

# Into The Wasteland

### Ishtato Saga, Book 1

# Lisa Shea

Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Lisa Shea

Book design by Lisa Shea

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Visit my website at www.LisaShea.com

~ v5~

Persevere.

Into The Wasteland

# Chapter 1

" _I will show you fear in a handful of dust."_

\-- T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land

I blink my eyes. The hallway is narrow, clinically clean, and crowded with an undulating line of men and women extending ahead and behind. We are uniformly garbed in tangerine-orange cotton outfits with short sleeves and long legs reaching down to sturdy leather boots. The cloth's color reminds me of Buddhist monks, peaceful, seeking alms along a quiet dirt roadway. But here the bodies are burly and scarred. Muscular arms are tattooed with swastikas and rough symbols I do not recognize.

The heavy-set man before me turns and glares; I take a step back. His small eyes skewer me for a moment longer before he settles into place again, shuffling forward beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights.

### A reedy voice behind me pipes into my awareness.

"Hey there, young lady. Careful, now, he's a repeat."

### I turn in confusion, my eyes sweeping down until I find him. He's perhaps five foot, rail-thin, his large eyes deep-set in a wasted skull. He nods to make his point, his gaze darting forward to the hulking form before us. "He's been here before," he insists.

"Been where?"

### The hunched figure shudders, then glances ahead with trepidation. "Nodo."

### The word means nothing to me, and I stare at him blankly.

### An awareness brightens his eyes, and he looks me over with pity. "Chute blindness got to you? I've heard it happens. Well, your memory might come back eventually. Or it might not." The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Or the locals will blast a hole through you before you get a chance to find out."

### There's a harsh voice to my left. "Strap on your belt. Your hand touches the grip before the doors open, and you die."

I look up in surprise. There's a sheet of safety glass to my left, a momentary disruption in the long wall of alabaster, and behind it sits an officer in full riot gear. A metal drawer pushes open toward me, and within it is a leather belt with a holster holding a Ruger double-action revolver.

I lift it out of the drawer, popping open the cylinder with reflexive action.

Fully loaded. Six rounds.

I strap it on my hip, my fingers settling the buckle with practiced ease.

I take a step forward, and behind me the thin voice bubbles in nervousness. "I've never used one of these before," he argues. "I don't know how –"

I turn, and the drawer is sliding shut, the gun and belt still within. I reach for it, snagging it out, holding it toward him.

My voice is tight. "What do we need these for?"

His eyes dart forward again. "For the wasteland," he mutters. "But I have never shot one of those. It won't do me no good."

I look down at the holster. It's a reversible unit. I flop it to the other side, then strap it on my left hip, overlapping the other. "Stay behind me," I instruct him.

He scurries closer to me, glancing around in nervousness. After a moment his voice comes, low, quiet.

"I'm Ragnor."

My mouth tweaks into a wry smile. "That makes one of us that knows who he is."

He gives a short bark. "It'll come to you," he promises. "In the meantime, we just have to survive these next twenty minutes. Tales tell that a full quarter don't make it past this first part."

I glance ahead to the bright white of the hallway, its length occupied by steadily moving bodies. "Oh?" The weapon station had been the only break in its length.

He nods. "The chute is the worst, from what I hear. The locals see our release as a Christmas of sorts – free offerings of fresh weapons, unused ammo, and a few pairs of boots and holsters. The cops have cleared the forest for perhaps two hundred yards, but that turns it into a no man's land. If we can make it across that, we'll be OK."

I glance back. "Then what?"

His eyes brighten. "Well, then we're loose in seventy thousand square miles of forest and frozen winter. All we have to do it is make it through the two-hundred-fifty miles north to the goal, and we're free. We get complete amnesty."

My brow raises. "Amnesty for what?"

He gives a wide smile. "I'm completely innocent of my charges," he promises. "I am sure you are too. This is all some sort of mistake."

A voice sounds from above, clinical, flat, and steady.

"Any convict who touches their weapon before the gates open will be shot."

Ragnor's eyes slide nervously to the guns at my hips. "They're serious," he warns. "Don't want to give them an excuse."

The room opens up before us into a chamber the size of half a football field. Orange-garbed people fill in around us, crowding forward, pressing us against the matte corrugated metal which lines the whole front wall. As the trickle slows, each person creates a space around them, perhaps two feet, settling, staring at that wall, easing their hand toward the weapon at their side.

Ragnor huddles behind me, peering at the metal with trepidation.

"They used to send prisoners out as soon as they were convicted," he murmurs, his voice tight. "But the locals picked them off too easily. It became a death sentence. Now the cops send us out in large groups. Figure the locals only cull out the weak and slow that way."

I feel the weight of the weapons on my hips, steady, sure. I stretch both hands wide, settling back my shoulders. I draw in a long, deep breath, absorbing the fear, sweat, and adrenaline coursing from all sides. I let out the air, my eyes focused with pinpoint precision on the metal ridges before me.

The gate rolls up.

Bright sunshine glints off the hulk of a burnt-out black limousine etched in rust. I dive for its cover, Ragnor tight behind me. Shots zing out overhead, and the heavy-set man at my left screams in agony, clutching his shoulder. I peer through the shattered windshield. The scene before me is chaos incarnate. Piles of tires smolder in low flames, sending billows of charcoal smoke high into a pale blue sky. The ground is dirt and gravel, spattered with blood, bits of leather, and the occasional bone. All around me people are screaming, shots are ringing out, and a burst of crimson shows where a bullet met its target.

I glance back. A three-story-high wall of smooth concrete stretches to either side, as far as the eye can see, marking a border of my new world. The back wall in the chamber we had come from pushes forward, evicting the few stragglers who scream in frantic panic. Another few sharp retorts and their corpses spin and fall, splaying on the soft dirt.

The metal gate slides closed.

Ragnor scuttles back to one of the bodies, digs at his side, and then comes forward to join me again.

I look ahead to where a large rectangle of plywood lays angled over a mound of dirt. I nudge my head at it, and he nods. I send two shots forward, and then go racing for the cover. There's the tang of a bullet just past my ear, but we make it there safely.

I drop to my stomach and poke my head around the edge. A burly man wearing a coon-skin cap is fifty feet ahead, his pock-marked face red with exertion. He is carefully aiming a revolver to his left, drawing a bead on a gangly convict with pale eyes.

I steady my gun with my left hand, draw in a breath, then hold it for a moment. I focus on his chest and squeeze.

Pop.

I raise the Ruger to his forehead, his eyes now wide with surprise, and pull again.

Pop.

The body falls, limp. In a moment I'm in motion, racing forward to the clump of twisted metal beams he had been crouching in. It might have once been a shed.

Ragnor's voice is tight behind me. "Why'd'ya shoot him twice?"

My eyes scan the terrain ahead. "Once in the chest - a large target to take him down," I explain. "Then once in the head, in case he's wearing a vest."

The forest line is only a short distance ahead, birch and oak nestled in fall foliage colors. The crimson and orange make a complimentary counterpoint to our outfits and the bursts of blood which are exploding all around me.

A shot tangs past us on the left, and I spin, shooting twice, taking out a dark-skinned woman with a jagged scar across her forehead. Then we sprint hard, our lungs bursting with the effort, and make the tree line.

Safe.

I take nothing for granted. We stay in motion, pushing hard, delving further into the shadows. We climb over rotting logs and slog through tumbling streams. The sounds of battle drift far behind us, the quiet rustle of the forest fills our ears, and at last the blood eases its thundering in my chest. We have been in motion for at least a full hour.

We have escaped the welcome net.

Ragnor's tense face widens into a smile as we step into a quiet clearing. "Seventy-five percent!"

I smile at that. "It seems so," I agree.

There is a rippling stream before us, nestled amongst the white birch, and my throat is parched. I step forward to the bank, looking down in its clear water. There is a shallow by where I stand, and the smooth surface gives me my first real glimpse of myself.

My hair is long, perhaps to my mid-back, and dark brown in color. Gentle waves give it some texture. My skin is tan, although from the sun or nature I cannot tell. My eyes are wide-set, deep brown, and steady with focus. My body within its orange uniform is slim, with round breasts and slim hips. I appear to be in my early twenties.

I give a soft shrug, and the figure before me shrugs back. It will have to do.

I drop easily to a knee to drink in the fresh water.

A single shot rings out high overhead, a distinctive zing with an echoing reverb. I throw myself flat on the sandy bank.

There is a groan behind me, and I turn my head. Ragnor is splayed back against the moss, his blond hair askew, his left hand clutching at the dark crimson stain which is spreading steadily across the tangerine orange of his shirt.

# Chapter 2

Ragnor moans, and I glance toward the woods, searching for movement within the tangle of dense branches. There is nothing – but I know the sniper is in there, patient, waiting for his next opportunity.

"Hang in there," I urge. I crawl my way around an outcropping to the left, then tuck behind the safety of its rock face. I draw a breath and examine the open clearing that holds Ragnor's injured body.

Blood oozes from the wound. The sniper has a steady hand. His shot has gone clean through Ragnor's chest, high and left, and the growing stain shows that the bullet has only barely missed the heart.

Ragnor's eyes flutter. "Had to try," he mutters. "Those who die weren't meant to live."

I stretch out, latch a hold of his left hand, and pull hard, dragging him into shelter. His thin body slides easily over the hard dirt, coming to rest next to me. His eyes raise to meet mine, and a long sigh eases out of him. His gaze unfocuses, dims, and his face stares blankly up at the cerulean sky high above us.

I drop my gaze. He had trusted in me, and I let him down. I had missed the threat. He paid with his life.

My eyes look down his body – and stop.

Gripped tightly in his right hand is a shiv – a short, razor-sharp dagger carved out of a metal spoon. His grip is overhand, as if he had been just about to plunge the makeshift dagger into someone's back.

Mine.

I glance at his cold eyes again, then scan forward into the woods. They are dark, deep, and completely without motion. Not even a robin warbles within their shadowy depths. I drop my hand to my hip, feeling the reassuring weight of the Ruger there. I reach forward, draw the shiv from Ragnor's hand, and tuck it into my pocket. Then I ease my way north, losing myself amongst the furrowed oaks.

* * *

The grass spreads in golden waves before me, white clouds billow cottony in a high blue sky, and a thin brown bird with a glowing orange chest calls out from its perch, balancing on a reed. I have been walking for a night and a day, moving steadily north alongside a thin, tall lake. For some reason "Dakota" comes to mind, and I accept the label without complaint. I have no other glimpses of memory. No sense of my name or background. No idea why I am here, alone, in this vast wilderness.

I have seen no sign of my fellow releasees. There has been no sight of the sniper who had taken Ragnor's life nor of any other denizens of this open landscape. For all I know it is now me and the wild animals which surround me, alone in this place.

My stomach growls, and I once again scan the ground for potential meals. I had been fortunate to find a small wild plum tree earlier in the morning, and gorged myself on the small, vibrantly red berries. But my pockets are now empty, and the sun is slipping lower in the sky. I know soon would come the shimmering violets and deep, dusky greys.

A glimmer comes from ahead, and I pull to a stop, peering across the grassland.

The lake curves at its top, the incoming river dipping down south to form a perfect crook. Nestled within that hollow lies a small settlement, a low wall of stone and wood protecting the front area. My hand drops to the gun at my hip, and I pull out both, checking the cylinders before reseating each one into its holster. Eight bullets left. I'll have to make sure each one counts.

I stride forward, steadily, surely, and the sun eases down as I go. A cool breeze blows steadily off the lake by the time I draw up to the mouth of the wall. A pair of young boys lounge atop it, eyeing me with bored attention, their eyes going to the orange of my outfit. The tow-headed one whispers something to the other, and they both giggle.

The town is rough-hewn, with wooden buildings fronting a dusty dirt road. A few horses are tied up to rails, and a roar of laughter comes from a run-down building with a pair of swinging doors. The upper floor sports a row of windows, the shutters all pulled tight.

There is a steady stream of people moving about the town, a few in orange like me, the rest in a motley assortment of leather, dark cloth, and bare skin. Most ignore me, going about their business with steady attention. Then a trio of elderly men in dark burgundy robes leave the shelter of a nearby porch and make their way toward me.

My hand drops automatically to the revolver at my side, and the taller of the three raises a frail hand in comfort, his wrinkled eyes shining. "No need, no need," he calls out in a musical voice. "We are friends."

I look them over as they draw to a stop before me. "Do I know you?"

He gives a warm laugh, shaking his head. "Not yet, but we are glad to welcome you into our flock," he offers. "Have you yet heard the Book of the Lake?"

I glance forward, to the edges of the water which I can glimpse circling all around three sides of the town.

He gives a low chuckle at that, shaking his head again. "No, not this little finger of water," he corrects me. "The lake is north, far north. But I have a copy of the book here."

He reaches a hand into a pocket. My fingers wrap carefully around the grip of my revolver, intensely alert, but his hand comes out only with a small booklet within its grip. The cover is cloth-bound and burgundy in color.

He offers it to me. "Here, I will trade it to you, for that gun of yours. Put aside the implements of destruction. Come join us in the ways of peace."

The edge of my mouth curls into a smile. "And what of the locals who might then find me an appealing target? Shall we present them with books as well?"

He pats the book steadily against his chest. "The Lord shall protect us all," he vows. "Come with us, and we shall keep you safe."

I glance around at the moving crowds. They are steadfastly ignoring us, moving toward the stables or tavern or general store with steady attention.

I give my head a shake. "Maybe another time," I advise him. "For now I'm heading north."

His eyes shadow. "North, always north," he murmurs. "So short sighted, when the glory of the Lord is here before you."

I turn from the trio and stride down the street. The sun is behind one of the taller buildings now, and shadows are stretching long across the main dirt thoroughfare. Exhaustion settles over my shoulders, pulling down at me, and I'm reminded that I haven't had any sleep since...

Since when?

I remember nothing from before when I blinked into awareness in the white chute. So at least since then; at least a full day and a half.

There's a motion at my right, and I turn to see a large, open wagon fronted by a pair of oxen. A burly man with a bulbous nose is helping a trio of orange-garbed women up into the back of the wagon. Each woman turns over her gun as she steps in, and the man nods, making a notation in a small book.

One of the women, a wiry red-head with a scraggly bush of hair, stares down at him with sharp eyes. "And you're sure you can get us all the way to the gate?"

He nods in quiet patience. "Yes, yes. You pay your fare; we take you to the gate. We do this all the time. Not to worry, we'll stay on the Pilgrim's Road. It'll be perfectly safe."

The woman purses her lips, but settles down next to the other two.

There's a store up ahead. I stamp my foot on the wooden porch, shaking loose most of the mud, before pushing open the door and stepping within. The structure is lined with shelves on all walls, filled with heavy wool blankets, wooden boxes of nails, tins of beans, and a variety of other sundries. A long counter runs along the right side, and a thin, speckled man wearing wire spectacles nods at me in welcome.

"A new arrival, eh? Well, make yourself at home. All prices are as marked." His mouth quirks into a smile. "I imagine ya ain't got silver or gold on ya, not yet, but unless you're a wild shot ya probably still got a few bullets left."

I move forward to one of the shelves, and sure enough, beneath each item is its price listed in bullets, silver ounces, and gold ounces. A pair of boots goes for ten bullets. A coon-skin hat is only four.

His eyes move greedily to the second gun on my left hip. "You won't be needing two of those," he points out. "I can make you a nice deal for that."

My left hand drops easily to the gun's hilt. "Think I'll keep it for now."

"Of course, of course," he murmurs, his eyes not leaving the weapon.

I make a mental note of the prices and then turn my back, moving to the door.

"Be sure to come back soon!" he calls out.

I push the door open, heading back out into the street. The sun is lower now, dark violets and rich burgundies streaking the clouds. Lamps are glimmering into light in the windows, artificial fireflies beginning their mating dance. I move further down the street, heading down a side alley, my eyes sweeping the shadowed buildings.

A small sign hangs by one door, saying, simply, "Store."

I push open the door and step in.

The structure is neat, well-kept, with fewer goods than the previous shop. Most seem to be items of clothing, and a rack on a far wall features a row of hangers with a variety of items. A reedy man in leather, with thinning sprouts of sandy-brown hair, turns from the lamp he has just lit and holds my gaze for a moment. His eyes drop to the pair of guns at my hips, then he nods.

His voice comes out in a slow drawl. "You'll be wanting new digs."

I glance down at the tangerine color which seems to shimmer in the flickering light. The fabric would stand out as a beacon as I moved through the woods.

I look back up at him. "Yes," I agree.

His eyes go to the pair of belts again, then down to the shoes, half caked with mud. "You give me all you wear, 'cept the guns and ammo, and I'll set you up with gear that's functional and less..."

"... pumpkin," I finish for him.

His teeth flash in a smile, and he nods.

I look him over. "Agreed."

He waves a hand toward the rack, and I step to it, riffling through the options. Much of it is geared toward a larger frame, but I come across a pair of dark brown leggings that seem adequate. There's a hemp shirt in dusty ivory, a worn set of boots that exactly fit, and a sturdy leather belt with a pair of holsters.

Then my eyes light on a leather jacket at the end of the row, a rich brown the color of a stag in autumn. It would cover me to mid-thigh. A line of decorative beading runs across the chest, with the symbol of a hawk centered one each side.

I gather up the items and step behind a thick, dark-blue curtain which hangs across the back corner. I leave my guns within easy reach as I quickly slip out of my tangerine garb and into the new items. They smell of sweat and dirt, but nothing that a few days on the road won't quickly drown out. I buckle on the belt, slide the guns into place, and pull the leather jacket over the top.

I swat back the edges of the jacket with my hands and practice my double draw a few times.

Perfect.

I push aside the curtain, dropping the pile of my old apparel before him. He flips through the items, nodding in appreciation, then looks up at me.

"Jacket suits you," he comments evenly. "Petrus cared for it well."

I glance down at it. "So why'd he give it up?"

His eyes don't flicker. "Dead."

I glance out the window, at the shadowy town beyond. "And his friends won't mind?"

He gives a short shake of his head. "Those who die weren't meant to live."

I raise an eyebrow, and he shrugs. "That book has some sense in it, after all."

He looks me over for a minute. "So, heading to the gate?"

"Seems the thing to do."

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile. "Seems so," he agrees. His eyes hold mine for a minute. "Don't take the Pilgrim Road," he advises. "It's fish in a barrel for those who enjoy those sorts of games. Follow the river north, to Lamur. You can't miss it. Big stockade fence."

I nod my head. "Thanks."

Exhaustion pulls at me, and I turn, heading back out into the town. The night sky is densely dark, speckled with a thousand stars as bright as diamonds. I make my way to the main street, to the tavern, pressing open the swinging doors and stepping into the noisy brightness.

The crowd within pays no attention to my entrance, going on with its babble of discussion and argument. I push my way over to the bartender, and in a moment he comes to lean toward me.

"What'll it be?"

I nudge my head toward the stairs. "How much for a room?"

"Three bullets. Four with a bowl of venison stew."

My mouth presses into a line at the thought of giving up such a large percentage of my ammo, but I know I needed a safe place to rest. If I stumble from town at this point, and find somewhere to hole up, I could be easily slain. I nod grudgingly, reaching a hand down to my left-hand gun and popping the cylinder. I count out the four bullets before him.

He sweeps them up in a beefy palm, then calls over his shoulder.

"Lenore, bring a bowl of stew and the keys to room eight."

The stew is warm, filling, and surprisingly good. In short order I stumble up the worn wooden stairs to a door with a burgundy number eight painted in its center. The room is sparse but neat, with a simple bed and a low table at its side. A dresser on the opposite wall completes the set.

I close the door, lock it, and then give a heft to the dresser, pushing it over to block the door. I double check that there's no porch or nearby roof to allow access to the shuttered single window. Then I tumble into bed, fully clothed, and the world winks away.

Zing.

I am sprawled, face-down on the mossy bank of the stream, and that distinctive sound-wave traces immediately overhead. Ragnor staggers, looks down in surprise at the crimson blossom at his chest, and falls back.

Zing.

I am lying on my chest on a grassy ridge, peering across a prairie at a group of shapes creeping stealthily toward us. They must be at least five hundred yards away. One of the forms staggers back, as if suddenly struck, then falls to the earth.

I turn my head to see who is at my side - who made that shot - and the sky whirls to black.

# Chapter 3

Light hits my eyelids; I am instantly awake. I blink for a moment, regaining my bearings, the events of the past two days flooding in on me. I poke at my memories, pressing to see further back than that white, sterile hallway.

Nothing comes.

It is as if I did not exist before that point in time.

I climb from the stiff mattress, moving to the shuttered windows and pulling them open. The town is already in motion below. A farmer trundles in with a cart full of turnips; a middle-aged woman leads her horse by the reins out toward the main gate. The sun is just peeking over the building opposite me.

I stand, facing it, the golden glow warming my skin. I close my eyes, lean my head back, and draw in a deep breath. Slowly I swing my arms out at my side, bringing them up to meet, palm-together, over my head. My body throbs with pain all over - an aching pull deep in my calf; a sharper twinge in my right hip.

I draw my hands straight down to hold for a moment at my chest.

Aaptaniya.

The word tumbles around in my head and seems to fit, even though I have no idea what it means. I let it settle into place.

I roll my shoulders, then move to the dresser and push it back away from the door. At the bottom of the stairs, the bartender glances at me as I walk into the room; he holds up a thick glass. A question shimmers in his eyes. I shake my head and walk out to the street. The pair of boys are back on their watch by the main gate, and one of them salutes me as I head out into the crisp morning. I return the salute, then head north.

My mind sorts through the figures as I follow a narrow dirt path along the side of the curving river, following its rocky banks north. Ragnor had said this gate of asylum was two-hundred-fifty miles north. It was autumn, and the temperatures were reasonable. My leather jacket held off the soft chill of morning. By afternoon I might even be a bit warm. The terrain seemed reasonable, and, accounting for river crossings and denser woods, I imagined I could manage an average of about three miles an hour. Say ten hours a day, to allow for gathering food and getting ample rest. I wouldn't want to drive myself so hard that I fell into a dead sleep and risked being taken unawares.

So perhaps nine days total before I reached my destination.

I nod in acceptance, my legs taking the path at a slow, steady pace. No need to rush. Those who raced burned themselves out early. The quick-starts rarely finished the course. If I take each day as it comes, I will make it there. I know I have to.

A burst of red comes into view ahead, and I draw to a stop by the chokecherry bushes. I pluck one, rolling its crimson shape in my finger before popping it in my mouth. I suck at its meat, being sure to spit out the toxic seeds.

I fill my pockets with them, eating my fill, and then press onward. A gentle breeze blows along the river, and a flock of snow geese streams overhead, honking in chorus. The river runs almost straight north-south in this stretch, and the sun eases its path overhead through a brilliant blue sky. Across the way, a great blue heron stands stock still in the reeds, his eye focused down into the depths of the water.

There is a movement to the far right, and I freeze, my hand dropping to my hip. A dark shape moves onto the gentle rise of a hill. It is a stag, twelve point at least, the antlers swept out in majestic strength. His ears are cocked forward, and he sweeps his massive head slowly from left to right, surveying his domain. The only other sound's the sweep of the tumbling water moving past my feet.

Then he raises his nose in the air, gives a snort, and is gone.

Afternoon fades into ruby evening. The river has turned northwest now, moving in long, flowing loops that remind me of a campfire smoke trail in a lazy wind. I finish off the chokecherries, washing them down with the cool water. I feel keenly the lack of a proper knife. I'll have to remedy that, the next town I come across. I have no way to whittle a spear to catch a fish; no way to easily clean any game I might trap.

The sun sinks below the horizon, and I find a hollow along the bank. I have not seen hide nor hair of any other person throughout my long day. With my gentle pace, I should sleep lightly tonight, able to wake quickly should anyone come close. Even so, I spend a few minutes gathering up small twigs and branches, scattering them thoroughly around my chosen spot.

Then I nestle my back against the hollow, close my eyes, and drop off to sleep.

The stag stands on his high hill, his deep brown eyes sweeping the territory before him, ready to ward off any intruder. His shoulder muscles ripple, sure, ready, prepared for action.

The man stands with his back to me, a rifle slung behind him, staring out over the edge of the bluff to the rolling forest below. I draw my eyes along the muscles of his shoulders, their outline visible beneath the tan hemp shirt he wears. His dark brown hair ripples in waves down past his shoulders. He turns –

The image fades to black.

I blink my eyes open as golden highlights edge the bank of the river, sending a glistening sheen to the tumbling ripples. My stomach rumbles with hunger, and I push it aside. I draw to my feet, turning to face the sun, and sweep my arms to the side and up. The aches have lessened, but still there is that pulse at my calf and the sharper tweak at my right hip. I drop my hands to my chest, soaking in the moment.

Aaptaniya.

My hand drops of its own volition to my hip, and I nurse the spot. The area feels tender, and I pull up my shirt to take a look. The flesh seems unmarked, matching the other side in every way.

I shrug and set into motion.

The low grasslands morph into a stand of American elm, the dark, twisting branches a counterpoint to the brilliant golden-pumpkin foliage in fluffy clouds above. I smile as a pair of sparrows chase each other through the limbs.

There's a movement to the right, and I stop, sweeping my eyes, searching in the shadows. If I was lucky enough to flush a pheasant, perhaps I could bring it down with my revolver and have something more substantial than berries for dinner. My hand eases to my hip –

A middle-aged, wiry woman strides a step forward from the deep brush, spear in hand, a mass of furs and leather covering her gangly body. Her long hair is matted and streaked with grey; her face is an indeterminable color beneath the smears of dirt and blood.

Her voice is a harsh bark. "Stay back! I'm a red!"

I put my hands out to the side. She is a good twenty feet away, but I'm not sure how skilled she is with that spear. "I am not here to harm you," I assure her.

" 'Course not, I'm a red," she snaps. "You know better."

"I do," I agree calmly.

She scans behind me, as if expecting a larger group, then her eyes dart back to hold mine. "Move along," she demands. "This place is mine. You find your own spot."

I nod, breathing slowly, willing my posture to remain relaxed. She is a wild animal, twitching, her spear arm trembling with barely held-in energy. I back away from her, moving further north, retreating from her territory. I wait until I have turned the bend and moved out of sight of her before putting my back to her and striding forward.

A sense of loss tickles at the corner of my mind. She has been the first person I have seen in two days, and I would have liked to talk with her, if only for a moment. Perhaps I could have learned more about this world I am passing through.

That would have to wait until I reached Lamur.

It is hours later when the first sign of the large town glimmers on the horizon. This is far more substantial than the outpost where I acquired my clothes. A stockade fence, nearly sixteen feet high, surrounds a substantial area to the east of the river. It backs into high, grey bluffs on the right. The gates protrude from the wall the way a wolf's mouth protrudes from his massive head. Several men line the wall, rifles held ready in their arms. Their eyes follow me as I cover the distance to them.

There is a stocky man already waiting before the gate, a large leather sack slung over his shoulder, his thick, curly hair mostly grey. The gates pull open before him, and I see there's a long, enclosed corridor within, with another closed gate on the other side. As he steps past the first gate, it closes behind him.

One of the wall-guards, a thick man with a barrel chest, drops the nose of the rifle to point down into the chute. His voice is calm and even. "You touch your gun and you die." He states it as if it's a common greeting, not a threat of death.

The rifle's barrel makes a slow sweep from left to right, presumably following the progress of the man within. There's a creaking noise from within the gate complex, and the guard raises his rifle, returning it to point again at the sky. His eyes drift back to me.

His voice calls out to the man opposite. "Open the gate!"

The pair of doors swing wide before me, and I step in to the shadows. The corridor is perhaps twenty feet long by six feet wide. I take a few steps in, and the grinding noise behind me indicates the gates have closed again. The guard's voice high above is without inflection. "Keep moving. You touch your guns, and they become mine. Along with everything else your corpse holds."

I leave my hands at my side, the leather of my jacket between them and my guns. The gate before me grows closer –

A loud blaring noise fills the narrow corridor, bright crimson lights flash, and instinct drives me to toss back the jacket's flaps, to reach for –

A voice sounds within my head, urgent, low - a voice I trust with my life.

Freeze.

I do, instantly, my fingers only inches away from my guns.

The blaring fills my ears, the flashing lights nearly blind me, and I turn my head up to meet the gaze of the man on the wall. His finger is in the trigger, his gun sights steady on my skull.

His eyes flick to something behind me, and the constant alarm mercifully ceases, leaving only the flashing of the light.

His voice is calm but steely when he speaks. "We don't like your kind in here, Red," he snaps.

I hold his gaze, my hands maintaining their position. The chance of me drawing and shooting him before he drilled that bullet through my skull was slim, but not impossible.

I pitch my tone to be reasonable. "You have nothing to fear from me."

He gives a barking laugh. "Sure thing, Red," he snaps. "Nor from the Wardens, either, I imagine."

I raise an eyebrow. "From who?"

He looks at me for a long minute, and then there's an easing to his shoulders, a relaxing to the hand that holds the rifle. He doesn't lower it, but there's a releasing of the tension which runs through his frame.

He calls out to the surrounding group. "Think we got ourselves a Red Virgin here, boys."

A ripple of laughter runs amongst the men, a counterpoint to the steady flashing of crimson light.

I maintain my steady gaze into his eyes. "And what might that be?"

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin. "Why, dear, that would be you," he explains. He makes a sweep of his arm, back to encompass the town. "You see, we here are the worst of the worst. That's why we were sent into Noda. It's why we were set apart from that world of computers and microwaves, of cars and convenience stores." His gaze draws down to me. "But you, you are the _worst_ of the worst of the worst. You were bad enough that the Wardens felt it important enough to track you."

I give my head a short shake. "Track me?"

He nods. "Somewhere south of the border, in a plush, air-conditioned office full of leather chairs and mahogany furniture, the wardens have an entire wall made up of a map of Noda. And on that map is a speckling of little red dots. Each one of those dots represents one of you. And as they move and twist over the map, the wardens watch."

His grin grows toothy. "Should one of those dots stray within one hundred feet of the gate, the turrets lock on automatically. POP, and it's Christmas time for the rest of us."

I look down at my garb, at the beaded leather jacket and the dark leggings. "You're mistaken," I insist. "I removed every item of clothing less than forty-eight hours after I got in." My eyes glance at the guns at my side, and my brow creases. "Or is this a ruse to get your hands on my guns and ammo?"

He laughs at that, giving a wave with his rifle. "If I wanted your weapons, I wouldn't need any lights or alarms to take those," he points out. "No, the tracker isn't on you."

"Then how –"

He leans forward, his eyes bright with delight. "It's _in_ you."

A cold tremor runs through me, and my eyes sweep the other men on the wall. They are nodding in agreement. This is not some sort of a ruse.

I bring my eyes back to the lead guard. "So how do I get it out?"

His laugh is rich with amusement. "Oh, Old Sanders tried that. He came to our gates time and time again, each time with a new gouge in his thigh; a new bloody bandage at his arm. A hunter found his corpse, finally, one afternoon in February. The old fool had tried to carve out his right eye."

He shakes his head. "Maybe you'll be like Jacobs instead. He spent his days spelling out foul words with his movements. I bet the Wardens had a field day with that. Until, of course, a cougar got to him. Shame, that. Jacobs had a good way of spinning a yarn."

He motions with his head, and the door behind me pulls open with a creak. The guard looks down on me again. "Head south," he advises. "Easy pickings down there, with the tangs coming in every few weeks. Best thing for you Reds."

I purse my lips, but say nothing, backing up steadily through the open gates. He holds his bead on me until I pass through them. The thick wooden doors give a hollow thud when they seal.

He brings the rifle back into a neutral position, gives me one last look, then returns his gaze to the distant horizon, as if I had ceased to exist.

I turn and walk north on the thin path between the river on my left and the walled fortress on my right. At last the structures are behind me, and only the looping river stretches before me, quiet and desolate.

I know my next step with every drop of blood in my body. Somehow, no matter what it takes, I have to get this thing out of me.

# Chapter 4

I follow the river for about an hour north, every sense on alert, attentive to any sign that I am being followed. When at last I am sure I am alone, I strike out east. I know the Pilgrim's Trail is somewhere further west, and I want to stay as far as possible from people if I'm going to take on this challenge. Who knows how large this tracker is, how hard it will be to remove, or how long I will need to recuperate for after it's gone.

I climb up the dry clay of the bluffs, then head out across a low, grassy meadow. Orange butterflies circle over waving flowers of gold and crimson. It is only a half hour before the banks of a large lake stretch before me. Just ahead of me is an island, perhaps thirty feet off shore, thick with trees.

Perfect.

I half-swim, half-wade the channel to get to the island. To my pleasure, I discover a small one-room shack at its center, with a neatly made fire pit out front. I push open the sturdy door to find a rough cot, a low table, and one straight-backed chair. A trio of shelves holds a small tin cup, an assortment of hooks, and a spool of fishing line. A rough but serviceable rod leans against a wall. The place is coated in dust. It seems the owner, whoever he was, has been away for a while.

I drop the bar across the door and draw the shutters shut against the setting sun. The small metal latch won't hold out a determined attacker, but it would at least alert me to his presence.

My stomach grumbles again, but the sun is at the horizon now, and shadowy darkness has fallen across the lake. Food will have to wait.

Red lights flash in my eyes, blinding me, accompanied by the blaring of an alarm and harsh laughter. A sharp pain stabs at my hip, but I hold myself still, knowing that motion could bring death.

The matted hair of the woman swings as she laughs at me, her eyes glaring with hatred. "Red!" she screams. "Red, red, red!"

Then, the softest of whispers, the warmth of breath against my neck. "Shhhhhh...."

The dream tumbles away.

I stand before my shack in the early morning sunlight, my arms high over my head, soaking in the warmth of the glowing light. My calf still gives its low throb, but for some reason I am absolutely sure it is the sharper stab at my hip which indicates the tracker. If I am going to take this on, I will need to plan out supplies.

I fish for a few hours, ending up with two walleye and a large-mouthed bass. I set them up to smoke over the campfire, then turn to my next task.

There are chokeberry bushes, and I find a mound of the dark green, wide leaves that indicate American groundnuts beneath. I brush the dirt off of one of the small, onion-like roots and take a bite.

Just right.

Next, I track down a fluff of St. John's Wort growing under a stand of birch trees. Certainly not as good as whiskey for what I am planning, but it will have to do. I grind it up into a paste, mixing in some of the clay-mud from the river bank. Hopefully its mild antiseptic qualities will serve me well.

The large-mouthed bass makes a good meal.

I take off my shirt, wet it in the lake, and then go inch by inch through the cabin, clearing out all dust and grime. By the time late afternoon comes, I am satisfied. The place is certainly no operating room, but it will serve.

The hook and shiv get sterilized in the fire, and I am ready.

I lay the smoked fish, berries, and other supplies on the table within easy reach. I prop myself up on the cot, leaning back against the wall, and give one final look down to my hip. The smooth surface of my skin beckons to me, the stillness of a placid summer lake, waiting for that first person to leap in with a delighted scream.

I draw the shiv in a straight line, parallel to my hip.

The blood bubbles up, like water from an underground stream, and my body arches against the pain which wells against it. I bite back the scream, focusing on the task at hand.

I slide my fingers along the moist, sticky length, seeking for any nodule, any irregularity. There is none. Only the slick skin and ripple of muscle beneath.

I cut again, deeper this time, pressing through the layer of muscle. The pain is intense, and I gasp for breath, groaning against the sensation. My fingers push through the liquid and sinew, and there is nothing. I wonder if the device is microscopic, beyond my ability to find. I could be stuck with this thing in me forever.

Not on your life.

I pull the shiv again, a scream rips out of me, and the world goes crimson and flickers toward dark. I struggle to retain consciousness. I drive my fingers in, and the pain is more than I thought possible. I push, push, and I hear my voice call out a desperate plea, although for who or what I cannot tell.

" _Ishtato!"_

My fingers close around a capsule, small, hard, perhaps a half-inch in length.

I collapse back against the cot. I put the object on the table, then use my shirt to wipe back the blood. Taking up the hook and line, I carefully sew the skin shut, each stitch more agonizing than the last. At last I tie off the knot with shaking hands. Then I scoop a handful of the antiseptic mud and layer it on top, bandaging it in place with my shirt.

My head falls back against the cot; shadows overtake me.

I am lying in a teepee, the fragrant smoke drifting lazily up through the hole in its center. My calf is throbbing with angry heat, but a cool cloth is drawn across my forehead, and I relax under the familiar touch.

I am lying on the cot in the run-down fishing shack, my hip twisting in agony. A cool cloth is pressed to my forehead, and my eyes flutter closed again.

A voice comes from above me, sure, steady. "Shhhhh...."

Morning light is streaming in through the gaps in the shutter, and my side feels as if it is on fire. I bring a hand to my forehead, wincing at the heat I feel coming from it. I reach over to the cup, drinking down a swallow of the cool water, then eat the smoked sunfish with my hands.

The world fades away.

The rich smell of vervain surrounds me. I am in a shadowy cave, the walls curving up and around me. Delicate traceries of curls, like twisting smoke, decorate the walls. There is warmth at my back, and I nestle into it, my shoulders easing.

The morning light pulls me into wakefulness. I draw in a breath, then groan. The light smoking I gave the fish has run its course; it is past safe for eating. I run a hand shakily through my hair. The chokeberries will have to do.

There's a thunk at the door.

My hand reaches automatically for the gun on the table, and I glance down at my bandaged hip before carefully rolling on my side. I push up on my opposite leg and hop the short distance over to the door. I wait a long moment, listening.

The wind whistles across the lake, but other than that there is only silence.

At last I push the bar aside and carefully crack the door open. A mourning dove lies at my feet, its neck at an odd angle. Apparently it had flown by mistake into the door.

I give a smile of gratitude, then hobble forward to the ring of stones. In short order I have a fire going, and the dove, while small, makes a good meal of protein. Paired with the chokeberries, I almost feel full.

I check the bandages, and to my relief there is no sign of infection on the wound. Its edges are still sensitive, but the skin appears to be knitting properly.

I climb back into the cot and let sleep take me.

I step into a large cave. Its walls painted green, and a sense of ease sweeps over me. I am home; I am safe.

I blink my eyes open in the dark night, and a pair of eyes are watching over me, dark green, steady, serious. My lids flutter closed again.

I am safe.

I use my shiv to carve a small rectangle of fabric from the bottom of my shirt, then use the hook and fishing line to sew it into a nickel-sized pouch. I rinse off the small capsule and peer at it beneath the morning light. It is transparent, and I can see a wealth of wires and glowing crimson lights within it, sparkling. I can't let them know I have it out of me, not just yet, not until I figure out some sort of a plan. I tuck the capsule into the pouch, and then use line to create a lanyard to wear it around my neck.

I look at the remaining hooks, and I sit in the morning sun, fashioning them into a bracelet, stringing them around my wrist in a winding pattern. I tie the loop of fishing line to my belt. One more day and I should be good to go.

I catch a catfish, roast it over my campfire, and enjoy it with a handful of groundnuts. Then the shadows lengthen, and I climb back into the cot.

The stag guards high on its overlook, his eyes sweeping the valley below, attentively keeping watch. His eyes turn to hold mine, and they are deep green.

A hawk circles overhead, protecting his nest and mate in the crevice below. I assure him that I would not disturb the fledglings, that I am only here for the feathers. He gives a long, drawn-out cry, and his green eyes hold mine.

A hand draws across my brow.

I swim the short distance from the island to the mainland. My hip is at a low throb, but nothing I cannot handle. My hand goes to the pouch at my chest, and I let out a breath. First to find something to do with this tracker, and then to get to that gate.

# Chapter 5

I reach the river again just after noon and follow as it wends its way north, taking my time. My hip aches, but it is manageable, and I know better than to race. Time invested in healing now will pay off dividends in faster travel in only a day or two.

I soak in the beauty of the landscape – the rising grey bluffs to the east; the stretch of prairie past the river to the west. Meadowlarks dart out from a stand of birch, while pied-bill grebes paddle in a quiet corner of the river, going tail-up in search of small fish. I'm reminded that Ragnor had called this realm a wasteland. To me it is a place of stunning richness.

By late afternoon my step has slowed to a point where I consider stopping for the day. No need to push myself too hard. Perhaps just a short distance further, to seek out a quiet hollow to provide some shelter.

I come around a corner and blink in surprise.

There, ahead of me, the river takes a short jog sharply west, then makes a large loop around to come back to its course again. The eastern side of this circle is a tall bluff, with a grassy ridge along its crest. In the center of this natural island lays a neat collection of tannish-white teepees. Delicate spirals of smoke trail up from them. A small herd of appaloosa horses is tucked away to its west, safely within the curve of the river.

I go still, quite sure that their scouts have already spied me. To retreat now would seem suspicious, and I am in no shape to fend off an attack. I roll my shoulders, take in a deep breath, then start in motion again, moving slowly but steadily toward the small village.

The group gathers as I approach, and by the time I reach the mouth of the village a welcoming committee of sorts has formed. The tribe is dressed in a mixture of traditional and modern outfits, some buckskin tunics mixed in with cotton shirts and dark jeans. Men and women are wearing knives, revolvers, and bows in various combinations. To a person their hair is long, black, and plaited in two long braids. Young children hang further back, peering at me in interest.

An elderly man steps forward, his face ridged with wisdom. "Welcome to Oyate," he greets me. "Today is a special day – it is the birth day of Born-in-Battle, one of our youngest. Please, come join us."

A young boy, about four, with ink-dark eyes in a beautifully embroidered deer-skin tunic, runs past the adults to take my hand. He stares up at me. "Hawk!"

A woman with the complexion of soft sienna steps forward, a gentle smile on her lips. "Come now, Born-in-Battle. Let our guest rest a while." Her features match the youngster's so closely that it's clear she is his mother.

His gaze is insistent on me. "Hawk!"

I bring my eyes up to his mother in curiosity. "Hawk?"

Her eyes hold mine with quiet placidity. "The embroidery on your jacket," she points out.

I glance down and nod. I'd forgotten completely about that.

The child pulls on my hand with steady effort. "Come! Come!"

I smile, then allow myself to be led to the center of the village, where blankets have been spread. There are carved wooden bowls full of fragrant gruel, platters of roast pheasant, a stew of catfish, and numerous other offerings. My stomach growls loudly, and the woman smiles.

I take the indicated seat, and others return to their own locations, taking up the meal that my presence had apparently interrupted. The child is close at my side, peering at the beads on my jacket, at the guns at my hip. His look is bright and curious, and I find myself smiling at his ready enthusiasm.

The mother passes me a bowl of fried prairie turnips, and the delicious aroma sets my mouth watering. I take one and bring it to my lips. It tastes just as good as it smells.

Born-in-Battle's eyes follow my hand, and his gaze lights on the hook bracelet I wear on my wrist. He is transfixed.

"Pretty!"

I tuck the last bit of prairie turnip into my mouth, then lower my wrist so he can see it more closely. He turns it around, staring at it with fascination.

I look to his mother in concern. "The barbs are sharp," I warn her.

She smiles at that, then looks down at her son. "Born-in-Battle, show Hawk your knife."

The lad dutifully reaches to his hip and draws out the small dagger worn in a leather sheath. He takes it in both hands and presents it to me.

I lift the blade and run a finger along its edge. No toy, here. The child could be lethal if he chose to be. I nod and return his knife to him, which he deftly tucks back into its place.

I undo my bracelet and present it to him. "Happy birthday, Born-in-Battle."

His mouth turns into a round O of delight, and in seconds he has latched it closed around his wrist. It hangs loose, but he tilts his arm up to hold it in place, then circles the ring of people with pride, showing it off to each person in turn.

His mother smiles at me, nodding. "Thank you, that was kind of you."

I look at the wealth of food before me and take a sip of the apple cider. "It was kind of you to allow a stranger into your celebration," I respond.

She turns as a plate of elk is passed to her. She takes the knife from her hip, saws off a small portion, then tucks the meat into her mouth. She turns to pass the plate to me.

I put it down before me, then my face flames. The only blade I have on me is the spoon shiv I took off of Ragnor's corpse. It feels quite inappropriate to bring that out in the middle of this child's party.

The mother's eyes drop to my hip, and her brow creases slightly. "You have no knife?"

She says it in the same tone that one might say they had lost a leg.

I am formulating a response when her hand moves to her belt. She removes the leather scabbard and knife which hang there. She lays them across both hands and presents them to me.

"Here."

I look from the scabbard to her in surprise. The scabbard is clearly a labor of love, with circling spirals tracing along its edges. The hilt of the blade is leather wrapped, and I had seen how sharp the edge was when she cut her meat.

I shake my head. "I cannot accept that."

All eyes turn to look at me, and her gaze is steadfast. "Here."

I flush. Perhaps turning her down would be the gravest of insults. I feel the pressure of the many eyes, and at last I bow, accepting the blade.

"I will treasure this beyond all words," I thank her.

A soft smile lights her eyes, and she nods.

The boy has circled back around to us and plunks merrily into his mother's lap, gazing in fascinating at his hook bracelet. I eat several pieces of the tender elk, appreciating the fragrant seasoning of rosemary which flavors it.

He gazes up at me suddenly. "Ishtato."

My breath catches, to hear the word on the young boy's lips. "What?"

"Ishtato," he insists.

I look to his mother, my heart hammering like a woodpecker's eager tattoo. "What does that mean?"

Again her eyes move tranquilly to the beadwork at my chest. "It means green eyes," she explains.

I look down at the beaded hawks. I realize it is true – each of their small forms features a dark green eye.

The boy nods in satisfaction. "Ishtato." He sits back against his mother, his eyes dropping to his bracelet, spinning it in slow circles on his wrist.

The evening passes in the quiet drifting of billowy clouds across an azure sky. The villagers do not ask anything of me, and I am content to let them talk amongst themselves, of harvesting corn and storing squash. My eyes glance to the ridge of bluffs, high to the east, to the grassy line which makes up the length. I wonder if that is where the attack came from, when Born-in-Battle earned his name.

At last the plates are being gathered and cleared, and I draw to my feet. I feel comfortable here, but I also feel the sense of unease in the group of the armed stranger in their midst. It was kind for them to share their food with me; I would not intrude on their peace further.

I bow to the mother and to the group. "Thank you again for your hospitality. May you have peace and a good winter."

Her eyes hold mine. "May your journey bring you what you seek."

Born-in-Battle runs forward, and I ease carefully to one knee, my hand holding my hip to keep the bandage in place. He wraps me in a hug, and I give him a fond pat on the head.

I look down at the bracelet. "Take good care of that."

He nods with enthusiasm. "I will!"

I feel a sense of emptiness as I turn my back on them, crossing to the western side of the river and walking north. Soon it is only me and the whistling wind, and a hawk which circles high overhead.

I make it about an hour further before I am fully exhausted. I feel I could trust the tribe, but it seems prudent not to camp right on their doorstep. I have come across a series of low caves in the bluffs, and one of them seems just right for a safe sleeping spot.

The sun slips below the horizon, and while I consider a fire, I decide against it. No need to attract more attention than necessary, and the night only had a slight chill to it. I draw my leather jacket closer around my shoulders, running my fingers along the beadwork for a moment before closing my eyes.

The large, brown eyes of a child gaze up at me in trust, his skin the glowing color of the river's bluff in a crimson sunset. Flecks of darker brown swim in the depths of his eyes.

Flecks of movement are spotted across the grassy plains, and I strain to see them against the stand of trees. I am lying flat on my stomach, pressed against the ridge, and I know danger is a breath away. The barrel of a rifle slides forward on my right, aimed at the distant shadows. I turn –

I am stirred out of a deep sleep by something I cannot put my finger on. The mouth of the cave is pitch black, with no moon or stars glimmering in the sky above. I lay perfectly still, my breathing in even rhythm, all senses alert.

There – a movement in the cave mouth.

My heart thunders, and yet I do not move an inch. I resist the urge to reach my hand for the gun resting only a short distance away.

A man steps forward into the arch. He is perhaps six feet tall, with shaggy, dark hair past his shoulders. His skin is the warmth of a cliff-side bluff in a late autumn afternoon. His eyes are the cool, welcoming green of a deep pine forest.

Longing sweeps through me, and I draw in a breath.

His eyes narrow in surprise, and he's gone.

I blink, grab for the gun, and push myself to standing, fighting back a groan at the resistance in my hip. Carefully I creep to the mouth of the cave, peering out.

There is no trace of him at all. It is as if he never existed.

There's a tingling at my chest, and I look down in surprise. I realize now that the pouch had been doing this since I woke; perhaps this was what drew me from sleep. I glance around again, then holster my gun and draw open the pouch. I shake the red capsule out into my palm.

It's sparkling oddly, spastically, with an almost mesmerizing light.

I move back into the cave, so that its gleam does not attract unwanted attention. The deeper I go, the more strange the sparkling becomes. Fainter. Feebler.

I smile. Maybe this is my chance. If something about the cave naturally interferes with the transmitter, then they might simply think that I holed up in the cave and decided to live there. It could be months before they came in after me, if they even ever did. By then I could be long gone.

I could be safely through that final gate, without a hail of machine gun fire cutting off my dream of escape.

A frown creases my forehead. If the automated deathtrap did not trigger, I should be able to step _to_ the gate. But would the guards there have an identity check, verifying me before they released me to freedom? Would they realize at that point that I should not be allowed through and end my quest permanently?

I shrug. There is only so much I can plan for. One step at a time.

I quickly gather up wood for a fire, and once I get it going, I make a small torch and move toward the back of the cave. It narrows into a rough-edged tunnel. I work my way down it, wriggling in several sections to make it through the slender gaps.

This is perfect. The Wardens will never think twice about my being in these areas.

The chamber opens up before me into a large gulf, so wide that my torchlight cannot reach the other side. Noises echo strangely off the slick walls. I carefully step across the rough surface.

Suddenly a chasm yawns before me. I reach down and pick up a small pebble, tossing it in. It bounces from side to side on its way down; its pinging fades as it descends. At last it becomes lost in the depths.

My smile grows.

I take a final look at the cylinder in my hand, at the light which barely makes the smallest of glimmers now. And then, with a flick, it is gone.

It makes not a sound as it plummets into the abyss.

My shoulders ease in relief. I am free now of the tracker, free of the 'Red' stigma should I come across any other towns with sensors. Another two weeks or so and I should be at the Gate, then through it.

I turn and start in surprise.

A pair of dark eyes are staring at me without emotion.

I grab for my gun, draw and aim in one smooth motion.

The eyes have not moved a muscle. Not flinched a millimeter.

I draw in a breath, my gaze focusing in the dark shadows. The shapes resolve... refine...

The eyes are hollows in a skull. The skeleton is beneath it, the ribs sagging, one leg bent at a nasty angle. Undoubtedly the owner had come into here for some reason and hurt himself. He became unable to get out again.

I step forward to look him over. His clothes are ratty and torn, and he has no gun on him. A rectangular leather pouch with a silver buckle sits next to him, about the size of a man's foot.

Curious, I undo the buckle and peer inside.

The pouch is full to the brim with small silver nuggets.

I run my finger through them, stirring them gently, a smile coming to my lips. Perhaps I won't need to conserve my bullets, after all. In fact, with my injury, it might just be time to invest in a horse.

# Chapter 6

The afternoon sun shines warmly down on me, sparkling off of the twisting river which runs merrily along to my left. I am heading upstream, along a narrow deer-path edging the running water, skirting the occasional bramble bush or washed out gulley. I move my hand occasionally to the leather pouch hanging around my neck, to the wealth nestled between my breasts. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel hope.

A smile comes to my lips. _As long as I can remember_. The feat is probably less impressive than it might be for most people.

My stomach rumbles, and I spot a flat slab of granite up ahead, slightly overhanging the water, with a blackberry bush up alongside it. I amble over and sit on the smooth stone, tugging off first one boot, then the other, then both pairs of socks. I stretch my toes in bliss, enjoying the warm breeze that tickles through them, before setting up a stick and a line with a fat, juicy worm on a hook. Then I lean back to start picking through the berries while I wait.

Time seems suspended. The clouds drift overhead, long, stretched-out sheets which could be pulled wool waiting to be twined into thread. They are translucent white against a shimmering cerulean blue sky. The water ripples and turns, ever changing, and my mind fades from view. There is nothing but now.

A tug, and the stick spins as something catches on the line. I swipe at it, hauling in, carefully guiding the fish in to shore. It's a catfish, maybe twice the length of my hand, and I smoothly gut it before setting up a small fire on the center of the rock. A few small starter sticks, a larger branch or two, and the blaze is soon sizzling away at its flesh. The rich aroma sets my mouth watering, but I wait patiently until it is cooked all the way through before starting the feast.

As I eat, I give some thought to all that has come until now. This seems to be the first time I have had the luxury to give thought to my experiences - to seek some order in the chaos which has been my short stretch of memory-held life.

My skill set does not point to a quiet, studious college student. In the chute, I knew the gun's feel when it was handed to me. When that metal door had slid open, I understood what was required to stay alive. I had felt no compunction in killing those who had fired on me.

I roll that thought around in my mind as I take a bite of the catfish's meat. Was I an assassin of some sort? A gun for hire? Is that why I had been caught, bundled, processed, and spit into this wilderness prison?

The hit man image doesn't seem to fit. In the tire-fire clearing I had done what was necessary, certainly, but I felt no joy in it. There had been no sense that I would seek out that task again.

And when Ragnor had been killed...

I pause for a moment, my mouth in half-chew.

Ragnor had been taken down just when he was about to stab me in the back.

A succulent dead bird had arrived on my doorstep just when I desperately needed a meal.

I had come across a stash of silver just when my journey might get more challenging.

I shake my head and swallow the bite. I seem to believe in fate, certainly, and in a sense that those who strive hard for a goal are more likely to reach it than those who passively wait. And yet, there comes a point where random chance seems a less likely scenario.

Was someone lending me assistance?

I give thought to the pine-green eyes which shine in my dreams, to the rich, resonant voice that even now I can hear tumbling in the water. To the sense of soul-deep comfort that comes with them.

I put the fish down and stand, turning slowly in place. My eyes scan the streaming river, the grassy banks, and the long stretch of undulating wilderness which extends to the far horizon.

There is not one sign of humanity.

Is he out there?

If he is, he certainly does not seem an enemy. He has, if my guesses are accurate, helped ensure that I remain healthy and whole. But why would he not make himself known to me? Is he waiting for something? And, if so, what?

A crow caws out, long, rich, echoing in the quiet.

I run a hand through my thick hair, a smile easing on my face. Whoever he is, if he even exists, I will simply keep moving forward. I will hold my mind as open as possible – welcoming, expansive, and free. I have a sense that this is my best possible chance for my memories to return - for me to regain my sense of self that seems all but lost.

Content, I sit down to finish my meal.

At last it is time to move on. I kick the remnants of the fire and fish into the water. I erase any evidence of my presence here, then push into motion.

As I crest a rise, I can see a walled village on the horizon. My hand moves automatically to my chest, but the necklace is no longer there. Instead, my hidden wealth is beneath my fingers, reassuring, solid. The edges of my mouth curve into a smile.

Everything will be all right.

I stay alert as I approach the town, aware of the many eyes watching from the wall. The front gates stand open, and I can see the tunnel within, the closed doors at the far end. A gnarled man with the face of a rotting peach looks down at me from above the main gates as I draw close, his gaze neither welcoming nor hostile. He eyes me as if I were a strange sort of beetle, and he's curious what I might do.

His voice is low and flat. "Into the tunnel with 'ye. Hands clear of your weapons."

I nod, taking in a deep breath, feeling each footfall as it lands in the soft dirt, dirt churned by countless feet and hooves. My heart pounds against my ribs, and with each contact of sole on earth I wait for the flashing lights, the blaring alarm, the whirl as every gun aims for my head. Any second now...

My foot lands before the far gate, and the pock-marked wood swings open before me. I am through.

The town is livelier than I would have thought. The main street is fairly crowded with people of all shapes and sizes. A pair of women are laughing, heading towards a general store. Three men, two tall and lean, the third shorter and stout, are pushing through the swinging doors of the tavern. An elderly man is sitting on a bench before a Sheriff's office, smoking a pipe. A gaggle of children run screeching through the crowd, waving sticks in the air.

The first building on the left is a large stable, and I walk through the open doors, letting my eyes adjust to the relative darkness within. There are perhaps twelve stalls, each holding an emaciated representation of a horse.

A portly man with an orange handlebar moustache comes rolling over to me, wiping his hands down on his dark blue shirt. "Greetings, miss. How might I help you?"

I look down the row of stalls. "Any of these for sale?"

His eyes light up with interest. "Of course, of course. The four on the back right are mine, but I'm sure I could negotiate a sale for any of these fine animals, if the price is right."

I follow behind him and start in the back corner, listening as he describes each horse. There's an appaloosa with leopard spots tracing over visible ribs, which he claims is only seven years old. I put the poor thing more at fifteen. The next is a stocky Clydesdale with a lame right leg. Then a white highland pony which he assures me is a young colt which will grow into an Arabian. Finally a palomino whose golden coat has faded to a dull brown with lack of care.

The remaining horses in the stables are in far worse shape. Scars on their legs, skittish natures, and a dullness to the eyes. The man pats an emaciated Percheron on its shuddering flank and assures me, "this is the best you'll see in town. And it's a bargain at only twenty ounces."

"Twenty ounces," I repeat. I estimate I have nearly two hundred hanging around my neck, but no animal in the stables would be worth even one piece of that. I would have to buy a wagon to carry the poor steed in, if it were to accompany me on my journey.

I give a neutral nod to the man. "I'll give it some thought," I assure him.

"Come by any time; I sleep in the loft. I take the care of my steeds seriously," he assures me. He draws his eyes down my body, and they take on a shine. "Any time."

I step back from him, turning and moving out into the sunlight. My shoulders slump. If that is the type of horse available here, I might do better walking to the next town.

My feet kick up small clouds of dust as I make my way down the street, feeling strangely comforted by the babble of voices and laughter around me. For so long I have been alone, and while it is peaceful, there is also something to be said for the presence of humanity.

Down an alley to the right I spot a sign with a horse on it, and I head down to take a look. Indeed, it's another stables, slightly smaller than the first, with eight stalls and a low roof. The owner here is reedy, tall, in a mustard yellow top and boots halfway up his legs. His face is wan and stretched.

He glances at me with half-hearted interest. "Look but don't touch," he warns me, then goes back to mucking out an empty stall.

I move along the line of half-height gates, looking over each one to the horse within. There's a Shetland pony with stringy hair that has almost gone to white. A black steed which might have once been a Tennessee Walking Horse, but now can barely stand. A pair of Clydesdales, their heads hanging low.

The man's voice cuts through the air. "Those are each twenty-five ounces," he states. "I see the silver weighed and in my hands before one leaves his stall."

I run a hand through my hair, shaking my head at the selection. Then I turn and head back out to the main street.

The hotel has a restaurant on its ground floor, doing a good business, and across the street a gun and knife shop has two clerks both helping customers. Then the town proper seems to devolve into a collection of residences and garden patches. The mob of children tumbles past me, eagerly shouting about hide-and-seek. It almost seems normal.

There's one remaining barn on the left, before the smaller domiciles begin, and I walk toward it out of curiosity. I hear the nickers within before I see the stalls, and it seems this might be the location used by the locals. There are only six stalls here, each holding a steed, and they seem at least a few years from the grave, rather than a few hours.

A middle-aged man with a dark beard and curly hair steps into view, his red-checked shirt tucked neatly into dark jeans. "Can I help you?"

I glance at the horses. "Are these for sale?"

He gives a shrug. "Anything is possible. Take a look if you'd like. Any but the one in the back left. That one is mine."

I move my way down the stalls. The first two are both mustangs, chestnut brown in color, so alike they might be brothers. They are not young, but they seem healthy enough, steady and quiet. The third might be a Mongolian, with a sturdy build and a coat the soft brown color of autumn oak leaves. The fourth, with an alabaster coat and high, proud head, could be an Andalusian. He is alongside a stocky Belgian.

The man leans against a support pole. "Thirty for him, if you're interested," he comments evenly. "The farmer's looking to marry off his daughter, and he could use some extra funds."

I look again at the Belgian, shaking my head. He seems in good enough shape, but that isn't the type of steed I would find useful.

I come to the last stall and stop. The horse is beautiful. A perfect, dappled camouflage pattern of deep chocolate brown against creamy white, with a mane of ivory. His ears perk forward as I approach the stall door, and his eyes shine with intelligence, their large, brown depths staring into mine. A delicate white blaze traces down his forehead.

Blaze.

I put out a hand, and Blaze takes a step toward me, nuzzling his soft, rubbery nose into my fingers.

The man's voice comes from behind me, holding a trace of amusement. "He's not for sale."

Blaze gives a soft nicker, and my heart eases. "Forty silver."

The man leans against the stall door at my side, gently shaking his head. "Not for sale," he repeats. "If I gave him to you, half the town would have my hide for turning them away first."

I run my hand down the white blaze, scratching tenderly at the velvety skin. "Fifty."

The corners of the man's mouth turn up. "He's quite an animal, isn't he," he agrees.

Blaze nickers again, taking another step forward, leaning his head over the gate. I run my hand along his neck, twining my fingers into the silken strands of mane. His musky aroma comes up around me, lacing into my world.

"A hundred."

The man glances at me with interest. "You really are smitten, aren't you," he says with a smile. "This horse is going to a friend of mine. I'm afraid I can't just sell it from under him."

I think again of the silver at my breast, and how yesterday I had been doing well enough without it. If I had this horse, and nothing else, I would be content.

"Two hundred silver, and that includes his saddle, blanket, and other tack."

His eyes narrow, and he looks at me full on. "You have two hundred silver on you?"

I hold still, my hand still twined in the horse's mane, suddenly realizing that I am alone in a secluded shed with a strange man. He seems friendly enough, but that is no guarantee of my safety.

I keep my voice steady. "Of course not," I reply evenly. "It is where I can get a hold of it, should there be a reason."

His eyes narrow in consideration, and there is a long moment of silence. I carefully untwine my fingers from the mane, readying myself to draw and fire.

Then he blows out his breath, looking again at the horse. "You must really want him," he states, shaking his head. "For that kind of money I can find my friend something else suitable and still have a tidy profit. It's a deal."

He glances past me to where the sky is tingeing tangerine and crimson. "Are you staying the night? I'll throw in dinner, as part of the bargain. The hotel makes a nice veal stew. Then in the morning we can meet by the Sheriff's office – you with your silver, me with the horse and gear. That way everything is nice and public, and both our interests are protected.

I look into the large, luminous eyes, and contentment eases through me. "Sounds good," I sigh, giving the horse's neck a pat.

The man puts out his hand. "My name's Chisholm."

Blankness descends over my mind, and my fingers twine again into the mane. It comes over me suddenly, confusingly, that I have no idea what my name is.

The image of a pair of young eyes staring up at me flashes through my thoughts, and his high, clear voice calling out, "Hawk".

"Hawk," I repeat out loud, putting my hand into his.

Chisholm nods, giving me a warm smile. "Well, then, Hawk, you have made yourself quite a purchase here. You won't find his like for hundreds of miles."

He looks fondly at the horse, then out toward the street again. "You go on to the hotel, and I'll be there in a moment. Just have to clean up a few things here. Out the door, hard right, and it's just a ways down on the right. Can't miss it."

I give a last look at Blaze, then turn and walk through the main doors into the soft glow of sunset. The street is a steady flow of people heading back to their homes for supper. A young girl races past me, her blonde hair streaming out behind her like a banner. I turn left to watch her go.

He is standing there.

He leans against a single-story log home, the dusk adding a golden glow to his leather coat, his green eyes shining in the evening light. His gaze is full on me, his focus serious, almost searching.

A pair of teenage boys race between us, tossing a ball as they go, and when they are past, he is gone.

I take a step forward, blinking, swinging my head from left to right, but there is no trace of him anywhere. It was as if he has dissolved into the mist.

Shaking my head, I turn right, moving down the shadowed street to the hotel.

As Chisholm has promised, the hotel is only a block or so down, with a pair of well-polished windows on either side of the mahogany swinging main doors. The room within is well kept, with clean white cloths on the tables, a polished mahogany bar, and oil lamps on the walls which hold off the approaching gloom. One wall holds a large, framed map of the area, done on hide of some sort, and I examine it with interest, making note of the surrounding landmarks.

A heavy-set man behind the bar looks me over, then turns to call to a back room.

"Tilda, we have a customer."

A stocky woman with greying hair neatly braided down her back, wearing a chocolate brown dress with a row of black buttons down the front, comes bustling out with a calm expression. "One for tonight?"

"Two," I correct her with a smile. "Chisholm will be joining me in a moment."

Her eyes light up with interest, but she nods without comment, directing me over to a table in the front window. A short candle is glowing at its center, and it is set with simple but clean plateware. She fetches a plate of fresh rolls from the bar and sets it by the candle. "To drink?"

"Ale is fine, thank you."

"I recommend the veal stew; we just made it this morning." She looks up as Chisholm steps into the room and moves back as he comes to the table and takes his seat. "Ale and veal stew for you?"

He gives her a broad smile. "Absolutely."

I nod. "For me as well."

She bustles off into the back room, and I pick up one of the warm rolls. There is a small tub of butter tucked into the wicker basket, and I spread some onto my roll. The golden butter melts into the nooks of the roll, and my mouth is watering before I take my first bite. It's as good as it looks.

Chisholm rips a corner off a roll and pops it into his mouth. "So, heading north?"

I nod as I swallow. "To the gate."

He gives a soft shake of his head. "That's what they all say," he murmurs. "You know, that outside world really doesn't offer you much. Rules, dictates, a sterility of organization. Here you're free. No one to tell you what to do. No one to mark lines that you have to stay within."

"No lines except those walls which surround us," I point out.

He glances out the window. "And we have walls around this town. We don't mind them."

"But you can go outside those walls when you wish," I remind him. "You aren't stuck with them as a permanent border. We're trapped in a fish bowl."

Tilde comes back with our ales, placing them down on the table before us. "Veal will be just a few minutes." She heads back toward the kitchen.

Chisholm glances around at the other patrons in the dining room before returning his gaze to me. "You say we're goldfish in a tiny fish bowl. But I say we're out in the wide ocean. We are dolphins, and tuna, and sharks, and whales. Those sea creatures have borders, just as anyone else does. They have walls of coastline which they cannot cross. But that does not concern them. They have ample space in their world to live, to love, and to breathe in serenity."

I give thought to what he has said. It was true, after all, that even the swordfish flashing through the deep waters has edges to their world. They do not moan about the presence of the cliffs of Dover.

Chisholm takes another bite of his bread. "Is there something about the outside world that calls to you so strongly?"

I shake my head. There isn't any sense at all that something beyond the wall is important in any way. No longing to return to a distant home. No drive to reconnect with a family on the other side.

Again the image of a gate comes to mind, and with it a strong sense of imperative. "I have to get to the gate," I murmur.

Tilde arrives with a pottery bowl in each hand, laying them down before us. "Enjoy. Anything else you need?"

Chisholm shakes his head. "No, Tilde, thanks for everything." She nods before turning.

Chisholm takes a taste of his veal, smiling at its flavor, before looking back at me. "So, no man waiting for you to return?"

The image of the soul-deep green eyes blaze in my mind, and I take a spoonful of my own stew to hold off on answering. The meal is everything Chisholm had said it would be – rich, flavorful, full of hearty chunks of meat along with carrot, potato, and turnip.

I take a sip of my ale. I try to keep my tone as nonchalant as possible. "Do you know a man, about six feet, with dark hair to his shoulders and dark green eyes?"

He puts down his spoon, and his gaze is steady on me. "I know many men," he states mildly.

"I saw him outside your stable," I continue. "I thought he might live in or around the town."

He shakes his head. "No one like that lives around this area."

I purse my lips. "I thought I saw him this morning, as I was waking up."

His brows crease slightly. "Do you think he is following you?"

"Maybe, I'm not sure." I take another spoonful of my veal. "I might have imagined him. But maybe he is keeping an eye on me."

He takes a taste of his ale. "Do you think he is planning on harming you?"

I give that some thought. "I don't think so," I state at last. "He seems more curious than anything else." I ponder that for a few moments. "Well, not curious. Maybe cautious is a better word. Like he is waiting to see what I will do."

He tilts his head to one side, looking at me. He examines me for a long minute, then asks in a low tone, "Are you a red?"

I flush, looking down into my bowl. I do not want to lie, but the town has the detector at its gates. If I admit I deliberately circumvented it, I might be tossed out into the falling night – or worse.

I hedge. "There is no tracker in me. Your tunnel proved that."

His eyes light up with interest, but his face remains calm as he nods in understanding. "So, then, maybe this man is a watcher."

I blink in confusion. "A watcher?"

He takes another bite of his stew. "Most of the government agents, they're content to sit in their control room and watch the dots drift around on their large map. But a few of them, they want a closer eye on what the reds are doing. Say a red is a serial killer, for example. The agents don't want him going from town to town wiping out all the locals. So they send along a watcher to keep an eye on him. To ensure he acclimatizes to his new environment properly."

"Sort of like a guard dog?"

The corner of his mouth turns up. "Something like that," he agrees. "If the red gets out of line, the watcher can take action."

"So you think his green-eyed man is one of these watchers, and he is keeping an eye on me?"

He gives a soft shrug. "Have you done something that would warrant that kind of attention?"

I ponder the thought. I have no memory at all of what I had done, or been like, before my awakening in the chute. For all I know, I could indeed be dangerous and worth this extra level of caution on the part of the jailers.

"I don't know," I admit truthfully. "I am hoping that when I get to the gate, I will find that out."

He nods in understanding. "Chute blindness. The trauma of the chute can make the mind snap and lose its hold on reality. For most it wears off after a while. For some it never does. Guess you'll find out eventually which camp you fall into."

The doors push open, and a slender, handsome, middle-aged man in deep burgundy robes steps into the room. I sense the chill pass through the patrons, the way the talk hushes and eyes glance over in his direction. He stands for a moment by the doors, his eyes moving across the customers, before they come to meet mine. He smiles, walking directly to stand by our table.

"Good evening, traveler," he greets me. "I do not recognize you. New to our area?"

"Just passing through," I answer noncommittally. I bring my eyes to my stew, taking a fresh bite.

"My name is Jebediah, and I am a member of the Order of Truth. If you have a few moments, I'd like to tell you what we are all about."

I finish up the last of my stew and shake my head. "I'm afraid it's been a long day, and I'll be heading up to bed now."

Chisholm makes a calling motion with his hand, and Tilde comes over with a key. She hands it to me. "Third door on the left, dear. Let me know if you need anything."

Chisholm stands, ignoring Jebediah. "Meet me by the Sheriff's office when you're ready tomorrow, and we'll take care of our transaction."

"Will do. Thank you for dinner."

He smiles. "My pleasure."

I turn and head up the stairs. The room is small but neat, with a single bed. A dresser holds a pitcher of water and a ceramic bowl. The window is shut and locked.

I put the pitcher and bowl on the plank floor, then heft the dresser with my hip until it is blocking the door. I pull the curtains closed over the window, then strip off my boots and gun belt. I leave the pouch of silver where it is on my chest and lay the gun on top of the blankets, its barrel pointing at the door.

In only moments I am asleep.

Blaze is standing alongside me in a grassy valley, his large, brown eyes staring at me in contentment. I run my hand through his silvery mane, drawing comfort from his presence. He dips his head down to the stream which dances at our feet.

There's a motion on the ridge above us, and a man rides into view on a matching pinto. Even at this distance I know his eyes are forest green, that he carries a rifle slung over his back, and that he could shoot the ace out of a card at five hundred feet.

His gaze swings down to meet mine, and I feel its protective warmth, its steady assurance.

Ishtato.

# Chapter 7

I am comfortably full with scrambled eggs and spiced sausage mingling in my stomach, but there's a hollow sensation completely separate from food as I step out into the early morning streets and head toward the sheriff's office. Chisholm seemed trustworthy enough, but money could sour even the most honorable of men. My guns are ready at my hips, and I hope I won't be forced to use them.

A welcoming nicker calls as I draw close, and my heart eases. Blaze is tied to the rail before the sheriff's office, his coat glistening from a fresh brushing, his blanket and saddle in good repair. Chisholm emerges at the side of a muscular man with hints of grey tracing into his darker hair and beard.

"Morning, Hawk. Meet Sheriff Galeston. He'll be overseeing our little transaction."

I shake the offered hand. He nods brusquely, then gives a wave. A young lad of perhaps thirteen runs out, his coppery hair shining in the sun, carrying a small scale. He puts it down on the ground.

Chisholm nods his head toward the horse. "You see the horse there, with his gear, as agreed. The price you offered was two hundred silver."

A few of the passer-bys turn at that, their eyes alight with curiosity. They form a small ring around us.

I keep my right hand near my hip, and with my left I draw at the leather strings at my neck, withdrawing the pouch there. I pull it free of my head and hand it over to the Sheriff.

He nods noncommittally and sets it on the ground next to the scale. From the row of weights in front of the scale he withdraws a pair of small cylinders and puts them into the right hand pan. He pulls the mouth of the bag open, then carefully pours its contents into the pan on the left. Slowly, with the casual ease of the morning sun rising above the horizon, the pans begin to equalize.

The pouch is nearly tipped upside down when the scales reach their balance point. He lifts one nugget experimentally from the pan, watches the scales move, then places it back in. "That is it," he announces to us. "Two hundred exactly."

He holds the pouch out to me, with the remaining few nuggets in it.

I take it from him, pour the last five nuggets into my hand, and tuck them into my pocket. They might buy me a few night's rest down the road, especially now that I have a horse to stable as well. I hand the empty pouch back to the sheriff. "I'll throw this into the deal as well."

He gives a wry smile at that, then carefully scoops the silver from the pan into the pouch. When every last bit has returned to its leather home, he hands that over to Chisholm.

Chisholm turns to me, holding out his hand. "Then we are done. Best of luck to you. I hope you find what you're looking for."

"I do too," I agree. "Thank you."

He gives another heft to the pouch in his hand. "And I shall be heading directly to the bank with this," he murmurs. "Safe travels."

I untie Blaze from the rail and swing myself up into the saddle. It feels just right to be on his back, looking past the alert ears to a future which holds unlimited possibilities. I give a gentle tug on the reins, and in a moment we are walking out the main gates, turning our heads north.

The town fades out of sight behind us. For a while I ride, and then I dismount to travel by his side. We walk through tall, fragrant grasses, the river burbling along on my right, Blaze keeps a steady pace at my side on the left, and the world is just as it should be. Billowing clouds drift far overhead, dancing across a sky of cornflower blue, larks swoop, and my heart sings. I have no thought of yesterday or tomorrow. I am simply content being where I am.

I give Blaze a fond rub under the chin, and he nickers in contentment. For the first time in what seems forever, the tight spot between my shoulder blades gently eases, releasing its tension. I give some thought to where I am and what lays before me.

Clearly, something traumatic has occurred in my past to land me in this situation. They did not go through all of this effort with jaywalkers or litterers. But what could I have done to warrant being tossed into this 'wasteland?' Have I killed someone? I let the idea roll around in my brain, but while it does not seem foreign to me, it does not resonate either. There is not the slightest inkling of what has occurred before that long, sterile hallway which led to the killing field.

Blaze's soft hoof clops become a walking meditation, a spiral path leading into my innermost core. He walks at my side without judging, simply being there. I twine my fingers into his mane, relishing his solid assurance. With him at my back, I know I can achieve anything.

The sun is high overhead, and I watch for an open meadow before I draw us to a halt. I tie Blaze up in easy reach of the lush clover and verdant grass, where he can also tuck under a stand of birch for shade and get a drink of the river as well. Then I lay out beneath the birch to rest.

The thought comes to me that we could simply stop here, between towns, between the intense hostility of the chute and the final judgment of the gate. There is a civilization here. Children play, farmers raise crops; hunters bring in venison and turkey. A distant world holds smart phones, internet routers, and augmented vision – but is it really a better place? What is it that I am rushing toward? What did it hold that was so much superior to this?

I prop myself up on one arm, watching Blaze nibble at a patch of clover, relishing his serenity. He does not mind at all that, many miles distant, a wall circumnavigates our world. He only cares that the grass is crisp, that the water is pure, and that there is be a safe place to shelter beneath should thunderstorms roll in. Nothing much else really matters.

I run a hand along the scar in my side, feeling where the flesh is knitting into solidity again. I am not just a simple exile, if there was even such a thing. I am a Red, apparently the worst of the worst, the ones that are kept an eye on, in that remote console room in the far south. More than that, I have apparently warranted special attention, the personal tracking by one of their watchers.

I draw to my feet, carefully tracing my eyes along the horizon in a full three hundred sixty degrees. If he is out there, I cannot see him at all. In all directions there are simply rolling hills, drifting clouds, and the placid flowing smoothness of the running stream.

Soon Blaze and I are in motion again. Sometimes I ride, sometimes I lead, but most of the time we walk side by side. His presence is comfortable, natural, as if we have been best friends for years and know each other's moods without speaking. When dusk falls, I find us a hollow to tuck into, and he follows me without a complaint, watching with placid, large eyes as I start a fire and prepare a bed. When I finally lay down with my gun at my side, it is no longer just myself that I am thinking of. It is keeping Blaze safe.

Dawn rises with delicate streaks of almond and bumblebee yellow, and I spend a while brushing down Blaze, tending to his coat and mane until he shines like a debutante. He takes it as his due, standing patiently, blowing a snort when I tousle the mane between his alert ears. Then we are in motion again.

We crest a small hill, taking the down slope with attentive care, wending our way through a gulley, then walking across a field of blackberries. He follows me without complaint, with complete trust in my path.

The trail narrows, and I take the lead, trailing him behind me on the reins. There is a mass of brambles on the right, and I shy away to the left, giving a tug to have Blaze follow me.

He balks. A rattling, as if dry leaves are being rustled, fills the air.

I freeze in place. There is no doubt in my mind what is causing that noise. It takes all my focus to rein in the instinct to run, to flash into motion. Instead, I hold still against the fear flooding me. I carefully, with attentive caution, turn my head slowly toward the sound.

It is a mature rattler, nearly eight feet long, coiled up on a large, flat slab of granite. Now that I see him, I wonder how I could have possibly missed him before. He is staring with attentive focus at Blaze's front left leg, which wove too closely to his morning warming spot.

Blaze, to his credit, is holding his ground. I can see in his white-rimmed eyes that fear is taking him, but he breathes in slowly, holding still under my guidance. He trusts me to watch over him.

I carefully ease my hand down to my right hip, drawing the gun clear of its holster and cocking it as I raise it. Then I give my left hand a wrap, ensuring my hold on Blaze's reins is secure. I speak in a low, steady voice, reassuring Blaze, sending a soft lullaby to the angry, shaking reptile before us.

"Gee, Blaze."

Blaze side steps to his right, moving his muscular bulk into the brambles without a complaint. The rattlesnake's eyes follow him, but he does not leave his tight coil, does not release his fangs with the toxic liquid within. My hand with the gun is steady on him, but I do not squeeze the trigger.

I take a step forward, turning to ensure the barrel remains steadily on the rippled, scaled skin. I gently pull on the reins, drawing Blaze forward, alongside me, and then giving his dappled flank a pat so he continues on forward.

The rattler's angry tattoo eases, relaxes, and finally drifts off into silence. The breeze rustles through the slender grasses again, the river tumbles and bubbles over smooth rocks, and my heart begins to beat. I give Blaze a scritch under his chin, and the corners of my mouth turn up in pleasure.

The sun is sliding on its downward course when we first spot the grey walls of Jamestown in the distance. The city is massive compared with the previous towns I've been in, with guard towers every hundred feet or so along the wall's length. A large river runs straight through the town, from north to south, the exit shielded by a thick metal gate.

A black-cloaked man enters the chute when it is still only a toy miniature before me, but even from here I can see the flashes, hear the blaring of the alarm before he gets a few steps into the entryway. Then his cloak swirls with motion as he stomps out and strides off to the west, not looking back.

I breathe in calm and continue my steady pace forward. I twine my hands in Blaze's reins, drawing strength from his presence. It seems only a moments before we are drawing to the entry gate, a pair of men looking down at us as we pass beneath. They do not even bother to call out to us, just turn and watch as we pass beneath, rifles leaning beside them on the wall.

The alley is dusty, the only sound Blaze's hoofs clip-clopping in steady rhythm as we approach the far end. The doors pull open in front of us, and we are through.

The street before us is wide, with expensive shops and hotels lining either side. Up ahead I can see where the river bisects the town, with a series of elaborate bridges crossing it at evenly spaced locations. Banners fly from along the struts. Elegant woman walk by in embroidered dresses, a pair of men are discussing quail hunting to my right, and a steady motion of people, horses, and children move all around me.

One of the blonde women in a well-tailored dress of sea green looks at me, her nose wrinkling delicately, before turning back to her companion with a smile. I glance down at myself, suddenly aware of the image I am presenting. My face and hands are coated with layers of grime mixed in with dried blood. My hair is braided down my back, undoubtedly laced with straw and grass. I have a pair of guns on my hips, a high quality horse by my side, and for all they know I am a gun for hire.

I smile at the thought. Perhaps this will help to keep me safe.

I ignore the large stables located on the main square, and instead head down one of the side streets, attentive as the shops ease from jewelry stores to ones selling hemp cloth and hand-packed ammo. There's a well-kept but humble stables in this section which looks just right. I negotiate with the owner before paying two bullets for his board, my room, and an ale and stew. The sun has dipped below the horizon as I cross the street and step into the small hotel's lounge.

The oak bar is to the left, and I take a stool at the far end. The bartender is perhaps thirty, with a long braid of shimmering ebony hair and a rust-colored, creased face. I hand him the wooden chip provided to me by the stable owner, and he takes it with a nod, bringing over a glass of ale. In a minute that is followed by a large bowl of steaming, fragrant stew. I take a bite and smile. It is fairly good.

I look up behind the bar, to where a large painting of a dam hangs, a city nestled beneath its bulk. The landscape in the scene looks familiar.

The barkeep sees my interest and gives a wry smile. "Yes, that was the Jamestown Dam," he explains. "Before the anarchists got to it. Quite a spectacular site when it went down, from what I hear. If you swim in the river you can still find foundations and skeletons."

I take a bite of my stew. "That's quite all right, thanks."

He chuckles. "Name's Wayra."

"Hawk," I answer. I glance up at him for a minute. " _Wayra_. Wind, eh? You're fast?"

He grins at that. "Used to be. So, where ya heading?"

I give a soft shrug. "North."

Wayra nods. "Best thing to do is follow the river, as far as it goes. Then keep at it. You'll run into Devil's Lake. From there, if you want moose they're northeast. If you want the gate it's northwest. If you simply want privacy, just about any direction will do."

I take a sip of my ale. "Much obliged."

There's a motion at the door, the swinging gates push in, and a man in his late twenties tenuously steps into the room. He's still got on his orange shirt from his release, although somewhere along the way he's found a too-large pair of blue jeans being held up by a cinched-in belt. His mouse-brown hair is splayed in just about every direction, and he has two weeks' growth of beard on his face. He staggers to the bar, his eyes wide, his voice hoarse.

"Please, you have to help me."

Wayra gives a soft roll of his eyes to me, then moves down to stand in front of the man. "Sure thing, what do you need?"

The man digs into his pockets and pulls out four bullets. He puts them on the counter in a small pile, his eyes looking up with pleading intensity.

"Please, I just have to get to the Gate. The man I paid to take me there, Jethro, ran off in the middle of the night. He left me and two others alone in the woods. One of them was killed when we were run down by a coyote pack. Jimmy and I divvied up his stuff, but now even Jimmy took off on me." He looks down at the bullets. "It's all I have. Surely I must be close now? It'll be enough?"

Wayra shakes his head doubtfully, then looks across the room. "Hey, Zeke."

A weathered man wearing creased leather rolls up from his table and comes over to join them. "Yeah?"

The keep nods his head at the greenhorn. "Could you take him over to Eldridge? There should be enough stages going through there that he could hop on one for three bullets and get escorted the rest of the way."

Zeke's mouth turns down. "Leaving me one for my troubles?"

Wayra holds his gaze evenly. "I need a fresh shipment of rum and gin brought back. Take my wagon, and there'll be three bullets in it from me for your troubles." He glances at the trembling man leaning against the bar. "Besides, it might help ensure you get him there in under a week."

Zeke nods. "Done." He scoops up his bullet, pushing the remaining ones back to the younger man. "Keep those safe in your pocket for now. With the luck you've been having, you'll need them. Let's go get the wagon ready."

The wild look eases from the man's face, and relief smooths out the furrows in his forehead. "Thank you, thank you." He shakily gathers up the bullets and returns them to his pocket. He follows Zeke out the door like an attentive puppy, never more than a few inches from his heel.

Wayra shakes his head as the doors swing shut again. I finish my stew and drain down the last of my ale.

He hands me a key. "Last room on the right," he states. "Sleep well."

I nod. In short order I'm pushing the dresser to block the door, laying my gun across my chest, and my vision fades to black.

A strong wind is whistling through the birch, setting the golden leaves rustling. It must be autumn; there's a crispness to the air. I shiver, and a sturdy arm wraps around me, pulling me close to a broad chest. I turn to look, but darkness descends, and all is lost.

I run my hand down Blaze's nose, tears filling my eyes, my heart filled with pain at the thought of being separated from him. I know it must be done, and yet I find I cannot take that first step.

A sense of foreboding fills me, looming over me like a thundercloud portending a massive tornado, one which will rip every foundation from the ground and fling it hurtling through the air at speeds which could wipe out a life in seconds.

* * *

Before, when I was riding north along the river, I had a sense of civilization being nearby. Not that I had seen many people, but there was an atmosphere about the world that around the corner, or perhaps over a hill, there'd be a settlement, an outpost, somewhere to tuck in if things got too bad.

Once I leave Jamestown behind me, that sense fades. The landscape grows low and flat, the river wends deep within a valley carved by the reservoir which had been emptied years ago. It was as if I were in a primordial world, one untouched by man, where I could be slain by wolves and my skeleton would not be found for decades.

I ride Blaze more than I walk with him, and we make good time along the packed dirt worn smooth by countless deer. I had studied the map in the general store before I left, and had also traded my few remaining silver nuggets for ammo, a well-honed knife with an antler bone handle, a canteen, and a pouch full of jerky. Wayra had said there were settlements around Devil's Lake, but I like to plan for mishaps.

The day slides by with a steady pace irregularly interrupted by rests and minor detours. Evening approaches with dusky violets as we reach the southern end of Jim Lake. The placid surface is tempting, and I give thought to how easy it would be to cross with a canoe or raft. But even if I did not have Blaze to look after, I know that being on that shimmering surface would make me an easy target. Being with Blaze gives me the quick option to vanish over a ridge or into a copse of trees, should trouble arise.

I lean forward and give Blaze a fond pat on the neck. For the hundredth time I praise my luck at finding him and at having the money necessary to wrangle him away from his owner. He has become my rock; I hadn't realized how lonely I was before, until I had him in my life.

We camp in a hollow, nestled beneath a swaying willow tree, and Orion's belt hangs low in the sky. I stare at it for a long time, lost in drifting thoughts.

Blaze is racing beneath me, his heart thundering, and I pray that we reach our destination in time.

Where are we going?

Jim's lake has turned muddy, flat, and stagnant. Our feet catch in the mire, and it is a constant struggle to press ahead. Swarms of mosquitoes have descended on us, and my neck is a welt of raised red bumps. Blaze has pushed steadily forward, but I can feel reproach in his eyes as his tail flicks hard against his rump. We work at it all day long, barely stopping for a break, and at last we reach the top of Arrowood Lake. We pause on the banks, looking around.

This is where the water-path ends. There is nothing before us but rolling hills and stands of shrubs.

I am not quite ready to leave it, to abandon this path which has guided me so far and to strike out on my own. I tie Blaze up near the edge of the lake, then build us a small fire to hold off the autumnal chill.

"This is it," I murmur to Blaze. "Tomorrow we are on our own, you and I."

Blaze gives a whicker, and I know that it will be all right.

I fall, curled up, into a dreamless sleep.

# Chapter 8

The stream is behind me, all of civilization is behind me, and it is only me and Blaze, striking out into unmarked territory, following the arc of the sun and the beacons of the stars. I feel untethered, wild, and free, like a hawk circling overhead, thinking of nothing but the next current of air, the next uplifting spiral.

My mind is empty, open, and there is finally space for thoughts to come of just what is going on.

When I bought Blaze, Chisholm suggested I simply stay near the town. There was an appeal to that, to have the sturdy walls around, the presence of others to share the risk of dangers.

Even Wayra in Jamestown did his part. When the nervous man came in, destitute and panicked, Wayra got him safely on his way. I had no doubt that Zeke would get him back to the main trail, and would get him onto a wagon heading north to the Gate.

If I was set on getting to the gate myself, why had I not gone with Zeke? Why not join one of the caravans heading north and put my faith in others?

For some reason, the idea seems utterly foreign to me. I know it is the right thing to do, to be out here on my own, the guns on my hips, Blaze steadily moving beneath me. I would make this trip on my own terms, with only my own safety riding on my shoulders.

I roll the thought around in my mind. Could it have to do with why I was convicted? Had I been betrayed by someone? Had I found that I could only rely on myself?

Not even the smallest glimmering of an answer comes, and I let the thoughts go, focusing on the path before me. Perhaps a revelation would come once I reached the gate and stepped through it. Perhaps, as some had warned, my chute blindness would be permanent, and I'd have to forge a new life in the outside world once I rejoined it. It might be refreshing, to have a fresh start at making my way in the world.

By the time the sun is easing toward the horizon I reach a small stream crossing, just past the Rusten Slough. The clerk at the general store had warned me of what came next – a hard slog through nasty terrain. I give Blaze a fond kiss on the nose before setting up camp for the night. We would need all the sleep we could get.

It was, if possible, even worse than what the clerk had warned about. Long stretches of leg-grabbing mud. Vast armies of black flies and gnats. The sun chooses today to bake down on us with a last gasp of summer, and I talk to Blaze constantly, encouraging him, praising him, keeping his spirits up. I know the running dialogue is really to keep myself going, but Blaze doesn't seem to mind.

Another day, and the black flies have called for reinforcements. There isn't an inch of my body which is free of welts or scratches. My shoulders ache, my legs are wobbly, and even Blaze's head hangs a little lower. And yet we keep at it, one foot in front of the other, a breath in, a breath out.

Then, at last, there is a shimmering darkness before us which grows in size with every passing minute. I knew Devil's Lake was large from seeing it on the map, but here in person it becomes overwhelming. Even as we approach its banks I cannot see the distant shore. It seems a cauldron of ebony, sucking in the light. Pulling the world heartlessly into its maw.

A deep sense of foreboding fills me, and I half consider retreating south. Perhaps we should sleep where we are not in sight, in reach, of this massive presence. I shake off the feeling as silly. With all we have faced together, Blaze and I could take on one lake, no matter what watery spirits lay within it. Still, I withdraw over a rise so we are down in a valley, protected from it, before setting up camp and starting a fire.

Ebony blackness is all around, and I fumble in the dark, searching for something – anything – to give me a bearing.

Green eyes appear suddenly before me, watching me, studying me. And then, just as suddenly, they are gone.

# Chapter 9

I breathe in deeply, the gentle light of morning against my eyelids, and a feeling of peace descends on me. The gnats and black flies have been left behind. A fresh breeze blows through our camp. A kindling of hope fills my heart.

I walk up to the top of the rise and face the sun to the east. I do my morning ritual, greeting the sun, and am pleased that the scar at my right hip no longer gives me any trouble at all. The twinge at my calf is an old friend, a reminder of some long-lost encounter.

Done, I clean up the camp and give Blaze a fond pat. His brown eyes are bright, alert, looking forward to the day ahead.

I hold up my hand, looking at my fingers. Five more days. If my calculations are correct, the gate should only be five days from here, even at a gentle pace. And then all of this will finally be over. I have ammo, I have supplies, and I have Blaze by my side.

We trek contentedly to the west, following the edge of the lake, and around lunchtime we stop for a bit of fishing. I'm delighted to catch a trout, and I grill it over a fire while Blaze munches contently at a patch of fragrant clover. Then we are in motion again.

As I had hoped, we soon spy a settlement up ahead, perhaps thirty or so buildings of various shapes and sizes. The town is without walls, and for some reason it reassures me. The dangers of civilization are behind us. Up here, it's a simple outpost where the humans band together against snowstorm and wolf pack.

There's a stables immediately by the entrance to the town, and as it appears it's probably the only one, I step within. A bald, thin man in burgundy robes steps forward. "Welcome, traveler, to Arrondir. Staying the night, I hope?"

I nod, and he smiles, motioning a hand toward a well-kept stall freshly strewn with hay. I guide Blaze within, removing his tack and gear and laying them on a nearby bench.

The man fetches a pail, pouring fresh water into Blaze's trough. "One bullet covers you and your fine steed for the evening, room and board," he states. "The hotel is right across the way."

I hand over the bullet, and he places his hands together at his chest. "Sleep well."

"And you," I respond, and give Blaze one last look before heading across the quiet street.

Nearly every person in the lounge and bar are wearing burgundy robes, and I find a quiet corner in the back of the room by the fire. An elderly woman with grey curls comes over, her robes clean and freshly pressed.

"My name is Mary."

"Hawk," I answer.

"Welcome to our town, Hawk. What shall you have, dear?"

"An ale, and whatever stew you have ready."

Mary nods, bustling off, and is back in a few minutes with my food. It is simple but filling. I have some trouble deciding what the meat at its core might be and finally settle on raccoon.

The conversation is a low murmur around me, with discussions of the coming of winter and the state of the lake. There is a glance or two in my direction, but the locals seem merely curious, not hostile.

When my bowl is empty Mary comes to take it away, and I sip at my ale, running a hand along the worn wood of the table. A log settles in the fireplace, sending off a small shower of sparks.

My eyes go to the wood plank walls, and to a row of portraits which circle the room. Each person wears burgundy robes, and their eyes are uniformly serene and spiritual.

Mary returns with a second mug of ale, removing my empty one. "Those are the ones who were called," she murmurs with pride.

"Oh?" Apparently this is a religious area of some sort. I take a long sip of my ale. I'm curious if they brew this here or if they ship it in from further south.

She nods, her eyes shining. "They keep us safe. There's dangers in that lake, deep horrors that no person should have to face. The Called are our guardians."

That catches my interest, and I look up again. I wonder if they are rangers of sorts, patrolling the water's edge, looking out for wolves or coyote. "I'm sure you're glad to have their protection."

She nods reverentially. "Absolutely."

I give thought to the idea, of having a group of steadfast, loyal protectors watching over the vulnerable. The idea appeals to me. I look down the list of faces again. I wonder how they knew they were up to the challenge; if they ever regretted their choice.

At last the second ale is gone, and I head up to my room. The end of the hall has a window overlooking the main street, and my room to the left is on a corner, with windows both looking out onto that same main street as well as over a side alley. I can see the stables across the way, and my heart glows as I think of Blaze safely tucked within that shelter. For one night, at least, he can sleep soundly.

Out of habit I push the dresser until it blocks the door and make sure both windows are securely locked. Then I pull the thick curtains closed.

I lay on the bed, place the gun on my chest, and close my eyes.

Blaze is standing next to me in a long valley, his eyes focused ahead, his ears sharp, alert. I can hear the strain in his breathing, and when I lay a hand on his long neck, a tremor runs down its length.

There are steady footsteps behind me in the thick grass, approaching, but I do not turn. His voice comes to me, low, urgent.

' _Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.'_

My eyes open to moonlight slicing through a gap in the curtains, its silvery sheen sending a bolt of brightness through the dark room. The familiar cool metal of my gun is in my hand, lying on my chest, and I slowly scan the room.

Footsteps ease down the hallway outside my room – four adults, average build. They come to a stop at my door, and pause for a long moment. I draw up to a sitting position, pointing my Ruger at the sturdy rectangle blocked by the heavy dresser.

The scratchy sound of a key turning in a lock, a click, and then a quiet _oof_ as the door intersects with the wood blocking it. A pause, and then they try again, this time with firmer pressure. The dresser does not move.

I climb out of bed, and the springs announce my movement. A woman's voice rings out, and I recognize Mary at once.

"My dear, you're only making this hard on yourself. Let us in."

I move to the window overlooking the front street, and draw back one of the curtains, looking out. The dusty road is deserted, with the full moon shining down over the area, carving sharp shadows along the stables and other buildings.

There's a metallic glint to the left, and I draw my eyes up. There, in the loft over the stables. The long barrel of a rifle pokes through a window, aimed in my direction. I quickly scan along the other buildings. There are several other suspicious shapes – are there five of them lying in wait for me? My chances of getting out of this are dropping by the minute.

The short bark of a gunshot rings out, and I throw myself flat on the wooden floor as the window bursts in, sending shards of glass into the room. The bullet hits the back wall with a resounding thunk. I wrap my hands over my head as two more shots ring out.

Mary is at the hallway window in a flash, as I can tell from her furious voice which echoes out over the night air. "You fools! We need her alive for the ceremony! Stop your damned shooting!"

Silence settles across the town, and cautiously I poke my head up again from the floor. I peer over the edge of the sill, slightly comforted by Mary's order, and take more careful stock of my situation. The man with the rifle in the stables, the glint of a weapon in the tannery to the left, and then the man on the roof of the general store to the right. I breathe a soft sigh of relief. Only three, then. These are odds I can handle.

Mary's voice oozes through the door, soothing, reasonable. "Now, there, Hawk, you yourself said the Called should be respected. They protect the rest of us. They are commemorated and hallowed by those of the town. They please our God. Surely I saw in your eyes that you appreciate what they do."

I look carefully at the porch roof beneath me. Would it hold my weight? From there it seemed only eight feet or so to the ground, and then a short distance across to the stables. But with those men at the ready, they could cut me down before I got three steps.

"All of your Called looked to be townsfolk," I point out, wrapping my left hand in the blanket and carefully brushing the stray glass away from the window's ledge. "Surely having a guardian who wasn't one of you would go against the purpose of what he does. How could a stranger watch properly?"

There is a muttering from the other side of the door, and it seems that at least some of the group have brought up this argument previously.

Mary's voice has a sharper tone to it when it comes again. "You will do just fine," she insists. "You are strong, capable, and once you are in the lake, you will come to feel its power."

I unwrap the blanket and lay it across the ledge. I straddle it, one leg on the roof of the porch below, testing it with care. It seems to hold.

"I won't go quietly," I warn her. "I find it highly unlikely that I will make it to this ceremony uninjured."

There is a soft snort. "Injured is fine," she agrees. "It shows a good amount of spunk. Just as long as you are alive."

The man above the stables is watching me attentively, and he leans further out the window to get a cleaner angle on me. His eyes gleam in the moonlight.

"So it's an injured Called you want," I muse. I take in a deep breath, hold it for a second, then draw my revolver up and shoot twice. The bullets land in the rifleman's right shoulder, throwing the rifle out into the night sky, and he falls back, letting out a hoarse cry.

Mary is at her window again, fury rising. "Who did that?!"

I give a chuckle. "I did. You have your injured Called, and he is suitably from the town, so he has a stake in those he is watching over. I can make it three bullets, if you want, but he might not survive. I think your God might be irate at you for wasting lives unnecessarily. Don't you?"

There is a long moment of silence, and I draw the other gun with my left hand, letting focus fill me. If this is to turn into a blazing gun battle, I am ready.

At last she blows out her breath. "Mark. Gilroy. Go make sure he's not bleeding too heavily and get him down to the coast. The rest of you, let her leave. There's to be no more blood in town tonight."

I slide down onto the roof before she can change her mind, and in a moment I am dropping to the ground. I sprint across the short distance, and I keep the gun at my side on the table while I saddle and bridle Blaze more quickly than I had imagined possible. I have just finished pulling the reins over his head when there is a movement at the door. I have both guns in my hands before a pair of heads poke cautiously around the door. They raise their hands high, then look toward the ladder at the back end of the room. I nod, and they cross the space quickly, climbing up to gather up their injured friend.

I toss the reins over Blaze's head, vault on his back, and then we are galloping down the street, out of the town's perimeter, and streaming down the road into the night.

After a mile or so I slow him, looking behind me. There is not a trace of movement, but I don't trust the locals to let me off so easily. I slide off of Blaze's back, take his reins, and we head off cross-country into a stand of elm. The moonlight is scattered by the branches, and I move carefully, keeping an eye out for twisting roots and hidden streams. It takes a while for my heartbeat to steady, for my breathing to come in smoother draws, but at last I am convinced that we have freed ourselves of them.

I run a hand fondly through Blaze's mane. "That was a close call," I murmur. "Guess next time, if I see a row of people being honored, I should ask just how they earned that honor."

Blaze nickers, and I smile, giving him a gentle pat. The moon shines more strongly ahead; apparently we are approaching a clearing.

Suddenly the ground gives way beneath my feet, and we are tumbling, thrashing, as we cascade down a rocky slope. The fall seems to go on forever, and when at last I collapse against a hard valley floor, I lay there for a long while, unsure if I really have come to a stop. My world whirls and turns with stomach-wrenching gyrations.

At last they, too, ease, and I carefully sit up, taking stock of my various body parts. I ache all over, and my right shoulder throbs, but nothing seems broken or seriously injured. I sigh in relief, counting myself lucky. I push myself to my feet and turn to Blaze.

My blood runs cold. He is lying on his side, panting, and both of his front legs are clearly broken. His eyes are fixed on me, resignation filling them.

I run to his side, flinging myself against him, tears filling my eyes. It was only a heartbeat ago that we had overcome the odds - that we were facing the world together. A brief second. And one step had changed it all. One short misstep. If I could only go back in time, could unwind, could retrieve that one step, we would be fine. Just one step. One second in history, out of so many trillions of them. Surely I could have that one moment back?

The legs are still broken, and I can see the pain in his staggered breathing, in the thundering of his heart beneath his sturdy flanks. My cheeks are a river now, and I know what has to be done, and yet my mind stubbornly clings to the idea that somehow I can reverse time, can undo my mistake. It was such a tiny lapse. Such a momentary distraction.

I run a shaking hand through his mane, patting his head, and there is nothing to be done.

I stand up over him and draw the gun from my holster. I can barely see through the blinding tears. I do not know if I can do it – and yet to leave him in this state would be beyond cruel. There is no other option.

A flash at the muzzle, a slow easing of his last breath, and he is gone.

An eternity passes.

At last I take a step, then two, and move to the saddlebags. I remove what supplies I can carry and set out northwest. But the night is beyond lonely. It is not the quiet of my initial wanderings when I first arrived here. It is a profound emptiness, a keening loss which fills my very soul. My feet go forward, left, right, without any meaning. My tears flow until there are none left to cry, and then it seems that there is nothing left within me at all.

I drop to my knees, and then to my hands. My head hangs low, my hair forming a curtain, shielding me from the world.

I cannot go on.

I stay that way for minutes, perhaps hours, perhaps long days. Time loses all meaning. There is only darkness and emptiness.

Then there is the barest hint of a voice, floating on the edge of the night breeze, sliding its way into the dry cracks of my soul.

Get up on your feet.

I resist the voice, want to hide deep within my blackness, but it pulls at me with gentle insistency.

Get up.

Finally I rock back onto my heels, then push myself to an aching stand.

I take the first step forward.

# Chapter 10

Knox is coming into view before me, and I feel no emotion at all at the sight. My sleep in the hollow for a few hours in the early morning was fitful and dreamless. The journey since then has been that of a zombie. And here I am at another run-down town, another outpost with its tavern, its inn, its store, and its cadre of trappers and farmers.

I pass a small stable as I first enter the town, and a deep angst twists at my heart. I drop my eyes, pushing my way into the tavern, moving to the far end of the bar. The three surly patrons already within barely glance up at me, and the lean barkeep pours a glass of ale without being asked.

His voice is raspy, as if from disuse. "Stew?"

"Yeah."

The bowl is wooden, the stew is luke-warm, but I eat it without complaint. He goes back to leaning against the back wall, staring listlessly out the grimy window.

A while later, I am in a dusty room at the inn, resolutely pushing the dresser in place in front of the door, locking the lone window, and pulling the curtains tight across it. I prop myself into a sitting position and have both guns crossed across my chest.

If they think they can take me, they'll be in for a surprise.

A hawk circles high above, silently watching the landscape below.

I am standing on a high cliff, looking out over a great expanse far below me. I want to run toward the edge, to leap into its maw, to fly away untethered, free of all earthly concerns.

The man at my side holds my hand with tender sureness, grounding me.

I blink my eyes awake, and for a moment my mind is a confusing mixture of sharp aches and pains along with a looming sense of foreboding.

What have I done now?

Then it all cascades back on me, and I curl into a fetal position, the sobs coming through me like a rushing river. It is a long while before I can breathe again, before I can wipe my face and draw to a standing position.

I pull aside the curtain. The day is dismal, cloudy, and it suits me fine. I go downstairs, and the barkeep doesn't even look up. He has no care where I am headed to, and I have no desire to tell him.

The slog to Rolette is long, lonely, and grey. A hawk circles high above, but there is no other sign of movement along the endless miles. The world seems completely empty of life, beyond me and the hawk.

It's past sunset before I am within the well-worn streets of Rolette. The dented mug, the mystery-meat stew at the bar, the trappers who seem carved from stone. I look down at my own hands, and it's hard to tell where the dirt ends and the skin begins. I wonder if I would recognize my own reflection in a mirror. I had only begun to know it a short time ago.

There's a motion at the door, and a Burgundy walks into the lamp-lit room. I drop my hand to my hip, and I find I am not alone in that motion. Every pair of eyes in the room is focused on the newcomer, and the stares are far from welcoming.

The man strolls in, an amused smile on his lips, and he approaches the bar. The barkeep has his hand below the lip of the wood, and I wonder just what he has stashed back there. His eyes are sharp on the stranger.

"What'd'ya want?"

The Burgundy's grin grows. "Why, my friend, I would like to talk about your future. About the great things you might accomplish. Have you heard the Word of God?"

The barkeep's mouth thins into a line. "I have heard more than I want to hear," he states coldly. "You best move along."

Burgundy gives a short laugh. "Fate is coming for us all, my friend. You best become comfortable with it before it does."

The barkeep's gaze narrows. "And you best leave before your fate finds you sooner than you expect."

Burgundy rolls his shoulders, gives a pleasant nod, then scans his eyes over the rest of us. At last he turns, strolling leisurely from the room, letting the doors swing shut behind him.

The barkeep glances to the back wall, motioning his head to a long, lanky man in the shadows. The man nods, takes up his rifle, rolls to his feet, and slips through the door.

A tense silence settles over the room. I sip at my ale, scooping up the final puddle of my stew.

The dull report of a distant revolver shot sounds – and then the clean zing of a rifle.

A few minutes pass, and the barkeep clears away my empty bowl. He refills my ale without a comment, his eyes straying to the door. At last the rifleman pushes his way through, and there is an easing of tension within the room as he takes his seat by the back wall.

The barkeep brings him over an ale, putting it before him with a nod. "Who was he after?"

The rifleman downs a long swallow. "The miller."

The barkeep nods, returning to his station.

I head up to my room, block the door, shut out the windows, and wearily lay down on the bed.

I close my eyes.

Just one more day. One more day and I will be at the Gate.

The feel of the mug of ale in my hand as the sharp sound of the rifle shot fills the air.

Bending over the cool stream for a drink of water, and the rifle shot passing just overhead.

Peering out through the shutters of the hotel in burgundy, and the two shots ringing out in the night.

Crouching on the ridge east of the Indian village, a gang of bandits approaching, and the sure, precise sound of the rifle shot simultaneously on either side of me.

# Chapter 11

I have to blink a few times, staring at the long, straight road I am approaching, before I can believe it is really there. It has been so long since I have seen a road such as this, well maintained, that it seems an anomaly in this wilderness. But there it is. And along its length I see a wagon drawn by a grey mule, a pair of walking pilgrims with tall sticks, and a lone rider on horseback, all heading placidly north.

My heart eases, and breath returns to me. I am almost there.

My feet reach the road and I turn north. I am returning to humanity again on a path many others have taken. I feel the security of like-minded souls ahead and behind me.

There's a wooden sign up ahead, and as I approach it I see that it says "Peace – 10 miles." I smile. It really exists. I am finally reaching the end of this long, tumultuous journey.

The sun reaches its zenith and slides down the other side as the town draws into view. There are no walls here, no threatening chute. Just a gently grassy hill with buildings spiraling up along its slopes. Red banners fly from many of the roofs of buildings, bringing a festive feel to the town. As I approach I can see most of the windows sport window-boxes full of autumn flowers. There's a granite fountain near the town's entrance, and weary travelers are stopping there to drink and smile. Some are weeping.

There are booths set up along the street, some selling commemorative necklaces, other offering fresh tattoos of henna or more permanent varieties. Signs in the shops offer baths, shaves, and fresh clothes for those preparing to make that important final crossing. Arrows on posts direct newcomers to the "Outlook" where they can have a stunning view of the circumference wall and its Gate.

A pudgy shopkeep with thinning hair comes out of the bath-house and smiles at me. "You look like you could use a long soak in rose water," he offers. "Only one bullet, and you can take as long as you'd like."

A lanky man comes staggering toward us from the north, tears streaming from his eyes, moaning wordlessly. The shopkeep shakes his head sadly, watching him go, before turning back to me. "The Reds are always that way," he sighs. "It's hard on them, when the gate won't let them through."

I resist the urge to glance down at my hip. The wound is long since healed, and I am glad for the umpteenth time that I carved that tracker out of me.

I move past the shopkeep, following the arrows, and climb up the steep path to the top of the rise. I crest the hill and stop, breathing in a deep inhale.

The wall is stunning. It glistens in the late afternoon sunlight, its length seeming a silvery ribbon, stretching as far as the eye can see to both the left and the right. There are a series of granite benches laid out along the slope facing the wall, and I settle into one, staring along the wall's length. Finally, I locate the gate. It is just a dark black hole within the longer silver, but I know in my heart that that is the spot. A sense of release thrills through me. At long last the ordeal will be over. I will be able to put all of this behind me and reclaim my life in the real world.

To my left, a tavern has taken advantage of the stunning view and has set up a large deck jutting out over the edge of the hill, raised on stilts. The shadowed area beneath it is rocky, rough, and scrawled with graffiti.

I chuckle to myself. Creative artists will always find a way to express themselves, no matter what the location.

I look down at my own body and smile. The shopkeep was right. I absolutely need a bath before I head into that gate. I walk back down the slope and step into his shop. In short order I have a room to myself with towels, rose-scented soap, a washcloth, and a large tub of steaming water. Candles glitter from all sides. My guns sit beside me on a low, wooden table, while a maid takes my clothing off to be thoroughly cleaned and dried. The six bullets I paid were well worth it.

I slip into the water, and tears come to my eyes with how soothing it feels on my aching muscles. Time slips away.

The sun is nearing the horizon before I climb back into my freshly cleaned clothing, brushing out my hair until it shines. When I step back out into the main lobby, the shopkeep nods his head in admiration.

"You do look a sight," he praises. "I wish you all the luck in the world."

I step out onto the street, heading north for the last time. My heart thunders against my ribs, and I wonder if the gate's guardians will be able to tell my status even without the object they implanted on me. Would they use some sort of facial recognition? DNA analysis? Retinal scans? Every person I'd met so far had indicated that it was only the implant that would trigger the alarms, but maybe they didn't know the whole truth.

And what would happen if I did pass through the gate without a problem? Would my memory return? Would I be welcomed by a loving family? Find a new position in the world that awaited me?

I still cannot remember even the tiniest glimpse of what it was like; of where I had come from. This landscape here seems all I have ever known. I feel a pang of what could be homesickness as I think about stepping beyond.

I walk closer and closer, and the silvery wall looms before me. The sun is setting, oranges and crimsons spreading across the sky. I keep going toward the dark spot –

As I get close, I realize something is wrong. The darkness of the gate is flat, without dimension. There's no sense of anything beyond it.

It's painted on.

The realization stuns me. I take a few stuttering steps, shaking my head. But the vision doesn't change. The black arched shape is painted on the wall itself. At its base people are prone, weeping. There are a few burgundy charms and books abandoned by its edge, many looking as if they have been flung into place.

To the far right is a dusty pile of bones, apparently from a human skeleton.

I stare at the blackness of the gate, utterly lost. I stand there until long after the sun settles below the horizon, until the blackness extends across the entire world.

Thank you for reading _Into the Wasteland_! The sequel to this is _He Who Was Living._

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# Dedication

To Bri Smith, who offered amazing suggestions and advice on the storyline.

To Ruth, whose enthusiasm keeps me going.

To Mark, who offered suggestions on the firearms front. I've shot with a pistol team, but I tend to like automatics better, and he lent a hand on the revolver front.

To the Boston Writer's Group, who supports me in all my projects.

# About the Author

Lisa grew up adoring stories like Dune and Lord of the Rings – stories where the old, safe world we once knew has dissolved into a whirlwind of danger and struggle.

Over the years, she has found the power in these tales. Our world is always in motion. Anything a person clings to can be taken away and lost. Life strips us down to the bare essentials, to what really matters.

Relationships.

Trust.

Love.

The only constant is change. Nature continually renews. Life goes on. And by learning to accept that and embrace it, we can achieve all we dream of.

All proceeds from _Into the Wasteland_ benefit local battered women's shelters.

Lisa has written over 300 published works.

# 

# Free Ebooks

As a thank you for reading my story, here's a collection of free ebooks for you!

As a special treat, as a warm thank-you for buying this book and supporting the cause of battered women, here's a sneak peak at the first chapter of _Seeking the Truth – a Medieval Romance_.

# Seeking the Truth - Chapter 1

England, 1212

Happiness depends upon ourselves.

\-- Aristotle

Morgan wriggled her way through the bar's noisy throng, a feisty salmon struggling against the almost overpowering current, heading always upstream, driven by her instincts. She paused a moment to take a long draw from the tankard of ale in her hand, balancing the other two mugs close against her waist, her hand strung through their handles. A boisterous farmer bumped into her as she weaved past a heavy oaken table, and she laughed as she hip-checked him back into place. The rowdy crowd was certainly enjoying the harvest celebration. The sun had barely slipped past the horizon and already half of the pub seemed well on its way toward drunken abandon.

She plunked herself down on a worn stool, sliding the tankards out across the small round table with practiced ease to her two friends. The men called out their thanks, grabbing at their ales and each downing half the mug in a smooth motion.

Christian grinned up to her. "You are a saint, Morgan," announced the red-head, a twinkle in his eye.

"Sure, and you get the next round," she joked merrily, pushing her long, jet black hair back from her face with one hand. The men were still wearing their guard uniforms, having come right from watch duty to join in the festivities. Morgan knew Lady Donna's keep was well enough protected – there were plenty of guards still left on the walls. Her friends deserved some time off. It was harvest, after all. A season to relax, to have some fun.

She rolled her head, loosening the ache from her shoulders and neck, taking another long draw on her ale as the chaos of the place washed over her with comfortable familiarity. The pub was normally ample for its patrons, but tonight it was overflowing with the crowd, both with the farmers celebrating their crops and the soldiers in from London. It made for a tightly-packed night.

"And just why are those outsiders here?" she asked Christian, looking over at the soldiers. She'd grown up in Shamley Green, knew every man, woman, and child here. The trio of well-built men stood out like hawks in a flock of sparrows.

"Something about a funeral for a friend of theirs," responded Christian, barely sparing a glance for the newcomers, his eyes warm on her face. "Felix said they should be in town for another few days, perhaps. They are staying down at the inn."

"Was there bandit action in the area?" Morgan pressed, her interest sparking. Maybe she could talk with Lady Donna, get some time off from her bodyguard duties.

Christian was shaking his head, sending his red curls dancing. "Nothing so exciting," he calmed his friend, his eyes twinkling. "Rumor has it that the man got on the wrong side of a loan shark and was put out of his misery."

Morgan sighed. It was always the same; nothing exciting ever happened around here. She put the strangers out of her mind, rolling her shoulders again; that stubborn ache in her neck just would not ease. She turned to her right, to the man who leant back in watchful relaxation. She swatted playfully across the top of his brush-cut blond hair, riffling the gently greying tips. "So, Oliver, what about putting that medical training of yours to some good use?" she teased him with a smile.

He arched an eyebrow, then slid a hand behind her back, unerringly kneading at the knot immediately above her shoulder blade. She sighed softly in pleasure.

God's teeth, but he was a good man to have handy at the end of a long, wearying day.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. She looked up with a toss of her head, protest on her lips.

Oliver was staring over at the bar, his eyes sharp. Morgan glanced over and saw that Felix, the portly barkeep, was waving one hand toward their table with a wry grin. His red nose practically shone in the dusk as he nodded his head to the right. Morgan followed the look and spotted one of the elderly farmers tottering to his feet, a look of outrage on his face.

Morgan could barely hear his curse over the din of the room. "How dare you say your turnips are better than mine!"

Morgan felt Christian begin to rise beside her and patted him playfully on the arm. "You two hold tight; I will be right back," she promised, draining her ale. "Sometimes a woman's touch is what is called for."

"You certainly have that touch," agreed Christian with a smile, his eyes sweeping her curvaceous form with appreciation. Morgan leant over the table for a moment, dipping the front of her scarlet dress lower than necessary as she swept up the empty tankards, winking at Christian as his grin grew wider. Then she was turning, dropping the mugs off for refills as she swept past the bar on the way to the corner table.

"Come now, Jonas," she called out to the balding farmer as she came up alongside him, "I think it is time for you to head on home." Offering a friendly smile, she tucked her arm in against his. Jonas seemed caught between his pride in his produce and the well-built woman who was insinuating herself against his side. The latter won out, and he turned, his face glowing.

Morgan chuckled. "Let us get you home to your wife," she suggested, walking him to the door. She dropped her voice down a notch. "Besides, I am sure everyone here knows that your turnips are the best in the county. Let that braggart make a fool of himself if he wishes."

Jonas' face shone with pride, and he nodded blearily in agreement. Morgan released him as they got out into the dark street, watching fondly as he ambled his way down the dirt road toward his small cottage. The noise rang out behind her, but the houses were peacefully quiet as they spread out in three directions, lights from candles and fires glowing softly in several windows.

Morgan glanced toward the end of the street, toward the two-story building which housed her parents. The forge would be quiet now, but she knew it would not be silent in the home. Her father and mother were undoubtedly at it again, raging over some perceived slight, some invented ill. No, she would not be heading home until well near dawn. Thank all that was holy that she was due back at the keep tomorrow afternoon and her short visit was nearly at an end.

Pushing her family out of her mind with well-practiced effort, she turned and dove head-first in the roiling chaos of the mob. She saw the fresh tankards waiting for her on the scuffed bar top and began weaving her way through to retrieve them.

She was jostled hard to the left by the tumultuous crowd, staggered, and a spray of liquid misted her arm. She looked down at her stained dress with a wry smile, wiping herself down as she turned.

It was the soldiers from London, their dark green uniforms crisp and neat, an island of order in the stormy sea of muddy turmoil. The man she had hit was shaking drops off his hand, a small metal cup on the table now only three-fourths full. She sized him up in a long glance. He seemed perhaps thirty, his body long and rangy, well-muscled beneath his tunic. His chestnut hair was cut relatively short, brushed back from his face, emphasizing his strong cheekbones, his grey eyes flecked with gold.

One of his companions looked over. "Hey, lass, fetch us another round of ale," he called out, his speech slightly slurred. Morgan turned her gaze with mild annoyance. This soldier was more muscular, about the same age as the first man, his birch-brown hair cut close to his head. He stared with hazy interest at her buxom form spilling out of the close-fitting dress she wore, then slid his look back up to her face. "Be quick about it and there might be a nice bonus in it for you," he added suggestively. He glanced over at the well-built man she had hit. His voice became slightly more formal "Did you want a refill on your mead, Sean?" he asked the man.

"No thanks, Roger" replied Sean, wiping the back of his hand on his leg, not looking up. "Take it if you want." He gave his leg a final swipe. "I wonder how the locals can tolerate the brew - it is foul enough to drop a horse," he added with a shake of the head.

Morgan's eyes flashed in outrage. It was bad enough for strangers to take up space in an already crowded pub, but for them to badmouth the homemade liquor Felix took such pride in pricked her to the core. She swept up the cup and without hesitation tossed the entire drink back down her throat, the raw liquid slithering into the depths of her being with the familiar warm sensation. Her world stopped for a moment as the mead sent its curling tendrils into every corner of her body.

Oh, but that felt good.

She slammed the cup back down onto the table with a firm ring. All three soldiers were now staring up at her, their mouths open in shock.

Morgan was not done. "Felix!" she called out, her voice ringing in command. The bar's patrons turned instantly at the shout, and the place hushed to a murmur, all eyes focused on her with bright interest.

"I think this soldier here would like some milk," she announced to her audience with a deliberate smirk. "It seems he cannot handle the harder stuff."

There was a rolling cascade of mirth from the crowd in response. Sean looked up at her in amusement, a ready smile playing on his lips. "I promise I can drink anything you choose to put before me," he answered in challenge.

A voice rang out behind her. "Two pounds on Morgan!" Christian had come up alongside her, his face split in a wide smile.

Oliver tossed coins on the table. "Make that three," he added evenly.

The room became a hubbub of bets and offers, and the center of the area was cleared out to make room for the spectators. Morgan sat to one side of the soldier's table, settling her red skirts around her with practiced ease, getting her feet set up sturdily beneath her. Sean took the chair opposite her, swinging his sword out of the way as he sat.

Roger patted Sean on the shoulder. "You pace yourself," he advised his friend with a teasing wink. "These village girls can be feisty."

"I suppose you have some advice, Peter?" asked Sean, looking up at the other man. "You are nearly forty now; you are our senior man here."

"Never make assumptions," responded Peter thoughtfully, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he looked over the scene. "Still, I think you have this one easily." He leant forward. "Four pounds on Sean."

Sean turned back toward the table. He gave a long look down Morgan's healthy build, her lush curves. His eyes brightened with anticipation as he sized up his opponent.

"I would hate to cause any real harm to such a lovely creature," he commented with an appreciative smile.

Morgan watched as his eyes moved from her body toward the pair of men standing just behind her. She could almost read his thoughts in the narrowing of his eyes. Swords on their hips, protective stances, well-toned builds. Not simple farmers, these two.

He muttered quietly to Roger, his voice low, but not low enough. "The wench certainly knows how to choose her admirers."

Morgan leant forward slightly, drawing his attention with the subtle movement. "Are you sure you are ready for me? You can always back out now," she teased gently.

Sean's eyes flickered toward hers for a moment, then returned to consider the two men who stood over her. He addressed Oliver, his gaze steady. "You know how to get her home, I imagine, once she can no longer walk?" Morgan sensed a hint of probing in there, of Sean's desire to know just how well she was acquainted with her two friends. She grinned. She had hooked this one almost too easily.

Oliver looked down fondly at Morgan, running a hand absently through his blond hair. "Oh, we will take good care of Morgan," he agreed with a tender nod. "We are quite familiar with Morgan's haunts and habits." His mouth quirked. "Now as for you... you are staying at the inn, I hear?"

"Do not worry about me," replied Sean absently, leaning back in his chair, sizing up the two men as if they were a part of the challenge before him.

Felix trundled over with a large wooden tray, five shot glasses apiece lined up down each side of it. He placed the tray theatrically on the table between the two contestants. Sean looked at the offering almost dismissively before giving an indulgent smile to Morgan. "Well then, I will go first," he offered chivalrously. He took one of the glasses, downing it with a quick movement of his wrist. A cheer went up from his supporters. He then turned the glass over in the air and placed it firmly, upside down, at the center of the tray.

Morgan sat back for a moment, closing her eyes, fighting the urge to smile. Her friends would win good money tonight, but there was no reason to rush. She enjoyed the showmanship of the process.

She pouted her lips prettily, adding hesitation to her movements, acting as if she had suddenly realized just what a mess she had gotten herself into. She reached forward tentatively, taking the full glass in her hand, staring thoughtfully at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, she poured the liquid down her throat.

She closed her eyes as she did. As much as she could fake the tenuous hand movements, the trembling of the lips, she doubted she could hide the shine in her eyes as she drank the luscious ambrosia and felt it course down her throat, warming her. She made sure to give a little shudder before opening her eyes again. With a shaking hand the glass was turned over in the air and placed down on the table.

Felix raised his hands in the air. "One!" he announced with delight, and the crowd roared with pleasure.

Sean went glass by glass down the line, matching her at each step, and she watched with interest as his eyes began to betray his growing enjoyment of the liquid, the appreciation showing in his lips as he sensed the hidden layers of flavors. She knew he was watching her with equal interest, and she focused on the hesitation on her movements, giving the sense that she might give up at each stage, but somehow she managed to draw out the inner strength to keep going. His eyes flickered with surprise when, even after the fifth shot, she was able to put her glass securely down on the table.

Felix spun to the crowd. "Round Two!" Cheers and applause rang out on all sides. Sean scanned the crowd which clearly expected the contest to continue for quite a while, and after a moment he chuckled in appreciation. He picked up one of the smaller coins on the table, flipped it in his fingers a time or two, and then tossed it past her shoulder. Morgan had been gazing down at the table with a listless attitude, but out of habit she plucked the coin out of the air easily, and her eyes snapped with laughter when she realized she'd been found out.

She flipped the coin back to him with an amused grin. "All right, then," she acknowledged in delight, her voice clear and rich. "Let us do this the straightforward way. I find it so much more fun when I face my challenges head-on."

"You think you are a challenge for me?" asked Sean, his eyes brightening with interest, lingering on her lips for a long moment.

Morgan ran her tongue slowly along her bottom lip, and she watched with delight as his face flushed red with heat, as his breath drew in a ragged inhale. Her smile widened further as she basked in the reaction she had caused.

"I think I will be the one on top tonight," she agreed throatily, her eyes sparkling.

"We will see about that," murmured Sean, his voice going hoarse as she shifted slightly in her seat, as her curves moved and realigned.

There was a shadow across the table, and Felix was between them, setting down the wooden tray with a fresh set of five shots each. Sean looked at the line of mead, shaking his head, his eyes reflecting his admiration.

"I imagine a working hazard of being a waitress is building up a tolerance to alcohol," he murmured to Roger, his voice rough. "Still, it will be a cold day in Hell when one of them can keep up with me."

Roger's mouth quirked up into a smile. "You have indeed honed drinking to an art form," he agreed readily.

Sean's eyes moved back to meet Morgan's, to drift down her length appreciatively, taking in her ripe curves, her healthy strength. He gave a long sigh of relaxation. "Even if she does not last long, it will certainly be a pleasant distraction for us," he mused to his friend.

Morgan held in a snort. Not last long indeed. The amused sparkle in her eyes did not dim as they went through glass five... glass six... Sean seemed almost enthralled by her deep brown eyes, by the ruby red of her lips as her tongue danced out to wet them. She leant forward to take glass seven, making sure the swell of her breast was tantalizingly near. He shook himself, renewing his focus on the contest at hand.

"Round Three!" roared out the room gleefully. Sean gave a toast to his temptress with his next glass, his eyes shining, apparently honestly impressed. She chuckled again. Perhaps he did not know many women who could have lasted this long. Her smile grew wider. On the other hand perhaps none of his drinking companions back home had a form as she did. She gave a glance down the length of her body. She had dressed well for tonight's festivities. The red dress curled deliciously along her shoulders, drawing close at her waist. Her dark hair cascaded down her torso in thick curls.

She brought her gaze back up to meet Sean's and she grinned as she saw him wavering slightly, as he blinked again to keep his eyes in focus. It had begun.

She leant forward for glass number thirteen and her hair fell down across her face in a wave. Christian moved forward with comfortable ease to brush it back for her, and let his hand rest on her shoulder for a moment in a casual gesture of familiarity. Laughter bubbled up within her as Sean's eyes flared with jealousy, as he bit back his emotions with visible effort. Already she had him hooked well. She held his gaze through glass fourteen... fifteen...

"Round Four!"

Morgan could see in his movements that the liquor had taken a hold of him. He narrowed his eyes as if the room was beginning to shimmer. His body weaved slightly; he seemed to be riding on a ship at sea. There appeared to be two sets of each glass before him now, and he concentrated hard to determine which one to pick up. The crowd was continuing to chant the number, giving a roar of approval as each glass was brought to the lips, downed, and placed upside down on the table.

"Seventeen!"

Sean reached out carefully for his eighteenth glass. By his slow hand movements she would have almost guessed that this one was heavier than the previous. He watched with focus as he brought it toward his lips. His tipped it up with a quick motion.

The liquid rolled down his throat, and she saw it in his eyes, the connection they shared, that the mead was bringing him a smooth oblivion, an erasing of the past, the focus on now. She felt guilty, as if she had glimpsed into his soul, into a private haven.

He looked at the empty glass in his hands for a long while, appearing to marvel at its texture. There was a small air bubble in its base, a spherical drop of perfection, and he was entranced by it.

Then he gave himself a small shake, as if remembering that there was something he had to do. He had to put it down on the table. He reached forward with it, his attention a pinpoint focus, watching as the glass approached the table, its edges wavering... wobbling...

The edge of the glass came in contact with the table, and it seemed he found he could not bring it upright. His eyes strove to focus, but his hand slipped. The glass tumbled on its side, rolling in a long circle.

"Ohhhh!" groaned the crowd, half of the voices tinged with panic, the other half in greedy delight. There were hushing noises from all sides as countless pairs of eyes turned to look at Morgan.

Morgan watched the glass make its lazy circle, bringing her eyes slowly back up to the man sitting before her.

God's teeth, he was handsome.

His thick, lustrous hair lured her to run her fingers through it. His physique was solid but lean, like a racehorse built for speed. Desire built up within her as a tangible force, and his eyes held an answering kindle as he read her look. To think he had almost made eighteen shots... she shook her head. There was work still to be done. Enough time for play later.

She reached her hand out, proud that it remained fairly steady. She had never had to drink eighteen before, never been pushed to this limit. She would not let down her friends, not destroy her reputation. She focused on the glass, on lifting it carefully, on bringing it to her lips. The release of the alcohol, its potent power, thrilled through her as it always did. She kept her eyes open this time, letting Sean see the pleasure it brought her, her comfortable familiarity with its effect. She saw the answering knowledge in his eyes, that he drew the same solace from its deep pools of darkness. She took down every last drop, then with a firm hand she reached out with it.

She placed the glass solidly, upside down, at the center of the table.

The place erupted into cheers, yells, curses, and congratulations. Morgan found herself hoisted up onto Christian and Oliver's shoulders, paraded around the room as a conquering hero. Money changed hands with laughing good nature as Felix cleared away the glasses and began his last call for the night. Morgan glanced out the window and realized to her surprise that a soft pre-dawn light was beginning to spread across the town. It was later than she had thought!

Her soldiers deposited her down by the table again, and Sean slowly stood. He held out a hand in friendly defeat.

"That was well played, Morgan," he commended with a smile. "I have not seen it done better. You have my congratulations."

Morgan put her fingers in his palm, watching as he lowered his head to her hand, brushed his lips sensually over the skin of her knuckles. An answering tremor ran through her, and she gave a soft chuckle. Two could play that game. Her thumb was on the underside of his hand – she ran it slowly, seductively along his skin, her lips pursed with promise. A flush of heat rose into his face, and his grip tightened on her fingers.

Christian pulled her back against him. "All right, Morgan," he joked, his red curls bouncing around an even more rosy face.

Oliver chimed in with a low voice. "Time to get you home, Morgan, or your parents will tan my hide."

Morgan smiled. "Even worse, my father will not deliver your new sword for another month in punishment," she teased, allowing her fingers to slip free from Sean's grip, allowing herself to be drawn along by her friends. Together they made their way out into the lightening world, weaving their way along the village's one main road. Here and there they saw other of the bar's patrons making their way home.

They got to the sturdy oak door of her house in only a few minutes, and Morgan gave each man a warm hug in farewell. "I will see you at the keep tomorrow," she promised with a wink. She glanced up at the gentle tracery of light drifting across the sky. "Oops, I suppose I mean today," she amended. "Keep the fires warm for me!"

Christian nodded. "We will," he vowed with heat.

She gave a wave, then turned to move along the lavender-lined side alley of her house toward the back fence.

Gazing in a low window, she could barely make out her mother, a mug of ale near to her hand, sprawled on the bench in the main room of the forge. Her father was sitting on the sturdy side chair, his head down against his chest, snoring in steady rhythm. Morgan had no interest in waking the pair and being drawn into whatever fight had consumed them this evening.

She grabbed the ladder from its nook, laid it up against the side of the house, and scrambled nimbly up to her bedroom window. Once inside, she gave the ladder a kick, sending it back into its corner with a soft thud. She waited a long moment, but there was no answering sound from below.

Chuckling with pleasure, she made her way over to her bed, flinging herself onto it with satisfaction. She had won. She had taken down and bested a Londoner. Now there was an achievement to be proud of!

Her mind went back to that last glass of mead, the moment when she had allowed Sean a glimpse into her soul, when she had felt a connection with him that went beyond words, beyond any man she had ever met before. Her heart kindled...

She pushed the warmth away, rolling herself under her blankets, pulling them up over her head with a firm tug. Tomorrow he would be gone, and she would return to her carefree life. No man alive had yet put the yoke on her, and with God as her witness, no man ever would.

Here's where to learn what happened next!

Thank you so much for all of your support and encouragement for this important cause.

Be the change.

