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Warning: There are graphic depictions of violence in this chapter (and further in the story, where I will not be adding warnings from this point onward).
Little Sparrow
Chapter IV: Blood in the Air
Her eyes flickered across the hilly plains, attentive and alert, for there was something in the air; Luin, too, could scent it, and the animal tripped skittishly on the dusty ground. Blood. She moved again, this time with slow deliberation as her hands pulled the bow from her back. When she approached, the smell became pungent and heavy, even more so as she climbed a ridge on horseback. The wide and rugged shelf ended suddenly in the brink of a sheer cliff, but gave a good view over the dale below.
The green plains of the Rohirrim stretched away before her to the edge of sight, though it was something white that caught her gaze just below the cliff. Turning down, at the bottom she found the source of the smell. Four large animals protruded from the grass, stripped from most meat, and the guts were strewn across the surrounding field; their bones white in the sun, broken and torn apart. She dismounted quickly and crouched at the carcasses, while her eyes swept across the area. These are not deer, she thought with a frown. The animals were too large, almost thrice the size of a normal buck; Rell hovered a hand over the closest remains, feeling a faint, lingering heat.
The kills were still fresh.
Next, she looked at the tracks surrounding the animals, and what she came across sent a chill down her spine. Many footfalls had trampled the grass, telling her that a great number had passed by not long ago; they wore boots, but were travelling light for the dirt was barely touched or flattened in their wake. There were no signs of a fire, and likely they had avoided any attention with smoke or flames by eating the meat raw.
Then she found the first head, milky-white eyes looking into nothing, thrown away when the animals had been slain. They were horses. Her concern turned to dread, for not far from the carnage she came across a well-kept saddle of dark leather as well as a dagger, its hilt decorated with small figures on horse-back. She turned the blade over in her hands.
It was little comfort that she did not find the bodies of the riders, knowing well they would either be held as captives or lay dead elsewhere in the fields. Rell stepped to the edge of the circle of flattened grass, where likely the large group had set up camp, and searched their path; they had come from the west, now heading further over the plains south-east into the Eastemnet. Rell imagined them to be Wild Men, passing close to the forest of old and raiding any village or settlement they came across – but how had they passed the Fords of Isen unseen? Covered more than a hundred miles through Rohan, without encountering armed resistance?
They should not have come this far ...
There was no uncertainty in her choice, for it could barely be called a choice; she called Luin to her and swung into the saddle, then followed the tracks across the hills while her attention was fixed on the horizon. Her pursuit brought her swiftly over many leagues, over the wide solitude and her cloak faded against the background of grey-green fields. The track led straight on, without break or turn until a thin, barely visible, line of smoke trailing through the air caught her attention. A white thread against the deepening blue.
Dismounting once more and giving a soft order for her horse to remain, knowing well something was ahead, she carefully climbed the hilltop; bending down to peer over its edge. A fire had raged previously, but now only toppled ruins of a large farmstead remained; soot-covered and blackened beams and stones lay in great piles, as the house had partly crumbled. The thatched roof of the stables was smoking still.
She circled the buildings, keeping to the top of the hill to secure a lookout both ahead and back, and here she found the track continued on; but it was split in two, one larger party heading straight south and another, she figured no more than a dozen men at most, parted from the group and veered north-east again. Her brow furrowed at the sight, attempting to key together her findings. No maps she had gone through showed much of the region, except for the larger settlements close to the fortress of Aldburg. She could not imagine a host of Wild Men would be foolish enough to attack such a stronghold.
Rell then slipped down the slope, hidden in the tall grass and constantly on the look-out for stragglers.
The house appeared to have been abandoned, and the Dunlendings had continued on with their march, leaving only rubble and destruction in their wake.
But she found something else instead.
Rell whispered a soft prayer to the Valar, head lowered and hands clenched, when she finally found the missing riders. They lay in the dry and short turf, hewn with many cruel strokes, and the ground was wetted with their blood. Their armour had been stripped from them, piled and burned. The heads looked with unseeing glazed eyes from tall wooden stakes where they had been speared, mouths agape and helmets thrown aside, and she only looked at them briefly before diverting her gaze. Her stomach churned at the smells.
The sight chilled her heart. It took her a few long moments before she approached the house, now searching with little hope for the farmer that had lived there, and for his family, though she knew well their fate had likely been just as cruel. Smoke was heavy in the air, dark and curling with every gust of wind, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. Her other hand found the hilt of her sword, ready to draw it from its sheath.
Stepping into the house, careful of beams and broken stones, she first came across the farmer. Blond hair was matted in blood, and he had been cut down in a single stroke not far from the door. An axe, meant for cutting wood and not bones, lay by his hand. Unused. She did not check if he was yet alive, for the crimson pool told her much. Chairs, tables; everything was broken and tossed about, as if done for no reason but to destroy in evil and resentful, old malice.
When she then came across the farmer's wife, Rell swiftly turned away and swallowed back bile. The woman was dead, that much was certain, but the attackers had not been swift; her clothes were torn, skirts hitched over her legs, and it had not been a sword that ended her life. Hands and nails were caked in darkened blood, and she had likely fought against her attackers; clawing and kicking until the very end.
Rell fled the house, seeking clean air to calm her mind.
Heaving for breath, she settled her gaze on the white clouds drifting overhead, and Rell felt hot-boiling anger welling up inside her stomach. Burning and clear. What had they done to deserve such an end? Whistling a shrill and short tune, Luin appeared on the ridge, neighing, and the horse trotted up to her side with dust trailing behind; with nostrils wide, the clever animal could smell not only the butchery, but also its rider's darkening mood.
"You and I," Rell started, attempting to still her wavering voice that shook when she spoke. She pressed her forehead against the soft and warm muzzle, then breathed deeply to calm her fast-beating heart. "We will get them for this."
As she was about to climb into the saddle, a noise – barely discernible over the small crackles and pops of still-burning logs – caught her attention. It was faint, soon vanished once more into silence, but she had heard it nonetheless. Rell looked out over the yard, attempting to determine the root of the sound; an unnatural silence lay over the razed house, grating on her ears. The sound had been a scrape, like iron dragging on stone.
"Friend or foe – come forward now, and I shall not raise my weapon against you unless you bare yours!" She called out, voice resounding in the quiet, yet no answer came. Then she walked with slow, deliberate, steps over the dust ground towards the buildings; attentively listening for another sound to mark her target, her instincts telling her she was not alone. The main house had been checked, finding only death inside, and so her eyes fell upon the stables. She pushed aside fallen boards between thick layers of ash, discovering rounded stones below. They echoed hollow as she tapped them with her sword.
She crouched, now carefully searching the ground for openings. While Rell still remained watchful, she no longer expected to encounter any Wild Men, but rather scared survivors of the raid. They could still prove dangerous, for in their fear they could not know if they attacked an enemy before it would prove too late. A soft shuffle, muffled, ran like a tremor through the stones, and Rell was now certain.
Standing up, she spoke again. "I am a Ranger of the North, and I am not here to hurt you." As she gazed over the ground, Rell became aware that there was now a stir and movement; a scraping sound rang shrill, as ash and soot fell through emerging cracks that ran over the floor. The hatch was pulled aside, and a pair of blue eyes looked at the Ranger in fear. Rell sheathed her sword immediately and held up her hands, attempting to placate the young girl. "I will not hurt you," she said carefully.
Several moments passed, where the farmer's child – no more than ten in age – watched Rell with conflicting emotions; the blonde hair was dirtied, her skin covered in soot and white lines ran down her cheeks. Streaked with tears. She must have hid before the Wild Men noticed her, Rell thought, crouching to appear less frightening. Then finally, deeming the stranger to be no threat, the girl climbed out of the small basement that had saved her life. A small, wavering voice followed her up, sounding distraught and choked up, alerting Rell to another presence.
"You are not alone?" She asked.
The girl blinked, head tilting sideways, as she sat down on the floor; trembling hands wrapped around her legs, while her eyes ran across the ruins around them. Tears fell silently, but no answer came. Rell chewed her lip, wondering if the child spoke Westron, although she strongly doubted it. Repeating the question, pointing to the hatch, she finally stood and walked over; at first the girl tried to speak, words in a language Rell did not know, but then allowed the Ranger to walk closer. Peering down into the basement, she saw two tiny figures huddled together at the end of a narrow staircase. Both yelped in shock when they saw her, and the youngest burst into fresh tears.
They appeared unharmed, and had likely escaped into hiding before the attack.
Rell's gaze softened, and she motioned the girl over.
Without any other way to communicate – and she had many questions in the need of answering – she started to draw in the ashes. Rell made a rough outline of the farmstead, while pointing to the place they were sitting, then small figures of men heading in two directions. With her other hand she pointed south, then to the drawing; repeatedly, until the child understood the gesture. The girl made a long trail over the stones and finally a large building, surrounded by stick-figured horsemen. Rell assumed it to be the stronghold of Aldburg.
After doing the same, this time for the smaller host of Wild Men heading north-east, she inhaled sharply. For in their path, the girl instead drew several small houses and people; no riders, and when Rell drew a sword on one of the villagers, looking up questioningly, she shook her head. Haste was needed now. Ignoring the shriek, Rell picked up the girl and lowered her down into the small basement once more; eyes casting one last look down on the three siblings, she spoke a command they could surely understand.
"Stay."
Then she drew the hatch over the hole.
Rell tried to conceal the hiding place with ash and half-burnt boards, hoping it would be enough in case the Wild Men returned. At least it was no longer obvious unless one knew to look for it. When she stepped outside, the land was bathed in warmth, and it was not yet long passed midday for the sun was still high. Her heart was hammering, loudly beating in her chest, as she mounted Luin. Rell did not fear battle, but a sense of dread for the villagers made her spur her horse into a fast sprint.
Hoofs thundered over the ground, sending tufts of grass and earth soaring through the air after them.
They shot across the plains, through the tall grass and over small creaks; the land was green, and in the wet meadows grew many willow-trees. But despite the beauty of the land, there was a chill in the air that made her press on with ever growing need. How far ahead were the Dunlendings? Would she arrive too late? Ever so often she watched the tracks, following them carefully, making sure she would not miss a sudden turn, but at the same time she also kept a keen watch on the rolling hills.
A smell of burning was in the air, and Luin grew uneasy beneath her. A great weight of dread settled on her, and time seemed poised in uncertainty. She was too late. "With haste, Luin!" The horse sprang away, hoofs beating against the ground, as Rell drew the bow from her back. Wisps of grey-white smoke rose into the air, and when the Ranger approached, screams and shouts blew on the wind to meet her.
Despite the fast approaching battle, a calmness fell over her – beaten into her through years of practice. Ready, poised so that no mistake would hinder her nor risk her life. Luin's muscles tensed as Rell released the reins, instead pulling back the bowstring. She exhaled, then released the arrow and watched it carve through the air. The look-out on the hilltop tumbled down the slope, dead, before he had a chance to shout a warning for his comrades.
A dark arrow jutted out from below his mandible, blood spluttering through the dark filtered beard.
The horse sprang past the Dunlending, climbing the hill swiftly, and now Rell had a clear look over the village. Fires were blazing, roaring to life as thatched roofs fed the wild flames; terror rose up to greet her, panic and screams, as her gaze attempted to gauge the extent of the battle. Several villagers lay slain in the streets, yet chaos was ongoing. Another arrow was released, and the string whirred by her ear; but still Luin rode on, mane rolling and whipping about in its speed. Arrow upon arrow sang through the air, and three Wild Men lay dead before Rell reached the first burning houses.
With the sun in her back, blindingly clear, she managed to kill one more before they spotted her.
Shouts of alarm brought their attention to her. The faces of her enemies were now drawn upon her, but Rell did not blench. Soon after, she was forced to put aside her bow, finding the hilt of her sword instead, for the Wild Men sought cover behind walls and fences. Arrows became useless. But the weight in her hand was calming on her nerves.
There were cries in the air, and among them the harsh voices of an unfamiliar language; barking orders, and her quick ears caught heavy footfalls around her.
Surrounding, blocking her escape.
Rell dropped swiftly out of the saddle and shouted a command. "Maetha, Luin!" The horse tore off, and the Ranger drew her sword. It rang hollow in the sudden silence, the world holding a deep breath before a storm's release; her feet shifted over the ground, drawing up clouds of dust, while her gaze flickered over her surroundings. Soon ...
Dark smoke blew across the streets, twisting and obscuring her vision; she flexed her hand over the hilt, breathing quiet and calm, but she knew it would not be long now. The weight shifted to her legs, prepared for the first strike, though she was not sure from where it would fall. A dog was barking loudly, snarls weaving between the buildings.
Movement from the corner of her eye flashed, and a jagged blade hissed past her chest. Rell whirled around, blocking the attack with her own sword and a dull, metal clang trembled up her arm. She allowed the blow to slide by, twisting out her free arm, and levelled a hit across the Dunlending's temple with as much force as she could muster.
Stumbling and disoriented, momentarily put out of the fight, he fell to the ground. Rell could turn her attention on to the next; she drew blood, cutting deeply into flesh. Warm droplets flecked her face, but she had immediately moved on and returned to the first attacker, knowing well her blow had been clean. The sword sank into the soft tissue below the ribs, grating against bones, and he slumped down, lifeless.
She was glad there was very little order between the Wild Men, for clearly she was outnumbered if they charged all at once. No more came openly at her. Carefully moving around the corner of a building, wiping blood from her face and eyes, she followed the sound of anguished screams. Urging her forward with haste. Rell could no longer hear barking. Animals lay dead in the streets and in their enclosures; horses and sheep cut down and gutted.
A loud scuffle welled up from without the nearest house, accompanied by pleas and cries.
Rell passed through the broken-down door, but recoiled swiftly. Pain erupted where the blade met her arm, stalling the man's attack, and jolting tendrils ran down her arm to her fingers. Numbing. She cursed and fell back into the open yard. Finding her footings, turning the sword in her hand, she met the second blow; she held the blade even, a perfect, undaunted horizon. Second nature, as her uncle had taught her.
He hissed something in his dark, guttural language; yellowed teeth bared in a grin, and they stood close enough for Rell to smell his breath. Rotten and putrid. She drew back, swung her sword to meet his, and, with his attention on her, the other free hand found the smaller knife in her belt. It slit the great vein in his neck, and air wheezed through gaping lips as he drew his last pungent breath.
Pulling back the blade and stepping aside, Rell looked into the house.
A woman, clothes torn, clutched a small bundle tightly, huddling together in a corner of the room. Fearful eyes met hers, but both mother and child appeared unharmed. She pressed a hand to her wound, wincing, and felt a warm dampness soaking through the fabric; then the Ranger returned to her duty. The wound could be dressed later.
Even if it stung horribly.
The villagers had put up a fight, and Rell came across several bodies of the Wild Men. Tangled dark hair, coarse leathers and wools, and weapons caked in rust. The fires grew in strength, and the heat made beads of sweat trickle down her brow; she could taste salt and iron in her mouth. Dust and ash. Her eyes watered and her vision blurred.
Reflex kicked in and she ducked back, creating a distance between herself and the figure that had sprung out through the smoke. The man dashed at her, attempting to knock her over, but Rell swung her sword in a wide arch. He stumbled, and she made a grab for his shirt; balling the cloth between her fingers, she slammed her other elbow into his ear.
She forced his head back, intending to sweep his legs out from beneath him, when something hard collided with her shoulder. Pain bloomed, numbing her grip and the man staggered back. A quick glance back revealed a burly figure holding a wooden club in his hands, raising it again to strike. Knuckles white over the hilt, struggling to keep her hold on her weapon, she weakly blocked the blow.
For a moment she was unguarded, muscles screaming in effort, and if her enemy's weapon had not been so heavy, she knew well the danger that could have been. She shoved into him with great force, knocking them both down, and her sword slipped from her aching hand. Outnumbered, and she had now lost both her footing and her weapon. He was larger and stronger, and the grasp on her was iron; her mind had not forgotten the second man, knowing well the blow would not keep him dazed for long.
Rell felt neither pride nor shame, for this was not honourable combat – this was a struggle to win and to live. Baring her teeth, she dug into the thin skin; tearing flesh and tissue, warm blood pooled into her mouth. She fought back a choke. He howled and trashed, landing several blows to her back to throw her off, but finally he lessened his own grip and she stumbled away. Scraping over rocks, fumbling to hold on to her sword, she whistled sharply.
Luin came thundering down the road, an unstoppable and wild force, summoned by the earlier command.
They had trained the maneuver many times; the horse skirting the perimeter of a battle, at the ready to attack when needed. The dazed Dunlending had little chance to react before he was crushed below the large animal, trampled under hoofs, and while Rell turned to her own adversary it was to the sound of breaking bones. Shock was apparent on the man's feral face, astonished, but she did not hesitate. She could not afford to.
Finding strength in her grip, twisting the hilt, Rell retaliated. Blinking in surprise, hands fumbling around the blade now buried in his guts, his eyes slowly grew clouded. Fading. Blood pooled around him, soaking into the dry ground and turned it crimson, but soon the body lay still. Staggering to her feet, Rell withdrew her sword and called Luin to her side.
She did not need to look at the other man.
With ears flat and tail flickering, the horse walked to her side; nostrils flaring before the large, warm head burrowed against her shoulder. She rubbed the rough coat, feeling the heartbeat pounding strongly, and she soothed her steed quietly. "Thank you for your help, Luin." Rell looked into the large brown eyes. "You saved me." But there was little time to calm her uneasy companion, not when there were still screams in the air.
The fire raged on. Running her palm over her horse's forehead, gently, she allowed it to return to the hills. Then she ran further into the village, passing buildings and stables; carts and stacks of hay, turned over and devoured by large flames, and the air was heavy with smoke. Turning a corner, Rell startled to a halt as she came face to face with a group of men. They raised their weapons – pitchforks, axes, and one large greatsword – against her.
"Wait!" Rell cried, stepping back quickly with both arms raised. "I am here to help."
The one brandishing the sword stepped forward, towering a great deal over her, as he surveyed her keenly. His feet were planted firmly apart, and the hand gripped the handle with practiced familiarity; light-blue eyes flashed. Her own grip tightened on the hilt, but she would not draw it on them – they were men of Rohan, and they were not her enemy. "Who are you, and what are you doing in this land?" He asked, using the Common Speech of the West, but in a manner and tone indicating he knew very little of the language.
His companions stood restlessly glancing about, huddled together with weapons close, and she knew the large man to be the leader who had rallied them. He looked to be the only warrior in the group. But his sword was old, unsharpened, and he had likely not used it in a long time. The wound pulsed as she gripped her own weapon tighter.
Farmers protecting their lands.
Rell pointed to the clasp at her neck, to the six-pointed star, and then motioned to their surroundings. "I came out of the North. I was passing through when I came upon the Wild Men's trails, and I decided to follow." Then she drew her blade, coated in crimson, and held it up for them to see. "There is little time, but know that I am on your side. Now, please, lead the way to battle."
He watched her a moment longer, but then nodded gruffly, leading them through a narrow passage between two houses.
Shouts in the Dunland tongue ricocheted between the walls, growing loud and pressing, and as they entered the open square beyond they were met with a large group of Wild Men. Behind them Rell saw several villagers; gathered together and tied up, many bleeding and beaten badly. There was little time for Rell to orientate herself, for all around her people leaped into the fray with cries and shouts.
Rell was weary and tired when she blocked the first blow, stumbling under its weight, and the wound on her arm pulsed.
Her stamina was soon spent. But while the blow numbed the senses in her hand, she twisted and kicked out her leg. As she made contact, beating the air from his lungs, her attacker dropped to the ground. Her next attack followed swiftly, shattering his nose and knocking him unconscious. Heaving for air, crouching down on her knees, Rell attempted to catch her breath. A taste of iron filled her mouth.
Warmth trickled down her arm. The wound had opened further, and she felt light-headed and dizzy.
Advance, her mind urged her forward, advance.
Shadows danced over the ground, whirling up dust and blood; blades clanking and hissing, carving through air and bone, and Rell staggered to her feet. The fight was not over. Children were crying and screaming. The armed Rohirrim had pressed on, holding their own against the Dunlendings, but several on both sides lay dead on the ground.
Rell put aside the ever growing pain in her body, taking a step forward. Then another. Exhaled, inhaled, as her eyes came into focus on everything around her. Drawing the smaller blade from her belt, turning it over, she threw the knife at a nearby Wild Man before quickly following it herself; raising her sword to strike despite her muscles' screams of agony.
The head landed with a hollow thud, rolling away, as the body collapsed to the ground. She retrieved the knife from his back, wrestling it loose, then jumped to help one of the Rohirrim fighting alone against two. Time was lost to her, hacking and slashing, as the world became painted in red; her eyes stung from dark smoke, breathing ragged, and her ears rang from every blow she had taken.
But then, at last, it was over.
Rell sheathed her sword, then slumped down onto the hard ground as her legs caved. She stank of sweat and blood, her hands trembled, and she felt like throwing up. For a while she sat and shivered; clenching and unclenching her hands to gauge the damage, but finally she carefully pried away the sleeve of her tunic. It burned, as the matted blood made the fabric cling to the cut. But Rell knew how to handle a wound; the quicker she was, the less damage it would be.
And so, biting her teeth together, she uncovered the still bleeding gash despite the pain.
To her great relief, the cut did not run deep, and she did not fear any permanent damage as only little blood oozed out. The blow had missed her tendons. Another scar, but both arm and fingers would work fine in time. She brushed aside strands of hair from her face, undone from the braid during the fight, and her fingers stilled against her brow. Her body felt as if on fire, and it was hard to find even one place that did not hurt.
The uninjured men were quick at work, searching for villagers and putting out the fires, and soon the square was a mesh of people. Nearly twenty Dunlendings lay dead, several more than she had expected from the trails, and they were laden on waggons with little care to be hauled off. But nearly the same amount of Rohirrim had been killed. It was a sad hour, filled with anguished cries as men and women found their loved ones, and Rell could do no more than watch.
If only I had arrived sooner, she thought with a heavy and disheartened mind, how many more could have been saved?
The pillars of smoke rose high into the air before the wind caught hold of it; dark birds were drawn in by the smell of blood and death, now watching with beady eyes from the rooftops. But still the westering sun gleamed, painting the blue sky in vivid colours, and a peaceful silence had settled over the lands. Luin answered her call, and soon after the horse stood faithfully by her side. Waiting calmly.
Water was drawn from wells, and Rell washed and cleaned her wound; it stung, but soon she had dressed it with clean linen and herbs – fine-grounded athelas from her satchel. While she had not learnt much of the healing arts, unlike her uncle, the sweet-smelling herb eased her pain still. Only few noticed the lone Ranger, sitting off to the side, for they were deep in their own grief and spared little thought on anything else. Rell leaned against the wall of a building, closing her eyes for a moment as exhaustion spread throughout her body.
Her head pounded, and the taste of iron lingered in her mouth.
She ran her tongue over her teeth, making sure none had come loose during the fight.
But it was not yet the hour for rest, and despite her throbbing head and aching muscles, Rell returned to her feet. There were still many in need of aid, with deep gashes and injuries that would likely claim lives throughout the day. She found the wounded had been laid in long rows on the ground, a smell of vomit and blood heavy in the air. Groans and sobs. Walking down the line, seeing most had been cared for to some extent, she kneeled down beside a young man; he had a gash across the side of his head, inexpertly bandaged, and blood oozed sluggishly out.
Dark crimson trails ran down his forehead and over his eyes, pinched together in fevered delirium. Rell carefully began to unwrap the stained linens, glancing about for someone to fetch water to clean the wound. Her hands soon became sticky with warm blood, stroking away the matted blond hair. He moaned, fingers fretting as they opened and closed.
When finally a crock of warm water was brought to her, she cleaned the wound to her best ability and pressed the crushed herbs into the gash. Then she wrapped a fresh bandage around his head, making sure to apply enough pressure to still the bleeding. Rell did not linger, for her presence could do no more for the boy, and instead she passed on to the next one in the line. She moved from blood encrusted cuts to broken limbs. Bones shining pale below torn muscle. In no time at all, Rell had used up her supply of athelas; but with the light waning, most of the injured had been helped inside the houses for the night.
Her work was at long last done.
Rell wiped her brow but managed only to smear dried blood across her skin, looking out over the square to the men remaining in an attempt to find the warrior from earlier. She called for Luin, grabbing the horse by the reins, and pulled it along with her. Following the trail where the Rohirrim had hauled off the Dunlendings, she found a large fire taking shape over the first hills; a great valley lay beyond and further, in the deepening shadows, unending stretches of land was all she could see until her gaze reached the horizon.
The corpses were piled onto the wood with little care, and soon all-devouring flames were lit about them.
He was not hard to find between lean farmers, for his large and muscled body stood out rather prominently. Rell stepped closer, finding her voice that had long been unused. "Have you any men that can ride out?" She asked, drawing his attention to her and away from the flames. "There is danger still. A larger host of Wild Men are heading south as we speak."
"How come you know of this?" He said.
"I found their trail not far from here," she said and pointed in the direction of where she had found the burnt-down farmstead. Her glove was coated in darkening patches of blood, stark against the green fields and the blue of the sky. Her head was pounding, heavy with exhaustion and the dull throb of her injuries. "Surely a warning must be sent out, before it is too late."