The small girl tossed to and fro in her sleep and muttered in Rjuven. Asha watched her warily, torn between wanting to let her sleep-- she and the other young Ghosts were exhausted-- and wanting to wake her, lest she alert the enemy who, for all they knew, could be approaching on their tiny makeshift camp even now.
Furthermore, she was keeping Asha awake. The three women-- Asha, Syggi, and the other girl from Stormpoint, the sturdy and stoic Patches--slept spooned together for warmth in the fireless riverbank hollow. Adair and Elgren dozed nearby-- even now, Adair was too gentlemanly to snuggle with a teenage girl-- and Telfyrdd crouched at the base of a tree on watch.
Truth be told, they were all tired, even she and Adair. It had been three weeks since Lady Reynhild had sent them south. Asha was more at home under boughs and stars than she ever was under roofs or on cobblestone, but this was nothing like her duties as one of the Gorge's rangers. No, that had been easy. Patrol the green pastures of the Cradle, bring back the occasional lost child fallen into a ravine, maybe put an arrow into a troublesome bear that had acquired a taste for mutton, and once in an age, track down a bandit lair for Baron Fulcairn's men to deal with.
But this... this was war.
Clothed in their masks and shrouds, they were near invisible in the thickets and rolling grasslands; using the techniques and training Reynhild had drilled into them, they moved silently and vanished like... well, like ghosts. The lightly-guarded supply wagons hadn't stood a chance. One of Reynhild's insane ideas-- simultaneous fire from cover, with one Ghost counting down in silent hand signals-- was so effective that sometimes multiple wagon guards fell dead in their seats and the horses ambled on unaware.
None of them particularly liked the notion of killing unsuspecting targets. Hell, none of them particularly liked the idea of killing. But Adair was quick to remind them that these folk carried grain and jerky that would be filling the bellies of soldiers marching on Fulcairn Keep, their blades thirsty for Wilder blood. And gods, the rumours they'd heard from the Wilders fleeing northward, of the atrocities the Duene raiders wreaked...
The first few wagons had been easy. They'd even lucked out once, and intercepted a shipment of unstrung bows and fletching supplies. Heady with victory, their tiny band had gotten bolder, burning the caravans and triumphantly marking the Ghosts' sigil with charcoal on nearby trees. But the raiders were no fools, and now the Ghosts were both hunter and hunted. They could hide in hollows that would barely fit a cat, they could walk across a forest floor and barely disturb a leaf, but Asha feared if cavalry caught them in the open, they'd be run down.
Syggi's breathing resumed the rhythms of deep sleep, and her wild shock of white-blond hair slumped. Asha relaxed. Reynhild's contact in the city had chosen these two well. Just common street rats, apparently; they'd never even seen a forest before coming to Wilder's Gorge. But they were brave, and determined, and loyal. They threw themselves to whatever absurd training exercise Reynhild put them to. Asha wasn't sure if anyone had ever given them respect or responsibility before, but their youthful eagerness to be worthy of both was almost painfully earnest. She was certain it was all that was keeping them going at the moment, when none of them had had a good night's sleep or a hot meal in nearly a month, and the snapping of a stray twig by an incautious foot could mean all their deaths.
Overhead, the blue of twilight deepened and the stars showed themselves one by one. Telfyrdd rose, silent as smoke, and came to wake them.
It was time to get to work.
****************
Syggi crashed down into the ravine, heart hammering in her ears, terror pounding like a war drum in her brain. She couldn't think to muffle her footfalls, or to hide; the pure animal instinct to flee controlled her. They couldn't follow down here, not with the horses, but she heard a neigh, and an yell, and was sure they were following her on foot.
Stupid. Stupid no-good street rat.
Everything had been going so well. They'd been playing cat-and-mouse with a group of Duene raiders for days in the lightly wooded hill country. "After all, if they're here," Asha said, "they're not riding against Baron Cathal and Lady Reynhild. We don't even have to kill them, just keep them busy."
But then Syggi had seen him-- the one-eared man the Wilder village girls had told her about, with fear, and rage, and helplessness in their voices. Syggi knew that fear, from her time as a Stormpoint street urchin-- the fear of the lowest of people, cringeing at the mercy of the iron-shod boots of the highest. And she wanted to protect them, defend them-- it was her mission, she who'd never dreamed of having anything like a mission, other than finding enough moldy breadcrusts in order to not starve, in the first eighteen years of her life. And she had one perfect clear shot, even though Adair had carefully orchestrated where they would aim and when, and this was not in his plan.
Her shot went wide, the one-eared man yelled "Ambush!", the mounted men exploded in all directions, and the Ghosts scattered. Three of them headed straight for her. Asha's arrow sliced the jugular of one of the horses, but that was all Syggi saw before fleeing for her life.
Oh gods.
The ravine reached a dead end in a massive pile of tumbled rock and scrub. There was nowhere to flee. Climbing out would be a slow and arduous process; they'd see her exposed on the boulders, she'd be easy pickings.
Oh gods. I'm dead. Stupid no-good street rat. Street scum. Now I'm going to die here, a million leagues away from Stormpoint, in a forest, where the wolves will pick my bones. I suppose that's better than being thrown in a charnel house...
Then Syggi saw him, the one-eared man, barrel-chested and twice her size, his brigandine jingling.
The words of the Ghosts' oath drifted back to her. Honour the forest.
Honour the forest...
There was still some cover here. The leafless branches of birch and ash and shrub willow blended perfectly with the non-colour of the Ghosts' shrouds. She might be able to hide, at least for a few seconds. Maybe long enough to aim her bow. She dropped into a crouch.
"Where are you, you Fulcairn coward? You dog-fucking, treacherous piece of shit?"
Her heart pounded, but the words of the oath brought her calm, somehow.
Honour the common folk...
Syggi thought of the village girls, of their helpless terror... of feeling like less than an animal, less valuable to the rich folk than their oxen. With the deftness of endless practice, she nocked an arrow. The one-eared man drew his sword; it winked in the moonlight. "Is this how the Fulcairns make war? They send fucking cowards to play at hide-and-seek in the woods? Face me like a man, you snivelling weakling!"
Honour yourself...
I am Syggi. I will always be from the streets of Stormpoint. But now I am something more. I am no longer afraid, or helpless. I am a Ghost.
"I honour my enemy, you son of a bitch," she hissed, and her arrow streaked out of the shadows.
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