Face Value

{The title of this post is exactly what you have to take this story at. Don't bother asking me for the background, 'cause I don't know. I couldn't even explain effectively why I wrote this. It was a mixture of several random minuscule triggers. Anyway. Such as it is. Apologies in advance to Rogue ;o) }

Disoriented and confused from the blow, Rogue lay prone on the ground, surrounded by a wash of angry, incomprehensible sounds that broke across him like surf. Then someone grabbed a handful of the back of his uniform and hauled him upright, slipping an arm around his chest. His head tipped back, and the cold, hard metal of a blaster jammed against his right jaw. A voice rose above the others, loud and demanding.

“Don’t move, or I’ll kill him!”

The threat penetrated the fog in his mind, but just barely. He tried to convince his muscles to move, to struggle, to get away, but didn’t have much success. Familiarity nagged at his mind, but fighting took up most of his mental capacity, not leaving him much left for luxuries like remembering.

The arm tightened, but the gun didn’t press any harder. Had Rogue been thinking clearly, he would have found that odd.

“You’re not helping, sir,” a voice muttered in his ear.

This time he stopped fighting and focused on the voice.

“Dara?” He strained his eyes to the right, trying to catch a glimpse of her face.

“Just look scared, all right?” her impatient voice hissed.

“Good t’see you, too, Sarge,” he slurred, relaxing slightly.

“Reunions can wait, sir. We’re not out of this yet.” She raised her voice again. “Step aside, unless you want him dead!”

Half-pushing, half-guiding Rogue, Dara walked her hostage through the crowd of onlookers, her face grim and determined, blaster still pressed against Rogue’s jaw.

“Just don’t get trigger happy,” he whispered.

“Shut up.” She added, “Sir,” as an afterthought, and then they were through the crowd.

Loathe to have that many people at her back, she turned, keeping Rogue between her and the indigs, and started backing away.

It required more effort on her part to keep Rogue upright, but she managed adroitly. They backed up the ramp of a shuttle, then Dara said, “Sorry, sir,” and let him fall to one side.

He hit the ground in a heap, groaning. Dara closed the door against the yells and cries that had erupted: the indigs were not happy about letting their prize go. They were starting to throw things, and kept up a steady barrage against the shuttle’s hull. Dara stepped over Rogue with another murmured apology and ran to the cockpit.

Moments later, Rogue felt the rumble of the engines and was pressed against the deck as the shuttle took to the air. Pursuit was apparently minimal, because Dara was back at his side within minutes. He had managed to push himself into a sitting position, and was gingerly touching his head, encountering a sticky warmth.

Dara had brought a medkit with her and swatted at his hand. “Don’t touch.”

He smiled weakly and leaned back against the bulkhead as she gently cleaned the gash. She was almost done when Rogue looked at her out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to move his head and possibly get smacked again. “That was an interesting rescue, Sarge.”

“Hush.” But she grinned.

Rogue let his eyes shut, but didn’t hush. “For a minute there, I thought I was in even more trouble. I didn’t think you were coming, or could even get there in time.”

“You always underestimate me,” she teased as she placed a bandage over the wound. “Now, you need to get some rest.” She stood and pulled Rogue to his feet.

He swayed unsteadily, and she draped his arm around her shoulder. Supporting most of his weight, Dara led him down the corridor to a small cabin. The only furniture inside was a military-issue cot, but Rogue had never seen anything so inviting. He sank down gratefully and was asleep before Dara left the room.

~

He woke to a raging, throbbing headache that started at the base of his skull and pierced straight through to his eyes. The pain was too intense to allow him to fall back asleep, so, with a moan, Rogue sat up and swung his legs over the side of the cot. Standing was a little tricky: his vision sometimes doubled, and he was having a hard time keeping his balance.

He staggered to the door, hoping Dara and her medkit were somewhere close by. Even the hiss of the door opening seemed unbearably loud, and he knew he could not bring himself to call out for his sergeant. Leaning heavily on the wall for support, Rogue made his way to where he figured the cockpit would be.

Dara frowned when she saw him and swiveled her chair around. “You should still be asleep,” she scolded. “It’s not been two hours yet.”

Her voice careened into Rogue’s ears and echoed through his mind, intensified by his headache until he thought the sound would bring tears. He winced and drew a sharp breath.

Dara caught on immediately. Without saying a word, she tugged Rogue into a chair and dimmed the cockpit lights. She left as Rogue breathed a sigh of relief, returning minutes later with painkillers and water. Shortly after taking them, Rogue felt the searing headache subside to a tolerable level.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely.

She smiled. “Feel better?”

“Some,” he admitted. “Command had better give me some leave when we get back. I’m going to need it.”

“It shouldn’t be difficult, sir. They’ve already officially logged you as ‘dead’.”

Rogue was surprised. “Really?”

“Yes, sir. Given your manner of disappearance, they didn’t have much choice—or hope.”

“You have a point. But I wonder that they expended resources on a pointless mission.”

Dara didn’t respond, and when Rogue glanced at her, he saw that she was purposefully avoiding his gaze.

“’Fess up, Sarge,” he said. “That’s an order.”

“Well, I’m not here officially. They never would have sanctioned it,” she admitted sheepishly.

“So, how are you here?”

“I’m AWOL,” she said bluntly. “When we return, I’ll be up on charges of deserting my post, requisitioning military craft without authorization, and defying a direct order against heroics.”

Rogue was taken aback. “I, I’m touched,” he said dryly. “Your loyalty is truly humbling.”

She shrugged dismissively. “Leave no man behind. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t at least tried.”

“I’ll do what I can to alleviate the consequences,” he assured her.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Rogue, they could have me court-martialed before you get out of the medbay. I’ll be fine.”

Rogue wanted to protest, but suddenly felt very, very tired. He leaned his head back and decided to rest his eyes before replying.

Dara glanced over at him, satisfied that the sleeping meds had taken effect and that he was asleep. She reached across and tilted his seat back a few degrees. The chairs had been made with dozing pilots in mind and were quite comfortable. Rogue’s breathing was deep and steady as the shuttle sped through hyperspace, back to Coruscant.

~

Dara slouched in the chair, purposefully abandoning military posture, and picked at her sleeve. Prison uniforms are not flattering, she decided.

They had made it safely and without further incident to Coruscant. Snubfighters bristling with lasers had flanked them as soon as she called in her flightplan. They were greeted by an escort of New Rep personnel, equal parts military and medical. Dara had flatly refused to go with the MPs until the medics had Rogue on a stretcher and hooked up to an intravenous feed. By that time, he was so far out of it that he didn’t react when an officer placed binders on Dara’s wrists. She followed without a struggle, glancing back just once to see the medics hurrying Rogue towards the medbay.

Dara shifted in her seat, making the binders on her wrists rattle. She had been answering questions for over an hour now as the inquiring officer tried to pick every detail from her brain.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Dara said slowly, “I don’t know how I knew. I just did. My gut told me that my commanding officer,” she stressed the last two words, “wasn’t dead. I did what I had to.”

The man sitting across from her consulted a datapad. “This isn’t the first time you’ve exhibited a tendency to ignore orders that didn’t suit you, Sergeant Mcejo. Reports from the situation at Arneb IV—“

Dara’s eyes flashed. “Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice soft and dangerous. “You don’t know what happened there, and you couldn’t possibly understand. I don’t care what the reports say. If you dare to sit there and judge my actions under fire from what you’ve read off a detached datastream, I’ll be answering more serious charges than deserting my post before it’s all over.” Then she seemed to check herself and added, “With all due respect, sir.”

The officer was taken aback by her outburst. He set the datapad down and seemed really to see her for the first time. “You can’t even express remorse for your actions?”

She considered that. “I am sorry. I’m sorry it was necessary for me to disobey a direct order so I could pursue a course of action that I knew to be right.”

He regarded her for a long moment, then picked up his datapad again. “Fifteen, even ten years ago, during the Rebellion and the early stages of the New Republic, what you did would have been lauded and praised. No one likes leaving comrades behind. But times have changed, Sergeant. We have to have discipline.”

She met his gaze squarely. “I’m not trying to avoid the consequences, sir. I take full responsibility for my actions.”

He nodded approvingly. “It’s noted in your file that you once trained at Yavin IV, under Master Skywalker.”

“That is true, but my connection with the Force has been severed, and I consider that to be a closed chapter in my life.”

“Even so, could it be possible that this hunch you had could have been a subtle prompt from the Force? A lingering sensitivity to the state of those you are close to?’

She saw what he was aiming toward and decided to see how far he would take it. “It is possible, yes.”

He entered something into the datapad. “Sergeant Mcejo, we are going to drop the charges and retroactively sanction your rescue mission on the grounds that you were guided by the Force. You’re fully reinstated, with no repercussions. It’s not a solid enough reason to offer a military tribunal, but it should be enough to prevent your case from ever getting that far.”

“Sir, you don’t have to do this. I don’t expect special treatment.”

For the first time, the officer smiled. “We have thousands of soldiers who will follow orders to the letter, and who are very loyal. But I am not willing to lose one who would risk everything she has to save a comrade. Commander Garcia is a good officer, and the Fleet would hate to lose him. Were I your commanding officer, I would be proud to count you among my troops.

“But,” he continued, his voice growing serious, “had you endangered the lives of others or the success of a mission, we would be having a very different conversation. As it is, I believe it is well within my powers of discretion to wipe the slate clean. You’re free to go.”

“Thank you, sir.” She would have saluted, but the binders prevented that bit of military protocol.

“Oh, one other thing.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“That direct order you were given never happened. No dialogue between you and your superiors regarding the rescue mission ever occurred. Understood?”

Dara grinned broadly. “Understood, sir.”

~

A few days later, Rogue woke slowly from yet another drug-induced slumber. The difference this time was that he felt better than he had since the whole escapade had started. He stared up at the ceiling, taking a mental inventory. Once satisfied that he had no residual aches or pains, he turned his head to take stock of his surroundings.

Dara sat in a chair next to him, her feet kicked up on a second chair, completely absorbed in her book chip.

“What was the verdict?” he asked, noting that his sergeant was not in uniform.

For a moment, he wondered if she had heard him. He was about to ask again when she set down the book chip and looked over.

“What verdict?”

“You know. The whole AWOL thing. I need to know if I should be logging a formal complaint and looking for a new sergeant.”

She hooked her hands behind her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. As far as I know, I’m still your sergeant. Unless, that is, you want me to request a transfer. But after what we went through at Arneb, I find that highly unlikely.”

“Cut it out, Dara.” He felt a bit of irritation from her insistence on avoiding his questions. “You said you’d be up on charges for disobeying a direct order to carry out the rescue mission.”

She smiled lazily. “Either you got hit harder than I thought, or you’re confusing me with someone else. I never received any orders that opposed my fully sanctioned, completely approved, Force-guided search and rescue mission.”

Her reference to the Force let him know she was having him on before he caught her wink.

“Come on, Dara. Tell me what happened.”

Relenting, she related the conversation that had ended with the binders being removed and her uniform returned. Rogue grinned his approval, particularly when she mentioned her reaction to the subject of Arneb.

“So you’re not rid of me yet, Commander, despite your fondest wishes.”

Rogue let that slide and latched on to another of her comments instead. “Do you think it was the Force, Dara? That let you know I was still alive, all evidence to the contrary?”

She made a face. “That, sir, is a pile of nerf dung that I re-e-eally don’t want to step in just now.”

He laughed. “And why aren’t you in uniform if there are no repercussions?”

“I have seven days of leave. Partly a reward, partly command wanting me out of the way until this sort of blows over and fewer awkward questions are being asked.” She offered a twisted half-smile that provided her commentary on that, then brightened. “The good news is that they let you out tomorrow, and you also have a week of leave before returning to light duty.”

“And the bad news?”

She smiled sweetly. “The bad news is that I’ll be hanging around, making sure you don’t overdo it, and snickering in the background as you try to explain to your wife why you haven’t called in three weeks without admitting that you almost died.”

He eyed her narrowly. “Careful, Sarge. I still outrank you.”

“That doesn’t count when we’re on leave,” she replied promptly. “Besides, I dodged one bullet, I can dodge another. And anyway,” she reached over and poked his shoulder with one finger, “you owe me.”

Rogue was forced to agree.

Elora: Prologue (pt 2)

Ethlon strode through the palace as fabric billowed and swirled around him, ignoring the curious stares his distinctive Courier’s cloak attracted. Once he reached the palace gates and passed the guards, however, he unclasped the chain at his neck and let the cloak fall from his shoulders. With a few practiced motions, Ethlon had the massive amounts of cloth folded into a neat square and tucked inconspicuously under his arm. The less attention he attracted in town, the more comfortable Ethlon felt.

After pausing to get his bearings, he took off down a busy merchant row, heading for the inn where he and Elora were staying. Hawkers shouted to get his attention and that of the other passersby, thrusting their wares in his face, complimenting him lavishly, and promising the lowest prices for the highest quality goods. Ethlon brushed past them without a second glance, or even seeming to hear them at all, until he caught sight of an old lady sitting in the shade by a small booth, knitting.

The old lady peered up through crinkled eyes set in a weathered face, and smiled, revealing several gaps where teeth had been.

“What’re you gawping at, boy?” Her voice was raspy.

“Why, at the vision of loveliness I see before me, Gramma Abigail.” He grinned boyishly.

She shook her knitting at him. “Flattery don’t work with me, Courier. And I ain’t your gramma, neither. You be looking to buy?”

“Depends on what you’ve to sell, gramma.” His eyes twinkled with mischief, and he had to step back quickly to avoid the swat of her hand. He laughed and moved to look at the wares displayed on her table.

It was a trinket stall, filled with scraps of lace and ribbon, dried herbs, flowers, various luck charms, papers with written blessings, and other odds and ends. Ethlon sorted through the lace, fingered the ribbon, and read the blessings, all the while keeping a conversation with Abigail. Though she had seen many winters, her wit was still sharp and her insight hadn’t dimmed.

“It’s a bit of something for Elora you’re wanting, ain’t it?” she asked, grinning.

Ethlon nodded. “Aye, gramma.” He picked up a length of blue ribbon. “Now, wouldn’t this just match her eyes?”

She looked at him sharply. “Your daughter has grey eyes, lad. Same as your own.”

“Nothing gets by you,” he laughed ruefully, “but you can’t blame me for trying.”

“Why you have to pick on an old woman is beyond me,” she grumbled, rummaging through her wares.

“I never tease old women,” Ethlon said solemnly. “But even if I did, I see none here.” He winked.

“Best remember what I said about flattery, boy.” Abigail scowled fiercely, but there was a twinkle in her eye. She pulled out a long, dark green ribbon. “Now this would complement your Elora’s coloring nicely. She took a shine to it, last she was here.”

“Then I’ll take it,” Ethlon said without hesitation. “And this.” He touched a travel blessing.

She eyed him. “You going on another ride?”

“Aye.”

“And you’re taking your daughter?”

“Aye, gramma. And if you please, I don’t need another lecture about how journeys at a moment’s notice and breakfast on horseback is no life for a child. Elora and I get along well enough just as we are.” His voice was blithe, but there was a touch of seriousness.

“As you will, then.” Abigail nodded, then abruptly changed the subject. “When are you going to start Following again, Courier? Both you and the child could do with a bit of stability in your life, Someone to lean on when you run out of strength.”

Ethlon’s grin faded to a sober expression. “The One took my wife and Elora’s mother from us, Abigail. Else Elora would have someone to stay with when I go on rides. Following is not worth the price the One demands of you.”

“I never took you for a weak man, Ethlon.”

“I’m not, gramma. But there are some things that are past a man’s ability to endure. Now,” his tone lightened and he smiled again, “what shall I pay you for these treasures?”

~

“Little Rabbit?” Ethlon pushed the door to their room open, hiding the ribbon behind his back.

There was a scuffling sound, and then a round, beaming face peered from underneath the blanket that had been draped across the gap between the bed and the table. A flurry of golden curls, child-sized limbs, and giggles flew into Ethlon’s outstretched arms.

“Daddy!” Elora squealed, squeezing him tightly.

Ethlon swept her up against his broad chest and whirled her around as she shrieked with delight, then gently set her back on the ground.

He looked her over with a father’s concern, then, satisfied she was well, kissed her forehead. “I love you, Elora.”

“I love you more, Daddy.” She beamed at him.

“Were you a good girl today?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes, Daddy,” she answered earnestly. “We both were.”

Ethlon’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Both?” he echoed.

Elora turned and scurried under her tent, emerging a moment later, clutching a rag doll tightly. “Dinah and I,” she clarified, holding the doll out for her father’s inspection.

“Well, Dinah, I’m very pleased to meet you.” He swept the doll a courtly bow, much to his daughter’s glee. “Where do you hail from?”

“Mistress Nola made her,” Elora answered for the doll.

Ethlon nodded. The rotund, motherly landlady had no children of her own, and spoiled Elora to no end. Often watching her while Ethlon was out, Mistress Nola supplied Elora with stories, treats, and affection in large quantities.

“And did you thank Mistress Nola?

“Yes, Daddy,” she said promptly, and Ethlon had no doubt that she had.

“Well, then,” the Courier crouched beside his daughter, “perhaps we can cut a bit of this for Dinah’s hair, and you two will look as alike as sisters.” He handed Elora the ribbon, and had the fatherly satisfaction of watching his only child’s eyes widen with surprise and delight.

She flung her arms about his neck. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Little Rabbit. Now, you had best make sure there’s enough room for Dinah in your bundle. We leave for Maranth the day after tomorrow.” He straightened, ruffling his daughter’s curls with one hand.

“Are we going on a ride?” Elora’s eyes blazed with excitement.

“Aye, Little Rabbit. We’re going on a ride.”

~

The sun had yet to peek over the eastern horizon when Ethlon swung up on his horse behind Elora. The young child swayed sleepily on her perch until Ethlon wrapped an arm around her and hugged her close. She wore a warm cloak, stitched in red like her father’s, and her hair had been painstakingly brushed that morning. Dinah rode in front of Elora, tied by a scrap of yarn to the saddle horn as a precaution.

Ethlon’s horse—a fine chestnut stallion—bore the weight of father and daughter easily; he tossed his head as if to ask why they hadn’t left yet. Ethlon patted the stallion’s neck absently, then checked his Courier’s pouch one final time to ensure the letter was still secured there. Then he closed the pouch, fastened the latch, and tucked it safely in his saddle bag. Only then did he give his mount free rein. The stallion whinnied and galloped down the cobbled street in fast, space-eating strides.

They rode constantly throughout the day, sometimes trotting, sometimes walking. Ethlon let the horse pick his own pace, but the chestnut seemed to sense his rider’s haste and ran long and fast.

~

In a small village a few leagues from the border, Father Brandon stepped into the kitchen, letting the bedroom door shut softly behind him. Immediately, a young boy was at his side, staring up at him with eyes that showed more years than the boy had seen. His face was serious, and he held a small girl by the hand. She had been crying, and he was taking his job as his sister’s guardian very seriously.

“Please, sir, may we see her?”

Father Brandon nodded and stepped aside. The two children slipped quietly into the room.

“It doesn’t seem right,” the priest of the One said softly to the other man in the room, the village doctor, “that two tragedies should strike one family in such a short amount of time. It’s not been two months since we received word that Jonathon had been killed in battle, and now his wife follows him to see the One. My heart breaks for their children.”

The doctor nodded his somber agreement. “Have they any other relatives?”

“Their grandparents died when they were very young. The mother had a sister, but she married and left the village some ten years ago. We’ll try to send word, but I don’t hold much hope that she will be found.”

“Where will the children go?”

“They can stay with me until other arrangements are made.”

“I’ve heard of a family in a village two leagues north that was looking to adopt a young girl. I don’t know about the boy, though,” the doctor mused.

“No.”

Neither man had noticed the door open and shut quietly, and they both looked up with surprise to find the young, dark-haired boy standing there, a defiant gleam in his brown eyes. It was the first emotion Father Brandon had seen in Daniel for days.

“Pardon?” the doctor asked.

The boy flushed. “I mean, if you please, sirs. I promised Ma and Da that I would take care of Lily. I’ve been in charge of the farm and the chores since Da left to the war, and Lily’s been cooking since before Ma took sick. We can manage on our own.”

“How old are you, Daniel?” the priest asked kindly.

“I’m thirteen last month, sir.”

Father Brandon and the doctor glanced at each other. The doctor shrugged. Father Brandon walked over to the boy and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I think it best that you and Lily stay with me for a week or so. Your sister has a cough that worries me. When she’s well, we’ll make a final decision.” Their mother had at best a day left, and he did not want the children to be alone when the grief set in.

“But the chores, sir. The crops need to be tended, and the animals—“

“We’ll ride out every day and do as needs to be done,” he assured Daniel. “The One never meant for us to be alone, son. You’ll have help keeping your promise.”

Daniel swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He ducked his head and slipped back in the bedroom to be with his mother and sister.

~

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Little Rabbit?”

They were on the second day of the ride and making good time. Ethlon estimated that they would reach the border between Maranth and Duor by nightfall. Because they had covered so much ground, Ethlon had chosen to stop for the midday meal. He and Elora were sprawled on the grass, staring up at the clouds as they ate the remainders of Mistress Nola’s generous lunch from the day before. The stallion grazed nearby, having discovered a patch of sweet clover he particularly enjoyed.

“Will you tell me a story?”

Ethlon laughed. That was the closes Elora ever came to saying that she was bored. He rolled closer to her and pointed to a cloud.

“What does that look like to you?”

Elora squinted at the fluff of white drifting lazily overhead and studied it intently. “Like an eagle,” she pronounced.

“Just so,” Ethlon agreed. “Exactly like an eagle. In fact, it looks just like an eagle whose name was Pehlo. Pehlo lived in the Eastern Mountains of Maranth—“

“Did he have a family?” Elora wanted to know.

“Aye. He had a beautiful wife and three eaglets.”

“Did he have a job?”

Ethlon did not just tolerate his daughter’s frequent interruptions, he enjoyed them. Elora showed more insight and interest in detail than Ethlon would have thought possible in a seven year old, though Elora would have been quick to remind him that she was nearly eight. Father and daughter launched into a long, rambling dialogue about the exploits of Pehlo the eagle which was so evenly divided, it was hard to tell who was telling whom the story.

Pehlo was off hunting food when Ethlon swung Elora back into the saddle, and he was in search of the wisest bird in the world when they crossed the border. By the time Pehlo was an old bird with grand-eaglets, the sun was vanishing below the horizon and Ethlon was building a fire.

“And finally Pehlo settled down into his nest for a long awaited, well deserved rest,” Ethlon concluded. He smiled at Elora, who beamed back, satisfied with the outcome of the story. “Now, eat your dinner.” He handed Elora a wooden plate with dried fruit, venison, and travel bread on it.

While not the most appetizing meal ever—Gramma Abigail certainly would have had something to say about it, it was nourishing and filling. Judging by the speed with which Elora ate, she didn’t mind the food too much.

Ethlon banked the fire for the night, and he and Elora were tucked beneath a blanket when the twin moons made their appearance in the black velvet sky.

“Look, Little Rabbit,” Ethlon whispered, pointing. “It’s the Sisters. Darma, the smaller one, is always being chased across the sky by Stefa, her older sister. They say Darma stole her sister’s halo, and you can still see it some nights.

“And that group of stars to the left is the Fox. He was running from hunters one day and jumped so far he stuck to the sky.” He glanced over at Elora for her reaction and smiled.

Elora was fast asleep, Dinah tucked beneath her arm. Ethlon pulled the blanket up to his daughter’s chin, then lay back and stared at the stars. Even though far weightier matters preyed on Ethlon’s mind than on Elora’s, it didn’t take him long to follow her example.

~

A cloaked figure slipped through the shadows, leading a horse whose hooves had been wrapped to muffle the noise. He had yet to see his quarry, but the blue-cloaked noble had said the Courier knew forgotten trails and secret ways through the mountains. There was only one hidden path through the mountains that a horse could travel, and the silent figure knew that no Courier would leave his mount behind if it could be avoided.

He was making his way toward the entrance to that passage, skirting around open plains and keeping well away from the main road. He still made good time, however, and, judging from the remnants of a campfire he had found earlier that afternoon, the Courier could be no more than an hour or so ahead. He intended to make up that time now, while the Courier was sure to be sleeping in preparation for the long trek over the mountains.

The figure adjusted the bow on his back and let his hand fall to rest on his sword hilt. His task was simple: make sure the Courier did not make survive the journey. A substantial reward awaited him if he brought the Courier’s pouch back as proof of his success. Easy enough to accomplish, but he found himself hoping the Courier would put up a fight. It had been too long since his skills had been adequately tested, but, even beyond that, he did despise cowards.

By the light from the moons, he could just see the beginning of the path. He tethered his horse out of sight and hearing and began to pick his way up through the rocky sides, searching for a sheltered spot to wait in ambush.

~

Ethlon awoke just as the sun’s rays touched his face and glistened over the stubble beginning to sprout on his chin. “Scritchies,” his daughter called them. He lay quietly for a moment, enjoying the stillness of the morning, then looked over at Elora. She clutched her doll tightly, though a small smile played on her lips as she enjoyed her dream. Ethlon waited until he had saddled his mount, packed up all but her blanket, and prepared a simple breakfast before waking her.

Never much of a morning lover, Elora mumbled incoherently and rolled over, pulling the blanket over her head. Her father laughed and tugged it away.

“Time to get up, Little Rabbit. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

Bleary-eyed, hair tousled from sleep, Elora sat up and yawned. Ethlon placed a plate of fruit in her hands. He found a comb and worked out the tangles in her hair as Elora ate.

They were on the road again before the sun had been an hour in the sky. Elora was slumped back against her father’s broad chest, dozing. Now that they were over the border, Ethlon did not feel the need to push his horse as hard. He knew they still had several days of riding in front of them and was loathe to wear out the stallion. But even though the steady rhythm of hooves had a soothing effect, Ethlon still shifted anxiously in the saddle. Something did not feel right.

There was a nagging sensation between his spine and his skin that made him want to squirm. He glanced over his shoulder ever few minutes, despite his rational mind telling him that there were no people for leagues. Ethlon constantly scanned his surroundings, searching for anything that might explain his unease.

Then he saw it: a flutter of motion high in the rocks. It could have been just a bird, but Ethlon hadn’t seen a single creature since dawn. Caution won over haste, and he reined in his mount.

Elora looked at him questioningly as he slid to the ground, then helped her down.

“I’m going to go look at something,” he told her softly, not wanting to cause her unnecessary alarm. “Stay here behind this boulder. I’ll be right back.”

Elora obeyed without question. Drawing his sword, Ethlon walked towards the place where he had seen the movement.

Though ready for danger, he did not recognize the object hurtling toward him until it was too late. An arrow sprouted in his left shoulder, directly beneath his collarbone, as pain flared and darkened his vision. He gasped and fell back a pace, turning to one side. Another arrow whistled past and struck a stone behind him.

Ethlon gritted his teeth and snapped the arrow’s narrow shaft. Blood stained his sleeve, and his left arm hung uselessly by his side. The rest of his body was screaming to fight, and he raised his sword, shouting, “Show yourself, coward!”

A dark-clad figure appeared from behind the rocks, wielding a bow. Ethlon’s eyes narrowed. He did not recognize the man, but he fit the image of a paid killer.

“Come and fight!” Ethlon demanded loudly.

The man did not reply, but laid down his bow and hefted a sword in its place. Then he was swarming down the rock wall, his graceful ease of movement belying his huge bulk. Ethlon advanced purposefully, silently praying that Elora would stay hidden, knowing he could not dwell on thoughts of her now.

The two men met in a small, open space, and Ethlon was keenly aware of his disadvantage. His shoulder screamed with agony, and this man had had more time to study the terrain. The Courier would have to call on every ounce of strength he possessed, every trick he had ever learned to win this fight.

The assassin’s face was mostly hidden in the shadow of his hood, but his lips were twisted into a cruel smile as he raised his blade and brought it crashing down on Ethlon’s in a two-handed arc. Ethlon’s arm tingled with the force of the blow, but he held his ground. Despite being wounded, he was still strong and could draw on many years of experience with a sword. He twisted his wrist slightly, and the killer’s sword slid harmlessly along the blade and off the tip.

Grunting with frustration, the assassin swung again, this time at Ethlon’s left side. With the skill of long-practiced motions, the Courier flicked his sword to the left, caught the assassin’s sword, and deflected it. Again the assassin attacked, and again Ethlon parried.

Then Ethlon thrust, pressing the advantage when his opponent swung too wide. His blade darted in and sliced through the man’s outer cloak before it was knocked away. Sparks flew as the men fought their way around the small clearing.

Though Ethlon wrenched every drop of strength from his muscles, he was driven back. Once, he was a hair too slow blocking, and his right thigh bled from the cut the killer’s sword had opened. Sweat dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, and his ragged breath roared in his ears like a northern gale. His black Courier’s tunic was drenched and the loss of blood made him dizzy. His shoulder felt as if it had caught fire; pain clouded his thoughts.

Then, suddenly, he found his opening. The assassin dropped his arm a double handspan. Ethlon pounced on the opportunity, driving in hard and fast, realizing too late that it was a trap. The killer’s sword came up under his own and sliced through his clothes, pierced his skin, and slid in between his ribs.

Shock and agony contorted Ethlon’s face. He staggered as the sword left his body. His back was against a boulder now, and he felt his legs buckle. With a snarl, the assassin stepped forward and thrust his blade into Ethlon’s side.

“Goodbye, Courier,” he hissed, and pulled his sword out again.

Ethlon crumpled to the ground, blood oozing from his side, eyes glazing over.

The assassin spat, then turned and strode purposefully to Ethlon’s horse and began rummaging through the saddlebags.

Ethlon heard a soft noise and turned his head slightly. Elora, small, terrified, eyes wide with horror, ran to him. She dropped to her knees beside her father and placed her childish hands over his side, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

Tendrils of icy fear gripped Ethlon’s heart as he realized he would be leaving his daughter alone. He pushed past the pain fogging his sight and looked into her dark grey eyes.

“I love you, Elora,” he whispered.

Tears glistened on her cheeks and her chin quavered as she replied, “I love you more, Daddy.”

“Run, Little Rabbit.” Ethlon’s strength was dwindling rapidly. “Run fast.”

With but seven summers of experience, it took Elora four pairs of heartbeats to understand just what he was telling her. By then, it was too late. The assassin had found the pouch, turned, and caught sight of her. He stalked over to where Ethlon lay and grabbed Elora by the arm.

“What have we here?” he asked in a harsh, raspy voice that grated on her ears. “Have Couriers taken to carting about living shields?”

“That’s not yours!” Elora cried, pointing a tremulous finger at the pouch.

The man smirked. “Who’s going to stop me, darlin’? You?”

Elora bit his hand, her young teeth sinking into his palm, nearly drawing blood.

The assassin let out a yelp of pain and shook her free. He cuffed her, sending Elora sprawling. Despite his rough actions, he couldn’t hide his admiration. “A feisty brat. So much the better.” The noble hadn’t said anything about a child and surely wouldn’t notice if one went missing. “I‘ve a friend who’d be real pleased to have you.” He caught her and draped her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He didn’t seem pay any heed to her swinging feet, her fists pounding his back, or her shrill screams.

The screams roused Ethlon, who was dangerously close to crossing into the lands beyond Time. Helpless rage filled him; he made one last, valiant effort to stand, to fight, to kill the villain who threatened his daughter, to protect Elora! But his head came but inches off the ground, and his right hand twitched slightly, disturbing the blood pooled around it. His anguished cries of protest were voiced only as a soft “no” that slipped between his lips on a shallow breath. Then his head fell back; Ethlon sank into the dark, endless pain and did not move.

The assassin slung Elora across his saddle and mounted his horse. After catching the reins of Ethlon’s chestnut stallion, he set off at an easy canter, Elora bouncing in front of him.