The whole event had turned out to be little more than a blur for Christina. As soon as Underwood was in their sights, smoke billowing through the treetops as if from a massive Alerian factory, the blonde felt her body go numb. The flames were still roaring, and as they neared, she could feel their heat pounding against her, merciless and unsympathetic to the lives claimed and memories destroyed.
For her, though, no memories were destroyed – rather, those of the most unfortunate kind resurfaced. Today Underwood was, though painted with slightly different colours, a chilling replica of Laricia, the city of birth she watched ravaged by orcs years ago. Each woman that wailed as she watched the very foundations of her home wither away and crumble as if it was a thousand years old sounded eerily familiar to Christina: it was frightening how those screams were no different from those of women watching their families die around them.
The party soon found themselves in the decrepit remains of the rangers’ garrison. Christina had been given one of the two usable chairs, which she sat in numbly with her hands folded in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle – in this time of strife, she ironically looked much the part of the dainty socialite, because that was how she was born and raised, and her mind was too preoccupied at the moment to care what her body was doing. She would normally have protested the offer of the seat to begin with, insisting that Sienna take it instead – the poor girl, how hard this must have been for her – but the warrior’s fiery spirit was now somewhat dampened by these flames of war.
What killed her the most was that there was nothing, nothing, she could do to help. The houses would not stop burning unless the sky saw fit to mourn Concordia’s loss and weep – curse its sardonic good cheer! Those who could be saved already had been, but what sort of a life was it that they had saved? They had no place to go in an empire likely to persecute them simply for their relations with the rangers. D…did we do this?
“So it is over,” Letho announced grimly. Unlike most of the rest of what had been said, those words resounded like a crystal bell, shattering the dullness of Christina’s thoughts. Her blood ran cold instantly, and her heart and a sharp breath met in her throat. They couldn’t have lost! Not so easily! Not like this!
But… what could they do? Maybe it really was over. The rangers were such a small force now, and most of those that remained were wounded and scattered to the four winds. “Nobody wants justice anymore,” the Stormcrow cawed grimly – and with that, Christina’s heart fell back to her chest and then straight on to her stomach.
While the Marshals were agreeing with each other’s ominous assessments, however, Christina’s ears, finally regaining their sharpness, picked up a growing commotion outside in the village square. She looked up for a moment, and turned her head toward the window, momentarily breaking her perfect posture. The men and women there, they were speaking of—!
For the first time in what must have been hours, warmth returned to Christina’s body. She turned to Edward Stormcrow and spoke; her voice was subdued, but careful and tempered like the sharp edge of a knife. “You speak too soon, sir,” she cautioned respectfully. Her grey eyes were beginning to sparkle with a zeal that had been missing for altogether too long now. Christina rose and marched through the empty arch where a pair of thick oak doors once afforded the room much privacy. Without even turning to look back at them, her steely voice rose above the hollow sound of her boots drumming against the floor.
“There’s blood left in the heart of Corone yet.”
*
Outside, a congregation of many of Underwood’s survivors had formed - man and woman, ranger and civilian alike. It was an unlikely gathering, but one that filled Christina’s veins with warmth. Some still wept for their losses, and others merely overflowed with rage that could not yet be directed, but these villagers shared one thing in common: a resolution for revenge.
Some of them stepped aside when Christina approached, recognizing her as one of Marshal Ravenheart’s deputies. She stood among them, examining their faces and feeding on the determination that they displayed even in the midst of such tragedy. She realized then that this truly was a re-enactment of Laricia’s destruction, for these people reminded her, quite frankly, of herself.
“We want to join you,” a burly man near the front of the crowd told her. He was one of the civilians drafted into the rangers’ forces, but who had remained in Underwood to defend it. “Those imperial bastards might think they can just walk all over us, but they’re wrong.” There was a murmur of approval from the crowd.
“We want to help,” a fifty-something woman added. “Any way we are able to.”
“Is it true?” a younger woman asked next, peeking her head out from the throng. “That the Marshal killed one of those red-cloaked fiends?”
By now, Christina’s face had regained a lot of the life that had been drained from it when she set her eyes on the burning city, but it was a serious, appreciative energy that flowed through her now, opposed to her usual flighty, flamboyant energy. “That’s what he told me,” she answered seriously and with a reassuring smile.
“If he can do it, they’re not invincible after all!” one voice cried out. “They’re just big bullies,” admonished another. “Bu~llies! Bu~llies!” sang some children who were too young, too innocent to grasp the gravity of the situation around them.
Christina could only laugh, brightly and seriously. She looked over her shoulder at her companions who were now approaching. “You see, Marshals?” The woman was speaking not only to them, but also to and on behalf of the villagers gathered around her. “These are the people who have borne the brunt of our miscalculation, and yet they stand before us with resolve and strength in their hearts. The grim odds are not enough to sink their hearts or dull their hunger for justice. This…” Her smile widened and she gestured at the congregation with open arms. “This is the indomitable spirit of the Republic of Corone!”
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