I
A voice called for Roland. A voice with no real authority that could still command hundreds of men to fight for it. Full of light and warmth. Like fire encased in ice, a fire in total control of its power. Yet whatever the voice said, it left with the morning breeze.
Roland bolted up when sunshine warmed his face. The bed under him creaked, a few springs poking his back. Sunshine bounced from silver cans to foggy, plastic containers, all lined up on shelves around the small room.
Cream ceramic tiles spread over the floor, and on top of them sat his new backpack with the Stronghold's cross etched on it, and his father's sword. Roland jumped from the bed and unsheathed the sword in one quick movement. Sunshine washed over the gleaming gold. Too many things shone in that gold. Dreams, hopes, questions. Roland placed the sword back and turned to the other things. When had Cid left these? He could barely remember getting there himself. The forest was a dark blur as he rode piggyback on his uncle, then he must've fallen asleep.
He checked the pack and found the things he expected: a camera on its last days, a notebook, a map, utensils, paracord, a Scavenger mask — just a piece of cloth to cover mouth and nose — a flashlight, a key to the Stronghold, and a small utility knife.
"Let's do this," Roland said and strapped the backpack on. He carefully pulled his cloak so that the parted cape flowed over the pack. He fastened the scabbard to the side of the backpack and opened the door.
Roland raised a hand against the burst of sunlight. The wind was stronger in that little plain by a cliff, and it carried newfound scents of soil and grass and forest. Roland took in the view: the green trees swaying, the red and white and blue flowers blooming, the rainbow of insects flying, and the sound of water rushing from behind. He plucked the map out of his backpack and spread it out over a rock.
"There's a river close to the safehouse, so it must be this one," he said and poked the map. "The river's west of here and flows northward. I think I should follow that route. Cross the Old Forest, the Blue Forest, and get to the Capital. I can do this. I have to do this."
Roland closed the map and set north, following the trail of pines that climbed up a hill.
The wind stirred the trees as it pushed him; the river murmured behind the pillars of hedges and wild bushes in the distance. The trail was surrounded by thin trees with multicolored bark — green and khaki and orange and brown in a camo pattern, almost blending. The soft crunch of leaves urged him to keep on rolling. The wind confided in him that the Capital was nothing but a goal, the important thing was the journey.
No point dwelling on what happened. Only moving forward mattered. Richard said that once, or Cid. Whoever it was, Roland thanked him, for it was the only thing keeping him from going insane.
He had his father's sword to take care of, and a test to finish.
II
Roland felt a trickle touch his head, and he turned around. Another pecked at him from behind. He felt the sun's fury recede and looked upward. Drops fell on his face, wet and cold. He opened his arms and greeted the pelting cold drops with laughter. A pure smell oozed from around him as the rain picked up; a smell so fresh that Roland felt himself float on it. Trees swayed with the swirling rain and let their leaves fall. Roland tossed cloak and backpack away, took his jacket and gloves off. He tried to caress the furious drops and feel their soft sting. A percussion melody swept him as the drops tapped and rapped at leaves, trees, rocks, and soil. It invited him to go on, to adventure, to find sense in a meaningless world. Those sounds would live with Roland for the rest of his life, and every time the rain came calling, he would feel the fire urging him to go out, take a walk in the wilds, maybe slay a monster or two. It was the sound and the smell of adventure.
He thought of all those times he'd heard the rain click from the rooftop far away, the times he'd watched it from the inner gates as it drenched the gardens. He understood the magnitude of his freedom, and it elevated his heart to the skies. This was his dream, and regardless of what happened, he was living it.
The drizzle passed. Roland squeezed his clothes and put them back on. He remembered the camera and flashlight and checked to see if they were dry. They were, thanks to the cloak. He closed the backpack and tossed it over his shoulder and walked back north, listening to the squish of the mud under his feet. Rain had swelled the river, and it roared. Roland stopped to listen to the pleasant roar, then shook his body and set on again.
III
Roland stopped to take a break once he reached the corner where the northward river turned east to circle behind the Stronghold. He sat cross-legged and watched the river flow, the map on his legs. Rain had not only swelled the river but angered it. Clear waters became muddy rapids. They crashed at the rocks and carried wood and leaves to the coast. He took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh scent of mud and grass.
"Can't stay here forever, as much as I'd like to," he mumbled as he stored the map and walked to the river, mud splashing under his feet. Roland looked over the water for safe footing and found none. He walked down the hill and closer to the river, leaning forward to get a better look. A bamboo plant served as his handhold. Then it snapped. Roland felt the ground give, and he rolled down the hill, his sword and backpack clanging and pulling from every angle. It was too late to stop — he fell on the water and smacked his knee on a rock, the pain growling like a rabid dog waking up the older pains rushing over his body. Roland tried to grab at things blinded by the rushing water, but the river pulled him away, dragging him through mud and stone like a puppet.
Muddy water seeped into his mouth whenever Roland tried to breathe and stay afloat, dragging him down faster. He kicked at the bottom of the river and reached for passing bamboos, but he drifted away. It was getting deeper; soon his legs wouldn't reach the bottom.
Not here! No!
Roland swam against the current, aiming to grab a protruding rock. He kicked against the floor with the tips of his feet, pushing his arms sideways. He managed to grab the rock with his right arm and pulled himself closer, hugging it as tight as he could. The current had hidden strength. He knew that from so many tests and books. Roland squeezed himself against the rock and tried to move around it, placing his back against the current and keeping the water away from his face.
Minutes passed as he held on, thinking of how dumb he would feel if his journey ended here, in a river, after getting his hopes up. His dad believed in him, and here he would die, in a river, due to something he already knew was going to happen. The golden sword clanked against the rocks as the current tried to steal it.
Time passed. The water's dash became a steady run, then a walk. What felt like an eternal half an hour passed, and the water was still and clear, impurities stolen away by the rush.
Roland jumped off from the rock and waded to the shore. He dropped his backpack on a rock and went through the contents. All soaked. The camera was busted for sure, but a glint of light showed the flashlight lived. He squeezed the cloak and backpack first, then took off his clothes and squeezed them over a sapling. He scanned the area of bamboos that surrounded the river and spotted the silver glint of a zinc panel that vines were eating. He pulled it out and propped it between a rock and a tree stump. He tossed his backpack inside the makeshift refuge, gritting his teeth. He imagined Cid berating him, Richard looking at him with disappointment, Tod crying of laughter.
His head throbbed with the sharp and sudden pain constantly assaulting him, followed by the whispered voices. He slapped his forehead and forced the pain away.
Droplets that held on to leaves fell on the zinc with clicks and clacks. He rubbed his eyes and his face as he dropped his exhausted body inside. Cursing his failure, he went to sleep curled under the zinc panel — wet, cold, and almost broken.
IV
The sun announced it was past midday when Roland woke up. He tossed his clothes and equipment on as soon as he noticed the smoke. It was close and heavy on the air. He stared at the rising smoke between the treetops, straining his eyes to see the flames inside the forest dance to the tune of snapping branches. A forest fire after heavy rain seemed unlikely. Could be brigands, or whoever attacked the Stronghold.
Guttural moans and sloppy steps from behind.
Roland dropped his backpack, grabbing the hilt of his sword and pulling it out as it fell. The golden blade gleamed and promised courage — Roland took on that promise and dashed at the gray mutant. He ducked the first tentacle and swiped. His shoulder cried in pain, but the cut was true enough to slice the tentacle off. The monster stumbled back; Roland took the chance to stab its stomach — this time the sword came out cleanly when he pulled. He slashed the monster's head off and flung the blood off the sword.
A second monster waited. It looked at Roland with those empty, black eyes as if it tried to consume his soul. Roland felt all the pains in his body creep up, calling for mercy. It was getting hotter, and the smell of burning overpowered his senses. His lungs ached from the water and the coughing fits they brought as he slept.
"I won't die here," Roland said. Mushin, he remembered. Did it even work back then? Didn't matter. He emptied his mind of fears, of pain and frustration. Combat was all that mattered in that moment. Surviving. The golden sword no longer whispered, but shouted, courage.
"And who might you be?" someone asked from behind. A cloaked figure, perhaps as tall as him, stood over the roots of a tree. The kid wore a mask stylized to resemble a black skull. "Not one of them."
"Name's Roland." He didn't sheath his sword, and he tried to fight the urge to let his hands wobble. "You?"
"Gold will suffice." The kid jumped off and drew a thin sword. His eyes were yellow — no, golden. "Remember the name of the rebel that sent you to Hell, scum."
Gold lunged at Roland with a downward slash. Roland parried it and pushed the thin sword to the left, then stabbed at Gold, who sidestepped and countered with a rising slash that Roland dodged. His joints cried out, but Gold did not stop. Their swords met again, and Roland started to get a feel of the amateurish patterns. Nothing compared to Cid, after all. Roland tried to push the kid back, swinging too harshly for his pained joints. The kid twirled aside. Roland tripped with a root and the world spun. He rolled over his shoulder, tucking his chin and head in, and stood using the momentum of the fall. Head empty. Only the fight mattered. Drilled instincts.
Swords locked again. The kid stumbled back as Roland hit, strike after strike, pushing him toward the smoke, eyes stinging from it.
Two monsters jumped out from the forest fire. Blackened spots hissed with dying flames over them.
Roland took a step back as the monsters regrouped, the kid between them. The flames marched closer behind the monstrosities, oozing smoke into their battlefield.
"Obey," Gold said. "Obey my will and kill him!"
The monsters growled and rushed forward.
Something swooped beside Gold's face, and he staggered back. His cloak fell and revealed a messy nest of dark hair. He grimaced and ducked. Roland saw the arrow lodge itself on a tree and looked for the source as the kid jumped away. The monsters were on the floor with several arrows poking out of their stomachs. Roland gasped for breath and let out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes.
Beatrix. She wore a brown vest under a brown shawl with a short skirt. Her arms, navel, legs, and neck were covered with black, tight fabric. Her tall, leather boots reached halfway up her shins, and she held a recurve bow in her left hand and an arrow in the right. A hunter goddess in all her glory. Her neon eyes had a glint to them, a warning to her prey. Her arrows flew true.
Snarling, Gold dashed into the smoke and vanished.
"Damn it," Beatrix said. She slid down the slope and shot at the smoke.
"Beatrix?" Roland asked. "What are you doing here? Oh, and thanks."
"Save your thanks. The Stronghold has fallen."