"No, sir, I did," she assured him.

"Oh . . . why?" he asked, the years having taken their toll on his mind, it would seem.

"I would like to sell it to you," she said.

"Oh, well, we can settle that later," he said, shifting quickly back to his sales pitch. "First, take a look here. A stiletto, and a fine one, you can be sure of that. Nice and thin, but tough. Toughest metal made. Won't bend, not one bit, you can be sure of that. Someone tries to bother you, young lady, you just put this little knife right through their ribs. Won't take hardly any effort, you can be sure of that. Push it in right up to the hilt. Won't have any trouble from that troublemaker any more, you can be sure of that."

"That is very nice, but I would really like to show you this sword," Myranda said.

"Now, now, miss, I am not in the habit of picking up rusted relics from the public, even from those as lovely as yourself," he said with a wink.

Myranda weathered the unwelcome compliment for the sake of the deal she hoped to make.

"I think this sword will pique your interest," she said.

Myranda pulled the ragged cloth from her prize and carefully watched the merchant's face. His eyes widened briefly in astonishment, but dropped quickly back to their cool and sullen state. Now the game would begin. Uncle Edward's advice often echoed in the place of her mother's in Myranda's head, and when it came to haggling, he had a wealth of advice to give: "The only difference between a ten-copper price and a five is confidence. You can give them the most unreasonable of prices, but if you are confident about it, that price will not move an inch."

For Myranda an additional requirement arose that made her perhaps a bit less of a skilled bargainer. Certainly confidence was essential--but, for Myranda, honesty was required for confidence. She was an excellent liar, but she simply functioned better with the truth on her side. As such, she had become something of an artist at sculpting the truth into something she could use.

"Where does a little lady get such a big sword?" asked the old man.

"It was left to me by a very dear friend," she said. That soldier in the field had saved her by leaving the sword. That made him a dear friend in her book.

"So it is old, then . . ." he said, searching for a reason to drop the price.

"The age has no bearing. This blade is immaculate and in perfect condition," she said, careful not to fall for his trick.

A few words crept up from her memory.

"Note the clean edge and excellent temper," she added, quoting Leo's observations.

The two haggled back and forth for the better part of an hour. In the end, he bargained her down to fifty silver pieces, plus the stiletto and a sheath. Rather, she bargained him up from five. Both knew that the sword was worth ten times what he was paying, but she wasn't greedy. If she was equally skilled in her dealings with the other merchants, she would walk away with all she needed, and even some change in her pocket.

"Now, I don't have all of the money right here. I deal mostly in coppers, so unless you want to carry around a few thousand of those, I will have to get some exchanged with my supplier," he said.

"Of course," she said. "How long?"

"Three days. Nearest inn is Bydell," he said, pointing a shaky finger in the direction from which she came.

She'd had enough of that town, and decided on a second option.

"Is there a church nearby?" she asked.

"A churchgoer, eh? Good to hear it. These days, folks don't pay the reverence to the good word like they ought to. Particularly you young folks. To tell the truth, I haven't found the time to make it up there myself. The spirit is willing, but these old legs won't get me there. Time was I could . . ." he rambled.

The old man attempted to regale her with a painfully long tale of his athletic exploits of youth. After the third off-topic story, Myranda cut in to request directions to the church. He indicated that there was a fork in the road a half-hour south. If she took a left there, she would find the church about an hour down the road. She thanked him, and, after getting the less than generous offer in writing, headed down the road.

The sky had an unfriendly look to it. Myranda quickened her step. Snow came suddenly and severely this time of year, and to be caught in it would be very treacherous indeed. As the minutes wore on, the air became colder, and stinging pieces of ice were hurled into her face by a swiftly stiffening wind. She pulled her tattered hood forward and leaned into the wind, which blew out of the southeast. She had only just reached the fork when the wind began to carry not only snow from the ground, but also fresh flakes from the sky. She took the left turn and exposed her right cheek to the blustery assault that the left had thus far endured. The cold bothered her little, her mind locked instead on the consequences it brought with it.

A snowfall alone would slow her, so long as there was little wind. Likewise, wind alone was more an annoyance than a threat. Together, though, they were deadly. The wind and snow were growing in intensity with equal ferocity. If she did not get a roof over her head soon, all of that bargaining would have been wasted. Periodically, a gust came so strong it stopped her in her tracks. Myranda closed her mouth and breathed through her nose, longing to gasp but knowing that air this frigid could tear at her insides if she didn't warm it first.

The sun was still high in the sky, but the curtain of snow blocked its rays, making early afternoon seem like dusk. The road in front of her was a wall of white. In these conditions, she could pass within an arm's length of shelter without seeing it. Finding what her eyes told her useless, Myranda closed them to spare them the stinging wind. Now she had only the sound of her feet to guide her. Even under layers of snow, the crunch of a road had a different timbre than that of the turf of the field. Before long, she was not so much walking as wading through snow that had already drifted to knee height in some places. With each passing step and each icy flake, the hope of reaching the church seemed to fade.

A streak of ice beneath the snow caused her to slip. She stumbled forward to catch her balance, but instead caught a sharp blow to the shoulder from an unseen obstacle. Sparks swirled against the black of her closed eyes as she reeled from the impact. She opened her eyes a sliver to see what had happened, and nearly cried out in joy at the sight of the frosted over shingles of the church. Feeling along the wall with what little sensation her fingers had left, she came to the door. Eagerly she pushed the gateway to savior, but after only a few inches it stopped and would not budge.

"Hello?" Myranda said, banging desperately at the door. "I need help! Please let me in!"

Even if there had been an answer, she could not have heard it over the howling wind. She shoved the door with all of the strength she could muster. It slid open a bit more. One more valiant push allowed just enough of a gap for her to slip through. She angled herself through the opening, a task greatly complicated by the large pack and long sword she carried. When she finally tumbled inside, she heaved the door shut against the biting wind.

After spending several minutes catching her breath and brushing the caked snow from her clothes, she inspected the clearly unoccupied church. A pale white light filtered through the snow-encrusted windows, dimly illuminating what little there was to see. Aside from the odd broken chair or pew strewn about the floor, there was nothing in the way of furniture. It was clear that this place had been ransacked long ago and stripped of anything of value, leaving a large, empty room with a raised platform at one side and a fireplace.

Myranda slid to the ground with her back against the door. Even with little more than the wind and snow out of her face, she could feel her cheeks redden with warmth. She sat for a time, letting her heart slow to a more normal pace and listening to the wind rattle what few shutters remained on the windows. When she finally recovered from the onslaught, her trembling having subsided somewhat, she rose to inspect the fireplace. The flue was clear, so at least a fire would be safe. She gathered together some wood from a broken pew and carefully arranged it in the hearth.

Eventually, she was able to get a fire started. After basking in the much appreciated warmth, she pulled her provisions from her pack. The last of the purloined food would have to serve as her meal for the day. In truth, it might have been wiser to ration the precious stuff, as this blizzard had the potential to block her way for days, and there was no other food to be had. The meat was old already, though, and only getting older. She would rather have a full stomach today than an upset one tomorrow. She dropped all of the salted meat into the pot and put it over the fire.

The fire was weak and not nearly able to heat the whole of the empty church, but, huddled near it, Myranda finally began to feel like herself again. The smell from the food was not exactly appetizing, and stirred memories of her uncle's hideous attempts at cooking. It seemed that whenever he tried anything more complicated than applying heat to a pot of water, the results were sickening. Myranda's father would kid that if he churned out one more concoction, he would ship him over to the enemy.

That had been one of the last times she'd seen her father. Myranda tried to push the unwelcome memories away, but a tear came to her eye when she pictured the two of them together. It was foolish, but something inside her refused to believe that her father was gone. Somehow, after all of these years, she would still ask after him in each new town, even though every answer thus far had been one of ignorance or doubt.

A draft from one of the several broken windows whisked through the largest hole in Myranda's worn cloak, reminding her once again that it needed to be replaced. Of course, she could never do that. Links to what little past she had were too precious to give up simply because they had lost their usefulness, and this cloak was the last thing she owned that had belonged to her Uncle Edward. She pulled the blanket from her sword and wrapped it around her. As she recalled the history of the cloak, she vaguely remembered relating it to that Leo fellow she had met. Quietly, she wished he were here to keep her company again.

The light of the fire danced on the mirror-like finish of the blade. She stared at the pristine edge. It had likely been used in battle, certainly left to the elements, and yet the edge looked to be as keen as the day it was forged. Her eyes drifted to the grip. The jewels there were like none she had seen before, though, in truth, she had seen very few. Gazing into the deep blue gem at the hilt's center, she swore that she could see on forever, like looking into an endless dark tunnel.

Myranda reached for the magnificent weapon, but stopped. She turned her palm up, the very same one she had risked to touch it with the first time. It had healed quickly. Now all that remained was a thin pink scar running across her palm, with a single red mark just below her middle finger. The longer scar, centered on her palm, was a long, curving line that twisted back and forth on itself. It resembled a pair of smooth waves with a trough between. The red mark was centered above this trough. It was the very same mark that adorned the blade. The blade, not the handle.

Carefully, she touched the scabbard and flipped the sword to its other side. There was no mark anywhere near where her hand had touched the sword. How could such a scar have been formed?

"Magic," she decided aloud. The owner had some sort of spell cast on the sword to brand the would-be thief with the mark of the rightful owner. For such a fine blade as this, a security measure of that type would hardly be out of place.

Satisfied with her own explanation, she looked back to the fire. Using the corner of her blanket to shield herself from another burn, Myranda pulled her pot from the flames. The heat had done little to improve the flavor of the food, but the ration was nonetheless filling. With the meal gone, she realized that so long as the storm raged, she would have nowhere to go. Her weary muscles made it quite clear how they felt she should spend the spare time. She sought out perhaps the only unbroken chair in the church and sat upon it. Sitting on the cold floor was one thing, but sleeping on it was quite another. Once properly situated, she wrapped herself all the more securely in her blanket and drifted quickly off to sleep, regardless of the fact that there were still hours of sun left.

The single night in a proper bed had spoiled her, it would seem. The clattering shutters and sudden drafts pulled her from slumber a handful of times through the afternoon and night. At first, she would jerk awake and look around, but soon she tried simply to ignore them and get back to sleep. In a way, the light sleep was a blessing. It spared her the terrible dreams that she had been suffering. Not once in her life had she had a recurring dream, though she had often hoped for one. Such dreams were said to carry great meaning. The dark and frightening images of her nightly torment did not bode well for the future.

After she'd had her fill of fitful slumber, Myranda opened her eyes. The yellow light of the fire flickered on the walls of the otherwise darkened church. This struck her as odd. She had not fed the flames for hours. She tried to turn to the mysteriously lively fire, but something stopped her from shifting. Still groggy, she struggled to gain a glimpse of the tightness about her chest, straining until she could just barely see the cause. There were coils of rope wrapped tightly around her, securing her to the chair. Panic gripped her as tightly as the ropes as she struggled. Both rope and blanket trapped her hands. Despite the maddening effort to free them, there was little progress and even less hope of escape. In her struggle, all she managed to do was to knock her chair to the floor. With much effort, she was able to slide the chair along the floor to where she had left the sword, only to find it had been taken.

Myranda regained her wits. This struggling was getting her nowhere. She had to think. Who would do this? Who could do this? All that she had of value was the sword. Why would someone who had the skill to bind her without awakening her even do so when they could have merely taken the sword? She tried to struggle again, hearing the jingle of silver in her pocket. They had not even robbed her.

"It doesn't make any sense! Steal the sword, tie me up, and feed the fire!?" she cried in frustration. "Why would you feed the fire? Unless . . ."

Unless whoever did this was still here. She held perfectly still and strained her ears, fearful to even breathe. All that could be heard was the tap of shutters and the crackle of flames. Myranda's rattled mind shaped each of them into a half heard footstep. Finally she gave up listening. What could she do, even if she heard her captor? Nothing while she was tied up. She glanced about in her limited view from the floor for something, anything to free her. The fire! She could burn the ropes! A second thought brought the realization that her blanket and clothes would likely burn to ashes before the binding even lit, let alone what would happen to her skin. There had to be another way.

Irregularly scattered about the room were pieces of broken wood. If she could make her way to one of the piles, free her hand, get a shard, and work its jagged edge at the ropes that held her, she just might be able to free herself. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was at least more than she was doing now.

Tipping over had slid her painfully to the side of the chair. By alternately working her right shoulder and right foot, she was able to inch along the floor. Each tiny slide the chair made produced an earsplitting grinding noise. If the captor was still near, he would most certainly hear it, but that didn't matter. Her best chance was to try to escape. After what seemed like an eternity of awkward sliding, she managed to reach a handful of the wood shards on the church floor.

With her hands tied firmly beneath a blanket, there was no obvious way to get at the shredded wood. An option came to mind. It was foolish, it was desperate, and it likely wouldn't work. It was also her only choice. Taking a deep breath and tensing, she heaved her shoulder down upon the woodpile with all of the force she could muster. The cruelly sharp edge of one of the pieces burst through the blanket and bit into the flesh in her shoulder. Agonizing and damaging as this was, it was the result she had been hoping for. She cried out at the savage pain of it and slowly wriggled her left hand beneath the blanket to the site of the throbbing new injury. The rope permitted nearly no movement, but through sheer effort she managed to bring her fingers to the now-blood-soaked wood. She grasped weakly the shard and worked at pulling it from its new home.

As painful as its appearance had been, the shard's removal was doubly so. With the utmost of care, she pulled the piece of wood through the tear in the blanket, out of her shoulder, and to a point just above the topmost of her bindings. A knife would have freed her with a few slices, but the jagged splinter tore only a few fibers of the rope at a time. After an eternity of patient scraping, the rope held by a tiny strand. Myranda strained at the weakened rope and it snapped. The other coils loosened and she was finally free of the chair.

The injured arm was the first to reach the floor, and she had to roll quickly off of it. All of that time bound in the same position made standing a difficult task. When she was on her feet, she looked around her and strained her ears. She was alone. Whoever had tied her up had left and all of the noise had failed to prompt a return. A sharp throbbing in her arm drew her attention. It was bleeding fairly heavily. Convinced that she was safe from her captor, at least for the moment, she decided to care for the wound. The blanket was ruined; it might as well serve one last purpose. She tore it into strips and used it to bandage the afflicted limb. The blood from the gash had seeped through her shirt and the blanket, pooling on the floor. Looking at it intensified the dizziness that its loss had caused.

With the most pressing of her concerns attended to, Myranda set her mind to the task of escaping. She assessed the situation. Of course, her pack was gone. A pull on the door revealed it to be solidly secured from the outside. The windows were all small and near to the high ceiling. There would be no escape through any of those. The sole window large enough to allow her to escape was the shattered stained glass window behind the pulpit, but it was even further out of her reach. She had to try the door again.

She grasped the heavy wooden handle and tugged it with all of her strength. Slowly a tiny crack opened, one that closed the moment she relented. It wasn't much, but it was hope. Myranda scoured the assorted piles of wood until she found a reasonably sturdy plank. Placing its edge between the doors, she used it as a lever. Even with the added leverage, the doors would only open an inch or two. After carefully wedging the lever in the opening so that all of her hard work would not slip away, she put her eye to the narrow portal to the outside.

It was night, and the perpetual cloud cover kept even the slightest hint of moonlight from reaching the snowy field. In the pitch blackness, she was barely able to make out a few coils of the same rope that had bound her securing the door. There was no way she could sever it in the same way she'd cut her own, and the harder she pulled at the door, the tighter the rope held.

"Of course!" she said, immediately clasping a hand over her mouth.

The rope! She could use it to escape. Hurrying to the severed bonds, she tied the ends, producing a strong rope of considerable length. Choosing a heavy piece of wood, she tied it to the rope. The resourceful young lady ran to the broken stained glass window and hurled the weighted end of the rope. A twinge of pain in her shoulder robbed the throw of some of its strength and the rope fell short. Shifting the rope to her left hand, she tried again, reaching the window but failing to hook onto it. A third throw held.

After testing the strength of the rope, she tried to climb. The injured shoulder again slowed her, but she refused to let it stop her. With supreme effort, she managed to pull her feet from the ground, only to come crashing down again a moment later, preceded by the subdued but unmistakable sound of metal biting into wood. She looked up from the ground to see a single throwing blade protruding from the wall. Myranda traced the path of flight back to its source, a dark form crouched on the rooftop outside one of the smaller windows.

A scraping sound drew her gaze back to the window. With nothing securing it the wooden grapple fell to the ground outside, dragging the precious rope along with it. All that was left behind was a useless length of rope no longer than her arm. By the time she looked back to find person who had thwarted her escape, the window was empty.

"Who are you!? What have I done!? Why are you holding me here!?" Myranda cried out to her captor. Silence was her answer.

Beaten, Myranda stood the fallen chair upright and sat down, no more free now than when the ropes had bound her, and with a rapidly stiffening right arm to remind her of her defeat. She surveyed her prison once more. Tiny windows topped the sloping roof on either side, they themselves topped by a smaller roof. Above the entrance was a small room that once held the church bell. The hole that had been made for the bell pull to hang through now showed a few dry, rotted strands. A plank with some stray rungs dangling from it was all that remained of a maintenance ladder.

She trudged to the door she had wrestled partially open. The inch-wide portal to the outside remained, for whatever reason, undisturbed by the kidnapper. The fiend could have easily pushed her wedge from the door and robbed her of this tiny accomplishment, but instead it remained, whistling with the frigid wind of the outside. Earlier that day she had prayed to find this place and to be allowed inside, but now all she wanted was to leave. She put her eye to the crack.

The sky to the east was beginning to take on the rose hue of dawn, coloring the stark white snow a faint crimson. The only soul to be seen was the captor, dressed in the same blasted cloak as any other northerner. The stranger sat with eyes to the east and back to Myranda. Far off in the distance, a speck of black was moving toward them along the snow-mounded road. As it drew nearer, it revealed itself to be a horse-drawn sleigh. It was not unusual for such vehicles to be seen so soon after such a terrible storm. Blizzards were anything but uncommon, and waiting for the roads to clear was a surefire way to be caught in the next. However, it was clear that no one had been along this road for many months, save for whoever had looted this place. This sleigh's appearance could not be a coincidence.

When the sleigh was near enough, Myranda could see that the horses, the sleigh itself, and the four soldiers who stepped out of it, all bore the unmistakable emblem of the Northern Army. Her heart lifted. She had not been happy to see a soldier of either side for years, but today they represented her only chance for rescue.

"Here! I am in here! Help me!" she cried out, beating on the door with her fists. A sharp pain in the shoulder quickly put the hammering to an end, but she continued to call out.

When she was certain that she had been heard, she put her eye back to the crack in the door. The four soldiers stood silently before the door, each in full combat armor, complete with face masks. The first was speaking calmly with her captor while the others looked on. They made no motion toward the door. She strained her ears to hear what the two were saying. Only the soldier spoke loudly enough to hear.

"The one who touched the sword? We are charged with her return, as well as that of the sword," he said, in response to the kidnapper's unheard comment.

The sinister figure pulled a bundle from inside the cloak and held it out, obviously the sword that had been taken from Myranda. The soldier took the weapon with gauntlet-clad hands and uncovered it. After as close an inspection as he could manage without raising his face guard, he looked to the kidnapper.

"It seems to be the piece we require. We shall take the girl and be on our way," he said, moving toward the door. The captor stopped him with a hand to the shoulder.

"What?" the soldier said, irritated.

The kidnapper held the hand out palm up.

All hope was dashed away as she struggled to comprehend the pieces as they came together. He was waiting to be paid! The Northern Army was in league with the stranger who had captured her! Why? And why did they want her? A thousand thoughts of fear burned across the back of Myranda's mind and her heart fluttered in her chest. The exchange between the conspirators continued.

"The capture and return of the swordbearer is the responsibility of the Alliance Army. Regardless of what orders you may have received, your interference is considered a treasonous action. Owing to the fact that your interference was entirely beneficial, you will not be charged," the soldier said.

Her captor said something too quiet to hear, but the fiend's body language betrayed more than a bit of anger.

"I have received no word of such an agreement, and even if I had, it would have been deemed illegal. You shall receive no payment. I suggest you accept this fact and be grateful we do not kill you where you stand," he said.

Her mind raced. How could anyone want her or the sword? She had only just found it in the field a day or two ago. It had obviously been there for some time. And how could anyone have found her here so quickly? No one knew she would be here, not even she, until the old man had . . . the old man. He must have assumed she had stolen the sword, and he told her where to go. Apparently she had not learned her lesson about who to trust for directions. The cloaked figure must be a bounty hunter. Things were looking grim. If the Alliance Army had come to take her away, she might be witnessing her last sunrise. In criminal matters, only an accusation was needed to be thrown into prison, and if the weapon was valuable enough to hire a bounty hunter and alert the army, she would remain locked away for the better part of a decade.

As she worried what the future held for her, the exchange between the bounty hunter and the soldiers became very heated. The other soldiers, who had stood silently until now, began to encircle the blade-for-hire. The leader stepped between the door and his underlings and began working at the ropes, blocking Myranda's view of the spectacle. Despite the overwhelming emotion, she could not help but notice an odd quality about him. It was something in the way he moved. It seemed . . . foreign.

A flash of light reflecting off of something metal shifted her gaze to the action behind the approaching leader. The soldiers began to move back, but never even made it to a second step. One by one the soldiers jerked awkwardly and dropped to the ground. Their ends were brought in a heartbeat by a single strike too fast to see. The clang of falling armored bodies drew the attention of the leader. His head had not yet turned when a blur of steel removed it from his shoulders.

Myranda backed away, but the grim spectacle lingered in her mind. She stumbled back from the door, her head spinning and her stomach churning. The sight had physically sickened her, and she could not keep her feet. She settled dizzily to the ground, coughing and gagging.

Somehow she managed to maintain her composure. When she felt well enough again, her eyes turned to the door. The murderer was still out there, she could feel it. The tides had turned again. Her desire to wrench the doors open and taste freedom was swiftly replaced with a repeated prayer that they remain shut, that monster outside would not come in. She kept her gaze locked on the door for what seemed like an eternity, fearful even to blink.

The light of morning crept across the floor in front of her. Myranda strained her every sense to try to learn what the killer was up to. Only the occasional whinny of horses and the drip of melting snow broke the silence. Slowly, careful to make no sound, she rose to her feet and crept toward the doors, eyes focused intently on the slit of light between. She was only a step or two away when the ribbon of light darkened. She rushed backward, tripping over a piece of wood and hitting the ground hard. There was a blur and a hiss as the fiend's blade split the restraining ropes. The doors swung open, leaving the dark silhouette of the murderer as the light reflecting from the snow fairly blinded Myranda.

Squinting against the sudden brightness, Myranda felt for a piece of wood and brandished it. She'd seen what he could do to trained warriors, but no one would take her life without a fight. If this monster was going to finish her off, she would be sure to make the decision a regrettable one. The form of the bounty hunter had only begun to clear when it leapt from the light. Now it was hidden somewhere in the darkness inside. Myranda's eyes were useless, as the contrast of light and dark kept her from seeing anything. Before she could even react, she felt the board she'd grabbed torn from her grip. Her arm was pushed painfully behind her back and she was forced forward.

Fighting all the way, Myranda was led outside. Each time she resisted, a sharp pain in her already-injured shoulder forced her to continue. The snow was ankle-deep at its shallowest, and as tall as she in drifts. When she was nearly to the horses in front of the sleigh, her arm was released with one final thrust. A second iron grip locked onto the back of her head, keeping her gaze forward. One of the horses had been cut off of the sleigh, every symbol of the army's ownership removed from the equipment.

"Go. Now!" came a whisper to her ear, harsh and disguised, but certainly a male. His final word flared with anger, offering some hint of a voice.

Myranda gasped as she felt the cold edge of a knife pressed to her throat.

"If you so much as glance in my direction, I will do to you what I did to them," he said, turning her head to the remains of the soldiers.

Where once had stood a man now lay a mangled mass of metal. The snow around the heap was pitted where flecks of blood melted through, and armor showed smudges of blood far blacker than she had seen anywhere but the field a few days ago. There was no flesh or bone among the spent armor either, only a scattering of bluish-gray dust. There had been more than a blade at work in the murder of these soldiers. Some unholy magic had ravaged their bodies. He had taken more than their lives; he had taken their humanity. Now they could not even be honored for their sacrifice with a funeral. It was horrible.

She climbed with difficulty to the back of the horse. It had never been meant for an individual rider, so it had no saddle. Myranda had ridden bareback before, but she preferred not to. Now, however, was no time to object.

As she snapped the reins and went on her way, she filled her head with the mindboggling facts of the day. This bounty hunter captured her, bound her, and stole her most valuable item. Yet, at the same time, he left her money and made sure to keep the fire going, even though he did not warm himself by it. The fire must have been for her--but why? It was clear that she herself had some value to him, but after killing those who seem to have come for her, he provided a means to escape and demanded that she use it. Why? Was this some sort of cruel game?

Myranda urged the horse forward. Despite the dozens of paces already between them, she could feel the place in her back where a knife might slip in at the first hint of hesitation. She pushed the horse as hard as she could to put as much space between herself and the killer as she possible. Minutes passed--she knew not how many--before she reached the fork in the road and decided she felt safe enough to stop.

The horse breathed great, steaming gasps as she gave it its first rest. It was unaccustomed to speed, being used only to pull a sleigh. She looked to the beast's back and frowned. Her pack had never been returned to her. All that she had left was the three silvers that the friendly fox had given her earlier. It was just yesterday, but it seemed ages ago. She looked to the south. No sense going back to the man who had sent the soldiers and murderer after her. She would head to the next town, replace her lost goods, and decide what could be done.

Now that the desperate fear had released its grip on her, she became aware of three things. First, the cold was absolutely biting. The night she had spent away from it only served to make it feel many times worse. Second was the pain in her shoulder. It had been burning steadily from the cold, but she had only now become aware of it. Last, as the horse began at a gentle trot, she heard a peculiar jingling. It was different from the sound of the various buckles and straps of the horse's equipment. Curious, she looked about for the source of the sound. She soon found it. There was a bag, tied to one of the horse's straps. The removed the satchel and opened it. The sight made her head spin.

It was the bag of coins she'd had stolen from her. There could be little doubt. Everything from the ancient-looking bag to the weathered coins were familiar to her. How? How had it gotten here? The killer must have been there, in that tavern, that very night. How else could he have the bag? And why would he give it to her? Did he want her to know? She shook the bag and discovered the sheathed stiletto had been placed inside, along with a note. Eagerly she snatched it out, sure that the message had not been there when she had last had it.

It was on a coarse paper, written in a precise hand. The words read: Your life ended the day you touched that sword. By nightfall, every gossip and snitch will know your name. By sunrise, every guard and soldier will know your face. When night comes again, you will find no safety among your own people. Use your last few hours of anonymity to get as far from society as possible.

She shivered, but this time it was not the cold that shook her. She was a part of something that she did not understand. The sword was gone, but she still was not safe. What possible reason could they want her for? Why would touching a sword make such a criminal of her? And why would the killer give her this advice? The questions came in droves, the answers not at all.

She tried to focus on the positive, if any could be found. Her first thought was that she had been lucky enough to escape with her life. The soldiers had not had that good fortune. Also, she now had a horse. It was the very thing that she'd hoped to gain by selling the sword. In a way, she had gotten from the vile weapon what she had intended. Now she was freed from the burden of walking--not that she could enjoy it. It gave her more time to think at the one point in her life when it was the last thing she wanted to do.

In all that had happened so far, there was only one thing that was certain. It was not over. The words on the note were true. In days the stories of her deeds, whatever they might be, would reach the ends of the continent. She did not even know what she had done wrong, but in just a few hours everyone else would, and they would have already marked her guilty for it. It did not matter that the only people who knew the truth were dead or outlaws themselves--a tale such as this had a mind of its own. It could move unaided across the land, whispering itself into people's ears, all the while gaining speed at the expense of accuracy. Gossip had a way of defying the laws of nature sometimes. People would know.

The more she thought about the day that had passed, the more troubled she became. Try as she might, she couldn't shake the images of death and the chilling sense of fear from her mind. Her distraction from the trip, unpleasant though it may have been, coupled with the speed of traveling on horseback, brought her to her destination in what seemed like no time at all.

Afternoon was approaching as she entered the village. Unlike the other places she'd been to, this town was alive with activity. Cloaked people busily cleared mounds of snow from the streets. Smoke rose from chimney after chimney. A well cared-for sign heralded the bustling hamlet as Nidel. The eyes of the people hard at work stayed, for the most part, on the task at hand. This gave Myranda some comfort. They did not know yet. Indeed, how could they? Even if they had been told every detail of what had happened, there were only two people who knew what she had done and what she looked like. As long as she didn't behave strangely, she would be just another visitor . . . for now.