Borderline
Panting, Jheam struggled through the snowdrifts, his hands nearly blue with cold as he took another step forward. He was on his hands and knees, attempting to go through the high drifts back toward the great manor house of the Monreit�s. He kept his dark head low, every so often shaking it to get the frozen hair out of his eyes. The slave on Duty told him Rydan had been �taken out�, but Jheam didn�t believe he was dead. Rydan was far too strong to die. Rydan had been the strongest person Jheam had ever known, and he�d always looked upon him with a younger brother�s awe.
Pausing, he risked a chance at showing his dark head to peer at the disappearing wagon. They usually didn�t take headcount of the slaves from the mines at night as they did in the morning. If he was lucky and got caught, they wouldn�t punish him. If he was extremely lucky, he wouldn�t be noticed missing. Dropping back to his frozen hands with a wince, he struggled forward again. Little did his conscious mind know, he was rapidly fevering from the elements as his underfed body worked overtime to keep him warm.
His destination was just to the right of the manor house, the Field. Nobody ever went there except those who were subjected to Duty. Duty was a punishment of sorts, given to those out of favor with the Master. It consisted of taking the dead slaves from the mines and the lower levels of the house. The slaves who died in the mines either went into a cold-sleep and froze to death, or became sick. The slaves who died in the lower levels, they weren�t spoken about; they were the worst part of any Duty. Tortured or beaten until death was their fate. It was left to those given Duty to take them out and leave them unburied in the Field, or in the summer, to burn them.
Jheam shivered, more from the memory of his own Duty than the cold, and pushed forward, trying to stay as low as he could. Finally, he reached the point that he couldn�t get any lower, the drifts had lessened, and it was a simple twenty-foot tundra to the trees. He squinted through the snow-glare to the Field, and then up at the Manor for anybody watching and then he went.
The first arrow thudded inches from his left foot as he sprinted, his normally fast feet slowed by the snow as it sank beneath him. Muttering numerous curses under his breath, he dodged and twisted with more energy he knew he had, making himself an impossible target. Another arrow whistled by his cheek. Ten yards � panting, he forced his frozen knees to bend again and again, pushing forward. Five yards - an arrow nicked his boot heel as he flung himself into the trees.
He could heat the soft thuds as arrows drove into the far side of the tree and peppered the ground around him. Minutes later, they died away and he took off farther into the woods, keeping his pace at a fast jog. He tried to find dead leaves to tread on, so not to leave tracks in the snow, but at times, it was impossible. Finally the Field came into view, a snow humped gravesite. There were dark splashes in parts, and bodies laying stiff in rigor mortis. Jheam�s eyes sought out anything new, anything not completely frozen, trying not to stare at the empty eyes of the deceased.
There! A splash of red bright against the ground, not yet darkened with age. It was smeared next to a figure, curled on its side with a hood pulled partway over its head.
A cry escaped Jheam�s blue lips as he thrust himself down on the ground beside it, heedless of anybody watching. Faintly, he reached out to touch the figure and the frozen folds of its manor uniform. His eyes grew hot with tears, but he didn�t let them spill over, not yet. Gently, he rolled the figure onto its back, and instantaneously drew his hand away, gasping in shock.
Startled at the empty sockets that gaped back at him, he glanced from the figure, to the bloodstain, and then to the ground between them, the mussed snow. His eyes burned as he realized what he was seeing. Footsteps, leading into the trees, faltering, dragging footsteps, but footsteps nonetheless!
Rising painfully to his feet, he pulled his ratty cloak tighter about his thin frame and stumbled after them. They zigzagged mindlessly in no certain direction except deeper into the trees. At points, they completely stopped, followed by a flurry of snow, but they always continued.
It was dull twilight underneath the snowy canopy, and Jheam found himself squinting as the trees grew thicker, and the sun went down. After nearly two hours of walking, he reached a point where the trees thinned for a tiny clearing, maybe ten yards across. Just beyond the break, a dark figure sprawled aimlessly across the snow, a small cloak half covering his legs.
Jheam leapt the last steps, knowing without a doubt that the matted golden hair was Rydan�s. Before he could reach out a hand to touch him though, he felt steel at his throat, and a venomous voice whispered, �Don�t you dare touch him, you filthy bastard.�
Jheam jumped in surprise, and the steel drew a drop of blood as it pulled his neck. Obviously, it was sharpened to razor perfection. Gingerly, he raised both of his hands and slipped around to face the archer�s frozen stare.
�Get. Get away; go back wherever the hell you came from. We don�t need your kind here,� She spat out, motioning back toward the trees he had come from. She twisted her mouth around the words �your kind�, denoting them as despicable people. Her bow drew tighter with a creak, and Jheam gulped, staring down the arrow�s shaft to her livid face and frozen stare. The wind carried brown strands of hair across her face from the inside of her hood, but she didn�t seem to notice.
She sneered at him, rocking backwards. �Go on, get.�
The both turned their heads as a dog bayed in the distance. Jheam flinched and turned horrified eyes to the trees, and the back toward the girl. He didn�t know what else to do...
�Help me�� He whispered. Rydan lay nearly forgotten beside them both.
The dog bayed again, and was joined by another.
�Please�Help�� He whispered, his frightened eyes glancing toward Rydan�s then back to hers.
Slowly, she withdrew her bow and he unconsciously let out a breath he didn�t know he�d been holding.
Her face grew less angry and more curious, �You�re not�like them�are you?� She asked, fingering the arrow between her fingers.
Jheam prayed he held the right answer. �If you mean the Masters, no. I ran away, you�ve got to help me, and him.� He turned to Rydan, and this time pulled him to his back, blanching at the state his face was in. Both eyes were deep purple-black, and scratches tore across his forehead and cheeks. His normally fair skin was inflamed and red. He burned with fever under Jheam�s own feverish touch.
�God�� He heard the archer mutter under her breath, �Who-� She stopped, raising her head as the hound�s voices grew louder in the distance.
Jheam struggled to pull Rydan up, �You�ve got to help us�He-he�s not one of them either. Please, take us somewhere�� He pleaded, staring into her eyes hopefully.
She seemed to come back into herself, and quickly withdrew her bow and shoved them both over her back. �Here, let me help.� She took one of Rydan�s arms and pulled it over her own shoulder, murmuring, �Don�t they feed you anything?�
Jheam didn�t answer; he was too busy trying to keep his fatigued feet from falling over as they dragged the unconscious Rydan deeper into the woods. Minutes later, a horse appeared in front of them; it had an odd, flat saddle on it and it stamped at the sight of them.
�Here, help me�� She quickly mounted, and bent back down to pull Rydan up in front of her. He lay over the saddle on his stomach like something dead. Once she had him settled, she turned toward Jheam, who had never ridden a horse before. �Grab my arm, and put your foot in the stirrup. You�re going to have to pull yourself up.�
Struggling, and nearly falling twice, he finally managed to get astride the horse. The girl looked back at him, and smiled grimly. �I guess you�re lucky they don�t feed you, horse�s weren�t meant for three people. Hold on.�
She kicked the horse, and Jheam threw his arms around her, bouncing precariously on the horse�s rump. Closing his eyes tight against her back, he hung on to let her take them where she would.
She steered Sylan through the trees expertly, paths hidden to foreigners clear in her view. Her mind was elsewhere. After her mother, what she wouldn�t give to see those people dead. Slavery sickened her to nausea, and the hopeless look the boy had given her nearly broken her heart. She clenched her jaw until she was sure it would break, pulled Sylan to the left, and let him slow. They�d crossed the border. The boy behind her resettled himself and glanced around before ducking his head again. He probably wouldn�t notice the change between the countries. Fewer conifers grew in Saeni, and the snow on the ground was littered with leaves rather than needles. The eagle�s cries faded, a birdsong took forte. Miniscule changes, but enough her to know that even though the dogs bayed in the distance still, but they should be safe. The sun was touching the horizon beyond the woods, and they filled the trees with dark shadow and crimson light.
Gently, she touched the back of the boy who lay across the saddle in front of her, curious to his fate. She had thought his back damp with snow, but her fingers came away red, and she realized otherwise. She urged Sylan forward faster once again, and he complied with a snort, though she knew he couldn�t carry three people at that pace for very long, even if they two boys weighed next to nothing. It was best to get as far from the borderline as they could anyway. Just because they followed the laws, didn�t mean those searching for the fugitives would.
Nearly an hour later, they came upon a clearing. Nestled in the back was her home, a wood and stone house, looking like something from a tale as it was covered in snow and smoke rose from the chimney, silver against the night sky. She pulled Sylan to a stop outside the house and he obligingly stopped and dropped his head, breathing hard.
�Get down; we�ve got to get him inside�� She glanced back, startled to see the flushed look on the boy�s face and the glazed look of his brown eyes. Muttering darkly to herself about slavery and fever, she helped him unlock his fingers from their death grip on her cloak and slide down where he staggered dazedly.
She jumped down after him, took his arm and lead him inside. He followed her willingly, even if he wasn�t fully conscious. �Papa?� She called upon seeing the crackling fire in the main room. She pushed him into a chair, and he fell backwards most ungracefully in a heap.
He pulled his tattered cloak around him tightly, his chin quivering. �It�s s-so cold�� He mumbled, watching her with feverish eyes. She pulled numerous quilts from a trunk on the far wall, and piled them on top of him until only the top of his head was visible. �Don�t move. I�ll be right back � Papa!� She turned at his footsteps. Under the blankets, the boy shifted, his eyes now shut.
�Who is that?� He asked, slightly on guard. He had obviously just come in from out in the woods, his thick winter cloak was still on and lightly dusted with melting snow. He brushed a hand through his thick shaggy brown hair to rid it of snow.
�Don�t worry about him yet Papa, come outside and help me get the other one inside.� She pulled him toward the door.
�There�s another?� He asked, following her. He trusted that these people wouldn�t harm them � his daughter had more sense than to bring people like that home. They didn�t look like they were in much of a state to hurt them anyway.
She pushed open the front door, ducking her head under the wind that swept a flurry of snow toward them. �Is it going to storm?� She asked her father, pulling him over to Sylan.
�Yeah � Good God, Reilyne, what happened to him?� His voice burst out upon seeing the boy thrown over the horse�s withers. He touched his head, bending over to look at his face. �Is he dead?�
�Not yet Papa, but he will be if we don�t help him.� She didn�t bother to say the obvious � that he might die despite their attempts to help. �Can you carry him inside? I�m afraid I�ll drop him if I try - not that he weighs very much.� She looked to her father pleadingly, but he was already shifting the boy over so he could fall into his arms.
�Thanks Papa, put him on the couch or something, I�ll put Sylan in the barn before the storm starts up.� She grabbed the horse�s reins, but her father paused, holding the boy in his arms as if he weighed no more than a baby did.
�Just leave him; I�ll come get him after I put this one inside.� He pushed the partially open door with a foot, and went inside. Reilyne followed him, pulling even more quilts out of the trunk to shroud the boy in.
Her father gently set him on the couch, and stood back, looking at him for a moment. �Where did they come from?� He asked, his eyes catching and holding hers.
The boy on the couch suddenly stirred, his eyes flew open. Reilyne turned to him without answering her father. The boy was still unconscious as he gasped, coughing. He met her eyes, and something like recognition came over him, and then was quiet again. Reilyne shivered at his glance, busying herself with boiling water over the fire. Never had she seen such lost, hopeless eyes�so dark green they were nearly black. They reminded her of another pair of eyes she had seen a long time ago, only those were lost in death.
�Reilyne?� Her father was suddenly behind her, touching her elbow in a concerned gesture. �Were they from Monreit�s?�
Silently, she nodded, not looking up. She heard her father�s heavy sigh, and he rested a hand on her shoulder before leaving to put the horse away, his footsteps were as heavy as her heart.
Copyright:
LaurenBlewett