"Imogen!"
She was gone.
Calenda was gone. Imogen stood with her feet in the snow, her toes heavy and soaked with snow. These were no phantoms. They were kidnappers. Her boot would've passed right through them if they were apparitions. She'd hit one, right where it counted.
And if they were corporeal, they would leave tracks.
"Imogen, they led us-!" Jaron was calling. His voice should've woken the whole town. He was running back from where he'd been only moments before.
The villagers were sleeping.
"The singing- the calling, it was a trick," Jaron panted, coming to a stop beside Imogen. "They were leading us away so they could do something."
"They took one of the villagers. They took Calenda," Imogen explained, her voice rising in pitch. "They walked right into the bakery and took her."
"Was anyone else awake?"
She shook her head, "No, I don't- I don't think so. I think I yelled for somebody, but it happened much too- much too fast."
It still felt like she was seeing and hearing everything through a hollow candy. Aside from the few lanterns in the tavern, Trail's End was dark. Not even the baker stirred despite his front door gaping wide open.
"They weren't truly phantoms, were they?" Jaron muttered. He didn't sound as confident as he'd been before.
"I hit one of them with my boot."
"Ah, that's my girl."
"We need to track her, Jaron, we can't let those rogues hurt her. Calenda is old, she can't last very long in the cold, not without fire or blankets. Another storm might blow in and cover the tracks."
Jaron scratched his head and stepped aside as Mott came leaping through the snow. Mott was breathing hard, "I couldn't see anything past the woods Jaron, I'm sorry."
"Imogen made up for it. Hit one of the attackers with her boot."
"Don't you need that to protect your feet, Imogen?"
"Protect against what?" Imogen arched an eyebrow. The gnawing in her foot soon bit at her senses. Frostbite. "Oh, Saints, I need to-"
"I'll get the boot, take her inside please, Mott," Jaron said. He kicked at the snow, searching for the missing shoe.
There was only one thought Imogen could think of: Calenda was gone.
Calenda was gone. Taken out from her bed and into the night. Imogen sucked in a sharp breath. Could the same have happened to her?
The tavern was lighter than before. Fink crouched near the fireplace, attempting to coax out a few sparks from the simmering coals. Everything was too cold. Too dark. Imogen bumped into a rough table, and sat down in the first barrel chair she reached. During the daylight, the tavern had been warm, welcoming even. But not anymore. The hanging antlers looked more like skeletal hands reaching for something they'd never grasp.
Her thoughts turned to how she'd be able to convince Jaron to go with her. They'd need to leave soon.
Every minute that passed was one minute less for Calenda.
It had been some time since somebody else's life rested in Imogen's hands on such a personal level. This was an individual, not an entire settlement. Calenda would need rescuing right now. There was no time for any bickering between regents about safety and cost efficiency.
They had what they needed to survive and rescue a creaking old woman.
"We have to help her, Mott," Imogen muttered as she pulled off her soaking wet sock. "The men who took her might do her harm."
"Then we pray that they don't and track her," said Mott. He rubbed his hand over his scalp. "Though I can't say I feel comfortable allowing both the king and queen to stomp through the snow after singing kidnappers."
The tavern door swung shut. Jaron brandished the boot like a trophy, "Then come with us. I passed Tobias, he's going to drag Renlyn and Feall from their secluded little corner."
The reality of the situation hammered against Imogen's stone resolve to act as quickly as possible. If she cracked, there would be no hope. She had to continue. For Calenda.
"We also need to discuss the severe lack of villagers about," Mott noted. "The noise we made should've woken somebody up."
"Perhaps this is an elaborate trap," said Jaron.
Imogen agreed. "I'm almost afraid to wake somebody up in case they're waiting for me beneath the covers with a knife."
Mott leaned back in his chair, "I see Tobias."
The tavern door slammed open as Tobias, Amarinda, Feall, and Renlyn shook the snow from their boots. Fink's fire finally crackled to life, and he rushed to join everyone else at the table. No other guards were with them. Nobody else stirred. The tavern's owner didn't emerge from his bed after the door slammed shut.
So why?
Why were they the only ones awake?
"They got away with Calenda," Imogen didn't understand how her voice remained level. She should've been distraught.
"Jaron informed us about the boot," Feall bowed his head. "I'm pleased that you have a good aim, my lady."
Renlyn clasped her hands behind her back, "Though I have to know, was it the right boot?"
A glimmer of emotion passed over Feall's face. A small smile. He hid it once he realized Imogen had seen it.
"We're going after her, there's no question about it," Jaron said, gesturing for everyone to sit. "But we also need to uncover the secrets of this place. Tobias, have you any thoughts? And you, Amarinda? Was there anything odd today as you spoke with the villagers?"
Tobias spoke first, his hair falling into his eyes as he shook his head. "I have yet to develop any sticking theories about Trail's End, though I'm greatly concerned with an outlier."
"And that being?"
"The town was poisoned and the old woman was taken because she survived."
His comment was met with a series of gasps. Amarinda set her hand on Tobias's shoulder, "Highly unlikely, but it is a possibility. I believe we're trapped in a plot less extravagant than poisoning an entire town, but grander than a mere thief stealing bread."
"I can think of a few worse things we've faced," Mott murmured.
"As we all can," Renlyn glanced at Feall. "In various unique ways."
Imogen reached for Jaron's hand. "We could split up, we have enough guards both in the village and back at the castle."
"I would be unable to do anything that involves a sword swinging at my head," Amarinda said. She was much more curt than before. "Tobias and I will stay here."
Tobias was already nodding in agreement, "We can see if everyone is dead."
"Tobias!"
"I wasn't being serious!"
The rosy glow on Amarinda's cheeks was too lively to come from the light of the fire. Imogen squinted, but couldn't find anything wrong. She leaned back against Jaron, "We must move soon if we don't want to lose her trail."
Mott looked over the table, "We can't take everyone, but you're right about the trail fading. Storms happen almost everyday. The footprints might be lost by morning."
"I will remain behind too, take Feall, there can be safety in numbers," Renlyn announced. "Should we not hear from either of you by the end of tomorrow, we will look for you."
Feall nodded in agreement.
"And what about me?" Fink pointed out. "You can't just leave me behind."
"Wasn't planning on it, but now that you mention it-," Jaron mused.
"He doesn't mean it Fink, we'd love for you to come-"
Fink launched to his feet, "Then I'll get the horses ready. I'm the fastest saddler in Drylliad. Among the other boys my age, that is. But I'll prove it now!" He vaulted over his chair, nearly knocking it over in his rush to get to the door. "Be back soon!"
"I'll go help him," Feall muttered.
"Ah, Sir Cormeach," Jaron pressed a hand to his heart. "Taking care of Fink so I don't have to."
"That was mean," Imogen pointed out. However, when a smug smile broke across Jaron's face, she realized what he was doing. He was distracting her for a moment. Imogen scowled. "I suggest we track Calenda as long as we can, stopping only if we can't go on or if-"
She couldn't bring herself to say it.
And she didn't need to; judging from everyone else's expressions, they were thinking of the same thing. Imogen rose from the table, and wrapped Amarinda in an embrace, promising to see her tomorrow.
It was an incentive to remain alive.
With Jaron's hand at her back, she almost felt immovable.
Almost.
The dark clouds promising another storm did their best to stamp out her courage. Imogen kept her thoughts to herself as she made her way to the stables. A lamp hung from the center beam, lighting Fink as he tightened a saddle strap. Several horses still remained in their stalls, where they'd been since the morning.
"Ah, the unsaddled horses are my fault," Feall cleared his throat.
"He's right," Fink winked. "I really am the quickest. Noble knights are used to pages, aren't they, Feall?"
"I have no page."
"That's what they all say, sir."
Jaron clapped Feall's shoulder, "Don't do anything foolish."
"Same to you, King Jaron," he said in reply.
Though Imogen knew that with her, Jaron, Feall, and Mott riding out, something was bound to happen.
Mott was an excellent tracker. He could find a doe in the dark within a few hours, and he had no challenge with the trail left behind by the phantoms. They'd stomped out their path in a wide line.
They were begging to be caught.
Even Imogen could see the careless snow kicked across the white valley.
"There's seven pairs," Mott explained. "They were celebrating the capture."
"Are they leading us on purpose?" Jaron asked. "Could they be waiting to trap us?"
Traps. Imogen hated planned traps. She'd had many heated discussions with Roden about trapping tactics in battle. It was unfair.
And she'd been a victim of traps too many times before.
Pulling her gloves over her fingers, Imogen clicked her horse forwards. The boot prints converged together every so often. Silence settled over the valley. Trees jutted out into the snow, interrupting whispered conversation between earth and sky.
The kidnappers were staying far away from the treeline.
When the trees threatened to swallow up the valley and all inside, the path converged until the pines receded.
Feall's horse tossed its head. It was too easy to follow the path and too difficult to guess why the yodeling bandits had stolen a swaying old woman.
"I don't know if this is the best use of our time," Feall murmured.
"They're headed to Gelyn," said Mott. "How many settlements are between us and the border? Not many, correct?"
"Perhaps two or three," Imogen answered. She'd studied her geography just like every other queen did. It was only after she memorized the names of all Carthyan cities that one of the older ladies of the court told her that most queens didn't have every city lingering in the back of their minds.
It did, however, come in handy in situations like this. She recognized the jagged treeline from a recent map made of north Carthya. The Gelynian border was somewhere near, marked by jagged stones.
Imogen's boots were beginning to freeze around her toes. Her fingers itched to be used. Itched to be thawed in the heat of a warm fire. Time was ticking by too slowly. Too quickly.
Each time she thought of a complaint about the cold, she reminded herself that Calenda was likely facing the same conditions. That shut up the nagging complainer in her head.
Take that nagging hag, complain to the pine trees. There's so many of them, maybe one would bother to listen.
"I know Lake is nearby," Mott explained.
Jaron hummed. "Why go to Lake when you can just go straight across the border?"
"Calenda mentioned that she was Gelynian," said Imogen. She urged her horse to go a few paces faster. "Do you think she might've been snatched by some vengeful relatives?"
"That might explain why she went quietly, but I don't think somebody would trek this far and back for a grandmother."
"Jaron!"
"I'm just saying I wouldn't do that for my father's mother. Not a very kind woman."
"Don't speak ill of the dead!"
"Why? We've already proven that phantoms aren't real."
Unfortunately, he had a good point, but Imogen refused to acknowledge that. She'd heard stories of Queen Erin's predecessor.
None of them were very good.
Guiding her horse with her knees, Imogen rubbed her hands together. She'd packed cream for chapped fingers in her other bag, but left it behind in her rush to rescue Calenda. The Devils were playing their part in her desire to do something good.
She could pay that price.
Especially if leaving behind helpful items meant finding the old Gelynian woman even sooner.
There was a deadly beauty about the snow. It enticed you to stay outside and play, only to trap you in a storm and let you freeze.
Moonlight shone on the path of bootprints, which had condensed into a deep, single file trail in the snow. The nearness of the pine trees to each other likely forced the phantoms together.
They seemed a little fresher.
Imogen swore she heard the distant sound of a man singing once. But the sound faded out so quickly that she was certain that she must've mistaken the wind for something that it wasn't.
Her doubt froze when she glanced at Jaron. His eyebrows furrowed together. Mott held onto his sword hilt.
"Something isn't quite right," murmured Feall. He was several steps behind them.
As the path continued to grow narrower, Imogen steered her horse behind Mott, and Feall brought up the rear.
"They're moving fast," Mott murmured. "They've gone this way before I'd wager."
"Moving fast? In this light and in this snow?" Jaron said in disbelief.
That meant one thing.
Calenda's disappearance had been well planned.
The supposed weeks of ghostly singing. The sleeping village. The pristine change in the way that they walked. Calenda's kidnappers were clearly experienced.
A new fear clutched at Imogen's heart.
What if they were being led on a wild goose chase while the phantoms finished Calenda off?
Imogen shoved those thoughts from her head, and pressed closer to her horse's neck. New doubts were rolling in with each dragging minute. Had it really been a good idea to allow both the king and queen to chase down a herd of bandits?
No, absolutely not.
But Imogen and Jaron were never the type to allow somebody else to work when they still had life pulsing through their hands.
They would survive, Saints be willing.
"We may need to turn back," Mott said.
"No, not until we find a sign of Calenda. We might be following stray sheepherders for all we know," Imogen's grip on her reins stiffened. "I- we're closer to Lake than we are to Trail's End, we've been riding for ages. Let's continue on, we'll- we'll return to Trail's End in the morning if we don't find anything."
"If that's what you want Imogen, that's what we'll do."
"Aren't you going to tell me you disapprove?"
"You already know I disapprove, that's why you're asking that question. I know I can stop neither you nor Jaron from risking your necks for somebody you met this morning, but I can be there to protect you."
Jaron snorted, "Ah, Mott, I know you have a secret love for adventure too."
"I cannot deny nor confirm that."
A stray snowflake drifted from the starry sky. There was no sign of a storm yet, but that didn't mean it wouldn't come. Imogen's teeth chattered.
She wrapped her cloak around herself, and clenched her jaw. It was too cold to play word games with Jaron, and even then, she wasn't sure how she could accept the light jokes considering what had just happened. She had to prove herself. Imogen could be a dutiful wife and a dutiful queen.
Jaron was in the middle of making a comment about Harlowe's gold watch when the singing returned.
Deep and jumping from note to note; the first voice was loud. The following voices were much softer.
The group had been split up.
"I don't like this," Jaron muttered. Metal slid against leather as he withdrew his sword from his scabbard.
Imogen slid her dagger from the sheath built into her saddle. The blade wasn't as long as a sword, but it was better than fighting with a spoon.
She only hoped that her fingers would warm enough to be of use. At this rate, she'd soon be unable to hold onto the reins.
Without making a sound, Mott held up his hand, and gestured for both Feall and Jaron to press into a tight triangle with Imogen in the middle. He was nudging his horse closer to the treeline.
A high note rang through the woods.
And then it went silent.
The snow-filled woods carried something new. Nobody was ever truly alone in the forest.
It was some time before Mott spoke again. His words were barely audible, "If you look in the distance, you can see the lights of Lake, but the valley closes if you go too far north."
"If we rode hard enough, we'd be able to make it," Jaron suggested. "We'd run the risk of losing the trail, but we'd be alive."
"No, we should keep-," Imogen began, but her sentence was soon cut short by another man singing a series of short, sharp notes.
They were much closer than before.
Mott held a finger to his lips.
Music was a thing to bring joy, but at the moment, it filled Imogen with uncertainty. This music was something more.
The phantoms were sharing their notes in a specific pattern, but why? What was to gain from singing in the snow?
"I wonder if these phantoms were bothering Gelynians too," Jaron reached for Imogen's hand. He entwined his fingers with hers while still keeping a death grip on his sword.
"We might be able to hear something," Mott held his finger to his lips again.
Sing, phantoms! Sing! There had to be somebody attempting a duet.
Imogen squeezed Jaron's hand. His touch brought much needed warmth. She stared at the outline of his hand in the moonlight as another high pitched note cracked the quiet snow.
This had been her idea, and now they were depending on the cover of trees to save them.
Another note joined the singers, much higher and out of tune.
A woman's scream.
They'd rode right into a song of life and death without an invitation. Imogen bowed her head, and began to pray.
She didn't know what they could do to survive. Her prayer fizzled, and she looked up, wondering what on earth they could do next that didn't mean death. Running would lead to Calenda's dismal fate. Remaining near the trees could mean being found.
"We could make it to Lake," Jaron murmured. "I doubt the men who stole Calenda have bows, they would've shot us long ago."
"Only if they knew we were following them," said Mott.
Both responses were true.
Feall leaned ever so slightly to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on at the other side of the valley. "If they're traveling to Gelyn, chances are high that they'll have to take Half-Moon Pass this late in winter, we could intercept them."
Imogen sighed as she thought of both options. Tricks and turns were something she had yet to master. Jaron would be the best suited for a choice like this.
How could she have so confidently led them away from safety?
She'd made a choice, and now she would have to deal with the consequences.
"In Imogen's defense," Jaron whispered. "I didn't think we'd catch up to them."
"Perhaps this was meant to happen," Feall pointed out.
Neither did she, now that she realized it. Imogen sat a little taller in her saddle, eager to catch a glimpse of what was going on out in the dark snow. Aside from the shadows of trees and the occasional drifting snowflake, there was no current movement.
A man's baritone voice wailed in the distance.
The air around Imogen grew tight and brittle. She feared leaning too far and shattering the new silence.
Mott unsheathed his sword, far slower than any caterpillar could inch down a spring tree. Nothing happened. Nothing but the lazy falling flakes and breaths leaving in clouds. A shiver rattled Imogen's teeth; she bit down on her tongue to keep it from happening again. The horses stood frozen in place as if they too knew the cost of movement.
Her boots were soaked to her skin.
This type of silence only ever occurred in a crypt.
There was a chance that these silent pines would soon serve as a tomb for the king and queen of Carthya.
"Your command, Imogen," Jaron whispered. He kept his gaze locked on a gap between the trees.
She could feel the eyes of a king on her face. The eyes of a dear friend. Their souls were knit together as one. Imogen looked at Jaron and gave a small nod. He trusted her. She trusted him.
"We have to try our best to get her back," Imogen's words were icy in her own mouth. It was too cold. "We need to at least try."
The singing cut through the valley again, much closer than ever before. Imogen's horse pranced forwards without any direction. It was too much of a battle to regain control. Imogen tugged and her horse pulled.
"Please!" She hissed, she could hear Jaron and Feall clamoring with the volume of a whisper.
Her horse obeyed and shook its head. Imogen's heart remained lodged in her throat, unsure if somebody had seen her. She covered her mouth. Was she breathing too loud?
A pair of figures burst out from the opposite treeline, one of them moving far faster than the other.
"I've got it!" Feall barked from behind Imogen. He soared past her on his magnificent horse, Mott followed close behind.
Snow scattered everywhere. Jaron raced past her. There was a chance they'd be able to rescue Calenda.
Imogen urged her horse to a gallop, and followed behind them.
The snow dragged the horses and runners down. Six more men poured out from the treeline, each at varying speeds and each chasing after the mad dasher. Feall's horse was leaping through a sea of white.
It was a scene a bard would sing of. Seven deadly men stealing a woman, two knights, and a queen and king racing out to save her despite the bitter cold and unpredictable outcome.
They'd all been caught off guard by each other.
A piercing note stung Imogen's ears. Her horse slid to a prancing stop, circling around itself as Imogen struggled to regain control. The man who had run slowest was yodeling a warning.
"Drive them forward!" Mott barked, intercepting the intricate melody.
Feall was growing smaller and smaller. The runner was slowing down, and the chaser was catching up. Imogen spurred her horse to action once again. There was too much yelling. Nobody could understand a thing.
The chaser threw himself at the runner, pinning his prey to the snow. Imogen was closer now. She could see the color of Calenda's shawl as the man stood and threw her over his shoulder. He drew his sword, ready to meet all those who were determined to stop him.
Everything was moving too quickly. Imogen prided herself on being still when her husband was racing for answers.
Jaron and Mott were near Feall now, all three were slowing to a stop. The man cut the air each time one of them came too close. His six accomplices were rushing to his aide.
Be still and wait.
But Imogen couldn't be still. She slowed her horse, looking for something, anything that could help them.
And she realized why Mott and Feall had been so quick to chase.
They'd cornered the seven yodeling bandits against the valley's end. They were pinned against a cliff of ice and rock.
With nowhere to run but up the cliff or into battle.
Imogen could see seven black shadows against stark white snow. She could see the way each of them heaved for breath from where she stood not far from Jaron. Their weapons drooped ever so slightly. They were exhausted and cornered.
Though Imogen had no idea what to do next. She moved closer to Jaron, her eyes lingering at the scar just below his eye. He caught her gaze. There was a chance at victory.
It seemed that nobody knew the terrain, neither bandit nor king.
"You don't know what you're doing," spat the man holding Calenda. It was easier to see his frostbitten face now. His hair was almost as light as the fresh fallen snow. Scars crossed the top of his neck, and the rest were hidden by his jerkin.
"Do you know what you're doing? Snatching one of my citizens?" Jaron countered. His back had gone straight and stiff like it always did when there was a challenge.
"This isn't any Carthyan, she's a witch, you best be thanking us we-"
"Leave the woman alone or we'll have the opportunity to see what snow looks like spattered in your blood," said Feall, his voice rough and unsympathetic.
He'd never really spoken like that before; not to Imogen's recollection.
One of the other men laughed until he turned to thick coughing. He was choking out words. "Haven't had much experience in gambling, haven't you?"
"We'd be willing to negotiate," Imogen cut in. "You're looking for ransom, aren't you?"
"How much are you willing to pay-?" Began a short bandit, his beard patched in places. The man beside him elbowed him in the middle, cutting off any other communication for a moment.
The man holding Calenda shook his head, "Leave us be and forget this woman."
Jaron scoffed. The winter wind carried his growing anger. "You'd like for it to be that easy."
"Don't come any closer."
"Give us Calenda back and we'd be more than happy to let you travel on to Gelyn."
Why the bandits hadn't started running, Imogen didn't know. They were waiting. Everyone was waiting.
Until Feall jerked his horse closer with Jaron and Mott in tow.
"Back away, traitor king!" Bellowed the man, and he shrugged Calenda off his shoulder and into the snow. He raised his sword. "I'll end it all if you move again!"
Jaron reined back his horse and drew his blade, his voice eerily calm. "I don't fear men who are so cowardly as to steal an old Carthyan woman."
"I'd hardly call her a Carthyan."
"And what would you call her?" Imogen leaned forward in her saddle, eager for an answer from the blonde bandit. He gave no word and stood still.
At first, the singing bandit kept his gaze on Imogen, but now his attention was elsewhere.
Now he stared at Imogen. He was searching for something, Imogen was sure of it.
If he were looking for a weak link, he was wasting time. This wouldn't be an easy fight.
"All we ask is that you let this woman go," she held out her hand. "She's done nothing to you."
The man scoffed, "I won't answer to you."
"Then who do you answer to?"
"Myself. Mireldis Thay. Bosi, Lord of Stirling."
Imogen tilted her head, thankful for the few moments of conversation. "And what is your name?"
"I won't let you talk me into giving up what we've worked so hard to get."
There was movement in the snow. Calenda pushed herself up to her hands and knees, and fading auburn hair trickled out from beneath her hair scarf. She was still wrapped in her colorful shawl from before.
"Let me go," she choked, and the bandit nearest to her hurled her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of grain. Imogen flinched.
"You'll let her go," ordered Feall. He'd dismounted his horse and drawn his sword like Jaron. "Let her go or I will take her from you."
"I'd sooner scale this very wall than give up this bloody hag," countered the man, and he spat in Feall's direction.
"That doesn't seem like too bad of an idea," one of the bandits was grinning. "Why don't we do it?"
That was the only prompting it took. Five of the men lunged to the cliff face and began to scramble up the slick rock, while the bandit holding Calenda stepped behind the man who served only cruel masters. Calenda's captor raced towards the wall.
Somebody high above the rest threw down a bundle that tumbled and unfurled as it plummeted to the ground; a long, thick rope. The bandit used what he could to tie Calenda to his body, and then he too began to scale the frozen cliff face.
Feall sprung towards the fleeing bandit with his sword swinging. The nameless man crouched and held the flat of his blade, blocking Feall's overhead blow. Metal hit metal, and Imogen clenched her teeth together.
"He needs help," grunted Jaron. He kicked his horse into action, and Imogen was left reaching for air with a desperate plea to be careful.
The singing bandits were all spread across the cliff face. Not a single man fell.
They were six large spiders slipping once more into the impenetrable night.
Only foggy moonlight lit the valley. Feall tried to cut through the man's middle, but was met with a sharp kick to the knee and a punch to the middle. Snow burst into the air as he fell. Imogen tilted her head; Jaron was joining the fight on horseback.
It would've been peaceful if it hadn't been for the singing bandits. This could've been a place Imogen would've wanted to return to. To touch and see.
Metal hit metal again. Imogen always hated watching sparring, and she hated seeing any type of battle. Jaron used his horse to push the man back. He leaned to block every blow, right, left, right, left.
Jaron was a fierce opponent in words and with the sword. Each time he swung, he seemed to become less and less real, and more and more like a man of myth. He finally reared his blade back and brought it crashing against the other man's. The strength behind the blow sang of heroes of old; the man's sword went soaring into snow.
Victory was in sight. But only for a moment. The fighting waited. The man held his hands up in surrender.
"We have no reason to keep him," huffed Feall as he stumbled up to his feet. "His men abandoned him."
The man spat on the snow and snarled, "And I've got no reason to keep you still breathing."
It was all happening too fast. There were too many flashes of metal and grunts and splashes of snow. The bandit ripped a dagger from his belt, and blocked Jaron's blow. He threw it as hard as he could at Mott.
The near peace of the valley immediately soured, ending at a discordant strike. Ruby red tainted patches of ice. The bandit launched away from Jaron to the cliff wall. He clung to whatever he could, and scaled up after his six companions.
Horror filled the open space.
Black blood stained the snow.
Imogen dismounted, and led her horse by the bridle for several steps. Her hands were heavier than before, she'd never been so aware of how little her hands could do. The bridle slipped from her grasp as she passed through the valley. Mott was patting himself down to check for wounds.
If one wasn't looking for it, they wouldn't have been able to see the bandit's discarded dagger. Its hilt glinted near the base of a snow bank, never to be used again.
Just another step, that'll do. Mott was still standing. It wasn't his blood scattered across the covered earth. The snow was white; the snow was dark. Seven little men clambered up and over the side of the mountain, taking Calenda with them. Imogen reached for Jaron.
"We should've tried harder," Feall grunted, he scratched at his neck. "I don't know the mountains well but I can't imagine there's any sanctuary for them near here."
Mott shook his head, "The nearest settlements are Lake and then garrison towns near the Half-Moon Pass. I personally don't think they'd go to a city, not with a hostage."
"They'd want to keep her alive, don't you think?" said Imogen. She didn't want to think about what it meant if she were wrong.
"Whiterune isn't far from here, there's a narrow road through the gorge," Jaron scratched the back of his head. "He mentioned an old friend of ours I'd see in Gelyn."
Feall was nodding, and he crossed his arms. "Mireldis Thay. It makes a little bit of sense. Should we try and-, something's not- something's not right here."
"What do you mean?"
"Jaron, Jaron, you have to look," Imogen pressed her hand to her left collarbone. She tugged at Feall's shirt sleeve, pulling his arm from his dark stained middle. Crimson blood seeped onto her fingertips.
It was like watching a mountain tumble to the earth. Feall always seemed so firm, so steadfast. He fell to his knees first with his hands pressed against the unseen wound. This answered the question of where to go.
"I've heard of the damage caused by blades so small you can hold it in your fist," Mott murmured, his words muted by clenched teeth.
An unseen blade. Small enough to hit a target and to be hidden from view before anyone knew what had happened.
Without proper equipment there was no telling what would happen. Tobias was skilled when he had the right tools, but he didn't have what he needed. It was too long to get to a city in Carthya.
"We'll take the gorge," Imogen mumbled, setting a hand on Feall's shoulder. "Hold on, you're going to be all right."
Feall gave a feeble nod, as did Jaron, and Imogen had an inkling that they were all thinking of the same thing.
Unless a miracle happened, there was a very high chance that they'd be digging a roadside grave.