The Roaming Sea - 9. Truth's Hardship, Pt. 2

“Did you get everything you wanted at your apartment?” Eleanor asked once the city walls were at their backs in the distance. As a precautionary measure, they kept to the open fields, away from the road.

“Yeah, luckily,” Callum replied. “Who do you think broke into my place?”

She gave him a conspicuous glare, as though it were obvious. “They’re not idiots. They know about those pactrid passes. You made it back, which means you were given one. In the wrong hands, they can do serious damage. Spies can make it beyond the lines and cause havoc.”

“That happens?”

“Of course.” She scoffed with a shake of the head. “You’re really clueless, you know that?”

Callum balled up his fists. “Cut me some slack, alright? A tenday ago I was a simple medic—just trying to keep my head down, serve my conscription time, stay alive. I had no clue we were the bad guys.”

She raised a hand in apology. “You’re not a bad guy, Hidaro. The pactrids proved that. But come on, try to keep up. Put two and two together, okay?”

“I’m just . . . finding it difficult to believe the high ranks are in complete denial, unaware of the facts, or worse, willing to let people die just to keep the war going.”

“Nobody knows what’s going on with the higher-ups, but like I said, they’re not fools. I think all they care about is the wood. Anberan and pactrid lives aren’t worth as much.”

Callum shook his head in bewilderment. “How did it come to this?”

Unable to answer, Eleanor remained silent. Or maybe she tired of the subject. Callum decided to change tack.

“I considered changing into my own clothes back at the apartment, but figured wearing black was better.” He gestured to the garments he wore. “Thanks for letting me borrow these. I’ll change when we reach the village.”

She waved away his concern. “Deem it a welcoming gift as a new rebel.” Her eyes glanced up and down at him, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Anyway, you wear it well.”

He ignored her attempt at flirting, but couldn’t stop his cheeks from warming. Luckily, the moonlight hid that. “I never agreed to being a rebel, though. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful you got me out of there. But I’m not comfortable with the idea of fighting our own kind. I don’t want to fight anybody.”

“Nobody said you’d be battling Anberans. But if you’re not fighting with them, you’re seen as a rebel—simple as that.” She sensed her words weren’t helping to allay his concern. “Don’t worry, Hidaro. ‘Rebel’ is just a word to describe us as a whole. It doesn’t define us. Many are pacifists like you, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You can do anything you want. You’re not beholden to anyone, okay?”

Callum frowned, unbelieving. “I can do whatever I want?”

“It’s a weird concept, yeah? We were taught to follow orders our whole lives. I’ll admit it took me a while to get used to it, too.”

The idea of making his own way alone frightened him. More than ever, he wanted Rym by his side. But there was no telling where his friend was now. How would they find each other? Rym was confident the message he gave Callum would be enough to reunite them, but how would that message reach him?

An hour into their trek through farmer’s fields, they came upon a homely village made up of a smattering of cottages. Large barns—likely filled with grains and vegetables to feed the city—flanked the edge of the field. They’d already skirted around numerous other villages, but in this case, Eleanor headed directly toward this one.

“The retired transporter lives here?” Callum asked.

Eleanor grunted in assent.

“But it’s the middle of the night.”

“So we’ll interrupt his beauty sleep. We need to get you away while it’s still dark. His transport memory is old—when the front lines were further north. You’ll have to hike south, sneak between two garrison camps, and get into the forest before sunup. And in case you weren’t aware, there’re sentries walking the line between camps.”

“I knew that much.”

“Just making sure, Hidaro,” she said with a smirk. “It’s another reason I want you to keep that outfit. Easier to stay hidden in the dark.”

“Any idea how far south I need to go before reaching those camps?”

Eleanor shrugged. “Sorry, can’t say for sure. They’re always pushing the pactrids south and moving the camps. Probably at least a few kilometres.”

“I guess I’ll see how I manage jogging with this heavy rucksack on my back.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Reaching the village proper, it was unsurprisingly silent. No candles or lamplight glowed from the windows. They approached a cottage, and Eleanor gave it a light knock with a distinct and precise cadence. Callum assumed it was a rebel thing, but given how quiet the knock was, he didn’t expect anyone sleeping inside would notice it. They waited, and he was about to suggest trying again when shuffling footsteps came from the other side.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice asked, rough and gravelly.

“Eleanor.”

There was a gentle scrape of metal on metal—a bolt lock—and the door opened to reveal a candlelit man. White hair, unkempt and wild, told them without a doubt he’d been fast asleep a minute earlier. He stood barefoot, wearing simple nightclothes. His wrinkled face drew long shadows in the pale light, stretching as his kindly smile grew.

“Always a pleasure, m’lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said while pushing him aside in a good-natured manner. Her hand caught Callum’s arm and pulled him inside. “Allan, I’d like you to meet Hidaro, our newest member.”

Callum reached out to shake the old man’s hand, which was returned in kind. “You can call me Callum.”

Eleanor smiled. “I never thought to ask your first name. Anyway, I like Hidaro better.” She turned to Allan. “He passed the pactrid test, but the higher-ups know about him. I had to free him from gaol.”

Allan gave Callum an empathetic look, then gestured to follow. “Come on, then. We’ll get you to the line.”

Callum let out a short, anxious breath while the two led him into the cottage. Everything was happening too fast, and his lack of control over the situation had a twisting knot growing in his stomach again. In a way, this was no better than being tied to a rope leash. “Are you sure there’s no way I can stay and help?”

Glancing back, Eleanor witnessed the panic etched across his face. “Listen, I get it. You didn’t ask for any of this, but what’s done is done. Trust me when I say being stuck in hiding is no fun. I’ve seen others in your situation, and despite their best efforts, they were found. Living on the other side isn’t bad. It’s a”—she paused to find the right word—“simpler way of life, but it’s better than the alternative.”

Her words produced no salve to his worries, but Callum realised he was acting like a frightened child. These people were trying to help him, and he was wasting their time with pointless questions. “I’m sorry. It’s just a lot to take in all at once.”

Eleanor drew near and offered him a consoling pat on the arm. “Once you get to a rebel village, they’ll set you up with a bed and a roof over your head. They have a whole system for newcomers. Try not to worry, okay?”

Callum nodded in reply, then gestured for Allan to continue leading them. The old man brought them into an empty room where a shallow crater had been dug into the floor. Eyeing the distance between floor and ceiling, Callum recognised it as the size used for transport.

“Jump down,” Allan said.

“Wait, I almost forgot,” Callum said, doffing his rucksack and handing the leather bag of coins to Eleanor.

“Thanks, Hidaro. I’ll make sure this gets put to good use.”

They shook hands, then he stepped down into the crater.

“Thanks again, both of you.”

“Good luck,” she replied.

Allan waited until Callum stood in the centre. “Away we go.” He closed his eyes and the yellow barrier rose up.

Then it disappeared. Callum blinked in confusion. He was standing in the middle of an empty field of long grass. He’d never witnessed such a rapid transport before—unable to comprehend how it was even possible.

Trying to orient himself, he spun in place, but aside from the bright moon overhead, there were no markers or distinctive features on the landscape. Tugging at the chain around his neck, he pulled the compass free and held it out flat, north pointing at the tips of his fingers. As before, he turned himself until the needle aligned itself to the southwest. But something was wrong. The moon—which had passed its apex and was making its plodding descent to the south—didn’t line up with his compass. Instead, the needle pointed more westward. Callum frowned in disappointment. I guess it really must be damaged. Damn!

He chided himself for wasting time. The moon served as an adequate enough guide, so he tucked the compass back under his shirt and headed south. As he progressed, signs of previous camps became more apparent. Wood stumps impeded his path. At first, they were old and rotten, but they became fresher, more recently cut the farther he travelled. By the time he caught sight of a distant garrison camp, the eastern sky emanated a deep blue. He estimated there was another hour—though probably less than that—before the sun would breach the horizon.

Veering to the left, he aimed for the empty field between the camps. Telltale lamplights—two of them—floated in the distance, travelling the distance between each garrison. Sentries.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he jogged ahead to reach the outskirts of the patrol zone, then crouched beside one of the many tree stumps. There he waited, watching a sentry pass by. But when the way appeared clear, he held his position. This was where a pactrid could get caught if they didn’t know better. Callum knew these sentries were decoys. There were at least two other vigilant men patrolling the spaces between the lights.

Callum waited nervously, and it didn’t take long for his patience to be rewarded. The crunch of boots approached in the dark—it was a hidden sentry. He ducked his head, sticking close to the stump, allowing the sentry to pass by, clueless to Callum’s presence. To his shock, however, the footfalls drew near instead of moving on. He flattened down onto his belly, desperately holding a hand over his mouth to control the rising panic.

He couldn’t get caught. Not now. Not when he was this close. They’d search his rucksack. They’d find the pactrid pass, and worse, Rym’s message. He wouldn’t get locked up for that—he’d be executed.

With his free hand, he reached for his knife that wasn’t there. He slammed his eyes shut in realisation it was in his rucksack. The footsteps stopped. The man was standing opposite Callum’s position. Should I run for it?

In answer to his question, he heard the clink of a belt buckle and rustling of fabric, followed by a relieved sigh and the sound of urine splashing against the stump. A sliver of hope was all that kept Callum from running for the trees. He considered it, given the soldier wouldn’t be able to immediately give chase. But the soldier’s hollers would alert the others.

No. Running wasn’t the rational choice, in spite of his mind screaming at him to do it regardless.

Either the soldier had a full bladder, or Callum’s perception of time had decelerated to a crawl. The flow of urine wouldn’t let up. Had his life not been hanging in the balance, Callum would’ve reckoned this was hilarious.

Finally, the stream ebbed and stopped. The soldier adjusted his trousers, then continued on his patrol, completely oblivious to Callum’s proximity. Even once the footsteps fell away, Callum held frozen lying on his belly—in shock at how close he’d been to losing everything. Gathering his wits, he risked peeking up to survey the way south toward the treeline. The second, advancing lamp-lit soldier was still a way off, however the likelihood of another hidden sentry was possible. Callum cupped a hand to his ear, listening for any sign of approach.

Nothing.

He bolted—risking speed over stealth, dodging tree stumps that emerged from the dark in front of him. Ragged gasps and the pulse racing in his ears deafened him to the world. He didn’t care now. If someone heard him, Callum would have enough of a head start to reach the forest. His foot hit something—a root, perhaps—throwing him off balance. Flailing arms did nothing to correct his trajectory, and he tumbled face first to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Short of breath, he flipped onto his back—the overstuffed rucksack fighting him—then scanned for pursuers. If anyone was following him, there was no sign of them. The two sentries holding lamps hadn’t strayed from their patrol path, either.

A series of distant thunking sounds arose from the direction of the forest, but Callum’s attention was firmly held on his burning lungs. No amount of breath could sate them. He rose onto unsteady legs, managing to keep his footing as he continued south. Spiky treetops stood out against the backdrop of the predawn sky. His liberation was so close now.

A succession of sharp cracks, followed by a crash, had Callum crouch beside a stump again. Lumberjacks were at work. That meant more soldiers, acting as guards, would be in the vicinity. He swore between bared teeth. In the dim light, the men blended seamlessly against the dark forest, making it impossible to spot their location. Then a worse consideration came to mind. The felling of trees would bring out the pactrids. This was the last place Callum wanted to be.

Dawn was nearly upon him. Moving again, he shifted his direction diagonally—trying to discern a safe path between the garrison camp at his rear and the lumber crew ahead of him. He had to get to those trees before someone spotted him. An indistinct voice rose from the hubbub of the crew, forcing Callum to duck against a stump yet again. But the voice wasn’t meant for him. It was only a word of warning as another tree fell. In his hyper-alert state, every little thing had him jump for cover, but this was only wasting time. He couldn’t afford to squander it any longer.

The eastern sky took on a warm hue. Callum’s way ahead was completely visible now, which meant if anyone glanced in his direction, they’d likely see him. His only advantage was the dark clothing he wore, and he silently thanked Eleanor for allowing him to keep them. From his low position, he visualised a path to the treeline. No more distractions. Just run.

He did. Once again, any pretence of stealth was abandoned. His eyes remained locked to the goal, and with every passing moment, the treeline grew larger. A voice called out again—another warning? He ignored it, but soon a chorus of yells joined in. Callum peered back toward the lumber crew, and the fear of being seen—that dread hounding him the entire time—had finally come true.

With swords in hand, soldiers charged toward him while confused lumberjacks looked on. That threat only aided in priming the blood rushing through Callum’s veins. He bounded heedlessly, one foot in front of the next at a blinding pace. The yells grew in intensity, closing in on his position, but he didn’t dare look back now. Either he would escape, or they’d have to tackle him. He wouldn’t stop for anything.

The treeline came at an alarming rate, forcing him to trace a path beyond that wouldn’t hinder his progress. Tree boughs above held back what paltry sunlight was available, making the pathfinding task that much more difficult.

Callum crashed through underbrush and leapt over a nearly imperceptible network of roots. The troopers’ voices, strained with ire and rage, kept at his heels. Callum still refused to look back. His vision narrowed and sharpened, every step sure and calculated. Instinct had taken over. Not wanting to break the momentum, he willingly allowed his unconscious mind to take control. Doubt and concern evaporated. It was as though he was watching another’s movements through their eyes—someone with skills he’d never learnt or mastered.

The voices echoed amidst the trees—growing more distant, fewer in number. Still, Callum didn’t stop. He refused to be captured. Running headlong through bracken and vaulting over a fallen log, he discovered—too late—that the ground under his feet had ended. An escarpment appeared out of nowhere, and with no way to stop his forward momentum, he tumbled head over heels down a steep slope. It was a brief trip before slamming into a tree.

Dazed and out of breath, Callum reached out clumsily in an attempt to right himself. His hand bumped against the tree, but it didn’t feel like bark. It felt like leather. Pulling back the baggy hood that had fallen over his eyes, he glanced up to behold a massive pactrid looming over him—bewilderment written on his face. Using that confusion to his advantage, Callum scrambled away on his hands and knees, trying to create as much space as possible between them. That’s when he saw five more in the group.

The pactrid he’d bumped into pulled a blade free from his scabbard, rushing to close the space Callum fought to keep. Callum cringed and looked away, holding out his hands in futile defence.

“Don’t attack!” he pleaded in their language. “I’m an ally.”

The trampling footfalls stopped short, and Callum dared to look up. The pactrid loomed over him with an aggressive stance, sword held at the ready. His fellows, weapons drawn, stood at his flanks. Three of them wore full suits of heavy scale armour. No doubt this squad was preparing to attack the lumberjacks.

“You speak our language?” This question hailed from another pactrid. Judging by his demeanour, Callum assumed he was the leader.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m running from my own kind.”

The leader glowered. “Why?”

“They found out I’m a friend of the pactrids.” The group chuckled at the statement. “I’m serious,” Callum cried. “I was told I could seek refuge with other humans.”

The leader wore a grave expression. “You must be proven worthy. Few humans pass the test and live.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I met a gotachi.” Callum pantomimed hands touching and the pactrids watched with scepticism. “She gave me . . . here, let me show you.”

Still lying on the ground, he wrestled the rucksack off his back. This brought on another round of aggressive scowls and raised weapons. Callum dug a hand into the deep recesses of the sack, its contents spilling onto the forest floor. He found the silver token and the parchment, pulling it free. The silver pass in his hand eased their hostile posturing, and the leader reached out to examine it.

“I don’t understand,” the leader said. “If you were given a pass, why didn’t you travel to the refugee villages immediately? Why are you coming from the front line?”

The leader’s confusion mirrored Rym’s own when Callum stated he wanted to return home. Callum had erringly assumed all would be fine. How wrong he was.

“I made a mistake,” Callum said. “The pactrid who brought me back tried to explain it, but I didn’t listen.” He handed over the parchment. “His name is Rym.” It was then Callum realised he couldn’t recall Rym’s proper name.

The leader glanced up from the parchment, bewildered. “Rymolnd Tepin?”

Surprised, the five other pactrids huddled close, trying to glean a view of the message.

“Yes?” Callum replied with apprehension.

“Scoutmaster Rymolnd Tepin was your escort?”

Callum nodded nervously.

“It states that he’s to be immediately notified upon your return. Why is that?”

“I . . . I don’t—”

The leader turned to the pactrid Callum had bumped into on his flight over the edge of the ridge. “Ettor, you escort this human to the nearest village.”

Ettor’s trunk rose, letting loose a trumpeting call of outrage. “Why me?”

“Watch your tone, trooper. The human chose you when he arrived.”

The leader’s facetious sense of humour was lost on Ettor. “He didn’t choose me. That was an accident. We don’t have time for this!”

Callum raised his hands in alarm. “Please, I don’t mean to cause any trouble. Just point me in the right direction and I’ll find my way.”

The leader handed back the pass and Rym’s message. “I cannot allow that. Ally or not, no human can travel without an escort. That scoutmaster Tepin requests your presence is all the more reason you need to arrive safely.”

“But how will he find me?” Callum asked, waving the parchment. “Aren’t you supposed to send this message?”

The leader shook his head curtly. “I can’t spare another man to be your courier. You’ll need to deliver that message to an emissary. They visit the refugee villages.”

Ettor glared at Callum and pointed at his rucksack. “Gather your things, human. Let’s get this over with.”

Callum rushed to pick up his scattered belongings, taking with it twigs and dead leaves in his haste. The trooper was already leaving without him.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” Callum said to the leader and remaining squad. “Thank you for your help.”

The leader offered a nod in farewell. “Safe travels, human.”

Callum shouldered the heavy rucksack and ran after Ettor, who was wasting no time to complete his task. Despite his lumbering gait, the pactrid was quick.

“I’m really sorry, Ettor,” Callum said once he managed to get alongside him.

The trooper snorted his displeasure. In many ways, this felt identical to Callum’s initial meeting with Rym. At least he wasn’t tied to a leash. Hopefully, Ettor’s sour mood would diminish over the course of the day. For now, though, he knew it best to remain silent and keep his attention on the narrow footpath before them.

The silence allowed Callum to acknowledge the scent of the forest. It’d been there the entire time, trying to catch his attention. Only after leaving this place did he realise how much he yearned to return. Such a rich and diverse palette of aromas. The freshness of recent growth amid the sweet, musky decay of fallen leaves.

It reminded him of Rym.