Free From the Ashes by Gareth K Pengelly Page A

weary limbs as he spoke, excitedly.
                  “You mean there’s a chance my sisters could be alive, here, in this city?”
                  The Steppes man nodded, slowly, not wanting to get his new companion’s hopes up too much, for he had seen the bloodshed above. And who knew how far the slaughter would continue?
                  “Perhaps. It can’t hurt to see, as long as we remain low, careful, keep ourselves safe.”
                  His heart hammered in his chest, terrified of this plan he was concocting, wishing he would stop talking, stop digging his own grave; yet at the same time he felt sorry for this dishevelled and filthy man who had been through so much. He knew what it was like to feel trapped and alone. He had felt it himself ever since he’d started working in the halls of the Barbarian King.
                  “How do we get there?”
                  “I know the way; I’ve had to take provisions there, once or twice.” The servant rose to his feet, unsteady thanks to the wine. “Follow me. We keep quiet and tread lightly; if we catch the attention of the Clansmen, we are as good as dead…”
     
    ***
     
    The Plainsmen marched and Wrynn’s spirit soared. How long had it been? A century now, at least, since the Villages had gathered, mustering for war. A century, at least, since anything resembling pride had stirred in their hearts.
                  But the Plainsmen were on the march once more. War paints borne proudly on cheeks and chests. Noble jaws set in grim determination. Captured weapons hefted in strong arms that had long yearned to rise up against their subjugators.
                  The Clansmen on guard atop the walls of Pen Argyle hadn’t noticed the Raven that had flown overhead in the night sky. And why should they? ‘twas only a bird, nothing more.
    Only a bird that would perch in the Keep that night, whispering into the minds of the once-proud slaves, fanning into fresh flame the old fires of honour and pride that had long since died down to ashes.
    Only a bird that would transform into the looming figure of legend; Wrynn, Shaman of the Plains People. His eyes of fire burning guards to ashes; his healing hands restoring strength and hope to beaten slaves. But slaves no longer. They had risen up, at his command, overthrowing their keepers, the bulk of the Clans having been recalled to Merethia; for no-one could have expected this long-cowed and subjugated people to rise up without warning.
                  The Pen had been taken in an hour. The walls had rang out to victory chants not heard in a hundred years. The people had been free.
                  And Wrynn had given them a choice.
                  This world is lost, he had told them. A war is being fought, even now, in the South. Dark powers rise against the land, seeking to claim it. Time is short. You can march with us, to almost certain doom. Or you can remain here, free, content and enjoy your last days together in peace.
                  The choice is yours.
                  And this is why his heart sang. This is why, it was with a fierce pride that he marched, tall, head held high, at the head of a thousand Plainsmen, even as the small Shaman army crested the brow of the hill coming towards them.
                  As the vast tide of olive-skinned warriors hove into view, Gwenna turned to the awestruck Hofsted who stood, mouth agape, by her side.
                  “Tricks up our sleeves, my dear Lieutenant. Tricks up our sleeves…”
     
    ***
     
    The hunger gnawed. Was this some kind of cruel punishment? Was it a way for their captors to get back at them for doing so well? For winning the favour of the crowd? The King himself?
                  Alann didn’t know. Either way, it had been over a day now since the last jailers had