Rogue Legacy: The Secret History of Issalia Page 3

  She had never felt so lost and alone.

  3

  Lyra knocked again, slightly louder this time. She glanced both directions, her eyes searching the darkness, her body shaking as she waited for a response. A light appeared, the dull orange glow flickering in the window beside the door. The lock clicked, and she rushed in as the door swung open, startling Roland as he stepped aside.

  “Lyra,” he blinked. “Why are you here in the middle of the night?” She turned toward him and his expression softened. “Are you alright?”

  She stared at the open door. “Please close the door.”

  Roland nodded, closing the door. After the deadbolt clicked shut, she spoke.

  “Something happened…My father…” She took a calming breath and closed her eyes, fighting to keep the tears at bay. “He’s dead.”

  “What?” Roland put his hand on her shoulder. “What happened?”

  Lyra opened her eyes and glanced about his one-room apartment until her gaze settled on the door. “It was two men. They attacked him and then they chased me. I got away, but he’s dead. There was also a fire…” She took a calming breath. “The house burnt down. Everything’s gone. I came to you because I don’t know what else to do, where to go.” The tears returned.

  Roland stepped closer, his arms wrapping about her. Her head rested against his shoulder as she sobbed. After a minute, he released her.

  “You can stay here tonight,” he said. “Take the bed, and I’ll sleep in the chair.”

  With his hand on her back, he guided her to the bed. Stuck in between shock and sorrow, Lyra somehow found herself lying on the bed as he pulled a blanket over her shaking body.

  Roland grabbed another blanket from the foot of the bed. “You get some sleep, and we’ll figure out a plan in the morning.”

  He snuffed the candle and shuffled to the chair, making noise as he settled in. Emotionally and physically exhausted, Lyra closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.

  A noise woke Lyra, and her eyes flickered open to the sound of metal sliding in and out of the lock. She sat up, her heart thumping loudly as she stared toward the door. Slipping out of bed, she tapped Roland on the arm, barely visible in the darkness.

  “What?” he said, sitting upright.

  “Shh,” she hushed him. “I think someone’s trying to break in.”

  Roland turned toward the door, clearly hearing the same noise. He turned toward her. “Be ready to climb out the back window.”

  Nodding, she turned to the window above the bed. After flipping the latch open, she put one leg through the opening. The other leg followed, and she lowered herself until her forearms rested on the sill and her legs dangled a story above the back alley.

  Roland stepped over to the door and rested one hand against it. “Who’s there?”

  The noise stopped, everything falling quiet. Suddenly, the door blasted open, knocking Roland backwards until he stumbled into the chair. Lyra gasped, seeing the shadows of two men in the doorway.

  “There’s nothing here to steal,” Roland blurted. Lyra watched Roland’s silhouette as he rose to his feet with a fire iron in his hand, held up and ready to strike. “Go find an easier target who is worth your time.”

  “Where is she?” It was the voice of the gray-eyed man. “We know you’re friends with her.”

  They found me…but they haven’t noticed me yet. Lyra lowered herself until she was hanging with her arms extended. Glancing down, she found the alley too dark to determine what lay below her, what she might hit if she let go.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roland said. “Leave now and we can forget this ever happened.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  The sounds of a scuffle came through the window, followed by Roland’s voice crying out in pain. A sob snuck out as Lyra imagined Roland dying because of her. She didn’t know what to do.

  “Check the window,” the gray-eyed man said.

  Lyra panicked and let go. The fall was not far, but the footing was uneven and she twisted her ankle at impact. A sharp pain shot up her leg, resulting in an unintended yelp.

  A nervous glance toward the window revealed the big man looking down at her.

  “There she is,” he shouted. “She jumped into the alley.”

  Lyra stood to run, wincing when she put weight on her ankle. She took two steps and glanced up to find the man gone. Turning, she limped the other direction, taking only a few strides before realizing she wasn’t going to make it far on a bad ankle. She bumped her knee on an empty crate, one she couldn’t even see in the dark alley. Rather than continue to run, she fell to her hands and knees and squirmed into the crate. Something with clawed feet ran across her hand, requiring her to use every ounce of restraint not to scream as she yanked her hand back and wrapped her arms about her shins, squeezing her knees to her chest.

  To Lyra, the sound of her rapid breaths were a ruckus, announcing where she was hiding. The sound of footsteps arose, growing louder as the men ran through the alley.

  “She ran this way,” one man said as the footsteps continued past before fading into the distance.

  Even after the men were gone, Lyra remained in the crate, alone, afraid, and unsure of what to do next.

  4

  Lyra’s shoulder and hip were sore from the repeated bouncing of the wagon bed. The air beneath the canvas sheet covering her was thick, stuffy, and smelled of dirt. Sunlight leaked through tiny holes torn in the tarp, shedding light on the pile of potatoes beside her, wobbling and rolling about with each bump. It felt frustrating not to know which direction the wagon was headed. She ached to pull the canvas aside so she could see and try to determine where she was. Yet, she somehow resisted.

  She reflected on her situation, telling herself she had no choice. Those men were after her. Hiding at Roland’s apartment hadn’t worked. He was the one person she knew she could count on to help. Now, he was dead. If she wanted to live, she had to leave Vingarri – leave her old life behind. The wagon hit a pothole, the impact driving an unintentional grunt from her lungs.

  When the wagon began to slow, anxiety began to swirl within her. Did the driver hear me? The wagon stopped and she heard the man shuffle about. Blinding sunlight suddenly appeared as a man ripped the canvas back, causing Lyra to squint at the driver.

  “I thought so,” the man said. “A stowaway.”

  She sat up and faced him, finding a middle-aged man of average height and build, with brown hair and a matching beard. The man lifted his wide-brimmed hat and wiped his brow with a sleeve.

  “You’re lucky we aren’t at sea. You don’t want to know what sailors do with stowaways.”

  Lyra’s eyes narrowed, but she remained silent. Despite his sharp tone, she thought he had kind eyes.

  “Hmph,” the man grunted. “Go on, climb out of my wagon.”

  Without a word, Lyra climbed over the side of the wagon bed, wincing as she put weight on her bad ankle.

  “Something wrong with your leg?” the man asked.

  Lyra shrugged.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  Lyra shrugged again.

  He stared at her for a moment with his brow furrowed. His features then relaxed and he sighed. “Fine. You can ride with me to Vinata. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Lyra glared at the man. “Thank you, but only if you’re offering a ride and nothing else.”

  “What? Yeah, of course.” He sounded offended, making Lyra feel slightly relieved. The man gestured toward the front of the wagon. “It can’t be comfortable bouncing in the wagon bed, so go ahead and climb on the seat.”

  The man followed her, but she swatted his hand aside when he tried to help her into the seat. He grunted again, shaking his head as he circled around his oxen and climbed on the seat.

  “Get!”

  He snapped the reins, and the two oxen kicked into motion, pulling the small wagon down the forest-lined road. He glanced toward her, frowning.

&n
bsp; “My name is Vardis. I didn’t get your name.”

  A small smile was her only response. While she appreciated the ride, she couldn’t bring herself to trust the man…or anyone else.

  The snap of a branch woke Lyra, her eyes wide and heart racing. Peeking over the sidewall of the wagon bed, Lyra peered into the dark woods. Startled, she jumped back when Vardis’ head appeared in front of her as he crawled from beneath the wagon. The man shifted toward the fire pit and used a stick to stir the coals, which provided enough light to give shape to the surrounding area.

  “I’m armed,” Vardis shouted. “Move along and find an easier target.”

  He stopped with his back to the pit, the silhouette of a crossbow in his hands clearly visible.

  A rustle in the trees drew her attention. She pushed her blanket aside and inched toward the back of the wagon, carefully lifting her leg as she climbed over the edge.

  “Throw down your weapon, and we won’t hurt you.” A man shouted from the forest. “We just want your gold…and some food.”

  Vardis lifted his crossbow. “Take one more step and I’ll shoot.”

  The twang of a bow sounded from the woods, followed by a thump as an arrow struck Vardis. The man stumbled backward, almost falling into the hot coals. He wavered, the arrow sticking from his stomach as he fell to his knees.

  The rustle in the trees became a rumble as two men stormed into the campsite. A thud echoed in the night as one man twisted and collapsed with a crossbow bolt in his chest.

  The other man swung a club and smashed Vardis in the face, launching him backward into the coals. As the man’s clothing caught fire, the added light shone upon the bandit who hit him, revealing wild eyes as he held his club high and ready to deliver another blow. Lyra backed away from the wagon as the bandit panted with a snarl engraved in his bearded face. The man turned from Vardis, who was clearly dead, and ran to help his companion.

  With his attention on the other man, Lyra turned and snuck down the dark trail that led to the road, wincing with each step on her sore ankle. After crossing the road, she crept into the dark forest beyond, making as little noise as possible.

  She circled behind a thick tree and sat down, resting her back against the trunk. With her arms wrapped about her knees, Lyra wept in silence until exhaustion took her.

  Lyra stumbled from the woods and onto the trail. She looked both directions, finding tall grass covering the ground between ruts worn away by wagon wheels. Glancing to the sky, she found the sun well past its midpoint. Her stomach growled, an unwelcome reminder of the hunger she felt, leaving her wishing she had eaten more the night before. Vardis had been generous; sharing his meal with her while she remained silent. Lyra found herself feeling guilty for not thanking the man. Too late for that now.

  After a moment of thought, she decided to head downhill, hoping it might lead to a river or creek. Her thirst far outweighed her hunger, leaving her longing for a drink of cool water.

  Having walked on her ankle all day, it didn’t bother her much any longer. The ankle was swollen, but it had gone numb to the pain hours earlier.

  The road turned and the slope grew steeper, leading Lyra into a valley among the foothills. Through the gap in the trees, Lyra spotted a clearing at the valley floor, only a mile or two away. She paused when she noticed movement within the open space – people among a herd of cattle. Hope flared bright within her. If there were people, there must be water. With renewed energy, she resumed her downhill trek.

  Her parched mouth sang in joy as Lyra feverishly scooped cold water from the creek, not caring that much of it ran down her chin and soaked the front of her tunic. With closed eyes, she relished the refreshing moment after a day of nothing to drink. She opened them and glanced at her surroundings, dark and shadowy in the failing light.

  The sound of distant laughing reached her, rising above the chatter preceding it. Music emerged from the din, rising above all else except the rhythmic clapping to the beat. Lyra stood and listened to the energetic tune. Something stirred within her – a feeling other than the dark sorrow and cold fear that had gripped her for the past two days.

  She climbed up the bank to the road and made her way toward the camp. When the light of a fire appeared between the thick trees that lined the road, she crept through the woods, toward the beacon of light like a ship seeking refuge from a storm.

  The open space beyond the wood came into view, and Lyra counted two dozen wagons arranged in a circle around the fire pit. The wagons were strange, unlike any she had seen before. Each had tall walls with windows, a door, and a domed roof – a tiny house with four wheels. The wagons varied in color, some red, others green, yet others blue. None of the wagons had oxen or workhorses attached and no such animals were within view.

  Perhaps fifty people occupied the open space around the fire, dressed in brightly colored clothing. A group of them played instruments including drums, a flute, a tambourine, and a stringed instrument that she had never before seen. Before the group was a woman in a sleeveless dress, singing with a smile on her face as she clapped to the music. All around the campsite, people danced and laughed as they sang along with the merry tune. Unlike the men Lyra knew from Vingarri, these men had hair as long and wild as the women.

  Lyra stopped watching the people when she spotted a side of beef mounted on a spit mounted above the fire. The wind switched directions, and she caught a taste of the savory scent, causing her mouth to water.

  Without moving, she watched in anticipation, waiting for her opportunity.

  Urged by an empty stomach, Lyra forced herself forward. With the dull glow of smoldering coals to guide her through the darkness, she crept from her post in the trees and snuck into the camp, which had been quiet for half an hour.

  Sneaking past the first row of wagons, she stopped mid-step when a loud snore from the nearest wagon startled her. The snore repeated twice more by the time she resumed her journey toward the remains of the side of beef, still on the spit above the simmering coals.

  Hearing a growl, she froze, carefully turning toward the sound. A dog with long brown, gray, and white hair lay beneath a wagon, rising to its feet as the growl continued.

  “That’s a good boy,” Lyra said in a soothing voice.

  The growling stopped, the dog cocking its head to the side.

  “Your technique needs some work,” a man’s voice said.

  Lyra turned toward the voice and found a young man leaning against a wagon, his legs crossed at the ankles and arms crossed before his chest.

  “Patience, my dear,” the man said as he stepped toward her. “You should have waited longer, really allowed those within camp to slip into a deep sleep. Another hour at least.”

  Lyra frowned at the man, her eyes narrowing as he approached. He had long black hair and a handsome tanned face. Her gaze locked with his dark eyes, thinking he was perhaps five years her elder. His tunic was a bright yellow, contrasting his blue breeches and tall black leather boots.

  “You move well enough. I almost didn’t hear you.” His eyes flicked toward the dog. “Ranja almost didn’t hear you either.” He nodded. “I can teach you.”

  Lyra’s brow furrowed. “You want to teach me to steal? You just caught me trying to steal from you.”

  The man shrugged. “Look where you’re heading. You’re after our meat. If you wanted anything more, you would have waited longer, headed toward a wagon, and would have been holding a weapon.”

  Lyra glanced toward the remains of beef, her mouth watering again as she stared at it.

  The man laughed. “I knew it. Go on and eat. You must be hungry.”

  Not bothering to respond, Lyra headed toward the spit and began pulling chunks of beef from it, finding it still warm, the outside dry and chewy while the inside was tender and moist. As the chunks of meat gathered in her mouth, the salty juice made her mouth water even while she chewed. Her gaze shifted to the man, finding him on one knee as he pet the dog. She continued watching him as
she worked on the chewy meat.

  Despite her reluctance to trust anyone, she found the man’s kind eyes and easy manner compelling. He reminded her of Roland, which left her longing for home.

  “What’s your name?” She popped another chunk of beef into her mouth and chewed.

  The man smiled. “I’m Gar, and you would be…”

  Lyra paused her chewing, thinking for a moment. “Tali. My name’s Tali.”

  Gar’s brow lifted. “Tali? Like the game played with knucklebones?”

  Lyra shrugged. “Yeah. So what?”

  Gar stood, holding his hands up. “No offense meant. Tali is a pretty name and suits a pretty girl like you.”

  By instinct, Lyra’s hand went to the knife strapped to her thigh. “If you try anything, you’ll regret it.”

  Gar held his hands higher. “You’ve got me wrong. I’m just being friendly.” He chuckled. “You have some fight in you.” He nodded, lowering his hands. “That’s good. I can work with that.”

  Lyra let her hand drop and stepped away from the spit, her hunger seemingly satisfied. “I haven’t seen wagons like this before. Who are you people?”

  Gar nodded. “Exactly right.”

  Lyra frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “People. We are a people. We are the free, the wanderers, and the kingdomless. We follow the Path of the Butterfly, flitting from meadow to meadow as the weather takes us.” His arms spread open as he slowly spun in a circle. “We have no homes and pay no taxes. We work for nobody, and we fight no wars.” He smiled, nodding toward her. “We are the Tantarri.”

  5

  Opening her eyes, Lyra lifted her head to examine her surroundings, lit by the sliver of morning light that bled through a window near her head. The motion of her moving caused the hammock she lay in to swing.

  The ceiling hovered inches above her head, and a girl, of perhaps seven summers, lay in the hammock beside her. Lyra carefully rolled off the hammock – her feet finding the empty bed that lay beneath – and she climbed down.