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Enjoy the first chapter of my upcoming novel! Feel free to share any comments – what you liked and/or what you think I should change.
PROLOGUS
A wind was born at the top of the world. For a brief moment, it glimpsed art and culture to the south, division to the east, and a dry, empty desert to the north. Its destiny lay elsewhere, however.
Subsolanus, the East Wind, raced the rising sun down one mountainside and up the next.
Eventually, snow gave way to rocks, and trees, and lofty walls that defied passage as well as explanation. Who had built these cages? Why leave so many holes? How come more didnât try to escape? The strange noise these constantly chittering apes within made tickled the windâs belly. Drawing closer, it grew fond of their puzzling ways.
A great general named Alexander had once devastated the Persian Empire for control of these lands and died immediately afterwards. Traianus, who boasted little more than a great ego, had similarly claimed this land and found himself expelled before the ink had time to properly dry. Now, the Sassanian Persians thrived once again in the eternal ebb and flow of civilizations.
Not knowing any of this, the wind puzzled at the prickly defenses between ancient rivals on either side of the Armenian Highlands. The heat of simmering tensions buoyed Subsolanus to dizzying heights the farther west it traveled. Up and down the Danubius, soldiers in red cowered under the standard of a fierce eagle as they kept watch against the vast hordes of men and horses that blackened the other side of the river, stretching far to the east. While politicians stalled and Attila the Hun cooed in his crib, King Uldinâs men lounged with the confidence of men who had already won. To pass the time, scouts on the hunt for food took turns shooting rabbits through the eye from two hundred yards away on horseback, but soon even that grew boring. They yearned for a real challenge to prove their mettle.
Further west, once-proud warriors, wore the same glazed look as rabbits. Shoving their way as far ahead of the Huns as possible, the Gepidae surged into the Ostrogothi, who pushed against the Langobardi, who bumped the Rugii, who riled the Thuringi, and so on from the Angli to the Saxones, Iutes, Franci, Alamanni, Burgundi, Alani, Suebi, and Vandali. Tighter and tighter each community squeezed, until they jumbled together at the edge of the Roman world, indistinguishable in their misery. âGermans.â âBarbarians.â
Dazed from despair, the refugees ate, drank, and breathed hope since little else remained: hope that one day they could cross into the Promise Land of milk and honey â or vinum and garum â like the Visigoths before them. Starving children cried out, but the family farms had long been overrun and abandoned. There was no food to give. Men and women shivered as they stared across the wide river blocking their path, but blankets had begun rotting to dust. They couldnât move forward and they couldnât go back. All they could do was wait and pray for a miracle.
Subsolanus pitied these creatures. He called his brothers from the four corners of the Earth and together they blew and blew. Annus 1159 from the founding of the City, four hundred six years after the death of Christus, boasted one of the coldest winters in living memory. The temperature dropped so low that the Rhenus River, famed for its fearsome flow, fully froze.
One bare, snow-burned foot stepped hesitantly onto the solid water. Then another. A loaded cart tested the ice further from shore, yet still it held.
At last, an entire nation, starved and savage, surged as one, breaking like a wave upon the unsuspecting forts that had mocked them for years. Soldiers that stood in their way were torn to shreds as an afterthought in the search for food and supplies.
Did I do the right thing? the wind wondered to itself.
Only time would tell.
A.D. IX KAL. SEPT. MCLXIV A.U.C.
AUGUST 24, 410 A.D.
What is on the other side of all that water?
Is it safe there?
Our forefathers long believed that the great Titan Oceanus encircled the entire world with an unnavigable river, but the old gods are dead now, driven from Mount Olympus by this a single all-powerful, all-knowing deity who doesnât have any answers for me either.
I suppose it stands to reason that the ocean spills out as a giant waterfall into nothingness at the edge of the world, but what lies beyond that? If nothingâs there, it wouldnât hurt at least to jump and fall and fall and fall… would it? That doesnât sound any worse than the pain weâve found here.
I wish I were a bird â one of those big, black cormorants over there. Then I could see for myself. Iâd fly out over the ocean and find my friends a real home where they could finally rest. Weâve been running for so long â long before we ever stepped foot in Hispania.
Iâm so tired.
Soon it will be time to rest. I just have to keep flapping my wings for a little while longer.
Try as it might, the crash of waves against the sea cliffs no longer drowns out the clatter of four dozen angry men stomping through the forest on their way to destroy us. Theyâre getting closer â a fact confirmed when a murder of crows bursts from the tree line, protesting the interruption to their midday siestas. Two crash into each other and fall out of the sky. Iâve never seen that before.
âWhereâs an augur when you need one?â
âI donât need a bird to tell your fortune today,â taunts the other man â a villain I have hated with every fiber of my being; a man I swore to kill more than once; a man I would likely now die defending
âOr me, yours,â I grin, not afraid of death. I didnât used to be, at least. âI didnât mean for us.â
Even knowing thereâs nothing to see, we look back together. Our traveling companions are well hidden in the trees, already working on phase two of the plan. Phase one is to buy them enough time to finish.
My partner, just as reluctant, grunts in agreement. âIn that case, stop moping and letâs get a move on!â
âWhatâs your rush?â I laugh to prove him wrong â moping! âThose brutes down there wonât start without us.â
My enemy favors me with his favorite maniacal grin. âFor Irena?
âFor the woman we love,â I agree and draw my sword for battle.
CAPITULUM I: NOVA
A.D. IV ID. OCT. MCLXIII A.U.C.
October 12, 409 A.D.
The sunâs prismatic reflection off the Mandarache Sea and white walls of Carthago Nova blinded Valeria Irena as she pressed against the shipâs bow in excitement. If that werenât enough, a sudden blast of wind knocked her backwards, almost off her feet. The young Romana laughed, more exhilarated than ever. As if a puff of air could stop her!
Unsurprisingly, the wind reeked of the most prestigious garum factory in the world. The fresh air at sea had been a rare luxury, but now the stench of fermenting fish guts comprised just one minor note of the bouquet of city stink that she would need to readjust to. Regardless, the din, tang, and crush of too many bodies in a small space called to her â the pulse of life itself.
Long, wavy black hair defied Irenaâs sloppy bun and fillet. She tried pulling her palla up over her head for greater modesty, but the long shawl whipped just as wildly in the gale. She shrugged and stopped fussing. Who did she need to look nice for? Irena preferred keeping her hair out of her eyes while she worked but, other than that, never dedicated much thought to her appearance.
Thatâs not to say she wasnât pretty; she just didnât stand out in a crowd. Her petite five-foot frame didnât help â she could barely see over the shipâs bulwark. Olive-oil skin glowed with just a touch of gold, however, and her black eyes twinkled like the night sky reflected in a tranquil sea. A prominent aquiline nose, indicative of her proud ancient bloodline, was balanced out by wide, rosy lips. Her smile melted the iciest souls, but when her temper flared, those stars in her eyes exploded into blistering comets, raining fiery death upon any who dared challenge her. It was for the best that Irena usually smiled.
As the corbita docked, she frowned. Something felt off.
Perhaps it was her own fault for building this moment up so much in her head. For months, stuck in the Italian port of Ostia, Irenaâd had nothing to do but accost random sailors with questions, plan, plot, and dream. Illiterate, she learned to interpret maps with a little help and memorized the quickest route to her final destination in the remote corner of Hispania. All would begin here in Carthago Nova, fittingly enough. On this same soil, her Republican ancestors had first turned their minds to empire building. Another interesting fact she had uncovered: Carthago itself meant ânew cityâ in the original Punic, making Carthago Nova the âNew New Cityâ. There had to be some providence in that, right? She could use the extra luck.
A lot can change in six hundred years, however. The provincial capital before her felt old and worn out. Where were all the people? Sailors and merchants and slaves still tramped across the piers, but they should have been shoving each other out of their way, arguing and cursing in nautical tradition.
Nearly forgetting to grab her sarcina of sparse personal belongings â a spare dress, sleeping mat, some cooking supplies â Irena was first down the gangplank. Her most important possession, a satchel stuffed with medical supplies, slapped familiarly against her hip as she followed the trickle of commerce down the main road towards the forum. Head swiveling with growing concern, she tried to read the vitals of the city like one of her patients.
From a distance, Carthago boasted all the markings of a prosperous Roman metropolis, including a massive temple to Iupiter overlooking the bay and additional shrines topping each of the four hills. A modern church featured on the easternmost knoll as well, making up for its lack of eloquence with brute magnitude. Below that, a towering amphitheater peeked over the city walls. A whisper of music advertised a nearby theater, though Irena couldnât see past the multi-storied domi and apartment buildings along the decumanus. Upon closer inspection, however, most of these stood vacant, neglected, graffitied. The forum didnât so much hum as cough, its citizens ambling without purpose, going through the motions without quite remembering why.
Irena shivered with dĂŠjĂ vu. It was like she had never left home.
No, not exactly, she tried to assuage her quickening pulse. Nearly a year ago, Roma Aeterna, Capital of the World, had been attacked for the first time in eight centuries. Alaric, leader of the Visigoths, hadnât even needed to enter the gates to bring The City to its knees and shake the foundations of the Empire. Starvation forced the residents to agree to any terms he demanded, anything to make him ride away and promise never to return.
Dark memories seeped into her thoughts, and suddenly she envisioned ghosts walking the streets before her. Two images â the Roma of her past and the Carthago Nova of her present â superimposed themselves on each other and she struggled to tell which was which. The streets spread before her simultaneously bustling with prosperous activity and deadly quiet, abandoned but for corpses left to rot.
Irena had been luckier than most. Coming from a long line of local medicae, her herbal healing skills had protected her throughout the worst of the crisis. She alone walked the streets with impunity since the man who murdered her would have no one to aid him or his family when they fell ill or wounded. Still, sheâd jumped at every intersection, every sudden movement. Roving gang members had a bad habit of attacking first and asking questions later.
She shook her head in astonishment as a wealthy patrician strolled carelessly down the street with a pair of slaves toting baskets overflowing with groceries behind her, right through the apparition of a young boy stabbed for the stub of moldy bread in his hands. Irena remembered how he had died in her arms, whimpering for his mother. Her hands twitched as she wiped imaginary blood off her palla.
A dog barked from a doorway and she wondered how any animal had survived this long without ending up in someoneâs cooking pot. She had come to prefer fresh rat meat herself, while others still had demanded openly in the forum that a price be set for human flesh. When bodies disappeared overnight, no one asked any questions.
Ghostly faces, scarred with pox or covered in blood, stared silently down at her from empty doors and upper windows. She screamed from her eyes, hiding behind a plastered smile. Her feet moved faster and faster on their own accord back towards the docks. She never ran, though it felt like she had sprinted the entire way from Italia. The pounding of her heart against her impossibly tight chest blocked out any other sound besides howls in her head to GET THE INFERNO OUT OF THERE!
Within minutes she was back to the ancient Carthaginian walls. They hadnât worked to keep the Romans out before and Irena, rabid with panic, would have torn them down brick by brick if anyone tried to stop her now. Only after dashing through the gates did she realize that she hadnât been breathing. She collapsed against the wall, glazed eyes staring out across the choppy blue water. The visions finally ceased, but would she ever stop shaking?
Someone tapped her shoulder. Irena screamed out loud.
A man threw his hand over her mouth and gestured with the other, moving his flat palm downward. He pointed at her, then shook his index finger. Calm down! Where were you? As an afterthought, he swiped his sideways hand against an upward palm in a short chopping motion. Are you alright?
âFine, Frater,â she lied in a shaky voice. âSorry.â
This time he didnât even have to sign â his cocked eyebrow said it all. She hadnât fooled him, but he wasnât the type to keeping pressing if his sister didnât want his help. Valerius Corvinus had enough problems of his own.
The family resemblance was obvious. For one, the siblings shared the same prodigious nose. Seven centuries ago, their ancestor had volunteered to confront a giant Gallic warrior in one-on-one combat. A crow alighted on Valerius Corvusâ helmet before launching itself at his enemyâs face. This divine distraction led to a legendary Roman victory. Honor aside, the giant beak on Corvinusâ face lent the family name a new sense. Even Irena never used her brotherâs praenomen Gaius when âCrowâ fit him so well, all the more now that he languished in mourning.
âScarecrowâ fit better still. His skin had bronzed under the burning sun working as a deckhand all summer, soft patrician hands torn and blistered. He preferred them that way, refusing to let Irena treat him with her balms with the same feral abandon that compelled him to fight her off whenever she tried to attack his ratâs-nest black hair with a comb. About a hand taller than his sister, that still left him considerably short for a man. Ironically, he compensated by slouching everywhere. Since no one knew his real height, most added a few mental inches. His height-to-weight ratio also threw strangers off. The siblings had starved together during the siege, compiling resources under the same roof, but while Irena had gradually managed to put a little meat onto her bones since, Corvinus remained an anorexic skeleton, dangerously undernourished yet nauseous at even the thought of eating.
He hadnât always been like this, just like he hadnât always been mute. A year ago, heâd had everything he ever wanted: a thriving business, a beautiful wife, a baby on the way. Now his black, matte eyes sucked light into their infinite depths, feeding a hellish, slumbering beast. The Goths, with their siege, had robbed him of everything, including his memory. Irena wouldnât tell him what had happened, claiming she didnât know either. One day, frustrated from her lies, Corvinus simply walked out of their insula and kept walking, for eight hours straight, until he reached the sea. He mimed his way into a job, hoping to lose himself in a new life â or in the waves if all else failed. A fall from those high masts would do the trick as well.
No such luck. His sister had eventually tracked him down, begging him to join her on some insane quest. They were all each other had left. What could he say?
I didnât want to bring you here, and itâs not too late for me to turn back now, Corvinus lectured, hands flashing in their rudimentary sign language. Knowing each other so well for so long helped fill in the gaps. Forgive me if you were bored for ten minutes, but some of us have to work around here. I had to collect my wages too. Can you believe they tried to cheat me eight nummi? No more running off!
âIâll behave, Frater.â She batted her eyes innocently. âAre you hungry?â
He shook his head no.
âShould we pass by the baths?â
He rubbed his thumb and index finger together.
âToo expensive?â Irena scowled at the glistening brine from sweat and seawater all over his body. âAvare, you canât spare a single bronze semifollis?â Sheâd probably force him to suffer through a massage out of spite too, except that would requiring braving the city again. âHave it your way,â she huffed. Hopefully thereâd be a smaller balneae in a nearby village; otherwise, sheâd have to hold his head underwater and scrub him herself. Stubborn, self-destructive man!
A stray thought â that was too easy – floated lazily in the back of Corvinusâ mind, but it wasnât bothering him, so he didnât bother it. He felt the weight of his six-month salary from the trading ship divided up in hidden pockets all over his body. Every step reminded him how quickly it would all be gone, and then what?
Lead on, he beckoned sarcastically and nestled comfortably back into his cocoon of numbness, willing to follow his sister to the end of the earth â literally â as long as he didnât have to think. That was the closest Irena figured sheâd get to a conversation for the rest of the day, and she was right.
Irena couldnât stop thinking as the siblings crossed the western bridge and ascended through poorer neighbourhoods on the outskirts of the patinaed capital. They paused to purchase light provisions â dried fruit, nuts, cheese, bread, wine, and barley for porridge â then snacked while they walked. She pressed on past cauponae and the temptation of a real bed. Gradually civilization gave way to fields and forests, where walls couldnât contain her. The ghosts didnât follow â that she could see at least.
Roma would always be her city, but babbling brooks, flowering trees, and pungent earth comprised her earliest memories. Irene was a goddess of spring after all, charged with restoring peace and harmony to a world wallowing in eternal winter. In reality, Irena had been named after her mother, who died in childbirth. Pater shipped the baby and his six-year-old son off to live with their grandmother in the countryside while he buried himself in work and quickly forgot them.
The ancestral Valerian estate had once housed a luxurious, rambling villa fit for a long line of senators and consuls, but its original complex had crumbled from neglect centuries ago, and the land itself had been divided by so many generations that the plot Avia tended barely accommodated her humble cottage. The matriarch of obduracy, however, she coaxed life out of every inch.
Avia knew the secret to growing carrots, leeks, beets, and fava beans in harmonious bunches, one practically on top of the other. Fig trees hung heavily over the gate with fruit for passersby, and grape vines climbed trellises all over the casula. Basil, lovage, rosemary, and silphium poured out of every glassless window from planter boxes within. Even so, medicinal herbs outnumbered the rest by spades in this healerâs haven: yarrow to staunch bleeding and reduce fever, poppies for alleviating pain and anxiety, elecampane for the stomach and lungs, fenugreek for pneumonia, mandrake for insomnia, fennel for lactation, and cabbage (along with crushed snails, of which there were also plenty) for headaches.
The prize possession had been a rare cinnamon tree from the distant tear-drop island of Taprobana, propagated from the original plant her own great-grandmother had conveniently stumbled upon in a completely legitimate night market. Avia sustained the sapling indoors and employed the bark for everything from preserving meat to fighting inflammation to adding spice to customersâ bedrooms. Due to its popularity in high-end oils and luxury funerals, it was a great way to attract customers âworthy of the Valerian name,â as she liked to put it.
Irena learned everything she knew about helping others from her grandmother, while Corvinus had focused more on how to profit from the business. âMedica, cure thyself,â Avia used to quote despite never having heard the name Hippocrates. A healer who couldnât take care of herself â financially or otherwise â would be useless to anyone else. If Irena really wanted to grow up to be like her heroine, Fabiola, opening hospitals for average citizens and not just soldiers, it helped to be rich first. Corvinus never passed up an opportunity to remind her of their grandmotherâs great wisdom. His sister had a bad habit of giving away his product for free.
On top of such practical matters, Avia drilled both siblings on their ancient lineage to instill pride of heritage. Humility before the gods of old was even more important. Just because the Emperors had fully embraced Christianity didnât mean tradition should be forgotten. Irena still wore the traditional lunula crescent around her neck for protection. It couldnât hurt.
Pater eventually recalled his legacy and ordered the siblings back to Roma to be married off. Teenaged Irena lived less than six months in her fatherâs household before Centurio Valerius left for war and never returned, bequeathing her and her brother nothing but debt that outvalued the domus. At least they werenât present to watch their idyllic childhood home go up in fragrant flames as Alaricâs troops marched through northern Italia. Avia must have already passed before then, or the Visigothic warlord would have never survived harming a single petal of her precious garden.
All suns must set, and as the siblingsâ first day in Hispania came to a close, they picked out a promising nook in an empty field, rolled out their blankets, and fell straight to tossing and turning. Eventually, Irena threw herself from the covers out of frustration, hissing at the unfamiliar discomfort of stiff muscles. Massaging eucalyptus oil into the small of her back, she took a stroll to work out the kinks.
When the world is at its darkest, look up, her grandmotherwhispered from beyond. Tragedy had pursued Irena from her first breath, but she drew strength now from the calm, shimmery brilliance of the swirling heavens. The crescent moon smiled, and she clasped her lunula tighter to her chest, remembering the rest of the quote. When even the stars hide, you must be the light for others.
âI will, Avia,â she whispered back to the stars, imagining what a beautiful world it could be.
The rocks and roots werenât any kinder when Irena lay back down, but she tried to be a little more forgiving. Sleep came eventually.
Irena awoke her second morning in Hispania tired, sore, and inches from a cow. Its warm, moist breath flecked snot on her cheeks.
âAah!â
âWhoâs there?â called a threatening voice from behind the forest of bovine legs.
Corvinus bolted upright as a calf started licking his head.
It took them both about five seconds to fully register what was going on, and then another five seconds to pause and recover their breath a mile down the road. Soaking clothes and sore muscles no longer weighed on their minds, at least until the adrenaline wore off.
Thus, it was little shock that Irena passed the morning a bit crankier than usual. âThey call this a road?â she grumbled mostly to herself after tripping over yet another loose flagstone. âVia Herculea? Iâd like to see what the real Hercules would think about them naming this sorry excuse for a footpath after him. Heâd say this stinks worse than the stables of Augeas and probably rip somebodyâs head off!â
She heard the clatter of speeding hooves just in time to throw herself off the road as a uniformed officiant sped by on horse. âWhen youâre done delivering that mail, try posting yourself some manners!â
Corvinus allowed himself the luxury of a small snigger. He liked his sister best when she took a break from saving the world and let herself be human, especially if that involved scolding someone else.
Irena noticed. âShut up.â
Eventually the sun rose bright and hot for an early autumn day, and Irenaâs temper dried out along with her clothes. That was until a new problem presented itself: A journey of a thousand miles, it turns out, is very, very boring.
The world crawled along at such a mind-numbing pace that even dowdy mules pulling the occasional carrum seemed to zoom past like stealthy racing stallions. Meeting other wretches on the road too poor to afford anything more than a sturdy pair of sandals was another rare treat.
Unfortunately, one shouldnât simply stare at a stranger for ten minutes as they inched towards each other at a snailâs pace. It was creepy.
Looking away seemed suspicious, too.
Was her smile too wide or too subtle? Either option made her feel like a sociopath.
Maybe she should whistle instead.
How could she forget how to walk at a time like this?
With a meek nod, crisis was averted, yet as the buzz of adrenaline wore off, Irena wanted to cry as boredom settled in once more.
The only other option was conversing with a mute. Irena gushed on and on about her grand plans, detailing every step sheâd worked out so far and deliberating every possibility she could think of ad nauseum, as if Corvinus hadnât heard it all a hundred times already.
As far as he knew, nothing had changed since they had left Ostia a few days ago. Irenaâs secret panic attack in Carthago Nova had rattled her to the bone, however. What would happen if she couldnât enter any city without risking a total meltdown? Her brotherâs mental health was hanging by a thread as well. Who would take care of him if she went crazy? She wasnât even sure that he would stay to take care of her.
She rambled on to distract her mind and obscure her fears. After thoroughly exhausting the immediate present, Irena forecasted further and further into the future, painting a rainbow-hued paradise for their happily-ever-after. New markets for his business: a pharmaceutical empire. There was too much competition in Roma anyway. Here he could be rich â rich enough to rule a whole city! She painted such a vivid picture that Corvinus did begin to drool, but then she went and ruined it by prattling on about how sheâd devote his wealth to helping the sick and needy. He stopped listening again. Even she recognized how ridiculous she sounded after a while, but what did it hurt to dream?
Exhausting that topic, Irena resumed commenting on their surroundings, albeit in a much more optimistic vein. Intuiting that her brother had checked out long ago, it made just as much sense to address the scenery directly.
âI see you thyme! Just a little snip â itâll only hurt for a minute. And is that rosemary?â
âItâs so dry here! Why donât you clouds send a little rain our way?â
âWhat a beautiful flower! Whatâs your name, little guy?â
âWhoâs a pretty colchicum? You canât fool me, you poisonous little devil!â
âI donât know how you big, bushy oaks stay in shape with so little water. Hang in there! Oh, great. Where did those clouds from earlier go? They must be hiding from me! Itâs ok, I donât bite!â
Maybe she really was insana.
So passed Irena and Corvinusâ first full day on the road. Witnessing the sun flaunt its royal purple and red gold on the way to sleep was at least a little reward for their efforts. Judging from the stone markers, they had covered nearly ten miles. Irena was torn between pride at the modest achievement and despair at the hundreds and hundreds of miles left to go.
More pressing was the sinking reminder that night was dark. Yet again, the siblings found themselves without a place to sleep.
âYou havenât seen any cows recently, have you? Any sheep? Pigs?â
Irena could barely make out Corvinusâ shaking head in the extra dim light of a waning crescent moon. No, though he looked nervous too. Surveying their surroundings and shrugging helplessly, she realized that theyâd have to risk it.
A short distance off the path, a patch of three ancient cypresses jutted out of the earth at unnatural angles. Their roots, too, protruded unusually high. Avia used to call these the treesâ knees, but they appeared more like a menacing minion army in the dark. Regardless, Irena had learned her lesson about sleeping completely out in the open. She hunted out a spot just wide enough for her and her brother to squeeze between without too much discomfort and settled in, daring the trees to do their worst.
The trees felt that was very unfair, especially with so many real bandits roaming at night.
After hours of more turning and tossing, the wind died down just long enough for Irena to hear something that made her blood freeze. She struggled to place the sound at first: harsh, asynchronous, definitely not natural. The crunch of hobnail sandals on gravel. The creak of stiff leather. The swish of metal slicing through air.
They were not alone.
Corvinusâ eyes snapped open intuitively, and Irena raised a finger to warn him to remain silent. In retrospect, Irena chided herself for such a useless precaution, but at the moment she didnât dare take any chances. He complied without even rolling his eyes for once, but not everyone got the message.
âI thought you said you saw something over here,â a rough voice whispered from the other side of their tree.
âMaybe it was just these fatuae roots,â a second voice responded. Thump. He laughed in a way that made Irena wonder if he had any more brains than the wood he had just kicked. The tree countered by raining silver leaves over everyoneâs head.
âNo, like this,â his partner guffawed back. Thwack. Metal stuck in the trunk, shaking the tree even more. He needed both hands to pull his weapon back out.
Thud. Chunk. Whack. Crack! Irena wanted to scream, all the more just to put an end to their brainless tittering.
They bored eventually. âThatâs enough,â scolded the first hooligan. âYou know wood dulls the spikes. Letâs look somewhere else. The roads have been busy. Someoneâs bound to be out there with a fat purse and a little extra weight on their shoulders.â
âAh, alright,â nimrod number two whined with one final whump, inches from Irenaâs own shoulders. They slunk back into the darkness with considerably less stealth then when they arrived. Still a long time passed before either Irena or Corvinus could breathe again.
Irenaâs fingers were the first to resume contact with her brain. Slowly, she reached backwards, fumbling blindly near the root. There, just as sheâd suspected. Hands shaking, she showed her brother, whose sharp intake of breath seemed amplified like a shout in the tense silence â short, raven-black hair cut cleanly from her head.