Unbroken (Haytham Kenway)

Chapter 8

Clara was excited. And anxious. And nervous. And raring to go. Essentially, she was a big knot of conflicting emotions and hopeful daydreams.

Mentor and she had ridden to an isolated mill with a storage house nearby, but instead of going in and completing the mission, they were waiting and watching. Patiently. Well, Clara less so than her Mentor.

"Why aren't we going in?" She whispered irritably.

Mentor silenced her with a look. "A good pupil wouldn't question her teacher, but since we've come to the conclusion that you aren't a good student, at least you're thinking for yourself. To answer your question, we're observing, and waiting for the opportunity to best strike."

Clara nodded sagely, then asked, "And how do we decide that, exactly?"

"You use your eyes instead of your mouth, to begin." Quipped the older woman. "And you learn their patterns. When do the guards change? How many soldiers are there? Is there an alarm? What weapons are they carrying? The person who holds knowledge holds the advantage, in any situation."

So Clara (begrudgingly) sat still. She began to not exactly anticipate a guard coming into sight, but rather be prepared for it. Mentor laid quietly, silently, never moving. Her apprentice fidgeted, and stretched her legs, but she always kept her eyes on the goal.

Long after the stars had woken to blink down at the world below, Mentor stood. She dusted herself off, stretched, and kicked her snoozing disciple gently. "It's time."

Eager as ever, she stood and followed her teacher. They kept quiet, and stuck to the shadows. The guards were swiftly struck down, and although Clara felt guilt and nausea for her actions, she knew that they were criminals of a most vile sort.

Clara peeped through a window of the large cabin, the candlelight making her pupils shrink. There were five men, one of which was dressed more finely than the rest, who were practically bears.

She noticed a woman as well, with a fragile appearance and shaking hands. The girl, no older than Clara herself, accidentally spilled a drop of wine, and was promptly backhanded. She landed on the hard floor with an audible thud, making the brutes guffaw.

Mentor put hand on the brunette's tensed shoulder. "Patience. They will feel your justice."

The two snuck around to a hatch leading to the attic and clambered through. They might as well have been ghosts, scarcely heard and barely visible. Each of them balanced on a rafter beam, poised to land on a man.

An exchanged glance and a nod was all Clara needed. She dropped down, cushioning her fall with the brute's body, and sank her blade into his neck. He gasped and writhed briefly before dying, but she had moved to her next victim.

He was busy beating the woman, so she caught his arm and twisted it, rolling across his back and kicking out his knee. He fell with a shout, which was silenced by steel.

Mentor had dispatched the other two, and strode to the one in finery. Her footsteps were soundless, but held the force of a storm. It was as though the earth moved under her command, and her presence filled the room with menace -- directed at one poor soul. She didn't waste time saying some speech, but quickly silenced him. Her eyes were cold as she turned to her apprentice, who was helping the woman up.

"We'll leave her in the nearest town." She decided, walking outside and whistling the horses over.

Clara obeyed, mounting and pulling the woman up with her. They rode a short ways to a town by the name of Concord, and left her with one of Mentor's "trusted friends."

On their travel back to the cabin, the older woman rode mainly in silence. She suddenly said, "You did well, Clara."

She smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Mentor." It meant more to her than she let on. Never once had she been praised, and this went better than she could've hoped for.

Of course she spoke too soon.

The dark path of the forest, and the silence that accompanied it, were broken suddenly. Hooves beat upon the earth and men shouted, surrounding the two women. They held torches and rifles at the ready.

Clara went for her pistol, but Mentor grabbed her arm wordlessly. She raised her hands, then quickly snatched her apprentice and threw her to the ground.

The older woman sent knives into the necks of two out of ten men, and dodged shots from several more. The bangs startled the horses, and she used that confusion to her advantage.

She drove her blade into a man's thigh, then slashed at his forearm and with her other knife and slit his neck. Clara, meanwhile, had dispatched two of the men and was dealing with a third.

The sound of metal rang through the woods for minutes, until finally, only the two women's heavy breathing was left. Mentor searched them, scavenging valuables and information. "We should get going. The cabin is a few hours east, and we'll be safe there." She ordered, with no room for argument.

Clara nodded, sheathing her weapons and going to mount her horse. After a step or two, her leg (which had previously felt fine) began to burn and sting. After looking down to inspect the pain, she realized there was a deep gash in the tissue. "Ah, Mentor?" She said quietly.

Mentor looked back at her, mildly annoyed, and then saw the blood staining the snow. Her eyes widened and she quickly jumped down, hurrying to her apprentice. "Fuck." She muttered, grabbing a few bandages and tying them firmly above the cut, then wrapping the injury itself.

Clara chuckled. "How ladylike," she commented dryly, her breathing shallow.

The older woman shot her a concerned glance, then helped support her to the stronger of the two horses. Once the noble was straddling the saddle, Mentor grabbed the extra horse's reins and climbed behind Clara, urging her mount into a quick pace.

Clara, meanwhile, was unfortunately aware of every second, the adrenaline keeping her off the cusp of blissful unconsciousness. They had a long ride ahead.