When Bronwyn woke in darkness heavy as the press of the duvet, she lay in the middle of a tempest of spiralled sheets and sweat soaked pillow cases, the remnants of the dream that shattered her sleep already oozing back into her subconscious. She remembered enough. It had been a variation of the same one that had dogged her since childhood. It uncoiled itself like a great snake from her subconscious when she didn’t sleep under the black spell of heavy tea or pilfered spice beer.
She stood in the square of a village. But not Caulderwilde, the architecture was more rounded, ornate in it’s carvings and sapling thatch rooftops. She read in the corner of a doorway shaded from the noon sun. The chatter of the village blurring into the nonsense jabber of too many people talking over each other. There was an air of urgency, as if she needed to complete a task, or she had been sent to complete one, but she stayed rooted in the spot flipping the illegible pages. The door behind her opened and she felt her back sliding down the worn wood, splinters hungrily embedding themselves in her. She looked up and saw a woman with a narrow face and angular features towering over her holding a broomstick in her hand, her eyes followed Bronwyn as she continued her slow roll backwards. The woman's features so closely resembling the ones she saw in the mirror.
In her dream she fell backwards not into the shop itself but into a forest, her book lost in the sands of the dream scape. She was no longer in the village but the sense of urgency still clung to her. She moved through the scentless alpine growth until she came to a part in the tress. A stallion stood looking at her from the brush before bolting deeper. Bronwyn felt her urgency tied to the animal and took chase through the woods after it.
Healthy green was soon replaced by scarred black as the dream scape changed once more. Bronwyn ran through trees glowing with the after-embers of fire. Charred scrub retreated from the earth as if scolded. She ran harder, the horse staying barely ahead of her. Bronwyn herself hovering in that fragile state of being that wasn't fully awake nor deep enough to lose the dream.
She caught up to the horse as it ran through the town square the dream started in. Bronwyn knows something is wrong. There are no houses. The jabber of a busy street is replaced by a heavy silence that seems to be a presence in and of itself. The horse has turned to bone, collapsed into a pile where cobblestones once flush against one another now lay heaved and cracked from fire’s heat. Bronwyn’s chest heaves and her hand clutches it in a vain attempt to keep the scream down. She sucks air in to scream but it catches and all she can do is stand, chest hitching against the thick air, starring into the black socket of the horse skull.
She hovers there for an instant, transfixed by the yellowed bones. She feels herself falling forward into that blackness and knows this is the worst part of the dream when it slides through that stomach turning membrane into a nightmare.
She’s underground. The heat is stifling. It pushes on her shoulder with an unforgiving gravity. Her lungs burn with it and her arms ache. In her waking hours she barely remembers the mines. They are a section of her memory cordoned off by tragedy. To think about her early life, after her parents but before The Friar, invites agony. In her dream she hears the smack of a whip, sees a body fall amongst the shards of stone. Eyes of others refuse to acknowledge the fallen and scan instead for the milky glow of quartz or the purple red shimmer of ruby. She looks for Everitt but knows he’s with the rest of the older children. Put in charge of hauling the mined mountain interior to the whip mongers. She envies his tasting fresh air, the freedom he must feel before being sent back into the maw of earth. She looks for Bishop among the smattering of children and sees he’s still among those standing, a distant stare drawing his focus away from this awful hell. She hears gruff curses, an order to keep working. The whip cracks but she where she should feel the sting is only empty blackness as she starts awake in a feather down bed within Greytusk castle.
Her thoughts linger on her brothers, her remaining family brought together only to be ripped apart again, it seemed like some cruel joke the Old Gods never tired from. She lay awake waiting for the dream to fade, yet thinking of nothing else. They owed The Friar their life for what he’d done. Called to administer last rites to a dying guardsman he had parleyed what little he had for the three Ironcraft children. He brought them back to Caulderwilde with him where they hoped for a better life, but somehow the stench of the mines followed them too. The rest of the village looked at Bronwyn and her brothers as bad omens. An unwanted reminder of scarcity in the village. The bed suddenly feels too soft, as if it will swallow her whole. Sunlight brushes the eastern sky as Bronwyn dragged the downfilled quilt from the bed and settled into a doze in the window box. Out her window the Greytusk Mountains roll into the distance.
She tells Everitt nothing of her dreams. She could see him worrying that threadbare cloak all night over his right side, hiding his arm when he could and sneering at those he caught staring. She would risk his ire by reminding him of that which took his arm.
At breakfast the air of melancholy had dissipated from Tyson Mak’s tale the previous night and the table was alive with conversation as contenders broke their fast on bowls of thick shredded wheat and fruit brought by the emissaries of Galt, the port city to the east. Bronwyn found the wheat tasteless even with the sugary fruit. Breifly she looked for the woman from last night that had rankled Tryonas’ hunt master so but she was absent. Rygeer sat at his usual place at the head of the table and as the rabble began to die down he stood to address the whole hall.
“The day has arrived finally when you shall prove your mettle against the Kingsguard. This is to be a tournament split into heats that focus on challenging even the most veteran among you. Behind the castle a maze work of trail systems wind through the mountain range.” Rygeer eyed the throngs of foot soldiers that paraded out on either side of him. They were dressed in the thick plating of their defensive armour and were meant as much of an intimidation as they were for protection. They handed out small packages to each pair of tournament goers and their support. Bronwyn saw Everitt hold the gaze of the guardsman that gave him their supplies. “That little cloak won’t hold much up in the wind out there" the guard said. "You’re bound to get frostbite and loose a limb.” Bronwyn watched her brother’s face redden but he held his composure well, no doubt reciting the rules of conduct The Friar taught them for the occasion. She tried to catch his attention but he buried his face in a map before she could try to reassure him.
“You will find among other things a hideskin map of the pathways open to you. Each path carries with it a different challenge. You will find Kingguard stationed in some of these areas. To move forward you are to best them in combat, ceasing of course when they yield. You may also pass through these checkpoints in displays of nobility or honour towards the guardsmen. I leave it up to you and them to decide what that may appear as.” The King’s eyes searched the crowd as if trying to committ all faces to memory, “should any kind of malady befall you it is expected you will find the choicest route back to the castle where you will live out the rest of the tournament in relative comfort but without the chance for advancement. I leave you with this: Bones and slashes may heal with time and even some scars are forgotten, but glory wrenched from the Rygeer Kingdom will live on in legacy for decades hereafter!”
“Here here!” someone yelled from the crush of people. Bronwyn saw the comment belonged to Wallace Sheepshead and snorted laughter at the obvious vie for grace.
“The tournament has begun. In the courtyard you will find racks of weapons to choose from. It is your discretion to continue eating and pick those left, or abandon your sustenance as it stands for first pick of a weapon. I leave the choice in your hands.” The King left then flanked by two of his guard, his footsteps echoing in the stonework chamber as the reality of his words sank into the silence.
Bronwyn looked to Everitt who was already tucking the map and supplies into a pack. Both of them understood the decision the other wanted to make. Even though she felt like they’d made the decision within seconds of it being announced, the hall came alive with movement. Those who had been quietly mulling over their bowls seconds before were now gnashing for position towards the door leading outside. She set her shoulders and pushed through the throng of people. She kept the brown and white of Everitt’s cloak in front of her as he cleared a path through the crowd. She could tell the guard’s words stuck with him from the way he threw his weight into the others. Even though they’d been at each others throats lately, Bronwyn had to grin as she remembered the quiet young boy he’d been. The accident had changed him, he’d gone even further into himself when he had to but it was to a stillness that gave him incredible focus, and an irksome stubborn streak. Many of the villagers discounted his strength because of his arm, and her brother spent almost every waking hour taking manual jobs to prove them wrong. He exuded that strength now as he shouldered a pathway out the door towards the racks of weapons.
The morning chill caught her breath in her throat and even through the layers and coyote pelt the cold racked with icy tendrils looking for any exposed flesh. Her eyes adjusted to the snow glare in time to see Everitt was passing a bow back to her. Her hideskin mitt closed around it as a pudgy man tried to snake it from her. He had wild eyes and a few teeth that grew as if they’d been victim to a bar fight. His bushy brows hooded his eyes and he put everything he had into trying to yank the bow free from Bronwyn's grip. She let go and he overbalance before stumbling backwards,his arm moving to break his fall. Bronwyn stepped over him and snatched the bow from his loosened grip as he struggled to stand up from the frozen earth. She slung it over her shoulder and grabbed a few errant arrows that had been dropped. She looked up to see Everitt had strayed to the left. His eyes scanned the crowd with a momentary flash of panic before they settled on her and he held up a quiver of arrows, a double edged logger’s axe tucked into his belt. She moved to him as those with weapons began threading into the mountain pathways.
“They’re like animals” Everitt breathed.
“They’re products of greed Everitt, a king’s bounty is at stake. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone came out of that blinded.”
Everitt spared one last glance behind them where more than a few fist fights had broken out over weaponry. He unfurled the map and jogged to catch up with Bronwyn. “I was looking at it before we left the table.” He took off his glove so he could trace a route with his finger. “It’s sheer rock on one side and only a few foot trails intersect, less chance that we’ll run into other people or be boxed in.”
“Unless they’ve scaled the walls and have archers stationed on high ground.” Bronwyn said eyeing the peaks and ridges as the idea took root. “We’d be best to stay in the centre here” she pointed to a different route. “and move where it’s more open. We’d see the threat well before they got in range.”
Everitt seemed to still in his furs, tension wrought through his entire being. “I don’t want to fight with you Bronny.” he spoke quietly. She knew he was trying to be patient, but he wouldn’t drop that stupid name so Bronwyn adopted a patient tone of her own. “Great. Then. Brother, we can avoid a fight all together by taking the smartest route. The one where we don’t get skewered by a broadhead.” Her head started pounding. Her previous admiration dissolving into annoyance at their rivalry of attrition. Bronwyn set her jaw against the coming blow up but he surprised her by agreeing.
“Alright Bronny. You want that route? fine.”
It took her a moment to understand what he was saying. She felt an air of caution, what was the trap “What? Are you serious?”
“Bickering won’t get us anywhere out here. This isn’t about you and me. It’s about Bishop and the easiest way to win, and right now the easiest thing for me to do is just let you do what you want.” Everitt consulted the map once more before moving towards a pathway hedged in by two peaks ahead of them. Bronwyn kept pace as an awkward silence fell over them. In the distance she heard a cracking report echo into the cold and wondered at what their fate would be.
