Corinth lay in the gutter, blood dripping from new wounds. He knew he had to get out of the street fast, though: the soldiers glanced at him with anticipating eyes, as if they would be happy to beat him again after they had finished with their present victim.
He got up painfully, blinking back tears, sweat and blood. His bruises weren't so bad-they would be healed within a week, at most. Besides, he was used to it. He eyed the sidewalk cautiously-he, like the others in the poor class of Chilse, was not allowed on it, but the streets were patrolled by soldiers, and he knew an escape route a few yards down.
He dashed onto the sidewalk, ducked inside a bush, and dropped down into a tunnel. There was no worry of the patrol finding it because the peasants alone knew how to get through the thorns guarding it. It was set up by The Resistance of Government, shortened to T.R.O.G. It was not exactly a resistance, but more a council that set up escape routes, underground shelters, and underground paths into other countries that treated them more fairly. However, it took years to get a permit for immigration, and Trog wanted to keep friendly with the other countries. They only attempted illegal immigration for the weakest or most seriously injured. And though street beatings were not pleasant, they were common, and there were worse injuries to be had. Yes, thought Corinth grimly, there were much worse.
It seemed ironic that only a few years ago, before the Great Separation, he had been a rich merchant with a mansion and a beautiful wife. The mansion had tall, thick stone columns painted white, and it looked more like a palace than a house. But now it served as the royal barracks, and he and his wife were cast into the streets.
Corinth ran quickly down the passage toward home. He grabbed the rope, squirmed up it, and shoved himself out into the snow. He smoothed back his brown hair and went into the house.
It was a run-down, rickety old thing, but to Corinth it was paradise. The ramshackle hut held more memories than the mansion ever had. Life was exciting, he thought, if nothing else.
"Darla!" he called. "I'm back!"
He didn't wait for her answer and started to set his freshly stolen goods on the table. He'd gotten some bread, cheese, meat, and a lady's hat. Not bad for one morning, he thought.
Still, Darla had not entered the room. He shrugged, as if excusing himself, and started to eat.
He was tearing apart the bread when the door burst open and there was Darla, a swarm of soldiers surrounding her.
She was a mess. Tears and blood mingled on her pale face; her blue eyes looked fearful and her blonde curls stuck to her. Her arms were black and blue-from beatings, Corinth thought fiercely-and her hands were cut and bleeding.
"We caught this shrew on the sidewalk," said one of the soldiers, crossing his arms. "You know what the penalty is."
Of course he knew.
Corinth stood up abruptly. All sense had left him: he was flooded with emotion. He slugged the man holding Darla hard in the face.
"Go," he whispered to her in a strangled voice. "Take the passa-Awww!"
A knife in his back sent him sprawling on the ground.
"You-" said the first one- "follow the girl. I'll take care of this one."
The soldier started off, but Corinth grabbed his foot and hurled him around towards the others. He got to his feet and faced the patrol.
"Violence against the patrol," the first one quoted, his sneering black eyes piercing Corinth deeper than any knife. He'd never seen such hatred.
"Stealing. Relation to criminals." He slicked back his oily brown hair and made an attempt at a smile. "Poor, poor little peasant. But you deserve what's coming to you."
He drew back a fist and swung it hard into Corinth's face. Corinth staggered back, fighting not to win but to stay conscious.
The man advanced menacingly upon him, kicking and punching while Corinth tried in vain to recover. The other soldiers cheered in the background, shouting, "Give it to him, Mordride!" and "Come on, throw him down!"
Corinth held up a hand weakly, but Mordride ended his defense with a final blow that knocked him off his feet, blackness swirling around him.
Drip.
Corinth awoke to find himself chained to a brick wall. He shivered. His clothes were rags, and the dungeon was full of frosty air.
Drip.
He looked up. A slow trickle of water was falling onto his head, probably from the melted snow outside. He edged away from it, noticing the damp red carpet he sat on, which seemed odd for a dungeon.
The door burst open. A tall young soldier stood like a ominous shadow in the doorway. He had a black mustache, and his green eyes looked like a cat's eye following its prey.
He stared for a moment, then moved briskly out of the doorway and started to unlock the chains that bound Corinth. As he stepped into the chamber, Corinth caught a glimpse of the room outside.
It was his basement!
Corinth's mind worked like lightning. He gingerly removed the knife from his back with his free hand. It wasn't buried deep.
Inside the next room was a passageway out of the mansion that only he and Darla knew about. He had forgotten where it led to, but anything had to be better than what was coming up.
He grasped the knife tightly in his hand.
"Come on," said the soldier. "In."
Corinth was shoved through the doorway. Yes, this was his basement. He could barely recognize the wallpaper under all the instruments of torture, but they still had the mirror here.
He raced ahead into the room and faced the man. The unsuspecting soldier had only a glance of silver before the knife put him to a deep sleep, never to wake again.
Corinth raced to the mirror and pressed part of the frame. At once the mirror swung open. He jumped into the passageway, closed the door carefully behind him, and locked it.
The passage smelled of earth, and roots dangled from the ceiling, so he couldn't be too far underground. There began a gradual incline, and his head popped up into snow. He brushed it away, and looked around.
The snow was red with blood. Bodies littered the streets. It was going to be another Strawberry Winter.
He trudged through mounds of snow until he came to a tree. To the outsider it looked like a regular oak, but Corinth and the rest of Trog knew better. It was hollow inside, and it led to the heart of the Trog Underground System.
He slipped inside and walked slowly through. Now that he knew he was safe, the aches of the day set themselves firmly in his brain and refused to budge. He walked on, tremors running through him after all that adrenaline. At last, he came to the shelter.
Though it was dark and musty, to Corinth it was a fire, glowing with warmth and security. His feet were like boulders now, and though he urged them to go forward, it was all he could do to keep from slumping into the dirt.
"Corinth!" It was Darla's voice.
He looked up. Her eyes shone with tears, and she seemed to choke on her words. "You came back," she whispered.
"Yes," was all he could manage, before he collapsed into her arms.
There was a vile taste in Corinth's mouth that could only be Darla's herb mixture. He felt a warm cloth on his head and his body was covered in bandages.
"Yer awake." It was Sarie, the old nurse who had dwelled on the streets long before the Great Separation. "I better get t'missus, Darla. She's bin mighty worried these past few days, tha knows."
"Days?" Corinth asked. "I've been asleep days?"
"Yes, an' it were no small slumber, neither. Anyway, I'm off ter fetch yer Darla, so don't fall asleep again."
Corinth stared at the ceiling until Darla appeared. I had rocks jutting out of it, and jagged sides hung threateningly above his head.
"I thought you were a goner."
"So did I."
"How did you escape?"
"The mirror-their dungeon was our basement."
Darla laughed. "Haven't they discovered it yet?" Then, "Corinth, I think we're going to have to leave illegally. We'll be a huge burden on Trog if we stay here, and our permit doesn't work for another year."
"I know."
"What country do you propose we go to?"
Corinth looked away, then glanced uneasily back at her. "Chilse."
"Corinth-"
"I mean it, Darla; I was born here. This is my country, not those loathsome soldiers' country."
"And what do you think would happen? Either we would eat up all Trog's supplies, or we'd be dead by nightfall."
Corinth was silent. He stared blankly up at the ceiling.
"Darla, I love this country. I don't love what's happened to it, but . . ." his voice trailed off.
"So what? What, are you thinking you'll lead a rebellion? Come on, Corinth. I loved it too, but you can't still love it when it's beating you over the head! I'm telling you, we've got to leave. We've got to-" She stopped, gazing with horror at Corinth. His face was set as if he carried an enormous burden, but by God he wouldn't get rid of it until it was finished.
"No," she whispered. "No, you don't mean it, you can't . . ."
The man lying on the cot was not the same person. His deep blue eyes blazed with utter determination.
"I will," he said, and the words came out as if he had chosen each one carefully from the finest of samples. "I must."
Darla swallowed. "All right. You're telling me you're going to lead a rebellion against the whole of the Chilse Government Force, and you expect you'll actually get recruits? You think you stand a chance against them? None of us has any training, and weapons? Tell me you're joking."
Corinth sat up slowly and regarded her stiffly. "No."
Darla sighed. She stared at him, eyeing the set expression on his face with foreboding. "Right."
She smiled weakly, and left the room.
Corinth healed with a fervor and was up in two weeks. His legs were still sore, but he was anxious to start planning. He called for a meeting as soon as his bruises were gone.
"Trog," he began, "we call ourselves the resistance. But surely, resisting comes from fighting off our corrupted offenders, not fleeing from them. We heal each other, but our injuries keep returning." He paused a moment for this to sink in. There were murmurs of agreement, and he continued: "I propose that we live up to our name, and rebel. Not now!" he shouted, raising a hand against the excited arguments. "We will train, and we will plan until everything is taken care of. But sooner or later, we must fight. We cannot go on like this. Our supplies have become low, and our 'suppliers'-" he glanced at the appointed thieves standing by the door- "won't be able to make close escapes forever. They can't keep stealing from the palace-sooner or later the patrol will catch on. So we must rebel. It is against every aspect of morality that all without black eyes suffer. You remember Queen Tralia." It was two years before that King Ellix's wife had been murdered, and all that was remembered of the assassin was his blue eyes. The king had gone into a mad rage and vowed on the grave of his dead wife that he would make all the light-eyed suffer. He had kept his oath well.
"The light-eyed can suffer no longer. We will send one of our brown-eyed as ambassador to the king-with plenty of back-up, of course-with a request for peace." He glanced at Jerrick Robinst, one of the few brown-eyed who were disgraced as well because of their light-eyed heritage. The boy had blonde hair, but black eyes. And they were not full of the warmth that accopanied the other chocolate-eyed children. They seemed like empty black pools, but somewhere inside them was a conniving, traitorous soul.
"If it is granted, our problems are solved. If it is not-which is much more likely-we will attack."
The cave broke into cheers. He would not be surprised if the people above could hear them.
"But first," he added, "we must plan."
The rest of the meeting was devoted to Corinth's detailed explanation of what steps they would take to victory.
At the end of the day Corinth flopped onto the bed and gazed tiredly at the stack of papers on the table.
"Plans," he groaned. "And suggestions."
"You can always just let it go," said Darla.
"Not now. They're all counting on me now." He took off his khaki-colored sandals and, sighing, unwrapped the rags around his feet.
"You're going to get cold," Darla said.
He ignored her, and picked up a few papers from the mammoth pile.
"What I'm trying to say is, they'd understand if you're tired. I mean, you just got out of the prison-you have an excuse."
"Yes," he said absentmindedly, and began to warm his feet by the fire. "I'd better get to work on these papers.
The sun rose unhurriedly from its home in the mountains and, though he did not see it, Corinth awoke as well, his limbs stiff from a night of sitting up reading.
"You shouldn't have stayed up that late," Darla admonished him, bringing in a tray of food.
He smiled up gratefully at her. "You worry too much. I've missed sleep before."
"Well. If you have to do this rebellion thing, you might as well do it on a full stomach."
He laughed. "You wouldn't believe some of the suggestions I got. I couldn't possibly go through everyone's comments, so we had a suggestions box. By the time I picked it up it was packed so full I couldn't fit a finger in it. But anyway, some people-including Chellie Robinst, that supplier-said we should storm the palace right now. Without any weapons. I mean, you're supposed to 'trust in God', but not that much faith."
Darla put down the tray and began to pour tea. "I can just picture Chellie leading them in, with that maniac expression of hers."
"Yeah. And then Pherph Smurks, the spy, thinks we should pick them off one by one so it'll be easier when we finally do fight. I told him that it was a great idea, but they would probably notice if dead bodies started piling up inside the palace."
"What about Jerrick, that brown-eyed son of Chellie's?"
"Him," Corinth said darkly. "He says we should just 'let the thing run its course.'"
"It's been running for two years now!"
"I know," said Corinth, fingering his panther head amulet. "we'll have to keep an eye on him. Seems to me he'd like to get away from us and go live in luxury. He could, you know: if he sold us to the patrol."
Darla shuddered. "They'd kill his friends as well-doesn't he know that?"
"Friends? The boy has no friends, at least not within Trog. I'm sure he knows plenty of guards at the palace that he can go out and have a drink with, though."
"I'll bet." She took a sip of her tea. "How are you going to keep the plan from him?"
"Oh, that'll be easy," Corinth said. "Everyone else suspects him too, and between us we'll think of something. We'd have gotten rid of him a long time ago, but for Chellie. She thinks the world of him."
"I don't blame her. He's the only one she's got, no matter how awful he is."
"Huh. Just think, her son's probably friends with the people who killed his father."
Corinth stared blankly at the dirt floor, lost in his memories. He remembered too well the death of Thebe Robinst, Chellie's husband and his best friend. He had died in a raid, trying to save Jerrick from the soldiers. But Jerrick felt no need to repay him. No, Jerrick figured Thebe would love to have Chellie and everyone else in Trog join him, wherever he was.
Darla stood up. "I'll take this back," she said, looking dazedly at the untouched muffins.
Corinth followed her out. "I'd better take these papers over to the council, anyway."
He walked through the tunnel and worked his way through the auditorium to the council room. He knocked on the door.
An old man peeked his head out. "Who is it?" Then, glancing at Corinth, "Oh, it's you. We've been waiting for ten minutes."
"I stayed up all night on this," he said stubbornly. "So I slept in."
He walked into the room. It was a circular hole in the ground, furnished with boxes for chairs and a few tables to write on. Seated along the wall were the suppliers, including Chellie, and the council itself.
One of the council members got up. "Corinth, I'm glad to meet you finally. What's all this about a rebellion?"
Corinth swallowed. "Well, you see, sir, I-"
"None of that," the man said, "If we do have a rebellion then you'll be in charge, not me. You remember how the last rebellion turned out."
Corinth smiled wryly. Trog's last feeble attempt at mutiny could hardly be called a rebellion. They had gathered their weapons in haste, and without any plan, Crete led them to lay siege to the barracks. They were driven back by outside forces, and beated up as a bonus. Sicil was retired as rebellion leader to council leader, and he was respected, no one trusted him in battle anymore.
"Yes, I do. I hope this one doesn't turn out like that, though."
He sat down on a box and set the papers down. "I sorted out the suggestions and came up with a rudimentary plan."
(a big piece missing here)
Corinth stared out at the opposing army. Archers lined the front, and soldiers on muscular steeds held bright green flags that waved in the wind.
Their shields and swords glinted in the dim light. The field was a vast expanse between them, and suddenly Corinth wanted to keep it that way.
He was sweating, and the sun wasn't even out. Fear built up inside him. What were a few kicks to the stomach now and then? A few punches wouldn't hurt. He had been mad, starting the rebellion. His life hadn't been that bad-and surely, even the most tortured life was better than none at all.
He swallowed. The battle would begin at his call. There was no backing out now.
"Charge!" he called out, and they ran forward, meeting the soldiers and dealing out the blows they had long wished to give. The soldiers were better trained-but his army outnumbered them.
Corinth dodged a swipe at his head, rattling in his armor, and swung his sword around, knocking his opponent over.
Corinth smiled. Now there would be no more death, they would just leave and-
Mordride brought his blade down and slammed Corinth into the snow. He poised the tip of his sword on Corinth's chest.
The two armies stood as if frozen. Even Ellix was outraged.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Mordride?!" he yelled out.
"Oh, shut it. You want to win, don't you?" He turned back to Corinth. "And you. I don't have to play by the rules when I'm dealing with a light-eyed piece of filth. Say your prayers, Corinth-but I don't think your panther goddess can help you now!"
He drew the sword back, and threw all his strength into the final crushing blow. But the blade crashed against Corinth's amulet-the bronze little panther-head he wore around his neck, and it fell, vibrating, to the ground.
Corinth stood up, clutching the sword and the broken amulet.
"I ought to kill you right now," he said, twirling the hilt in his hand. "But I will show how blue-eyed people can behave. I give you your life. Now go away."
He started to walk back to his crowd, and watched as his army rushed out to drive Ellix's troops away, past the icy river and into the unknown.
The field was alive with cheers, and through the joy a stealthy archer went unnoticed, raising his bow under cover of the trees.
Corinth saw it. She followed an invisible line through trees and brush-straight to Jerrick's heart.
He didn't think. Didn't think to push him out of the way, just to save him. He was all Chellie had left, and Darla . . . he didn't think about Darla. Jerrick had to live, had to . . .
"No!" he screamed, and he flung himself into the field to block it. The arrow flew through the trees, and Corinth fell to the ground.
Darla stood staring at him, her blue eyes like worlds in themselves. She began to walk slowly toward him, and then broke into a run. "A doctor! Call a doctor!" she yelled at the crowd. She knelt down at his side, and grasped his hand tightly. "You'll be okay," she said softly.
He glanced at the arrow. It stood upright in a pool of blood.
"I love you, Darla," he whispered.
"Don't talk like that. You'll be fine." But one glance at him and she knew it was fatal.
Jerrick bent down over him, and his once cold eyes were full of the emotion he had lacked all his life.
"Thank you." He knelt down. "But why? Why for me?"
Corinth tried to smile. "Take care of Chellie."
Darla looked at Corinth, and then Jerrick. She took a deep breath.
"Jerrick . . . please go to your mother."
Jerrick looked for a second at Darla, then ran off, glancing back at Corinth lying in the snow, staining it red.
"Darla. I'm not afraid."
Darla looked at him, her eyes filled with grief. "But I'll miss you so much," she said in a choked voice.
"I'll miss you, too. Wherever I'm going, I'll wait for you."
It was too much. She held him to her, and silent tears streamed down her face.
"Goodbye . . ." he whispered, and she felt the life go out of him.
Darla let him go, and took out the arrow, staring bleakly out at the field. It seemed so much emptier now.
"I'll never let them forget you."
She stood up, and gazed at the sky. Pale light broke through the dismal fog, and the clouds parted to reveal a hidden sun. It climbed slowly into the sky, lighting up the field witha warm orange glow. Spring was coming-coming to end the long Strawberry Winter.
