The Marked

Chapter 1

She stood inside the tree line at the edge of the forest, hidden beneath the drooping branches. Leaning against a tall trunk, she slowly and methodically chipped away at a stick with her dagger. When it resembled a small spear, she slipped the dagger back into a sheath at her hip and ran her fingers along the now smooth stick. She didn’t notice him watching her from deep in the shadows of the forest. She seemed to be killing time, simply waiting and watching, her eyes settled on the village across the field.
He watched her for long minutes, the forest calm and quiet in the early morning light. There was no rush. He wasn’t sure yet if he wanted her to spot him or not, he could still slip silently away and bypass the village. Holdone was the largest town this side of the Snowy Mountains though and he could do with a decent meal and a few supplies. While he still hadn’t entirely settled on crossing the mountains, he couldn’t continue to wander the Southlands in the winter without being properly equipped. This part of the world was harsh, cold and dry. There was little hunting and scattered villages with barely enough to feed themselves let alone wandering strangers.
Leaving the safety of the shadows he moved slowly toward the young woman he watched. At the sound of a snap beneath his boot he froze. She whipped around, her dagger poised in her hand and pointed at him within the blink of an eye. His eyebrows rose, she moved quick and although her attention had seemed to be on the village she was obviously alert to her surroundings. He raised his hands, palms out, trying to indicate his innocence.
“I mean no harm, I swear,” he told her, voice low, “I am merely passing through.” She shrugged, appearing casual but not lowering her dagger at all.
“Pass on through then,” she told him, tersely. They stared at each as the moment seemed to stretch on, lengthened by the odd silence that had settled over the wood on this morning. Then he cocked his head to the side, lowering his hands.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked, curiously. She frowned at his question and he briefly thought she would not answer. Finally, she returned the dagger to her hip and slowly turned away from him.
“It’s the day they take the Marked,” she said over her shoulder. He hesitated, and then walked slowly to join her at her vantage point on the edge the forest.
“Um, I don’t know what that means.” There was humour in his voice but his amusement vanished as he noted the tight purse of her mouth.
“You’re not from around here,” was all she said in response.
“Well, no, not exactly. Not even close, actually. I came across the sea,” he told her, nonchalantly. Her head jerked up as she looked at him sharply.
“Did you really?” she appeared surprised by the news, despite her previous declaration of his foreign-ness. “Why would you come here?”
He shrugged and simply smiled. “Why not? It’s as interesting a land as any, no? I wanted to explore.”
“I’m not sure interesting is the word you should use. Our Queen drives our people further into despair year after year.” She seemed to think twice about what she said, “Please don’t tell anyone I said that.” He blinked at the odd moment of vulnerability, but it didn’t last, the steely look returned to her eyes and her face was hard again.
“So what are they taking then?” he asked, “And who is taking it?”.
“Does nobody where you come from bear the mark?” she held up her right arm, pulling back her sleeve and indicating the smooth pale flesh of her inner forearm. He shrugged again.
“I don’t know what you speak of so I am going to say no.”
“Lucky,” she muttered, then spoke up, “The mark appears, suddenly, on –“ she speculated a moment, “perhaps a third of the population. They say that it’s a smaller portion of the people in the north, I don’t know what makes us southerners so special,” there was a note of bitterness to her voice. “Sometime between the age of 11 and 17, generally. You can’t remove it or hide it. Once a year, the King’s men come through the land and take everyone who bears the mark.”
“Take them where?”
“That’s the point,” her voice lowered, “No one knows. No one knows why the mark appears, what it means. No one knows where they are taken or what happens to them. No one marked has ever returned or been heard from again. The King’s men give no answers. The mark appears and you are doomed to be snatched up and taken, that’s all we know.” He stared, stunned. It seemed barbaric. He looked back toward the village as she did and the silence between them stretched on. The sounds of the forest began to creep in.
“Has no one ever fought back? Has no one followed them?” he asked, his voice soft. There was a sinister answer to these questions he suspected, but they seemed the obvious ones to ask.
“Not anyone who wished to live,” she muttered, then sighed before turning toward him again. “Four years ago my father rallied a number of the men in the village leading up to the day the King’s Men would arrive. When they rode into town, the village people hid the Marked and my father and his followers attempted to fight the King’s Men.”
She paused for so long he thought that she was not going to continue.
“Attempted?” he asked, gently. He could see where this tale was going.
“Yes, attempted.”

She remembered the day in disturbing and heartbreaking clarity. Her mother had begged her father to stand down. Many of villages had pleaded likewise with these men they saw, not as brave, but as foolish. How could they expect to stand against the King’s Men and live? How did they not see that their act of rebellion would bring more pain and anguish down on the entire village? That was precisely what had come to pass.
Her father had gathered his men in the village square, awaiting the soldiers. He had declared, with a confidence she so admired all her childhood, that none would be taken from Holdone that day. Little more was spoken, the King’s Men simply cut down the villagers before and proceeded to raid every home and building for the Marked. She could recall the sound of the sword, ringing through the terrified silence, as it sliced brutally across her father’s chest and he fell to cobblestones, bleeding. Not a man had made it from the square and any who put up the slightest resistance to seeing their Marked loved one taken that day died similarly.
The morning following the taking of the Marked was, each year, a day of mourning for those the village had lost and was spent in futile attempts to console mothers, fathers, siblings. That year had been far worse. In addition, to the youth that had been stolen from them there was nearly fourty dead to bury. But as the sun rose, the King’s Men returned to village. Such had never happened before.
The family members of every man who had stood in defiance against the King’s Men the previous day were dragged into the village square, the sight of their transgression. There they were executed; man, woman, or child. A more horrific scene was scarcely imaginable.
The recollection of the terror and anger chilled her as she stood in the forest, years past the experience. As the soldiers had ridden into town, her mother had dragged her and her younger sister through the back garden to her aunt’s house and hidden them in the loft beneath bolts of fabric for her aunt’s shop. The dust had tickled her nose but she was afraid to sneeze. She had listened to screams and cries from people all through the village, wishing desperately that she could see what was going on, that she could know where her mother was.
Her aunt told her later that when the soldiers had demanded of her mother to reveal her children she had told them that her son’s had fled the village in shame for what their father had done. Why none in the village contradicted her lie when so many of them were suffering for her father’s plans she would never know, but the soldiers believed her mother and killed her with the others.

Those who were not slaughtered during the fight were hung in the village square as an example to anyone else who would think to defy the Queen. Anyone who has ever been brave enough to follow wanting their loved ones back has never been heard from again. They take them toward the city, but I’ve heard that they never arrive there.”
The silence returned as both stood still and gazed at the village. Finally he pushed away from the tree trunk and turned toward her.
“You want to fight though, don’t you?” he asked.
“Don’t be stupid,” she scoffed, “I don’t have a death wish, man.”
“I can see it in your eyes,” he told her, the amusement clear in his own, “You have wanted to follow them, doomed or not.” She sighed again and stood taller, brushing her hands against her leather breeches.
“Since the year my father fought I have left the village the night before the King’s Men arrive. It’s easier to hold my temper if I stay away,” she admitted, sounding ashamed. He smiled at that, he would have easily guessed her to be a woman with a fiery temper. “Last year, when the morning came I…just had a feeling that something was wrong. I went back home, just as the soldiers came, and found that my sister was Marked. She hadn’t been when I left. It had appeared during the night.” She paused. She seemed to be stealing herself to go on. She looked over at him. A puzzled frown crossing her face. Why was she sharing so much with this stranger? She should be more wary of him, not trading life stories.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, sincerely.
“I wasn’t going to let them take her. If it cost me my life I would follow them and take her back, I swore it. I tried to fight them, my father had taught me sword and dagger. One of them must have hit me, knocked me out. When I woke up it was night and they were long gone. I followed their into the mountains, or at least what I believed was theirs. The trail vanished, there was nothing. They were gone. My sister….gone.” She paused again and then spoke softly, her voice breaking, “She was only 14, my little sister. It should have been me. I turned 17 this year, I’m safe now. Somehow that’s no longer a relief.”
“What if you had help?”
“Help? What do you mean?”
“I mean would you follow them solve this mystery, find a way to stop them?” he urged her, “If you had help.”
She laughed but it was humourless, mocking. “It will take a lot more than ‘help’, man, to stand against the Queen and whatever cruel, manipulative plan she has going on.” She paused, frowning, and the fear touched her eyes again. “Forget I said that,” she mumbled. He cocked his head, watching her. Fiery temper or no, the fear of the monarch was well ingrained.
“Tell me,” he asked, trying to keep his voice bright, “Why is it the Queen you are all so afraid of but it’s the King’s Men who perpetrate this horror?” She glanced at him, her eyes narrowed slightly. He wondered if it was suspicion or if she was analyzing him.
“No matter whether a King or Queen sits on the throne they are always called the King’s Men, it’s been so since King Emanis established them as a force to police the people,” she shrugged, “Some things never change.” He nodded slowly, pondering.
He had wanted to continue his wandering north through the land but the situation she told of puzzled him. He both loved and loathed a puzzle. Even more, he loved a daring adventure. Dominatius was a man who liked answers, who appreciated truth and facts. His natural curiosity lead to a thirst for knowledge. It was that that drove him to wander foreign lands like a vagabond, happy as can be as long as there was somewhere to explore and new things to know. He had seen some wonders and witnessed some terrors, it was all part of the adventure and it thrilled him. Dom was not the kind to get attached though, to place or people. Once curiosity was sated he simply moved on, forever pushing ahead even if he knew not where he was going. He frowned as he stared across the field at the small town nestled by the base of the mountain. It was a hostile environment and yet these people survived; until the King’s Men headed their way. The thought left an odd, sour taste in his mouth. Strange feeling, he thought to himself.
“What will you do, simply hide here in the forest every year?” he asked her, noticing her staring more intently than before into the distance.
“Yes, I imagine so,” she muttered, “Unless such a time comes that there is something I can do about it.”
“What would you do?”
“Well if I knew that I would be doing it, wouldn’t I?” she snapped, then suddenly stood straight, eyes widening, “There they are.” He turned back toward the view of the village, scanning along the mountain range for whatever had caught her eye. A cloud of dust rose on the road that lead out of the mountain pass. He watched transfixed and the cloud moved steadily along the range toward the village. He could make out horses and heavily armed men through the haze. As the small army entered the village, Dom turned to watch the young woman beside him.
Her hands were clenched into tight fists and her small frame trembled with anger.
“What’s your name?” he asked her, softly. Her gaze jerked toward him, surprise in her eyes.
“It’s Tiramina Arronson,” she answered, “What’s yours?”
“Dominatius Palatius,” he answered, trying to sound gallant as he held a hand toward her, “Pleased to meet you!”
She shook his hand with a wry smile, her grip strong and her shake confident.
“Well, that’s a mouthful,” she muttered.
“People call me Dom,” he winked, still trying to lighten the tension, “To save their mouths.” Her smile grew slightly, becoming lopsided as her lips pulled higher on the left. He noticed deep dimples in her round cheeks. Her dark blue eyes were deep set, with dark, heavy lashes. She was pretty, he decided, in a stubborn kind of way. There was steel in her gaze and definite determination in the set of her wide mouth. She was short, with a slight build, but he could seen the lean muscles in her arms. He thought she might be stronger than she first appeared. She said her father had taught her sword and dagger, he wondered if she was good but would not ruin their good report by trying to test her.
“I wonder why the people who follow never return? How impossible it seems to mop up every loose end in the kingdom,” he mused aloud and she frowned, but her gaze had returned to the village. He felt as though he was intruding, watching the scene that unfolded there as he stood here in the quiet forest with her. Birds called and leaves rustled in the wind, a gentle shushing that was soothing to listen to. Cicadas sang, a drone in the background that spoke of peace to a nomad like him who had slept so many nights in the wilderness. Yet, across the plain he could see violence taking place. The King’s Men marched through the village, dragging people from the buildings and through the street. Some tried to fight their captors and were swiftly dispatched. He could imagine screams and shouts and curses, but so far away it played out like a strange kind of shrunken mime.

Tira could feel her fingernails biting through the skin on her palms, but she could not have relaxed her hands if she tried. How could she possibly stand here in the beautiful forest and watch this happen? She should be there, fighting alongside her fellow villagers. Yet she knew the futility of any attempt to resist. She would get herself killed, her aunt had told her so every year since her father’s failed rebellion. Tira knew she was right; its why she had chosen each year to walk away. She had cursed herself, over and over, for not being there last year when Pia was to be taken and yet she knew in her heart there was nothing she could have done. Her heart seemed to beat harder and harder in her chest as the anger bubbled through her until she thought it would explode through her skin.
“I mean, some must surely have undertaken the attempt that were adept at tracking and hiding. They could not have caught every single man or woman who dared to see where these children are taken and yet no one has returned with information?” Dom continued.
“What are you blathering about?” Tira barked, turning her eyes from the village. Their dark depths seemed to swirl with an icy kind of anger. He was momentarily transfixed, observing the depth of her feelings. Shaking himself slightly, he tried to sound matter of fact.
“We should follow,” he stated.
“Don’t be stupid,” she told him, for the second time, “I don’t even know you.” She took two long steps back from him, almost subconsciously. Who was this crazy man wanting to get himself killed over a mystery? He was tall and broad shouldered, looking like the kind of man who would know how to fight. But she didn’t think he held himself like a fighter, he slouched and moved too casually. His hair was dark and long, pulled back into a tie. His skin, tanned and weathered, was too dark for him to be from these parts. Southerners were fair skinned and fair haired, or perhaps coppery like Tira. There was something warm about his brown eyes, they danced a little as he spoke.
“You have no part in this anyway, you aren’t from here,” she told him, the ice in her eyes creeping into her voice, “You don’t know anyone who has ever been taken, you don’t even know what the mark looks like.” He didn’t make any move to approach her. She was right, but what she didn’t yet realize was that that also meant that he did not share her fear.
“What I do know, Tiramina, is that a terrible injustice is being carried out, year after year, against the people of this land,” his voice was low, and more serious than she had heard him sound so far, “I believe that someone should be able to do something about that.”
“Believing something doesn’t make it true,” she scoffed.
“It is the first step.” They stared at each, both considering. Dom wondered if he was crazy. No, he thought, scratch that, he had always been crazy. She had said it was a death wish, perhaps she was right. It was also very, very wrong and an unusual kind of indignation had arisen within him at the knowledge that no one believed it could be rectified. Someone could stop this, could change the future of this land for all the people in it. He was certainly no prophet but he had an incredibly strong instinct that that someone might in fact be the woman who stood before him. She obviously didn’t believe it. If he did, maybe that would be enough to convince her to try. He paused a moment in his thoughts to question himself again. Since when did he care so much about the influence he could have on some strange place he happened to stumble through?
Her mouth twitched slightly as she seemed to be thinking through his barely rational suggestion. She wanted to follow, she wanted so every year that she stood here watching. Fear stopped her. Shame for that fear plagued her for the rest of the year until this dreadful day came again. Did he know something that he wasn’t telling her? What was it that made him think he may be able to succeed where so many others had failed for so long? If he had useful skills, then maybe, just maybe, he could actually be the help she would need. Would it even matter if she didn’t come back? She hated working in her aunt’s dress shop and she knew she was no good at the sewing, her aunt rarely let her anymore. She served the customers, measuring material and waists. No one needed her. No one would know what happened to her, she would simply have vanished and it would not matter.

“Can you track?” she asked him, abruptly. He tried to contain his smile. She was coming around he hoped she would keep coming. He would set out on this adventure even if she refused, just to see what he could find out. but he suspected that the whole venture would be more successful with her along and she intrigued him enough for him to want her for her company.
“I can, rather well actually,” he told her, arrogantly, “I can also hunt and fight, I travel well, and I make a tasty hare stew.” She stared at him for a long time and he could tell not tell what she thought, her face so stern and hard.
She was losing all her senses, she knew it. but an opportunity was here for her and if she didn’t act now she never would and she knew she would regret it.
“If you try to harm me on the road I will make you wish you had never been born and don’t doubt that I can,” she warned him, her voice leaving no room for such doubt.
“I certainly don’t and I have no intention of bring you harm,” he assured her with a theatrical bow.
“I need to get some things from home and we’ll need supplies from the village. I don’t think you should be seen there, though. Wait here for me, I’ll be back before night falls.”
“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he said, on a laugh, “Alright.” He nodded and resumed his earlier reclining pose against the tree. She would return, he was sure. Once she had made the decision to pursue this quest she had wanted for so long she would not be able to turn away.

Dom wondered more than once if he was making a dreadful mistake as he awaited her return. He did not get involved, he did not allow himself to get attached. Had something changed? Had vagabonding lost its charm? He didn’t think so. He had travelled through so many lands, seen their ways and learned their history. It was exciting. When he came here he found himself saddened. What was happening to these people was tragic and watching how their monarch seemed to drive them further into despair seemed unjust. Dom had never really thought of himself as a warrior for justice but this time he felt as though there might be a chance that he could do something to elicit change. If that wasn’t true, then he was likely to die violently in the course of some kind of futile rebellion and he was dragging this poor girl along with him.
She needed this, he thought. This ‘mark’ had cost her so much and he could see that anger that hung below the surface. If there was a way to change this, she needed to be a part of that.
As he roamed from city to countryside, Dom took on whatever adventure called to him but he had never felt as though it was fated that he take part. Something was different this time, he blamed that feeling for the spontaneous decision he had made to make this trek with stranger.

The sun was hovering on the western horizon, casting a red-gold glow across the mountain range when Tiramina returned. He had not seen anyone approaching across the field and when she appeared it was through the trees of the forest. He was impressed by how quietly she moved, even laden down with loaded pack as she was now. He stood and couldn’t help his smile.
“I’ll admit,” he told her, brightly, “I held some doubt that I would see you again, here you are.”
“Yeah,” she muttered, “I’ve obviously lost my damn mind.” She slung the pack from her shoulders and dropped it heavily on the dirt. “Where did you get that?” she asked, surprised, pointing at his own pack resting against a nearby tree.
“I had left it nearby in the woods when we met earlier.”
She cocked her head to the side, studying him. His manner and flippant tones made him appear rash and reckless, which if she was admitting things was exactly what this decision they had made really was, but beneath that he was well prepared and experienced in his odd way of life. She suspected he was wiser than he seemed and likely knew exactly what kind of danger he was leading himself into. She only hoped she had not misjudged him and her own ability to survive this idea. She tried to gauge what age she supposed he might be but came away still unsure.
“So what now?” she asked, “We simply trudge off after troop of well armed soldiers and hope that they don’t mind? If we actually manage to keep up with them that is.”
“Well, yes actually,” he bent down for his pack and settled it across his shoulders, glancing across the now darkened plains to the last streaks of pale yellow on the horizon, “Now that it’s dark we best try to make some distance up. With any luck they will have camped somewhere, it will be much easier to find them.”
“You don’t really think it will be that easy?” her tone dripped with condescension.
“There’s nothing wrong with hoping, young Tiramina,” he winked at her and set off across the field without waiting for her to follow. Quickly grabbing up her pack she hurried after him into the open, chilling air.