A Light for Tomorrow - Chapter 1.2

The snow fell in sheets from the dark sky above. The driver shivered and pulled his cloak close, the outline of the city loomed far in the distance. A few scattered lanterns lit the road, illuminating the ramshackle huts and makeshift structures huddled next to the city for warmth, like piglets suckling on a bloated sow. The driver’s torch sputtered and coughed as an icy wind blew in from the north, he reached out just a second too late to shield the flame. He swore, letting the wind carry his words away, it’d be nearly impossible to get another fire going again in the wind and snow. They reached a crossroad and waited while a few dirty children ran across the street after a ratty ball. The driver thought for a brief moment, then swallowed his fear and peeked his head into the back of the coach.

Zira lay sprawled in the back of the cab, a half-naked man was curled up on the floor, snoring gently. The driver paused for a moment to admire her. She was a bear of a woman, broad shouldered, muscular, nearly filling an entire seat just on her own. Almost unintentionally the driver’s eye began to trace her form, admiring every scar and bruise covering her body; rippling muscles tensing and relaxing, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. The stories of her accomplishments sprung to his mind unbidden, how she’d supposedly fought off an entire Arnhalmian company single-handed; he hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but looking at her, he could almost believe it.

Zira’s eyes shifted back and forth, sizing up the foes which surrounded her. Faceless and voiceless soldiers in ashen armor, carrying weapons of bloodstained steel, watched her silently, waiting for a mistake. Zira shifted her feet, boots softly squelching in the bloodstained sand. Sweat dripped from her brow, as the sun beat down upon her, no clouds marred the flawless blue abyss above her. The desert was silent other than the pounding of her heart, and the whispering of the wind. She tensed up, waiting for one of them to make a move, waiting for any weakness she could exploit. The soldiers continued to watch her impassively, their featureless masks betraying nothing about what may lie within. With a roar, Zira tightened the grip on her maul, and swung wildly. The soldier neatly stepped back, as his allies stepped forward and drove their swords into Zira’s unprotected back. She cried in pain, and whirled to towards the attackers, who nimbly sidestepped the blow, as their compatriots again struck at Zira’s back. There was the sound of cracking bone, her legs gave out, and she collapsed on the bloodstained sand. The soldiers stepped back, and reformed the circle surrounding Zira, watching her as she screamed in rage and struggled to stand on her useless legs.

Stop them.

Her eyes flickered open and focused on the driver. “Speak.” She commanded.

The driver stammered, his face red from embarrassment and the cold, “m-my apologies miss, but we’re nearly at Gorim.”

Without responding, Zira lifted the heavy curtain and stuck her head out the window. She pulled herself back in the cab, and brushed the snow off her head, onto the sleeping figure. “I’ll walk.” She said brusquely. The woman reached behind the seat, withdrew a leather backpack and maul, and then stepped out into the storm. Zira took a long breath of freezing air, and then exhaled a cloud of thick steam. The bitter wind stung her exposed limbs, Zira opened her arms and let the wind come; savoring the pain as the blood began to flow back into her limbs after the long journey. Her boots squelched in the thick mud of the street, winter hadn’t quite ended yet, but it had warmed up enough the melt the top layer of the snow, turning the streets into a thick soup. The children, turned to face her as she stepped out of the cab. They watched her, eyes desperate and hungry, searching for money, food, anything they could steal. Zira watched the children as she passed; they were all skin and bones, skin pale and blotchy from months without the sun. Zira snorted, she was surprised they had even survived the winter.

The wind died down for a few moments, giving Zira a clear view of the city in the distance. She stopped to admire it, she hadn’t been to Gorim since she was a child; her first thought was small it looked. The jagged stone walls of the city blended into the dull grey slush stretching to the horizon in every direction. The torches of the evening watchmen lined the top of the walls, marking the border between the walls and featureless sky. The heavy wooden gates hung slightly ajar, and Zira could see the lights of the city trickling out through the crack. She shook her head and resumed her journey.

The shanty town grew thicker the closer she got to the city, men, women, and children, all dirty and thin, peered out from behind ratty blankets and rotted boards as she passed. Occasionally one of them would gasp in surprise, a few simply stared. There was a brief commotion, and a young man emerged from one of the shacks, and prostrated himself to Zira as she passed. Fearful faces peered from the doorway behind him, and hoarse whispers urged him to come back to the relative safety of the hovel. Zira paused, and looked at the young man, shivering in the cold. With a single motion she unhooked her pack and dropped it on the boy. “Do not get it dirty,” she said sharply, before continuing down the road. The boy’s eyes opened wide in surprise, as he struggled to his feet, and fumbled with the heavy pack; before taking off after Zira.

After an hour the wind picked up again, whipping the snow into a frenzy. Zira continued forward, seemingly unhindered by the blinding snow, the boy followed after struggling to keep up. The rags wrapped around his feet had long since disintegrated, and his feet were raw and bloody. Finally, the city loomed large before them. The guards peered at Zira as she emerged from the snowstorm, and then quickly snapped to attention when she came fully into view. Zira nodded to the guards, and strode confidentially into the city, with the boy stumbling after her.

Zira paused when she heard someone call to her, and saw a middle aged man dressed in a captain’s uniform emerging from a small guard post nestled next to the gate. The boy caught up to her, and then doubled over, gasping for breath. The captain held out a hand in greeting, and then approached her, “Lady Reet, we were told you’d be arriving by coach.” The captain said, clutching his cloak tight.

Zira shrugged, “coach was too slow. Decided to walk. It was a good night for a walk.”

The captain shivered as another blast of freezing air came down from the north, “It, uh, it certainly is. We weren’t expecting you to come in on foot, do you need any help carrying…” his voice trailed off, not wanting to offend the woman towering over him.

Zira gestured to the boy, “he has my things. Take them to my quarters, get him something to eat and some dry clothes, and then send him home.”

The captain glanced at the wide eyed, shivering boy doubled over and panting in the snow, with a raised eyebrow. “And you, ma’m?”

Zira grinned ear to ear, “where’s the best place to get a drink in this city?”

From the outside the mead hall didn’t look like much, it was a squat half-timber building, walls charred and marked from fires and drunken brawls which had gone a little too far. The few windows were covered by thick blankets, whoever owned the hall had probably gotten tired of replacing them, Zira reasoned. As she approached, Zira could hear music and laughter, and smelled the sweet stench of spilled ale. Zira pushed open the heavy wooden door, and was greeted by a blast of heat coming off a massive fire in the center of the hall. Zira skirted the edge of the crowded hall and made her way to the bar at the far end. “Your finest mead and meat,” Zira demanded, dropping a handful of coins on the bar. The willowy girl behind the bar waved away the smoke, and held one of the coins up to examine it. Her eyes grew wide in surprise and she began to reach for the rest of the coins. Zira caught her hand, and grinned, “Not until I’ve sampled your mead. What I already gave you is worth two months pay, so bring me the best you have.”

The bartender looked at Zira, and then a spark of recognition crossed her face. “Y-yes, right away!” She stammered, nodding profusely, before scampering into the back.

Zira turned to face the room, and leaned back on the bar. There was a brief lull as the current performer took his bows, and stepped aside to let the next bard take the stage. The next person to pull themselves up onto the table was a tall blond in a long red coat. She brushed a bit of hair out of her face, and then turned to the crowd with a dramatic flourish. “I’ve got something special for you all tonight,” she said with gusto, “a new tale of Zira, and her battle against those bastards to the south!” The crowd cheered. The bard raised a finger, “and unlike some bards, I know the truth! I got my information from the source! That’s right; here in the crowd is one of the men who was there!” She gestured to a reedy man who clambered up onto the table next to her and waved to the crowd.

As the two began to tell the story, Zira narrowed her eyes and tried to remember the man, she certainly hadn’t seen him on the battlefield, but he did seem familiar. The bartender returned with a pewter pint nearly overflowing with mead, and a plate stacked high with red meat, which instantly Zira fell upon. “Enjoying the story?” The bartender asked.

Zira nodded, and replied around a mouthful of meat, “yesh, alwaysh up for a good shtory.” The longer Zira watched them, the clearer it was that neither of them had any idea what actually happened. As she polished off the last of the meat, Zira suddenly remembered where she’d seen the man before; he’d turned tail and ran at the first sight of combat. Coward probably spent the battle in passed out in a back alley, while true warriors were fighting and dying, Zira thought angrily.

Finally they began to speak of the woman in gold, and the moment the battle went sour. Zira ground her teeth in frustration as they continued to get every detail wrong, culminating in them claiming that the woman had actually defeated her in combat. Zira drained her mug, the oaken bar top cracked when she slammed the mug down on top of it. She stood up slowly, drawing herself up to her full height for the first time in many weeks; the server took one look at Zira, and sidled into the back room, praying she had gone unnoticed.

Zira silently forced her way to the table; upon stepping into the firelight the crowd grew silent, other than a few murmurs of disbelief. The bard’s eyes lit up upon seeing Zira, and then she spoke excitedly, “look who’s here! The incomparable Zi—“

Zira raised a hand, “silence.” He voice dripping with cold fury, she pointed an accusing figure at the man standing next to the bard. “You.” The man began to sweat, and took a step back, foot teetering on the edge of the table. “You left us to die.” The hall shook as she took another step.

The man’s hands shook as he held them out to shield himself, “now— I–I can explain, p-please, let me explain.” Angry murmurs rippled through the crowd, some began to shoot hateful glances towards the man. He turned and saw two men at the head of the crowd reaching for anything they could use as a weapon. The table shook, and he turned back to see Zira towering over him. The bard had jumped off the table, and was doing her best to blend into the crowd. “I ca—“ Zira grabbed him by the throat.

She lifted the man up to eye level, his feet swung uselessly as he weakly struggled against her grip. “You are scared, yes?” The man let out a strangled gasp and nodded. “Good. You should be.” He gripped tightened around his throat, “you run like a coward, and then sully the memory of true warriors.” She spat in his face. “Pathetic.” She looked out to the crowd, “this man is no soldier, he is a coward and a liar. He ran at first sight of the enemy, leaving us to die. Now he lies about me, to make a few coin.” The murmurings of the crowd grew louder, “and, remind me, what do we do with cowards?” The man’s eyes widened in fear and he struggled to speak, and Zira flashed a bloodthirsty grin. The crowd began to chant her name.

“P-please, m-my children,” he gasped as his face began to turn blue.

“They are lucky to grow up without a worm like you.” With a single fluid motion she slammed the man’s head down on the table with a sickening crack. Again, and again she drove his head into the table, leaving a crimson stain on the rough oaken planks. The chanting died down as she continued to brutalize the unconscious man. Finally, she dropped the lifeless body, and turned to face the silent crowd, “Now then, you” she pointed to the bard who had nearly made her way out of the hall, “come here.” The bard gasped, and Zira laughed. “No, no, you misunderstand. I wish to tell you what really happened, to set the record straight. But first,” she pulled out her coin purse and tossed it up and down, letting the jingling of coins echo throughout the hall, “the next round is on me!” A few nervous cheers broke the silence.

Zira cracked her eyes open, and starred up into the gloom. More than half her body hung over the side of the tiny cot, the bed was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. The bard snored gently next to her, wedged between Zira and the wall. Probably should have learned her name, Zira mused as she rolled out of bed and went to collect her things. She dressed quickly, and slipped out onto the tavern floor. Unconscious revelers lay scattered around the hall; Zira glanced around keen eyes well-adjusted to the predawn gloom. She gave a satisfied smirk, it had taken quite a bit of mead, but they’d finally loosened up. The bard had taken a little more convincing than most, but eventually she was more than happy to join in.Blood still stained one of the long tables, but someone had carried the body away. Good, Zira thought, he wouldn’t stink up the place. She finally reached the other side of the hall, and pushed open the heavy wooden door, revealing the empty streets of the city.

The clouds were still an unbroken grey sheet, blanketing the city and choking out the first rays of dawn. A thick mist stuck to the ground like fresh snow, muffling every sound and blotting out the lights of the street lamps. Zira stepped out into the misty streets and paused for a moment to listen. Nothing. She shivered and reflexively reached for her maul, before catching herself. The silence was unnatural, almost sinister. Zira shook it off and relaxed, “this isn’t the front,” she muttered, trudging down the cobblestone streets towards the center of the city.

The stone walls of the central keep towered jutted out of the mist, and towered above the surrounding buildings. Zira approached the front gate, and nodded to the two guards on duty, who promptly opened the gate for her. Gyrion was standing inside waiting for her, his foot tapping in exaggerated expectation. The elderly man adjusted his spectacles, and looked down his nose at her, “well, well, well, look who finally decided to show up,” his reedy voice echoed throughout the stone halls. “This way,” the seneschal gestured, “your father is waiting for you.”

Zira stared coldly at the man, hands unconsciously clenching fists, “I was busy.”

He sniffed in disbelief, “I’m sure you were; since you’re late, I assume you didn’t make it back to your quarters last night. Either that or you ignored a direct summons from your lord. Or you were in jail for killing another citizen. Maybe all three.” He took a few steps, and then paused waiting for Zira to follow him. Zira gritted her teeth and said nothing. Gyrion had always enjoyed pissing her off, and after their last meeting, she was forbidden from laying a hand on him; a fact which filled the old man with a not inconsiderable amount of childish glee. “Pick up the pace, don’t keep Achan waiting.” He called out, reminding Zira exactly how close he was with her father. Zira shook her head and followed him, praying her father died before he did.

After a few minutes, they arrived at a the doors to the jarl’s meeting room, at which point Gyrion bowed sneeringly and took his leave. Zira took a breath, and pushed the heavy oaken doors open. A massive bear of a man occupied the head of the table, a spread of meat, eggs, and fresh bread lay spread out before him. Achan’s eyes lit up as he saw Zira enter; he quickly swallowed a mouthful of bacon, wiped his hands on his fur tunic and stood to greet her. “Zira! It is good to see you!” He shouted, moving forward to embrace her.

Zira instinctively shrunk away, and then forced herself to reciprocate the embrace. “Father,” she said calmly.

The man motioned to a chair next to his own, “sit, sit, have you eaten?” He returned to his chair and began to cut off a chunk of bread and meat.

Zira quickly took her seat, and then waved her hand dismissively, “I already ate,” she lied. Memories of past incidents flooded back to her and she spoke rapidly, “I apologize for not being here on time. I was…” her voice trailed off, and then she spoke again, “it has been many months since I was last in a real city.”

Her father glared at her for a second, then his eyes grew soft and he laughed. “Do not be worrying, I can’t fault a soldier for needing a stiff drink and good company.” Zira breathed a silent sigh of relief; he was in a good mood this morning, and probably hadn’t yet heard about what she’d done in the mead hall. Achan took a long drink from a mug of steaming liquid, and beamed at her, “Smile, it’s a happy day! Ynnmar has unconditionally surrendered; we received the message yesterday morning.”

It took Zira moment to process the information, and then she grinned. “That is wonderful news this means we can finally redirect our forces to the south, and finally drive the dogs of Arnhalm from our lands. This is excellent, I will need to being making preparations immediately.” She started to get up.

He held out a finger to stop her, and then swallowed a mouthful of bread. “We will be doing all of those things, but I have something different for you to do.”

Zira returned to her seat and raised a quizzical eyebrow, “something more important than finishing this war?”

Her father nodded, “yes. There is still a good deal of opposition from Ynnmar, their government has surrendered, but the people still wish to fight. We need a show of strength while we sign the peace treaty, to show them that they have lost, and we will not hesitate to protect what is now rightfully ours. We have picked you for this task. You will travel to Tryn, and sign the treaty on my behalf. The preparations have already been made, you will embark within the hour.” He scooped up another forkful of eggs. “That is all.”

Zira sat there in stunned silence, unable to comprehend how he could do this to her. The war in the south had been hers, she had commanded the men, it was her right to finish it, and revel in the spoils. Finally she spoke, “you can’t do this to me! I—“

Her father’s jovial expression gave way to unbridled contempt, “I can, and I am. These are your new orders, end of discussion.”

She slammed her fist down on the table, rattling the dishes, “I have been commanding that front for years, you can’t take this away from me when I’m so close!”

His voice, barely above a whisper, dripped with poorly concealed fury, “you have been losing for years. I read the reports from the last battle; you sacrificed a near-perfect position to meet the Exemplar head-on, a confrontation you didn’t win, might I add.”

“That’s not true,” Zira interrupted, rising to her feet. She jabbed a finger towards the seated man, “I severely injur—“

“Silence!” He roared, pounding on the table to reestablish order, “I am not interested in your excuses, because that wasn’t the only incident; you’ve repeatedly thrown away victory just to satisfy your own ego. It is unacceptable. You will go to Ynnmar. That is my decision. Consider yourself lucky I explained it to you.”

Zira struggled to contain her rage, and placed a hand on the haft of her maul. Achan caught a glimpse of the motion, and rose to his feet, placing a hand on the hilt of the massive sword hanging off the arm of his chair. The two watched each other for a moment, two predators sizing each other up, each daring the other to flinch. Finally Achan broke the silence, “you really want to try again?” Zira didn’t respond, and continued to look her father in the eye. He starred back, grey eyes betraying no emotion. Memories came to Zira’s mind unbidden, the scar across her belly throbbed as she remembered their first duel. With a snarl, she withdrew her hand from the weapon.

“That’s what I thought,” Achan said quietly. “Your caravan leaves within the hour. Be on it.” He then sat down, and resumed eating breakfast.

Zira scooped up her maul and stormed out of the room. There was the sound of splintering wood as she slammed the doors behind her.