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FIRST BETWEEN
SHADOWS AND LIGHT

"They are in the forest now," Oran said with a smile that never reached his dark eyes. "You won't catch them."

Before the mercenary captain could reply Oran turned his back on him and helped his companion to her feet. The young maid appeared unhurt by her fall. Shaken but basically unhurt. She dusted herself off, swatting at her torn clothes with a shaking hand. An elbow poked through a sleeve. Her riding pants were ripped, the white skin below bloody.

"Perhaps you are right," the mercenary captain said, wiping a large, calloused hand across his shaven scalp. He looked at the point where Heather and the rest of the group had disappeared, less than a hundred yards away. The Uplands started there, the land rising sharply. The forest started suddenly at the base of the slope. "I've already been paid enough to live for a year. Of course, that's also enough to make me think I won't live long enough to spend much of it." He smiled ruefully through his short black goatee beard. "But I have been paid." He shrugged, as if it did not concern him, one way or the other, and looked about at the men he led. There were almost a hundred in all.
#
While the man surveyed his surroundings Oran pulled his black hair away from his face, tying it back with a leather thong. When the mercenary turned back, Oran was ready, for whatever might happen.

"Who are you anyway?" the captain asked, absently pushing his cloak aside so he could scratch at his chest.

The action revealed a badge-- a grey wolf on a yellow field. Oran felt he knew the badge and wanted to smile, but as with so many other things, did not know how or why.

"You aren't one of Heather's people."

"I am just a concerned citizen." He shifted his halberd from one hand to the other, wondering when he would have to use it. The young maid looked at him as if he were crazy-- chatting to the man who would kill them. "My name is Oran. And my companion is"

The girl looked about, much as the captain had earlier, her knuckles white on the hilt of a small dagger. "My name is Lissa."

But the leader of the mercenaries did not seem to notice. He had stopped smiling, was suddenly still and alert. "Your name is Oran?" he asked, as if he did not know what he wanted the answer to be.

"Yes. So?"

"Well, do you know some codes or something that you want to tell me?" He rubbed his hand over his scalp again, bringing it away glistening with sweat.

"Codes?" Oran said.

"Codes."

"Sorry, I have a bit of amnesia actually."

"So you don't remember any codes? Well can you tell me something of your past? A friend's name perhaps."

"Ah, no." Oran shook his head and wondered what was happening. "Sorry. I can't remember anything before a couple of weeks ago."

"You remember nothing at all?"

"Not really. No details, certainly."

"Nothing?"

Oran shook his head again, wondering if the conversation would go anywhere.

"I can tell you something," Lissa said.

Oran and the captain both spun to look at the girl.

"You know something of my past?"

"What is it? What do you know?"

Lissa licked her lips, tugged absently at a lock of her shoulder length blonde hair. "He was an assassin."

"An assassin?"

"Yes." Lissa was only small, but seemed to shrink even further under the penetrating glares of the two men.

"How do you know that?" Oran asked.

"Because you killed Heather's father."

"Damn," the mercenary said. He glanced about again, obviously trying to gather his thoughts. "My name is Rohan," he said eventually, scratching at his chin through his beard. "And it seems that I work for you. That may not actually be the truth, but I will assume it is for now."

"What?"

"This mercenary troop is run by the Grey Wolf Mercantile and I believe you own that company." The mercenary, Rohan, turned to look back over his shoulder, rubbed at his scalp.

Oran followed the other's gaze and saw that more men had arrived and were mixing with the mercenaries of the Grey Wolf Mercantile. The newcomers were a motley group, though rough and surly to a man. Oran had cut a swathe through them earlier as he and Brad led Heather from the city, so he supposed they had reason to be mad.

"I guess we are supposed to be fighting with Heather then?" Rohan asked.

"Ah well yes. You don't happen to know these others, do you?"

"I know them, but I don't command them."

"Damn."

"Yes," Rohan agreed. "It seems the Emperor really wanted to make sure Heather didn't live." He sucked on his teeth. "Why didn't you tell Coddle who he was supposed to be fighting for?"

"Amnesia, remember."

"Oh." Rohan looked around again, wiped another slick of sweat from his scalp. He wiped his hand on his shirt afterwards, making sure no moisture remained.

The leader of the recently arrived mercenaries made his way to where they talked, winding through the grey uniforms of the mercantile men, leading his horse.

"Have you found them, Rohan?" He was a dirty little man dressed in patched chain mail and the somewhat tattered remains of an Imperial soldier's surcoat. On his face, blood ran from several cuts that would turn to scars to match the others.

"No. They made it into the trees," Rohan said, gesturing absently. "There is no way we can catch them now."

"Who are these then?"

"They are Oran and Lissa."

Oran had almost forgotten that the girl was there. He turned and looked at her. She still gripped the knife determinedly, but the fear was clear on her face.

"They are obviously not the ones we are after, Sarzac." Rohan looked at the other man, a stark warning in his glance.

"We were told to kill everyone with the red headed wench. If these were with her, then we kill them." He wiped his nose on a dirty sleeve of his tunic.

"But if you don't kill Heather as well it will all mean nothing, and the Emperor will come to get his money back anyway."

"So? Heather has not gotten away yet. We kill these two and then go after the rest."

"I say we don't."

As Rohan spoke, Oran looked at the men surrounding him. Maybe a hundred men in grey uniforms and a hundred and twenty in rags and remnants of armour. Not very good odds. For comfort he touched at the ring he wore on a leather thong around his neck.

"I say we do," Sarzac retorted.

Oran watched as Rohan reached out and casually cut Sarzac's throat. "I saw we don't."

If the recently arrived mercenaries had been mad before, that did not help.

In the midst of the ensuing battle Oran found himself fighting with Lissa. Side by side or back to back they fought against the mismatched mercenaries. Oran felt Brek's mind envelope his and he let the wolf take total control, fighting like the cornered animal he had become, in mind if not body. His halberd, Ebon'ix, cut through air and skin and bone with blinding speed.

Lissa, with one small dagger against swords and shields and trained fighting men, ducked, dodged, wove and stabbed until sweat coated her face and blood coated her hand. She was obviously fighting on sheer determination, with luck and speed that left men gaping in surprise, and often in pain. But she was tiring quickly and would not last much longer. More and more often Oran found himself also countering blows aimed at her. He welcomed Brek's presence in his mind, for without the wolf he would not have been able to keep Lissa alive. His friend's superior reflexes and animal instincts gave him the edge he needed.

He sliced a man's throat open with a short precise swing of Ebon'ix, then with a quick reversal disembowelled another. Watching briefly as the man grasped at his stomach, he winced with regret. Then he turned to fight another and cut him down as easily. He blocked a sword stroke that would have removed Lissa's head. The girl finished the man off. Block. Slash. Dodge. Stab. Another died.

Through the tangle of men Oran could see the red surcoat of one of Heather's guards. Above the general noise of the fight he could hear the bell like tones of Brad's sword, Kair-Kazan, acting like a beacon to where the boy was. He hoped they all knew whom they were fighting. And that they had left someone with the women.

Slash. Block. Slash. Another.

Suddenly, Oran stopped in the midst of the struggle. He looked about and found that Lissa was on her own. She was more than five yards away. He watched, horrified, as she went down under the press of men and with a wordless cry of rage started to fight his way to the girl. With nobody to guard his back he was hard pressed.

Many men were left dead in his wake but Oran found himself surrounded by the enemy and tiring quickly, even filled with a strange animal energy that went beyond what his merging with Brek had offered him. He fought on wildly until he was standing over the still form of Lissa. She was covered with blood, probably much of it other people's, and utterly motionless.

When he reached that spot Oran found that some of the animal rage that had filled him was gone and he was once again in total control. But it was not enough. He went down just as Rohan and a small group of men arrived in support.
#
When Oran stumbled back into consciousness he gagged on the smell of death. A painful light stabbed through his closed eyelids. When he coughed roughly a cup of water was pressed gently against his lips. He drank thirstily. His mouth seemed to be filled with the dust kicked up by the stampede of horses that to thunder through his head. Oran groaned softly and his head was gently laid down. He drifted back to sleep without opening his eyes.

Upon waking the second time Oran opened his eyes instantly. For some reason, his first thought was that he was too late. Too late! But he did not know what he was too late for. Suddenly he remembered the battle, and he remembered the girl going down among the press of enemy. He tried to sit up and look for her, but he ached all over and could do nothing more than raise his head.

"Battle?" He muttered to himself. "A couple of hundred men is hardly a battle."

< Awake. Awake. Awake. > Brek's thoughts jumped at Oran as he knew the wolf himself would in a moment and he waited for it almost happily. But the wolf didn't come.

"No, Brek. Gently." Lissa was carefully holding the wolf as he tried to rush to Oran's side. Oran awkwardly, slowly, levered himself into a sitting position and watched the two together. He didn't think the wolf had ever let anyone else touch him and certainly would not have let anyone hold him back.

< Let me go, > the wolf pleaded mentally, as if he could not have broken free quite easily. It was only Oran that could hear his thoughts.

"You must be careful, or you will hurt him." Lissa looked slowly up at Oran.

When she took her arm away Brek managed to control himself enough to walk slowly across the small distance to his human friend. However the whole back half of his body was wagging back and forth and his head bobbed up and down. When the wolf reached Oran he scrubbed at his face with his tongue, stopping occasionally to bark his pleasure out loud. The wolf's thoughts tumbled through Oran's head like a litter of puppies and he had trouble simply following them.

< I bored. Want to play. Like trees. Don't like when there's no trees. Big fight. Play later. Your she nice. When go back to forest? Play? >

Oran laughed, answered questions consciously when he could and otherwise let his subconscious thoughts express what he wanted to say. He was glad to be alive and glad that Brek was there with him. That was all the wolf really wanted to know.

"Are you feeling better?" Lissa had been sitting watching as Brek and Oran had greeted each other and didn't speak until the wolf had happily laid his head onto his friend's lap.

"Yes. Thank you." Oran scratched at the wide, ugly scar that cut across his chest, from right shoulder to just under his ribs on his left side. His well muscled chest and torso were also covered with dozens of tiny cuts.

"Everyone says I have you to thank for my life. I have to wonder why." Lissa drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around her legs, as if to protect herself from the one who had saved her.

"Why is that?"

"Because I know your secret. I know who you really are."

"You mean what you said about me being an assassin was true?"

"Are you telling me you really don't know?"

"The fact I was an assassin obviously saved us from Rohan. Do you think I would let myself be killed because I didn't want you to know a secret?"

"You really don't remember?" She stared at Oran's face as she rocked back and forth. "I was the one who gave you that scar. The night you killed Heather's father. When you tried to kill Heather."

"I" Oran looked nervously about. He was lying in the shade at the edge of the forest, just twenty yards from where the land rose up like a wave at the start of the Uplands. He was that close to home but still completely lost. "I" He rubbed at the scar, not wanting to believe.

Lissa suddenly surged to her feet and started to walk to where Heather was sitting. She turned back before going half a dozen paces. "Why did you do it?" Tears stood out in her clear blue eyes and she whispered fiercely. She strode back to stand over him. "Why did you kill Marse? And more importantly, why are you here now?"

Oran took a deep breath. "I cannot tell you why I killed Marse. I still cannot remember anything about it. I can't remember ever seeing Marse. I knew exactly where Heather's house was last night, but I cannot remember ever being in Dramoon." He paused and looked to where Heather was sitting with her other female servant. "And I am here now because the Highlands are my home, the only home I have even known. I think it should be free from the Emperor and for that a leader is needed. Heather seems suitable and is offering herself for the job." He plucked at the grass absently and watched Lissa. He found himself desperately wanting her to believe him, as he believed her.

"And I suppose you will be king?" The girl's voice was mocking. "I think Heather is above marrying an assassin."

"I am not an assassin," Oran said. He looked away, towards where the Grey Wolf Mercenaries were gathered. Towards Heather. Towards the safety of the forest. "I do not know what I was in a past life, but in this one I am not an assassin." He plucked at the grass, letting the breeze take the stalks from his fingers, watching them float to the earth.

Lissa turned and walked quickly to her mistress, wiping at her eyes and already answering one question or another.

Oran sat silently, watching as the women talked. Now and then a word would float to him or Lissa would flick her hair and, for a moment, gaze in his direction. Heather was lying back on her elbows with her head tilted, exposing her face to the sunlight. The shoulder of her riding habit had fallen away to reveal a creamy curve of neck and shoulder and the soft material was pulled tightly across the swell of her breasts. She really was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; long shapely legs, a smile to stop armies and long auburn hair framing a round face and almond eyes. At twenty summers she was a couple of years younger than Oran, but to him she seemed so much older.

The two servants, Gurda and Lissa, could not really be compared with Heather because of the age differences. Gurda was a sturdy, calm woman of perhaps fifty years. Her grey hair was pulled back away from her face and tied into a bun. Her face creased into a permanent frown of concern. Lissa had sharp angular features and clear blue eyes. She was sixteen or seventeen and there was little doubt that she would turn into a beautiful woman. Whether she would match Heather could not be said.

< She smells nice, > Brek said sleepily, scratching at his ear.

Oran looked from Heather to Lissa and back, wondering whom it was the wolf was talking about. "No she doesn't," he said, almost as an afterthought. He tapped the wolf playfully on the nose. But he thought Brek was probably right, whomever he was talking about, and it was his thoughts that the wolf understood.
#
"Oran?" Rohan called. He was tall and lean, but his forty years seemed to be catching up with him. The man's face was creased with lines and he hand gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword as if for comfort. His scalp glistened with sweat "The dead have been buried under two separate mounds as you asked. What now?"

"How many men do you have left?" Oran was not used to giving orders to Rohan. The veteran mercenary had deferred to him almost totally since the previous morning, however, and seemed happy to continue doing so.

"Of the eighty that started the fight thirty are still alive. There is also Ragdan and a boy named Jayko who were with Heather. Jayko was seriously injured and won't be doing anything for a while. Not bad really, seeing there were about a hundred and ten men with Sarzac."

"Good." Oran closed his eyes for a moment and ran his fingers through his long black hair. "I will take Heather, her servants, and any volunteers." He wandered a little way northwards, towards the city. "You take the rest and go back to Dramoon and take control of the Queen's men. They should be gathering in Market Square by now. A little scruffy haired fellow is organising things-- you should find him easy enough. Work with him to start clearing the city of the Emperor's men.

"The ones that go with me" Oran stopped and looked around, wondering just what he would do. When the idea came to him it seemed so obvious, for no apparent reason, that he wondered why he hadn't thought of it immediately. He turned about to face the south. "I will take the others into the forest to keep an eye on Heather and join you in a week or so."

"Very well, we can do that. But why?"

"What?"

"You don't know why you are giving me the orders. You are just making excuses and relying on luck."

"Well, I don't know why I would want to go into the forest. Why would I want to do that?" He shrugged and smiled. "I don't know what's happening. Well actually that isn't right. I know what's happening, I just don't know why."

"But as long as I assume you own the Mercantile, then we shall do what you say?"

Oran nodded and watched as the Captain of the Grey Wolf Mercenaries walked away shouting orders and gesturing to members of his troop.
#
The following day Oran found himself leading a group of ten people into the forests of the Uplands. Brad, the young Rnager, was there of course-- there had never been any doubt about what he would do. He rode close by, calm and confident beyond his sixteen years. his long rats tail a strip of whitedown his green cloak. There were also four mercenaries. Heather and her four employees; two female servants and two guards; made up the remainder.

Jayko, Heather's young guard, was on a stretcher strung between two horses, small, pale skinned and quiet. He was weak, understandably upset at the lost of his left hand and suffering from a wound to his head. Ragdan stayed by the young man's side, but neither had much to say. The veteran's rough, leathery face was a mask that hid anything he might have been thinking.

The mercenaries who had decided to travel with the group were a mixed bunch, three women and a tall, whip thin man.

As he rode Oran switched his attention from one member of the group to the next, wondering what had brought each of them to this moment in their lives. Brad was there because he seemed connected to Oran by more than friendship. He had left his home and everything he had known to follow.

Of the mercenaries, Dors had lost his twin in the recent fight and rode in shocked silence, his eyes vacant more often than not. However the others seemed as surprised as Oran to be riding into the forest in such mixed company. But how had any of them come to be in their profession in the first place. What event had caused them to sell their strength and courage for money? Coralee and Bindi stayed together talking and laughing, seemingly two middle aged women out for a casual ride. The former was squat, with long golden hair and a large nose. Her companion was taller, and had her brown hair cut short.

Sparrow, a woman with coffee coloured skin and her dark hair tied into dozens of braids, kept to the rear of the group She seemed to watch Dors as if worried the tall bearded man might do something to himself.

And Heather and her staff seemed as strange a mix.

Lissa and Heather talked softly, riding together just in front of where Ragdan and Gurda silently watched Jayko. Heather rode a tall bay that almost matched her hair, and the maid's small white mare seemed to have recovered well from its fall. Both of the women looked in his direction, turning away quickly when they saw him watching. Oran didn't know what was being said and he wasn't sure that he wanted to find out. He was having enough trouble dealing with the fact that he had killed Heather's father; he did not want to know how Heather would react to the information.

The group kept moving deeper into the forest, always south and slightly west. The trees grew larger the further they went, each mile seeming to add a yard or more. Oran loved the forest and knew how much Brek enjoyed being back under the trees. The shadows, the sounds, the smells-- all indications that they were home. If he had known what was happening Oran might have found the fine weather and a ride in the forest quite pleasant.

Quiet voices mingled with the breezes and the soft buzzing in Oran's head started to increase once more. The noise of the trees in his mind did not scare him as it once had. It was a part of him now and he thought he might have missed it if it were to go. The forest, and everything that went with it, was a part of him. He looked about, trying to ignore the unsettling aspects of the journey and concentrate on the agreeable.

The sun sent down beams of light through the canopy of trees and highlighted what at first appeared to be ordinary. The simple act of bringing the insignificant to the attention somehow made those things beautiful. A flower, similar to the dozens of others that surrounded it was made astounding by the single shaft of sunlight that fell upon it and lifted it from the shadows of mediocrity. A small finch sang in delightful chorus with its fellows but was turned into the star by the bright spotlight that lit it from above.

Everywhere Oran looked he saw more things which made him wish he'd had more time to experience such delights. Even in the short part of his life that he could remember he had looked behind things to see what they might be hiding. He rode silently, drinking in the wonders of the ordinary.

Heather and Lissa remained in the corner of his view and he occasionally turned to regard them with his surroundings in mind. Heather was as beautiful as ever, her eyes, so hard often-times, were soft and dreamy as she smiled and laughed. Lissa could not match her mistress for beauty, but occasionally the girl rode through a shaft of light that used contrasting shadows to animate her slightly angular features on some different level. Her smile was genuine, her laugh warm, and in those moments of illumination Heather's moods and expressions seemed somehow controlled in comparison.

Oran watch the forest and his companions as he rode, always south and slightly west. The rest of the group was strung out behind at regular intervals. Brek watched their flank and played among the trees, happy to be home.
#
They stopped for lunch in a shaded hollow by a small stream. There was ripe fruit on the trees about them and the water was clear and cool with the slight tang of minerals. Oran sat with his back against a tree away from the rest of the group. Hardly anyone was speaking as they ate, and then only quietly. Coralee laughed softly at something, but she cut off as if nervous, casting her eyes down to examine the heel of bread she was eating.

Oran watched as Lissa rose and walked across the short grass towards him. She was small and delicate, wearing boys breeches and a shirt of dusty rose. She silently, absently, sat down beside him on an exposed tree root with her legs crossed. She was, almost negligently, spinning a dagger in her hand. For a long time she spun the dagger, blade pointing to the clear blue sky.

Looking up suddenly she whispered, "I think I might get rid of this," before looking back at the weapon, watching as it flashed and twirled in the broken sunlight.

"Why?" Oran put down the half-eaten apple he held.

"I know what can be done with it." Lissa took a deep breath and when she looked up there were tears in her eyes. "After you killed Marse I practised with it whenever I could. I got Ragdan to teach me. But I really killed people. That makes me like you and I don't like that."

"No." Oran spoke more loudly than he had intended.

Several of the others quickly looked up at him before sinking back to their own thoughts. Heather seemed about to join he and Lissa, but changed her mind. Instead, she continued to watch quietly, sitting alone with one hand dangling into the stream, catching reflexively at leaves and twigs as they floated by.

"If I was an assassin then you are nothing like I used to be. Killing in self defence or in the defence of friends is not like killing for money." Oran closed his hand around Lissa's, stopping the spinning of the dagger. "If you want power or if you want to control people then you may be like an assassin, and I would feel sorry for you. But I don't think that is the case. I am not even like than any more. I would rather not kill if I have a choice. But sometimes there is no choice."

"What about Heather? She wants to be Queen. She is seeking power and people are dying to get it for her. Does that make her like you used to be?" Lissa looked at him again, seeming to ask him to say it wasn't so.

"No, I don't think she is like me. I don't really think she is seeking power. She is seeking what is right for the people of the Highlands, and she is the one who is most likely to be able to provide that." Oran realised that his hand was still holding Lissa's and let go. He picked up the fruit he had put down earlier but discarded it again.

"And what are you doing this for?" The girl slipped the dagger into her belt, her hand shaking slightly.

"I told you. This is my home now. The Emperor has no right to be stealing from this land as he is."

Oran wondered how he could keep thinking she was a child. A sixteen or seventeen she was only a few years younger than he. How was he so much more an adult? He gazed at the hand that had held hers and rubbed at it absently.

"It is strange that I believe you. I believe that you no longer like violence. But, I do not understand how you went from being an assassin to where you are now in a couple of weeks."

"I am not sure that I understand either. I awoke in a house in the forest and, as far as I know, I was as I am now. Perhaps whatever changed me happened before I woke. I don't know."

"Will you tell me your story? Tell me of who you are?"

"As I said, I can only tell you of events since I woke." Oran looked about the forest, perhaps trying to find somewhere to run from this girl to whom he felt compelled to speak. "I am not sure if anything I can tell you is relevant."

"Relevant or not it will still be interesting. You talk to wolves and quite possibly to that horse as well. And if what I have heard about the Grey Wolf Mercantile is correct then you are also very wealthy." She looked about and gestured to the forest in general as if she had read his earlier thoughts. "Neither of us are going anywhere special. We have nothing better to pass the time."

"All right then," Oran said decisively. "I will tell you the story of my life. Every part of it since my birth in the forest."

And so Oran started to tell his story from the very beginning. The only beginning he knew.

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