In Medias Res
The horizon, to Lynia, was a reminder of how far she'd come, for no matter which direction she looked, she could see nothing of her kingdom. Not a single landmark or point of reference could be found, and the constant haze made it quite difficult to even see the nearest sand dune. Lynia sat upon the sand, hot as it was from the constant sun, and peered at the sky. The sun would be much better to navigate by if it would just stop moving. Her view was full of nothing but sky; the sun looked to be flying circles around her. She tried to stand again, supporting herself on the ornate quarterstaff which was the only thing she carried, but merely tripped and fell on her face. Then I shall crawl, she declared, but hardly managed a few feet up the dune before collapsing again. Lynia inhaled a sharp, ragged breath, only managing to remind herself how badly she was in need of water.
Everything about this excursion was badly planned. Lynia, not having ever left the protective confines of Upper Caynea save for a few trips, simply had not thought about the perils that lay outside the city wall. Neither ferocious beasts nor angry brigands had appeared; what did her in was a simple lack of hydration. And yet, all she had thought to bring with her was a simple flask of water and the heirloom quarterstaff that she had taken from the Royal Treasury. The flask had been empty for a while - the precise amount of time was not something she knew or cared about - and the staff was little more than a walking stick to her now. Lynia rolled on her back, looking back at the sky again. This is what I wanted, isn't it? I wanted my father to worry about me more than his pointless war, and worry, he shall, if I've perished to this heat. I just wish I'd managed to do anything of use before expiring...
Lynia felt a sleep-like urge come over her. Tired, she was, but sleep meant nothing. As her body grew heavy, she no longer felt a need to stand and walk. This is it, I suppose, she thought to herself, shortly before losing consciousness.
But the feeling did not last long - or at least, Lynia was not aware of it lasting. It felt like only a short time had passed, but soon, she once again became aware of the heat on her body, and a stinging sensation on her face. Though she made a valiant effort to open her eyes, the blinding light from above made this quite difficult, so she held them shut instead. The stinging sensation returned, but now she felt more aware of it making a sound, sort of the same sound she remembered hearing at royal court, as her father had slapped the petitioning merchant.
The slapping sound came again, with another sting on her face. "Ow," she declared through her dusty mouth.
"You're awake." The young man, clad in leathers that were obviously crafted for practicality over fashion, said it as if he'd been waiting forever. "You were moaning in your sleep...I hardly blame you, though. You've been out in the sun so long that I'm amazed you haven't caught the desert fever."
"Th...tha..." Lynia could not even finish her first word without entering into a coughing fit. Grains of sand sprayed from her mouth, into a feebly raised hand. The man, perhaps anticipating it, stood off to the side, holding a small canteen that he offered as soon as Lynia had finished coughing. She greedily snatched it from his hand.
"Hey, whoa there. Take it slow. Don't drink too....fast...."
She quaffed the water fast enough that she nearly choked on that as well, but the drink was enough to clear her throat. "I'm sorry," she finally said with some difficulty.
The man felt Lynia's forehead with the back of a hand; she jumped slightly, unused to the touch. "The temperature's gone down, at least, so you haven't caught anything...you're just exhausted. I'll probably ask you later why you were trying to cross the Caynean desert on foot, but for now, let's start with something easier." He stood as straight as he could, then bowed elaborately. "My name is Bren. My people call me Wagonmaster."
"L-Lyssie. My name...is Lyssie." As clouded as her mind was, Lynia was still wary that this man could have been one of her father's agents. If she were to reach Riga to warn them, the false name was necessary.
"Lyssie?" A puzzled Bren took his seat on the stool again. "That's an unusual name for someone like you." He crossed one leg over the other. "But you know, the desert is an unkind mistress to those who aren't prepared. Is there some reason why you were out there on your own?"
"I..."
"You don't need to tell me what it is. I just want to know if you had something in mind."
"The oasis," she replied at last, deeming her ultimate destination too risky to mention. "Had to get...to the oasis." She coughed some more, reminding her to take another drink from the quickly-depleting canteen.
"Bad choice, this time of year. I hear those Rigan barbarians attacked it again recently. My wagons tend to avoid the area if they can help it."
"Rigans? That's not what I heard from..." She stopped herself short. "Er...where are you headed next?"
"I'm not sure we're going your way, milady. We're headed south to Lower Caynea; festival time is soon, and our dancing troupe tends to make the most money then."
"Back to...Caynea? I can't go back to Caynea!" She tried to sit up in the futon, accidentally falling back down and almost dropping the canteen. "I need to leave!"
"If you've got some kind of bounty on you, I can assure you we'll have no part of that. I'm not going to sell you out, but I'm not going to aid and abet, either. But I doubt that's what your problem is."
"Well, I..."
Bren leaned forward in the stool. "Joining us is one thing, but we have our own schedule and our own destinations in mind. You'd need to be someone very important indeed if you wanted to influence that."
Lynia shuddered a bit in the bed as she realized she might not have been nearly as careful as she ought to have been.
"But let's be honest with ourselves. You likely have your reasons not to return, and I can't possibly live with myself if I just throw you back to the desert. Especially not with all the bloody vagrants and barbarians out there at night." Bren's face was now not far from hers at all as he lowered his voice. "But there's another reason why I can't do that to you, and it has to do with that name you gave me."
"What's wrong with my name?"
"Well, that's an easy one: it isn't yours." He tapped his head with a finger. "You're far from the first straggler I've picked up from the middle of the desert, but you are the first one to struggle with her own name. As much as I'm tolerant of people who've need of secrecy, yours is about the flimsiest I've seen yet."
"Then...you must..."
"I do. I know who you are, Princess Lynia of the Kingdom of Caynea."
"Then you must help."
"I suspect I wasn't clear enough. The caravan has its own schedule, and its own destinations. And above all else...we're not beholden to one ruler over another. Suppose I did go where you wanted - we're still expected to appear for Caynea's harvest festival, and even if you are the crown Princess, no order to divert is going to be received very well."
Lynia's heart sank. She already knew when she ran away, that her power held no dominion over anybody but the palace staff for as long as her father held the throne. But she was not invoking said power, and who was Bren to assume that she was?
As she thought hard about the best way to respond to him, a tapping sounded forth from the short wooden door. Bren, not looking away from the princess lying on his cot, answered, "Enter."
The door opened noiselessly. Behind it, lit only by the torches, was an old-looking Elven man, who looked as if he'd seen every kind of battle imaginable, and whose eyes were both covered with a thick silk blindfold. He was bending down from the side of a still-trotting horse, to fit through the door; it had only just now occurred to Lynia that she was inside of the caravan, and it was still moving. "Wagonmaster, I've something to report."
"Bad?"
"T'would not be my report if it were good, Wagonmaster." The black lung must have taken him at some point.
"Bandits, again, I'm to assume." Bren sighed. "Not the best time of night for it. The fools are getting braver by the day."
"I'm afraid it's ill news, Wagonmaster," began the grizzled elf from his horse. "I've been watching a small party from afar. They've noticed us and doused their torches. I suspect they're bandits, hoping to attack us in the dark."
"Thank you, Nestor," replied Wagonmaster Bren, with a hand instinctively placed on the leather whip at his side. "Give the order to all-stop, and dim our lights while you're at it."
"At once, Wagonmaster." He and the horse trotted alongside the Wagontrain, dutifully stopping each wagon and putting out its lantern. A few of the wagons' inhabitants peeked out to see what was the matter, but upon seeing Nestor at work, hurriedly ducked back inside.
Lynia grasped her staff and scanned the horizon herself, but saw nothing beyond the darkness. "What are we doing?" she whispered to the Wagonmaster.
"Hoping to use the night as a cover," said Bren, his hand not moving from the whip. "Any fight avoided is a fight won."
"Surely we've enough manpower to take down some bandits?" Ser Raylen's tactical exercises wouldn't leave her mind so easily.
"I'm not going to waste the lives of my Wagonsguard to slaughter some riffraff. We'll fight if there's no other choice, but we are not man-hunters."
"If these bandits are so clever as to approach in the dark, they're liable to have a good bounty on them. Couldn't the Wagontrain use some extra money?"
"Greedy little Princess, aren't you?" Despite the darkness, Bren's glare was clear as a desert morning. "When we picked you up, I'd figured you for the delicate type, but look at you now. So willing you seem, to hunt and kill for the promise of gold..."
Lynia's throat tightened up, and her next words would not come. She was unprepared to say what she meant; the weight of her task was not something she could explain under such an imminent threat. The last of the wagon lanterns winked out around her with the tiniest of squeaks; Bren's glowering face was the last thing she saw, before it, too, disappeared into the shadows. It would remain planted in her mind until Nestor returned to the front wagon.
"All-stop and all-dark, Wagonmaster," Nestor declared, removing his blindfold. His eyes were not clouded over like any blind man Lynia had ever seen, but there was a peculiar sort of reflection coming from the pupils. Perhaps his eyes only worked correctly in the dark, she supposed.
"Good," Bren said, just above a whisper. "How is our party looking from here?"
"They are still some minutes out," he said with eyes fixed straight forward. "Unmounted. Minimal supplies. There look to be eight of them."
"Weapons?"
"...Four glints in the distance, so at least four wield weapons of metal. The rest... I suspect slings and arrows, but it's difficult to tell at this range."
"They'd be awfully bold to fight from the distance in the dark. They must have something meant for closer engagement."
"How likely is it that any of them can see in the dark?" Lynia whispered over Bren.
"Not unheard of," Nestor replied tersely, "but an uncommon thing to see."
This page is pretty unfinished. Weasel plans to get to it eventually. Probably.
