The last thing Syriana saw was a blade, thick and transient in the sunlight as it sliced through the skull of her little sister. Barely able to see, Syriana struggled to her feet as she tried in vain to wipe the blood from her eyes, fingernails full of earth. She could hear the scenes of the slaughter, and her ears focused on the familiar breathing pattern of her brother beside her, whose voice rang out in a muffled cry as it was caught in his throat. She moved, eyes furiously blinking yet seeing nothing, from the path of a sweeping sword, her remaining senses her only guidance. She could hear the blade as it cut through the air where she had just been standing. Syriana only caught a flicker of the scent of sweat before strong hands pushed her to the ground. Her blonde hair was matted to the blood on her face, both obscuring her vision. She could smell and feel the warmth of the earth they had just ploughed earlier, and the last thing she remembered was a sickening crunch as a heavy weight collapsed into her leg.
*
Hooves clapped methodically along the wide river path, Syriana’s body moved with the rhythm of the horse below her. She could feel the warmth of a body behind her, rhythmic breathing, and something stopping her from falling off. Involuntarily, the pain came to her then as her eyes flickered open to the sunlight. Her stomach knotted as nausea swept through her, her limbs tingling though she felt little but the pain that shot through her leg. Syriana hunched forward and felt her insides come up through her throat. It was just air, but her stomach continued to convulse in dry retching until she began to cough. It became uncontrollable, consuming her breath, until, short of air and still nauseated from the pain, the coughing dissipated and she fell into a deep sleep once again. Syriana dreamt.
The month of harvest was over, and the rains had come and gone, bringing nourishment back into the fertile soils. Her brother straightened his back as he struck the plough into the soil. Wiping sweat from his brow, he grinned at his younger sister; Syriana smiled in return, before she crouched down and continued planting. A few meters away their younger sister stood, sunlight catching on her long blonde braid. She called out to them, and the two followed her hand as she pointed to the riders. Syriana stood straight, and sheltered her eyes from the sun. Their shapes, perhaps twenty, were dark and swift against the rolling green of the open fields. They followed no roads, yet were headed for the village behind the field they stood in. Her brother called out to their father who was ploughing with a mule on the next field. Their father stopped, as did the others in the fields, looking up to watch. They came without warning and did not slow. No one even thought to turn and run until it was too late.
Syriana woke to the echo of her little sister’s screams and the icy chill of water as it engulfed her legs. The horses were crossing a river, it was broad and rocky, but the current in the middle was slow. Up ahead in the moonlight shone on the still surface, before the other riders broke through and climbed onto the bank. Syriana glanced down at her leg as they made it up the bank, it was bandaged, though the river had left it soaking and laid upon it a large pressure. Somehow the rider behind her realized she had woken, she could hear a heavily accented voice at her ear.
“You are safe, little blue-eyes,” he said, his tone calm, “sleep some more, we are nearly home.”
Syriana didn’t want to sleep. As her senses begun to return, so too came a feeling of panic. Who were these people? Where were her brother and sister? Echoes of the dream filtered into her mind then, scenes from the field, but as quick as they came she shut them out. The man must have felt her tense, but he said nothing. Syriana looked down at her body. Blankets covered her, but she was also strapped back, like a baby wrap, to the rider. Perhaps it was so she did not fall. She knew at least that trying to free herself would be pointless. Even if she did manage to escape, her leg would not allow her to stand, much less run. She had no option then but to be still.
The company came to a halt, perhaps a kilometre beyond the river bank. She could not see well in the darkness, but the moon was full and under its glow she could make out three human shapes ahead, mist surrounding them and so concealing any others. They were tall, with strange patterns tattooed across their face and bare skin. They wore little despite the cold; Syriana could not make out their expressions. In their hands poised long spears, ends resting on the forest floor. The leaders of the company spoke to them, their language foreign, and in the darkness of the night the three disappeared as quickly as they had come.
“Who were they?” Syriana asked quietly, so quietly she wasn’t sure the man had heard.
“Guardians,” was his reply. “They protect the forest and our people from those that are… undesirable.”
“Our people?”
In the darkness, the rider smiled.
