Benlunar Legends - Amala Checkad
Delve into the past in this special bonus episode of Benlunar.
A deed is a story waiting to be told
A story becomes legend when it grows to be old
A legend retold might become a myth
Though details will blur as if obscured by a mist
Alicium has legends and heroes as well
Each with a life and a story to tell
Their feats and good deeds make their stories last
So listen as we delve, into the fog of the past
Ever since Amala was a little girl she was able to talk to crows. Perhaps it started back in that tiny two room place on Geriser Street where she was born and thus spent years learning to speak. A family of crows had made a nest outside her bedroom window and so their cackles and calls permeated her walls and entered her mind at the same time the foundation blocks of all language were set in place there. Her parents were immigrants from Yanor, a small town near the desert city of Zandt. They’d left their drought plagued home to find a better life for themselves in Freedos, the famed volcano city to the west. They missed the food and songs of their people but were glad to see their daughter playing with the city birds, seeing as their gods and legends were all but one winged and feathered.
Amala quickly learned that crows were creatures of few words, saying only one or two where a person might say nine or ten. ‘Food?’ the female would bark as her mate flew up to meet her. ‘None’ the man would reply. And that would be that. There were no arguments or accusations. Not like when her father returned home from a day of looking for work only to tell her mother he had once again come home unlucky. The crows trusted that their partner was doing their best and so only facts were necessary. This was not always the case with people. Amala learned that she would have to pepper her facts with apologies, lest she be seen as arrogant. Excuse her reasons with deference or be accused of disrespect. She learned that this lack of trust made human conversation a labyrinth of social cues and potential pitfalls.
And so more and more Amala spoke with crows.
This was all many years ago you understand? During the early reign of the Eighth Emperor, long before he married the young Sylvia and even longer still before little Lilian Lausanne first set foot in Freedos. Inevitably though the years passed and Amala grew older. She never did visit the desert but the dusty streets of Lionsgate felt just as much a part of her as the sea of sands did for her parents. She befriended other children and together they would tear through the city like little waves of chaos. Some had the distinctive blue eyes of the Kerakis coast, others spoke with the North Freedos accent and whereas some shared Amala’s dark skin none had her unique, curly blonde hair. That was how few people travelled to Freedos from the desert. This occasionally made her the subject of a mean word or harsh gesture, but Freedos was so filled with diverse peoples and cultures that any bullying never lasted long before a new kid would show up from some forgotten crack in the world. Besides, if Amala ever did get into any real trouble, she would soon deal with the perpetrator. Surviving on the streets also meant learning to speak a language of threats and violence and Amala was very good at learning languages.
This particular story took place during the winter of Amala’s seventeenth year. She was on her way to a meeting and she was late. The sun had set an hour ago and she was supposed to be there already but she had been held up. The city was on edge ever since the riot took place two weeks previously and getting anywhere after dark was nearly impossible. Soldiers and officers patrolled the streets, arresting gatherings and questioning anyone out after curfew. Luckily Jack was hopping and flapping around the rooftops, squawking warnings and patrol locations down to Amala. Jack was a cheeky crow that enjoyed taking risks and playing pranks so Amala had initially been wary to trust him with such an important task. Thankfully, he was proving to be a very effective lookout.
“Hide.” he shouted down to her. Amala jumped into a doorway just in time to see two armour clad soldiers appear around a corner up ahead. One of them shot a glance down her road but thankfully decided to continue on his way after seeing nothing of interest. Jack cackled in amusement. He’s cutting those warnings very close thought Amala. She peered out in time to catch the moonlight glinting off of the soldier’s scabbard before it disappeared out of sight.
“Safe!” Jack cawed and Amala resumed her journey.
Ten minutes later, Amala found the green door with the mark she’d been shown. The paint was so faint that she actually walked straight past it and if Jack hadn’t shouted his various insults then she would have continued to search through the night. Amala brought out the scrap of paper she had been given and compared the markings. An inky hand stared up at her from the page, identical to the one on the door. She glanced up to her feathery guide.
“Thanks for that.” Jack cackled again.
“Ha! You hide funny.” He said.
“Yeah yeah.” Amala rolled her eyes.
“Bread!” Jack squawked and flapped his wings, demanding his promised reward. Amala reached into her inner pocket and chucked the seeded roll she had promised him for his help. He swooped down and caught the thing deftly midair in his claws.
“Any time Amala.” Jack croaked as he flapped away into the darkness. Amala smiled, cheeky beggar, she thought. He’d promised to bring six friends with which to share the task and the spoils, but of course they all seemed to be mysteriously busy. Amala turned back to the door and knocked.
A young man with grey eyes and a patchy beard opened the door. He eyed Amala suspiciously before sticking his head out to check if she was alone. Once satisfied that she was, he turned back to her.
“The wolf sees the squirrel.” He spoke the phrase in a low whisper, foggy breath catching the warm light that was emanating from within. Amala stared at him blankly.
“Do we have to do that Mikah? I’m freezing out here.” The man glowered and repeated the phrase.
“The wolf sees the squirrel.” Amala groaned.
“The squirrel bites the nut.”
“There,” replied the man, “was that so hard?” Amala pushed past him mumbling something about it being just her out there and how he’s known her since they were kids.
Amala walked into a small room lit by candle light and kept warm by a small pewter stove in the corner. A small table had been placed in the centre with a few odd chairs scattered around it. A few people were gathered inside, their faces looked up in wide-eyed worry when Amala entered.
“It’s okay,” Mikah calmed the group, “She’s a friend. Everyone, this is Amala. She’s the woman I told you about. She’ll be able to help us.”
“Might be able to help you.” Amala corrected him. She wasn’t keen on promising her labour without first knowing what the job was. “Sorry I’m late.”
“That’s alright, we were just about to start talking through the plan.” Mikah motioned for her to sit. There was a large piece of parchment spread out across the table. A large man with fair hair and a red beard quickly put his hand over the paper when he noticed Amala looking at it.
“Hold on,” he said in a gruff voice, “Can we be sure she can be trusted?” The rest of the group looked to Mikah, hoping for their fears to be assuaged.
“What do you mean?” He asked, incredulous.
“Well,” the large man shifted his weight, uncomfortably. “None of us know her. She shows up past curfew after dodging half the army at night? It just… well, it just seems suspicious.” Amala sensed the tension grow close. She looked around the makeshift meeting room. Some old barrels were stacked in a corner next to a few bits of furniture that had been covered in dust sheets. It was a storeroom that wreaked of necessity over comfort.
“Listen Mikah,” Amala whispered to her friend, “I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted. Maybe I should…”
“Nonsense.” Mikah interrupted her. “Everyone is just scared.” He turned back to the small crowd, “But believe me, Amala is perfect for this. The fact that she got here undetected should be seen as proof of that, not as a cause for suspicion.” His calming voice had the desired effect. Amala smiled at the memories of all the fights he’d broken up in her childhood. He was calm and level headed even back then, she was proud to see him put those talents to good use.
The large bearded man, mumbled an apology and took his hand away from the parchment. Amala could finally see what was drawn there. It took some deciphering but as she circled the table she finally saw the outlines and details of a large building. It was an architect’s plan of some sort. Amala took her seat next to a small woman who smiled at her with big brown eyes, full of hope and fear. From this angle the building’s distinctive turrets and narrow arrow slits became obvious. A cold chill ran down Amala’s back. She glanced up at Mikah.
“Is that?”
“The tower?” he replied, “Yes, yes I’m afraid it is.” Amala’s heart sank and she began to shake her head. “Now before you say anything, just hear us out.”
“Mikah if you think I’m going to help…” Amala started to protest but stopped when she noticed Mikah’s eyes glistening with tears and his lip beginning to quiver.
“They’ve got him, Amala. They’ve got Nicholas.”
“As you know, we’ve all been working hard on trying to gain support these past few weeks. The emperor’s madness is out of control and we know we can’t fight his soldiers so we’ve been trying different things. Peaceful protests, non-violent gatherings. I can see you rolling your eyes but it works Amala, it just takes more time. We’ve had more people ask us about the hand than ever before. We stand for change but not at the cost of bloodshed. Well, I don’t know if you remember, but two weeks ago we organised our biggest protest to date. We were all going to gather in the square at the top of Laga boulevard and sit down for half an hour. We wanted to cause inconvenience, not disruption or destruction. Well, we expected seventy or eighty people to show up and we were delighted when we got more than two hundred. Lots of people were asking about us and how they could get involved. It was exciting but also peaceful, it was a community coming out against oppression in a peaceable, approachable way. Nicholas was in his element. Orchestrating the crowds, getting people to sing and chant. There were police there but he spoke with them and reassured them that nothing more was going to happen. It was all going so well. Then at around midday that big group showed up. They were all men, large, thuggish looking types. I remember wondering why some were wearing leather bracers, especially when all the flyers and conversations were about non-violent, peaceful protest. Nicholas and I tried to speak to them but they ignored us. Next thing we knew, one of them had grabbed a crate of apples from a nearby cart and put it through the window of a shop. I ran over to try and stop them. Nicholas was trying to calm everyone down but two of the men had hit an officer in the back of the head and he had crumpled to the floor. People started to panic. Someone screamed as more officers showed up and started trying to disperse us with batons. The whole square was like a powder keg. Sitting idle one moment, and then up in flames the next. People saw the officers beating up a young girl and so decided to intervene, which only made them implicit in the violence. It was exactly what we were trying to avoid. I’m ashamed to say that I ran. I looked about for Nicholas but I couldn’t see him. Later I was told that someone saw him being dragged into the back of a black carriage, his hands were shackled and he had a large bruise on his face. He’s in the tower now. And if we’re going to survive. If peace and reason still have a place in this city, then we need him back. I... need him back.”
Amala took a deep breath and glanced back down at the table. The stove was burning low and a chill was creeping into the low lit room. The group had grown quiet, lost in the sad memories of that day. Amala had not been there but she had heard about the riot. Some said that the violence had always been the plan from the start, but seeing Mikah relive the events, she knew that that could not be true. She wanted to know who those men were, who sent for them, who instructed them to start the fights. But she knew that if Mikah had that information, he would have shared it already. Amala breathed out a long and heavy sigh.
“Well,” she said, “My rates have gone up.” And then, for the first time in many nights, Mikah smiled.
Officially it was known as Orwhen’s Tower after Aldous Orwhen. He had been a particularly cruel inquisitor employed by the previous emperor to hunt witches. The design and construction of the tower had taken six years and Amala doubted if its walls had ever seen a single witch. This had been a cover of course, it mainly housed free thinkers and political dissidents, a function still being employed to this day. The tower was not constructed within the city walls but was instead built about a mile to the north east. Like a fixed and menacing moon it reminded anyone that dared to look over the walls that being out of the view of the palace did not necessarily mean that you were free. Amala had thankfully never visited the tower but two days after meeting Mikah and his band of peaceful revolutionaries she found herself trudging through the marshy fields towards the miniature fortress. It was night, she was wearing her favourite cloak, the one with the hood and the crow feathers sewn into the black stained wool. The hood covered her blonde hair so hopefully anyone looking out from the tower would only see a sea of darkness. She avoided the road, sticking to the wet, boggy land that surrounded the tower. From here she could still see the road and she made sure to keep an eye out for any comings and goings between the tower and the north gate. So far, there had been none. She muttered a curse under her breath as her left foot fell into yet another wet hole. She pulled it out with a loud squelch and began to understand why the Tower had been built on such treacherous ground. Anyone running across this land in the dark would quickly break a leg, or worse, be swallowed up entirely by the bog. Amala slapped a mosquito that had landed on her cheek and muttered something about not being paid enough.
It was slow going, but by two o’clock in the morning, or thereabouts, she was within sight of the east wall. The light of the stars reflected off of its sand coloured surface. An occasional movement at the top told her that guards were still patrolling the ramparts. No doubt armed with swords and halberds, Amala knew she had to do everything within her power to avoid being spotted by them, or else end up in a cell or even just as a head on a spike. She looked about and spied a small copse a little way away. She made her way over to it and was disappointed to see that it was nothing more than a half dead tree. Moss and weeds were climbing up its trunk like it too was slowly being dragged into the swamp and was reaching up into the sky in one last attempt to save itself. Still, it provided some cover from the tower and that was all she needed. She sat down on a mossy clod, pulled her shoulder pack round and reached inside. Her hands were wet and nearly numb and so she could only clumsily feel about for the seeded bread rolls she had brought with her. Hearing one crunch between her fingers, she brought it out and looked to the tower.
Everyone knew that the crows who lived in the tower were big, mean looking creatures. Amala had never met any as they tended to stay within the tower walls, hovering over it like a dark and ominous cloud during the day and cawing incessantly at night, driving the occupants mad from lack of sleep. When she had asked the city crows about them, words like ‘brutes’ and ‘uglies’ cropped up again and again. Despite their reputation though, they were still crows, and so were intelligent and curious by nature. It did not take long then for one to flutter down to Amala’s tree to inspect her.
“Woman!” it called out, signalling its fresh find to its friends in the tower. It was indeed bigger than the birds she was used to seeing in Freedos. Its beak glistened in the starlight, slick with some strange liquid. “Not dead, not dying.” The crow spat words out, Amala wondered if she detected a hint of disappointment in its voice. Suddenly, another crow flew down to join its friend. They eyed her cautiously, flicking and twisting their heads to see her clearly with both eyes. Amala raised the small seeded roll up, holding it aloft like an offering.
“What?”/
“What is it?”
“Bread?”
“For us.” The crows discussed the gift, nervously. Soon, two or three more flew down and peppered the branches of the old tree. Come on. Thought Amala. Take the bread. The crows followed her hand as she placed the roll on a nearby clump of moss.
“What is it?” asked a particularly large bird who had just joined the group.
“Bread.”
“Bread.”
“Bread.”
“Bread with seeds.” There was a short silence. Suddenly, the birds began to laugh.
Laughs and caws.
“Ha!” “Hahaaa” “HA” “hahaha”
“She brings us bread.”
“Weak food.”
“Food for weak birds.”
“Chicken food.”
“Chaffinch, Chicken food.” Suddenly one of the younger birds flew down, picked up the roll in its claws and dropped it directly into a puddle. To the casual observer it might have looked like the bird had swooped down, miscalculated the weight of the roll and accidentally let go upon trying to fly away with it. But the chorus of laughter and jeers told Amala that the act had been no accident. Fine, she thought, I thought this might happen. She reached into her bag once again and found one of the cold steaks she had purchased that morning. The meat was still fresh and wet to the touch. As soon as Amala unwrapped the steak from its paper packaging, the laughter stopped and the crows went completely silent. Just as Amala had suspected, these birds were meat eaters.
“Flesh.” said the biggest crow. Amala saw a similar wetness on its beak as well, and realised now that it was probably blood.
“You can have it if you like,” she said, holding the steak out in front of her.
“She speaks,”
“Speaking”
“Speaks to us.”
“Yes I can understand you. I’m a friend. Here, see?” Amala put the steak down on the moss where the bread roll had been sitting seconds earlier. The largest crow hopped down and stood over it, one foot half on the meat, testing or claiming it. It cocked its head at Amala.
“No trick.” it squawked.
“No trick.” Amala replied. At that, the bird picked away a few morsels and ate its fill. When it finished it flew back up into the tree. This was the signal for the other birds to feed. A storm of black feathers and greedy cries filled the air and in less than a minute, the steak was gone. Amala looked up into the branches and smiled. She pulled out a small note rolled up and tied in a black bow.
“I have more if you like. But if you want it. You must do something for me.”
An hour later Amala was following a young crow through the marsh. It hopped and flapped a few feet in front of her, shooting furtive looks back to make sure she was still following.
“Mind!” it cawed, nodding at a large patch of mud. Amala avoided it and continued picking her way through the mud. She was very near the walls of the tower now, practically underneath them. She thanked her dark cloak for keeping her hidden. The crows had given her Nicholas’ location, describing him as an ‘odd one’ or the ‘quiet man’. He was being kept on the third floor of the northeast wing. Crows thankfully did not care about the plights and fights of men and so readily gave her the information in return for a steady flow of red meat. This young bird, who was called Brooke, had been the only one left after the last of the meat was all gone. She was small and so had difficulty fighting for food. When Amala had offered her bread instead, she had gladly accepted it.
“Here.” she cawed, flying over to the base of the wall. She pointed down at a murky puddle at the bottom of a small slope. The ground was hollowed out here and water had been collecting at the bottom of it. Amala looked at Brooke in confusion. She had promised to find her a way into the walls in return for a seeded loaf. But now that they had reached it, Brooke said the last word Amala wanted to hear.
“Swim.” Amala’s heart sank.
“You must be joking?”
“No trick. Hole. Swim under and forward. Come up then, cellar.”
“Gracious gods.” Amala mumbled. She began to take off her cloak, bag and any other valuables she didn’t want ruined from the water.
“Bread!” shouted Brooke.
“Yes yes, alright.” Amala reached into her pack and tossed the roll to Brooke. She jumped out of the way and watched it land, immediately starting to eat the seeds as soon as it stopped rolling. Amala took off her boots and began to pick her way down the small slope. She could feel cold mud gathering between her toes. Amala took several quick breaths, trying to calm her heavy heartbeat. She cursed Mikah and swore that if she lost a toe he would have to give her one of his. She dipped her foot into the mud stained water, even in the low light she could tell it was thick with dirt. She retracted her foot quickly, her body instinctively rejecting the cold. A few prayers and curses later, Amala lowered herself into the mud. She wouldn’t be able to open her eyes once underneath so she felt for the hole in the wall before fully immersing herself. It was small, only just large enough to fit through.
“Good luck.” Brooke squawked from the top of the slope.
“Thanks.” Amala whispered in reply. She looked back at the water, which was up to her chest now. Here we go, she thought. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and pulled herself under the surface.
It was like diving under a layer of ice. All Amala could do was grope the broken wall above and around her, finding any handhold she could and pulling herself forward. She had no idea how thick the wall was and so hurried as best she could, careful not to let any bits of clothing snag on a stray rock or outcropping of wall. It took exactly one minute and twenty-three seconds for her to swim through the wall. At the last moment she panicked when her hand could not find a section of wall above her, but she realised that this was because she’d finally come to the other side. She was about to launch herself up and out of the muddy liquid, but remembered where she was and elected to breach the surface as slowly and carefully as her lack of breath allowed her. Wiping the mud and water from her eyes Amala finally breathed in and glanced around at her new surroundings.
She found herself in a dark room, with a small set of steps leading up to a door. If it hadn’t been for a barred slit in the wall, she would have had to navigate her way by touch alone. Thankfully the starlight was reflected off the damp stone floor and walls. There were some iron bars and canvas bags of sand stacked up in the corner suggesting that this room was some forgotten store from when the tower was still being built. Amala pulled herself up and out of the water. Her body was shivering uncontrollably and she had to take a minute to jump around and warm up in silence before the shaking stopped. Amala looked up at the stone steps. She kept telling herself that the hard part was over, but no matter how she put it, it still sounded like a lie.
The inside of the tower was a dank, dark and generally unpleasant place. Occasionally a torch flickered and spat in an iron sconce, lighting the way along clammy corridors. The whole structure was built around a large central courtyard. Amala caught glimpses of guards patrolling the upper ramparts as she passed open doorways. Thankfully, their attention was all focused outwards. She was most nervous when climbing the tight spiral staircases that linked the lower and upper floors. Twice she thought she heard footsteps coming down, but they turned out to either be an open door swinging on its hinges, or a flag flapping in the breeze. Amala had broken into several secure locations in her lifetime, but this was something else. The doors were thankfully unlocked but each one had a heavy bar hanging behind it, as if the occupants were expecting some sort of invasion. More than once Amala had to remind herself that this was a prison and not a fortress. She only caught glimpses of cells on her way up and up the tower. She did not want to risk showing her face to anyone, especially not a prisoner who might trade in her whereabouts for an extra scrap of food. At one point she peeked around a corner only to have to jump straight back in alarm as a guard was walking down the corridor towards her. She worried about the sound of her bare feet slapping against the stone floors and so was always careful to tread a soft heel toe step. Heel toe, heel toe slowly slow she kept thinking. Occasionally she would glance up at a window or arrow slit to see a curious crow. They were tracking her progress. She wondered if she might be able to call on their help again, should the need arise. Thankfully, they kept their beaks shut throughout her journey.
Finally she reached the third floor. She was warmer now, the journey through the tower having elevated her heart rate, but her wet clothes still clung to her skin. Amala hiked up her trousers so that she could crouch low without them stretching around her knees. She knelt behind a door and looked through the keyhole. The third floor corridor was different to the others. There were more torches along the walls which for Amala meant fewer shadows to creep between. The one advantage was that the stone floor actually had a carpet running all the way along it. It was a threadbare, sorry looking thing but it would dampen her steps all the same. The wooden doors that lined the hallway all had small windows carved into them at head height. These made it easier for the guards to see the inside of the cells without opening the doors. Amala was looking through her keyhole at one when a guard walked slowly past her eye line. She was so on edge that she nearly gasped when he appeared. Amala closed her eyes and scolded herself. She was so close now, she had to focus, she had to relax. Amala took a slow, deep breath and waited. If the crows had been telling the truth then the note would have been delivered, and the signal would be imminent.
Two minutes went by and Amala began to worry that the crows had just dropped the note in a puddle, or placed it at the top of the tallest flagpole as a joke. But then, she heard the signal.
A man’s voice cried out in pain somewhere down the corridor. Amala looked through the keyhole to see what was happening. She saw movement. A guard that she hadn’t noticed before came into view from near her door and looked down the hallway, curiously. He was still until a second cry came from the cell at which point he sprang into action. He was a portly fellow and his iron breastplate rattled as he ran. He carried a halberd in his right hand. Amala saw its sharp edge and menacing point catch the light of the torches as he ran down towards the cell. Another guard had appeared from the other end and they both met in the middle, next to the door where the cry had come from. Here we go, thought Amala as she slowly lifted the latch and opened the door.
“What’s the matter?” One of the guards shouted through the small window in the cell door.
“My skin!” a shrill voice replied from within, “I feel like i’m on fire. Oh good gods above us, it hurts!”
“Settle down.” The second guard struck the door, sending a small echo down the hallway.
“Good sir, my flesh is crawling with a million beetles, my eyes burn and my stomach turns. Please, I… I... need…” The prisoner went quiet.
“Hey!” One of the guards shouted. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s shaking. Heeey hey! If he swallows his tongue or sommink we’re cooked.”
“Twelve hells.” The larger guard swore and began fiddling with the ring of keys on his belt. He found the right one, slotted it into the door and opened it. Amala was only a few feet behind him now, she could see the prisoner, Nicholas, writhing and shaking on the floor. She admired his convincing performance. The two guards rushed inside the cell at the same time. Amala saw her opportunity and seized it. Using their momentum against them she drove her weight into their backs sending them hurtling forwards. Nicholas, instantly cured of his convulsions, leaped up onto all fours and planted himself firmly in front of them. Both men hit him at speed and were bowled over with barely a shout. The sound of clattering iron on stone resounded round the cell as the halberds were dropped and the breastplates connected with the floor. Amala jumped deftly over Nicholas and landed on the back of the portly guard, she grabbed a handful of his hair from the back of his head and thrust the man’s face hard into the stone. A sickening thud told her he was out cold. She turned to look at the other guard, his face was frozen in fear. Amala realised she must have looked quite shocking. Mud covered and dangerous, she brought her finger to her lips and bade the man keep quiet, lest he meet the same fate as his friend. The guard shuffled backwards and put his hands up to show her they were empty. Amala smiled and turned back to Nicholas.
He was a tall man with brown hair and a handsome face. He’d spent two weeks in the tower but he didn’t look too bad for it. His shoulders were still broad and his cheeks full of colour. He looked at her with a serious expression.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t thank me yet,” replied Amala in a hurried whisper. Nicholas reached down for the ring of keys.
“We should lock them in.” Amala nodded in agreement.
Seconds later, she twisted the key in the lock.
“You’re gonna regret this,” the conscious guard spoke the warning from inside the cell. Amala tried to ignore him.
“Are there more guards on this floor?” She asked Nicholas.
“Not on this corridor, but we should hurry, these two are set to be relieved soon. Why are you covered in mud?” Amala began leading him back the way she came.
“If I told you, you might not want to escape.” Nicholas looked concerned. “Amala Checkad, by the way.”
“Nicholas Telson.” They shook hands briefly before turning back to the entryway.
The two of them kept low and quiet, Amala’s plan was to go out the way she came and be halfway across the marsh before anyone realised Nicholas was missing. The staircase was still clear and although they had to patiently wait for a couple of patrols to pass by, the escape was relatively unimpeded. The main problem came when Amala turned a corner on the ground floor and saw a guard blocking the entrance to the flooded basement. She put a hand out to stop Nicholas. He looked at her with a confused expression. She had to lean in very close to his ear to communicate the issue.
“Guard. By the door. We need that room.” Nicholas poked his head round the corner to see for himself. Turning back to Amala he mimed punching someone in the face. Amala shook her head, mouthing the words “too loud.” She thought for a second. Her heart began to race again, every moment they weren’t moving was a moment that a new patrol could turn the corner and see them. Thankfully, Nicholas had an idea. He tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to a dark end of the central courtyard. Amala narrowed her eyes and tried to see what he was pointing at. Outlined in the gloom, she saw a pair of wooden carts. Nicholas leant forward to whisper,
“They leave for the city at dawn. We hide inside now and wait.” Amala considered the option. A decision needed to be made quickly. She didn’t like the idea of leaving her cloak behind but she did admit that it was a relatively small price to pay. She nodded.
They had to retrace their steps a little to find a courtyard entrance and Amala would not go out into the open without first being sure that all guards were looking out towards the marsh. After checking every conceivable angle she finally felt confident enough to move. Her heart was in her throat because in order to get to the carts they would have to be exposed for roughly eight or nine seconds. If just one guard decided to look in instead of out during that window, the plan would fail. Amala counted down from five using her fingers. When her hand became a fist she took a deep breath and ran out into the courtyard.
She made it five steps, with no problems. Ten steps with no alarms. The carts were in throwing distance now. She decided to shoot a brief look behind her, just to check that Nicholas had not tripped or fallen. She hadn’t heard his footsteps behind her for some time. She turned her head to find the courtyard empty. Had Nicholas not seen the signal? Amala panicked and skidded to a halt. Where was Nicholas? Should she call his name, or go back and get him? She jerked her head back round to the carts, just to check that he hadn’t over taken her without her realising. But he was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, images started popping into her head.
Things that had seemed strange at the time but that Amala’s nerves had brushed off as coincidence or dumb luck. The lack of guards on the third floor. Nicholas’ healthy complexion. The single guard posted in front of the exact door she’d needed to get out. Nicholas’ knowledge of the comings and goings of courtyard carts when his cell had overlooked the marsh. Her heart sank deeper and deeper. She could hear the boots now. Ten, twenty maybe thirty pairs all rushing down narrow corridors, metal breastplates clanking and rattling in time. She looked up to see not one but every single guard on the top most parapet staring down at her and aiming their bows. The soldiers all appeared at once, flooding into the courtyard like army ants from a hive. Amala’s stomach sank as she raised her arms in surrender.
“There she is warden! The woman who assaulted the guards and dragged me out of my cell.” Amala turned to see Nicholas standing next to a smartly dressed man pointing an accusatory finger directly at her. Amala’s fear quickly turned to anger.
“You traitorous rat Nicholas.” She yelled.
“Hear how she deflects the blame!? She says I’m a traitor, when she is the one who is trying to drag me away from the emperor’s justice.” The soldiers lowered their halberds and aimed the point directly at her. Amala cursed. They looked like they were ready to face an army, not one unarmed woman. It was all a show, a gruesome display of misplaced loyalty. Amala’s blood boiled.
“It was you!” she shouted. “You were the one who organised the mob to attack and to blame The Hand. You probably turned yourself in didn’t you? You traitorous slimy rat dog pig!” Amala hurled her insults into the night. The soldiers stepped closer. “What about Mikah, huh? He trusted you! Did that mean nothing?” She looked at Nicholas trying to find the last semblance of humanity or decency in his face. All she saw was a smug, self-satisfied smile.
“You have me wrong, Amala. I’m still committed to non-violence. But Mikah is an idealist, he sees only the good in others. I’m more of a realist. I see others for what they are. Mikah’s little group could never have lasted. I want to bring about real and lasting change. And change needs a friendly, but firm and guiding hand.” Amala spat on the floor at his feet. The soldiers advanced and all she could do was kneel and wait to be imprisoned. She looked up at the stars for what she knew would be the last time in a long while. She saw the crows perched on top of the tower walls laughing laughing laughing.