctively started to roll around; a fresh wave of white-hot agony struck her, paralysed her, and stole her breath. She gave up. The rhythmic, rushing noise in her ears became louder, drowning out everything else as she lay there, panting, on her side, the side that didn't feel like it was torn to shreds.

The archer's face appeared above her, wraithlike in the gloom, as he crouched down next to her.

"Please…"

Her voice sounded dulled and brittle and very odd, as if it didn't belong to her at all. At least it worked again. Anne didn't know what she was pleading for, and everything became foggy now, but she tried to focus on the marble-like features underneath the hood. At her hoarsly whispered words, he leaned down closer, and as he drew near, Anne could smell him. Not the putrid, dead stench of the three men before, but something warm... alive... and different. It made Anne, blearily, think of wild things — fangs and antlers, and lean, strong limbs.

She thought she saw him frown. The part of her thinking that had not bowed out yet picked up a confusing number of redundant details. The strap that held his quiver looked finely tooled but was worn and chapped, and there was a small hole near the hemline of his hood. He reached out a pale hand to brush across her temple as if to wipe off some dirt. Anne thought vaguely that this seemed a very odd thing to do, under the circumstances.

His fingers were warm. His eyes were bright grey. They didn't look empty at all.

Anne surrendered to merciful darkness.

III III III

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