Bought
By Charissa Dufour
© 2014 by Charissa Dufour
All rights reserved.
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Chapter One
Bethany stared down at her ruined slippers. They had been soft doe hide, perfect for dancing or a relaxed day during the summer. Now they were so wet she could barely keep them on her aching feet.
Her dress hadn’t fared much better.
The rich green fabric had turned a dull brackish brown color after her recent plunge into the icy river and the subsequent crawl through the mud. The wet folds of the skirting clung to her legs until every curve showed. Bethany felt fresh tears roll down her face and drip off her chin. Every inch of her body ached.
As a princess, she had never been forced to walk farther than the castle bailey, but that life had ended with the attack on her caravan.
Bethany’s mind broiled with righteous indignation. How dare they attack my caravan? How dare these vagabonds take me prisoner! And how dare my father send me so near King Wolfric’s land in the middle of a war? It is all his fault.
In Bethany’s short life, she had never before experience true hatred toward any member of her family. She had been angry with her parents for taking away a toy or keeping a master on when she had tired of the subject, but that was a far cry from the rage building up in her chest.
Her father had sent her to Garrul to “lighten the heart of her uncle” or rather to entertain the old, gouty soldier. Bethany hadn’t wanted to go. She had even thrown a fit, inappropriate for any twenty-year old, but common enough for her. Though it usually worked, it had done nothing to sway her father, and her mother did as her father bid.
If it hadn’t been for them, I’d be safe at home, rather than trekking through the woods of this forsaken country.
Bethany shifted her hands, trying to ease the pressure on her wrists. The ropes were too tight!
The princess glanced up from her feet to look around at the men walking alongside the long row of captured individuals. Something about them told her they were not part of the group that had attacked her caravan. They had just been at the right place to pick her up after her headlong run through the woods.
When the attack began, her lady-in-waiting had sent her through the trap door of their wagon and into the woods, to wait until the attackers had been killed. Somewhere out there, her people were looking for her.
A dusting of hope brushed across her senses. They were looking for her! It was only a matter of time before they found these slavers and freed her.
“What’r you smilin’ ‘bout?” demanded one of the men before pounding her on the back of the head with the hilt of his sword.
Bethany’s vision blurred as she slumped to her knees, the rope tied around each of the slave’s necks cutting into her flesh. The princess blinked a few times before her eyesight cleared.
“Choow…” she began, trying to say “how dare you,” though the only sound to escape was a gagged choke.
The slaver hauled her to her feet and pushed the whole group forward.
Bethany opened her mouth to try again before clamping it shut. They didn’t know she was a princess, and she needed to keep it that way. Besides, every time she tried to talk, she risked spitting out the signet ring hidden in her mouth.
The princess clamped her mouth shut and stared fixedly at the back of the man in front her. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other. Her soldiers would finish off that mob of vagrants who had attacked her caravan, and then they would come in search of her. Another hour, maybe two, and she would be safe, and warm, and happy all over again.
Then will I have a word or two to share with my parents!
Two hours passed slowly by with the only change being in her feet. A shoe had slipped off, and when she tried to stop to retrieve it, the two men behind stumbled over her, dragging the whole group down by the neck. The slavers cursed and screamed as they beat their captives back into order, giving Bethany a few extra blows to her back and shoulders as punishment for causing the incident.
In the end, she never retrieved her lost shoe.
Bethany marched on, tired, cold, and hungry.
They’re just running a little behind, she told herself firmly when the group stopped in a narrow valley for the night. The slavers led their horses to a small stream to drink. Bethany and another unfortunate soul rushed forward to do the same. The rope around their neck tightened as the rest of the line, those smarter than they, stayed where they were. Bethany and the other slave took a beating as they were dragged back into the line.
“Wait yer turn!” snapped one of the slavers, striking her across the cheek.
“Not the face, man,” said another. “She’s a pretty one. Don’t go ruining the merchandise.”
“Yessir,” mumbled the first man.
Bethany stared at the second man, the one in authority. Should she announce her true identity to this man? He was clearly the one in charge. She even suspected he had a smidgeon of education. Bethany hesitated until the leader noticed her gaping stare.
“What’re you looking at?” he demanded, whacking her in the back of the knees hard enough to bring her off her feet.
The fall brought the rest of the line down to the ground. Bethany heard the other slaves grumble as once again she caused them to fall. All the slaves bore heavy bruises around their necks from where the rope had been jerked tight by her repeated tumbles.
Bethany tried to keep her eyes to herself, suddenly feeling as though her fellow slaves would be just as happy as the slavers to hurt her. She needed a friend and an ally when all she had were enemies.
After the horses and slavers had both drunk their fill, the slaves were led to the stream bed and allowed a few quick sips of water before being dragged to small cluster of forest. One end of their line was tied to one tree, while the other was attached to another, giving them just enough slack to lie down.
“I hear a peep outta any o’ you, and I’ll chop off a toe!” snapped one of the slavers.
The other slaves collapsed onto their backs, forcing Bethany to lie down too. For the first time in her simple life, Princess Bethany slept under the stars with an empty belly and a parched mouth.
“Sir Caldry,” said a shy voice. “Your horse is ready.”
Sir Caldry, or Cal as his friends called him, gave his shaven face one last examination in the reflective surface of the river before turning to look at the speaker. It was a young lad; a squire to one of the other knights, he thought though he couldn’t remember a name. The boy’s eyes were puffy and Cal spotted traces of hastily wiped tear tracks on his smudged face. From where Cal squatted by the river, he could see a long tear in the shoulder of the boy’s tunic and the beginnings of what would be a nasty bruise.
“Éimhin,” Cal sighed as he pushed his sore legs into a standing position. “Stop biting the help.”
Cal took the lead to his majestic warhorse and turned the animal’s head away from the lad, to keep the horse from getting any ideas. Cal was the only human Éimhin wouldn’t take a bite out of. Granted, if the horse ever tried, Cal would have punched him in the face. Cal loved Éimhin, but he didn’t take any funny business from the horse. They now shared a deep relationship, kn
ight and horse, the result of which was an almost indestructible fighting unit. Not entirely, but almost. They both bore their scars from incidents where it had been proven that they were not perfect.
Of course, Cal’s largest scar was from long before he had ever purchased the little colt, now grown into one of the largest warhorses he had ever seen. The scar running from his left temple, down his face and neck, and ending in the middle of his left bicep had been received when he had saved King Wolfric’s life, an act that had earned him his freedom from slavery.
Like so many people on the peninsula, he had spent many years after his nation had been conquered as a slave to the people of Tolad.
Now Wolfric’s people are trying to conquer yet another nation, Cal thought as he surveyed the long swath of neatly arranged tents running up the gentle slope away from the river. One last nation stood between Wolfric and total domination over the entire peninsula.
The thought frightened Cal in a way little else did. He knew the power that Wolfric wielded. Though the militant king ruled his ever-growing nation in complete peace, he was always seeking the next victory. The nations under his control were now considered safe lands, so long as the locals resided in peace under their overlords, and for the most part they did. Fear was a great motivator.
Most of the nations now under Wolfric’s control had been conquered so swiftly and so brutally that no one dared attempt any rebellion against their new lords. It disgusted Cal to see his people subservient to the Aardê nation.
Then again, he had basically become one of those lords, though without the official title. He was a knight, but a knight in the king’s good graces, often residing in the king’s castle and eating at the king’s castle. He couldn’t be a greater hypocrite even if he tried.
The scarred knight pushed these sobering thoughts out of his head as he mounted Éimhin and began making his way through the large army camp, confirming that each unit leader was training their men or preparing for their assigned duties for the day. There wasn’t a major push scheduled for the day, but that didn’t mean the men got to spend the day lying about with whores.
One more day and I’ll be free to return home, Cal thought as he turned his gaze away from two men exchanging money over some secret deal. Cal assumed it involved a woman.
Didn’t these women know there were better places to be than on the frontline of a war?
“Cal!” cried a voice from down a row of tents.
Cal pulled his horse to a stop, slowly turning the animal around just as one of the other royal knights appeared. Sir Olaf Gregory emerged from between the tents and jogged to Cal’s side. Olaf was a dedicated man and one of the few men to believe in what they were doing. He thought one king, one nation the best course for the peninsula. Granted, Cal suspected Olaf to be looking toward a distant future when the residents of Wolfric’s nation no longer thought of the nation of Domhain or Topaq, no longer identified with their ancestors, but considered themselves to be true Aardê people.
“What?” asked Cal.
“Sir, the unit we sent out yesterday is back. Their leader says he has news. They’re at General Drystan’s tent.”
Cal urged Éimhin down the nearest cross path between the tents, leaving the other knight behind. Though Olaf was in the king’s inner circle, and one of Wolfric’s most trusted knights, Cal was still his superior. Sometimes Cal wondered how he had managed to come to such intimate terms with the king he hated, but mostly he tried not to think about it. It was easier to live his hypocritical life if he didn’t think too much.
“What’s the word?” Cal asked as he swung down from Eimhin’s back in front of the general’s tent.
A large group of men stood in the clearing around the large tent, bloodied and looking tired. They had been fighting though he specifically sent them out purely to do reconnaissance. In fact, if Cal wasn’t mistaken, their numbers were greatly diminished.
Cal trained his well-developed glare onto the unit leader. “What happened?” he demanded.
“We found a caravan.”
“They attack you?” Cal asked when it became clear the leader was tripping over his own tongue.
“No. We… I mean…it was a royal caravan. And I thought… well, I mean, what if…”
“You attacked the caravan?”
“Yes, sir,” said the leader before swallowing a lump in his throat.
“I thought I told you to slip in quietly and find where Middin is hiding his army for the summer. Search towns, villages, valleys, whatever. How is it you have mistaken that for ‘attack a royal caravan’?”
“I just thought…”
“You were not ordered to think,” snapped Cal. “What happened?”
“It was going well at first. We caught them totally off guard. But then they rallied. Only a few of us escaped.”
Cal ground his teeth together. “Did you at least discern who was in the caravan?”
“We heard them calling out to save the princess, but that’s it. I don’t know if there was an actual princess with them or not, or if she was hurt in the attack.”
“So you know nothing?”
The leader nodded his head once before dropping his eyes to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Cal spotted the general standing in the doorway of his tent, watching Cal’s interaction. Cal and General Drystan did not always see eye to eye, but Cal couldn’t bring himself to care. When he was present at the frontline, the general had to obey his orders whether he liked it or not. Cal didn’t care if people liked his orders, so long as they obeyed them, and this unit leader hadn’t.
“You there,” Cal said to two soldiers loitering around the clearing. “Take him to the stocks. Three days in the stocks, after which you will be demoted to camp crew.”
The men around him began to murmur quietly. Camp crew was mostly made of men too wounded to return to battle. They helped cooked the meals, hunted if they could, fed the livestock, and did other menial tasks. Unless you were honorably wounded, being on camp crew was the worst degradation a military man could endure.
To Cal’s surprise, he spotted the general’s mouth tweak up into something resembling a smile.
The group began to disband with Cal’s verdict; the wounded shuffling off toward the healer’s tents; the loiterers off to look for some other form of entertainment. Before the scarred knight could remount his horse, a messenger skidded to a halt at his side. As Cal unfolded the note, the gasping messenger collapsed on the ground. Two other soldiers rushed to his side, one pulling the runner’s legs straight and massaging the over-worked muscles while the other poured splashes of cool water on his face.
The note simple read “slavers spotted on the eastern slopes.” Cal frowned down at it. What did he care if King Middin allowed slavers in his lands? Wolfric certainly didn’t bother with the issue. In fact, slavery was the foundation of the economy throughout the vast Aardê nation.
Drystan had numerous scouts hidden throughout the disputed White Cap Mountains, spying on any movements of Middin’s forces. What was the scout thinking when he sent this message. Runners took days to recover after pushing themselves to the limits to transport a message across the rugged mountains. They didn’t use horses to carry such messages. Runners could hide more easily and could travel over terrain that would break a horse’s leg. Besides, horses were harder to come by than men. Men could be conscripted from any conquered village. And practically any man could run, even if they couldn’t fight.
Cal crinkled the note in his fist, disgusted by the waste.
“Get that man taken care of,” he ordered to the men at hand.
They carefully lifted the runner, who was in the throes of a sever leg cramp, and carried him to the portion of the camp where the healers resided. A tent there was reserved for the recovery of runners.
Cal glanced up at the rising sun. It wasn’t even nine o’clock and the day had already turned to crap. What was next?
The knight regretted the tho
ught the minute he noticed one of the general’s aides walking toward him. Cal nodded at the man as he turned toward the general’s tent. He didn’t need the aid to tell him that he was being summoned. The other man smiled knowingly as he turned to walk beside Cal.
They entered the large tent where General Drystan stood over the enormous map of the White Cap Mountains. The tent held the huge table where the map lay, a large stove—aglow with a merry fire—a wide bed, and a few trunks with the general’s personal items. From the cross beam of the tent hung three large braziers, lighting the entire tent. The tent was even carpeted with numerous furs. Cal always felt annoyed at the opulence of the general’s quarters.
Granted, General Drystan had been serving Wolfric in the military since the very beginning. The old man had earned a little opulence in his life. Cal knew he owned a vast estate in Nava, a port city some two hundred miles from the camp, and that the general spent the winter months at home.
“General,” Cal said as he entered and looked down at the map.
“Sir Caldry,” replied Drystan.
Despite their years of on-and-off interaction, they had never gotten past a formal relationship.
“What can I do for you?”
Drystan’s jowls jiggled as he shook his head. The general was old enough to be respectfully retired, but he fought on. He was a robust man, despite the appearance of great age. His white hair hung in ragged heaps around his ears and his three-day beard did nothing to hide the way the skin on his face sagged. Even his ears looked as though gravity had won the battle.
The general grumbled to himself for a moment more before turning to Cal.
“I’m worried about the mess that unit leader made for us. I know you’re supposed to leave for Tolad tomorrow, but would you mind riding into the mountains and making sure he hasn’t done any permanent damage. I’m not sure who else to send, to be quite frank.”
Cal hid the smile forming on his lips. As much as he didn’t want to delay his journey home for even one moment, his ego enjoyed praise from a general who had never liked him personally.
“I’d be glad to. Let me change and gather some supplies, and I’ll be away.”