Ella Wellington opened her eyes and heard the distant thumps of siege engines. She stood, then faltered. She shook her head, trying to dispel the fog. Why did everything feel… off. She was on the flat roof of her cottage. Vertigo made the familiar setting seem foreign. But the feeling soon passed, and she felt like herself again.
Saug was making a heavy push toward some objective, she thought, and the battle-line must have stretched quite far south for her to hear the fighting. In the twenty years since the war started, the front often fluctuated, but it mostly centered around the Ramparts, a 20-mile stretch of mountainous military fortifications which divided the two kingdoms. Her own Kingdom of Yorke was now on the defensive. Ella wasn’t worried; this had happened many times during her service in intelligence and would likely happen many more.
Ella turned her face up to the setting sun. It was late summer, and the leaves were still dark and dense on the trees. The air carried the scent of wood smoke and pine sap. Her staff was starting fires to warm their homes for the evening, and Ella’s skin confirmed the dipping temperature. It was going to be a cool night.
The view was majestic. Vorpal Vale was a blanket of mixed coniferous forest all around her, and a warm glow was cast over all she could see. To the east, the river Hud meandered through the landscape, a serpentine strip of shimmering gold.
Across the river, the two-hundred-foot-high cloud wall of the Forbidden Land defied the sun’s light. It remained dark grey in any weather or time of day. The slowly swirling surface and occasional flashes of light and shadow within were a constant and ominous warning to anyone with the poor judgment to enter.
Ella’s heart rate was returning to normal. She had climbed up the outer wall using a decorative, ivy-covered lattice. It was the last obstacle in what she considered her “confidence course,” a complex circuit she ran around the buildings inside the stone-walled compound.
Cushing Cottage was once a military outpost, and although the interior had been gutted and thoroughly modernized, its exterior looked like a castle keep. Each of its four corners had a prominent observation tower, and there was a spacious courtyard at its center. Once used for troop musters, the courtyard was now filled with gardens, stone statues, and a large, fancy fountain. Ella looked down into the deepening shadow of the courtyard. A woman with a dirty apron was there gathering herbs for the evening meal. She was humming to herself, something that sounded like a religious hymn.
It had been a month since Ella’s retirement, and it had not gone well. She felt bored, restless, and out of place. Also, she was pretty sure her staff resented her. She was not proper royalty, and they let her know it. She heard their whispers to one another when they thought she couldn’t hear them. Some of the younger ones giggled if they saw her do something they did not expect or approve of. But she decided to forgive them for this. They didn’t really know each other, after all. Ella was certain that respect would flow in both directions if they did.
The tranquil scene was shattered by the harsh clang of the iron entry gates. Desperate sounds ascended to Ella as she maneuvered across the roof. Below, women screamed and men shouted. Peering down, Ella observed about twenty men charging through from the gatehouse—some clad in armor, others in battle dress uniforms. All were armed with long swords, either drawn or sheathed, and some bore small buckler shields adorned with the heraldry of the Yorke kingdom.
Ella squinted, struggling to capture more visual details, but her vision betrayed her. Flashes of brightness and sudden blurriness forced her to rub her eyes vigorously. Shaking her head in frustration seemed to momentarily alleviate the issue. After a few moments, her vision stabilized, though concern lingered. Was it mere exhaustion from her exertions, the onset of illness, or something more grave? With no time to ponder these worries, Ella refocused on the intruders.
These were no ordinary soldiers; their attire was excessively refined. Could they be some sort of honor guard? Unlikely—their uniforms lacked sufficient color, featuring instead small, vibrant shoulder piping characteristic only of the king’s special units. The colors were not the flamboyant ones typical of an administrative role but rather the subdued earth tones reserved for a field officer’s protection detail. That meant that each of these men was well-trained, disciplined, and potentially deadly threats.
A familiar rush of adrenaline surged through her veins, sharpening her mind and priming it for action. Ella relished this sensation; it heralded more excitement than her recent assignments had offered.
Realizing she needed to vacate the roof, Ella noted that her usual access route was now obstructed. All doors to the interior were secured from within, eliminating that as an escape option. She habitually exercised in her work attire: a one-piece dark-gray leotard, special climbing shoes, and a utility belt equipped with various gadgets. Additionally, a thin, black, hooded cloak, now stowed in a pouch on her belt, could be draped over her leotard. She checked her belt, verifying the presence of all her tools, most crucially her lock picks.
Ella maneuvered through one of the crenelations near a tower wall and began her descent along the rough stone exterior to a third-floor dormer. Bracing herself beside the window, she retrieved her lock pick set and commenced working on the latch.
“You there!” a gruff male voice called out from below, accompanied by the sound of running, metal-clad feet.
The latch gave way. Ella swiftly opened the window and slipped into the welcoming darkness of the interior.
“Take your men around back,” the voice commanded. “If you find her, bring her to me.”
“Yes, sir,” responded a new voice, eager yet cautious.
“I know you’re itching for a promotion, captain, but don’t try anything fancy. I don’t want any accidents,” the first voice warned sternly.
“Yes, sir.”
The window securely closed behind her, Ella found herself in a dark, unused room, which she navigated with an air of familiarity. She moved to the door and listened to her surroundings. The dim room around her was fancy and clean, but the air here was stale and disused. She smelled dust and a vague citrus smell. No doubt, it was the solution her staff used to clean the furniture. She put an ear to the door. No sound but her own breathing.
Ella cracked the door open and peeked out. The hallway was lit by gas lanterns but was otherwise empty. She opened the door and crept toward the stairway at the opposite end. A sudden creak from the stairs caused her to stop. She ducked into an open door on her right and winced when her footstep echoed. The floor was hard tile; she was in a bathroom.
Ella pivoted on the balls of her feet so she could face the door. Then, she stood there on her toes, listening. Heavy footsteps. They were coming down the hallway toward her. She held her breath.
A soldier walked right past her and toward the room she had just emerged from. This one wasn’t wearing armor, but he had a longsword at the ready.
“’Lo!” he said. “Ella Wellington! Come out at once! By order of the Baron!” He stopped in the doorway.
Ella hopped out onto the hallway carpet without a sound and crept up behind the soldier. She pulled a dagger from its sheath on her belt and had it at his throat before he could react. It was a practiced move she’d performed at least ten thousand times in the course of her career.
“Don’t!” she whispered in his ear. “I’ll have your throat slit before you get a word out.”
He dropped his sword and raised his hands.
“That’s a good boy,” she said.
The soldier growled in frustration.
Ella guided him into the room and used her heel to close the door behind them. She had done this hundreds of times over the course of her career, so her body performed the maneuver automatically.
“Why are you here?” said Ella. She used her whispered command voice.
“Baron’s orders,” said the soldier. “Wasn’t briefed on the specifics. Looking for the lady of the house. An old woman, maybe.”
She tightened her grip in indignation and to reinforce that she had him locked down tight.
“Who’s in charge?” A rising inflection at the end that she hoped he took as a threat.
“Ah! Mosley!” he blurted. “Cole Mosley. Our unit commander.”
“Where?”
“Downstairs. Kitchen. Looking at his stupid map, probably.”
“Very well,” she said. She removed her right hand from his throat, then pulled a blackjack from the pouch on her belt.
“I’m going to count to three,” she said, then hit him on the back of his head, sending him crumpling to the floor. She dragged his unconscious body to a nearby bed and shoved him underneath with several kicks of her foot. She grabbed his sword and slid it under the bed, too.
Ella made her way down to the kitchen, avoiding two more soldiers along the way. There was no staff to contend with; she was grateful for that. The soldiers probably had them all gathered in the courtyard. But they were out of her way, and that’s all she cared about.
Her victim had been right. Mosley was bent over a large table in the center of the kitchen, examining a map in the orange glow of candlelight. A few silent steps and she was on him, dagger to his throat.
“What are you doing in my house?” said Ella.
Mosley tried to chuckle under her grip, but it came out like quiet duck quacks. She loosened her grip.
“According to your staff, you don’t even live here in the cottage. You sleep in a small peasant shack. That’s quite the statement,“ Mosley said, masking his growing respect with a veneer of irritation.
“I’m—” she started to say, feeling put on the defensive. “—adjusting to the lifestyle. Not well, if I’m honest.”
“Commander Ella Wellington, I presume.”
Ella tightened her grip momentarily. “I’m not in the intelligence service anymore. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”
“I do know it,” said Mosley. “I was trying to be respectful, your grace.”
Ella moaned. “Countess will do. Call me Countess. You don’t need to use any of that courtier foppery with me, uh…” Ella looked at the rank on his shoulder. “…Colonel.”
At this close range, she caught his scent. It was leather mixed with fancy cologne, but the smell was faint, like the application was from a day or two before.
“Yes, Countess,” said Mosley. “Now that we have the titles out of the way, can we speak…without me under duress? My men and I are not here to harm you.”
Ella released him and re-sheathed her dagger.
“Very well,” she said, stepping backward.
He turned to face her, then rubbed his neck and gave her a disapproving look. He was an imposing man—six feet tall and wide-shouldered. Two hundred and fifty pounds, by her estimate, and none of it fat. His uniform was impressive and full of field officer regalia. But it wasn't flashy or extravagant. The many subdued devices were functional and had an elegant, industrial design.
At five feet ten inches, Countess almost looked him in the eye. But height aside, she knew he could easily overpower her if given the opportunity.
“You’ve been out of the game for a while,” he said, “but it looks like you haven’t lost your edge. Or your instincts. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Cole Mosley, Adjutant to the War Minister. My unit was pulled from the front to come get you. Orders from Baron Greystone.”
Countess was stunned. Mosley was very attractive. In fact, he had the kind of face she found quite distracting and hard to concentrate around.
“Whoa,” she said, her face reddening. “That’s a lot of firepower for one retired infiltrator.”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s what I said.” His harsh stare told her he did not appreciate the situation. “But respectfully, Countess,” he continued, “you’re not retired anymore. I’m to return with you to the Barony with all haste. And it must be serious indeed to relieve us from our protection detail. Now, before we go, are there any bodies lying around that I need to know about?”
Countess half-smiled. “One. Unconscious. Top floor, back room.”
Mosley looked at her with a sharp gaze, then softened into a grin. “Well, thank you for the professional courtesy. I’m familiar with you intel types, and I’m well aware that you could have handled it…differently.”
Countess realized she was withering under Mosley’s gaze, but the moment of intimacy was shattered when several of Mosley’s men entered the room.
“I see you found her on your own, sir,” said one.
Mosley raised an eyebrow. “She found me. Good job, guys. Well done.”
Countess looked back to Mosley. “So where…”
Mosley looked past her. His eyes narrowed, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod.
The blow came hard and fast. Countess’ vision dimmed, as the blurred image of Mosley swam upward and faded to black.
