Bought (2 page)

“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 thought 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.”

“Excellent. I’m sure I don’t need to remind
you not to be caught.”

Cal’s hidden smile turned into a glare. “Not
in the least.”

With that he turned away to prepare for his
journey into the disputed mountains.

Princess Bethany woke to the feeling of every
muscle in her body screaming at her. She groaned and tried to roll
over, momentarily forgetting that she was tied to a group of other
unfortunate souls. The movement pulled the rope around her neck
even tighter, further irritating the raw skin. The man next to her
grunted and shoved her away, bringing her fully awake.

Her commotion woke the slavers, bringing the
angry leader to his feet in record time. He grabbed the rope and
jerked her to her feet, those nearest her following to keep
themselves from being chocked. With a special twist and tug of the
rope, the slaver released her from the group while the others
kicked the slaves back to the ground.

“You’ll learn your place, girl, high-born or
not,” growled the leader.

He thrust her to the ground with the force of
a strong arm. Bethany landed on her knees, sharp stones making her
cry out with the impact.

“You think that hurts?” snapped the
slaver.

From some hook or loop on his belt, the
slaver retrieved a long, flat paddle and quickly brought it down on
her back. She screamed again, and repeated the sound with every
blow until her throat grew raw and she lost her voice entirely.
Even when she couldn’t scream any more, they continued to beat
her.

“Sir,” yelled one of the slavers as he
grappled with the leader’s arm. “Nigel, ‘member whatcher always
tellin’ us. Don’t damage the merchandise. She the pretty one,
‘member.”

Nigel lowered the paddle and glared at her
bruised back. “She’ll heal,” grumbled Nigel as he lowered the
paddle and reattached it to his belt. “Get her back in line with
the others.”

The slavers dragged her back to the line and
tied the rope around her inflamed neck. The other slaves glanced at
her out of the corner of their eyes, unwilling to show her any
marked signs of kindness though there was pity in their eyes now.
Bethany tried to blink the tears out of her eye so that she could
be ready for whatever happened next. If they moved out, she
couldn’t cause another commotion. She had to be ready to walk
again.

But she didn’t think she could. How could
they expect them to walk some more on nothing but river water?
Bethany hadn’t eaten since breakfast two days ago. Her muscles
shook from hunger, fatigue, and pain.

You can do this. You’re a princess after all.
The daughter of King Middin. You can do anything they demand of
you, Bethany told herself firmly.

She believed herself for the first few hours
of marching as she ignore the cramping muscles of her legs, the
sharp pain in her one shoeless foot, or the slow throb in her
bruised back. They walked on for hours. At some point, Bethany lost
her other leather slipper, not even contemplating retrieving
it.

My people will find me. My people will find
me, she chanted with each dogged step until the small caravan
suddenly emerged from a thick patch of woods at the top of a steep
slope.

The thought of being found fled from her mind
as she looked out over the rolling hills and the distant shimmer on
the horizon. She had never been taught to tell her direction of
travel from the sun and other natural hints. Now, looking upon the
unfamiliar sight of the southern foothills, she knew where the
slavers had been leading her: into King Wolfric’s lands.

A few more hours of walking and she would be
beyond the reach of her people.

Bethany began to wonder if she had already
crossed into the enemy’s territory. If that were true, she would
never get home. Unbidden by her, fresh tears sprung from her eyes
and rolled down her cheeks. Was she lost to her father and mother?
Would she never see her home again?

That night they stopped in a little valley
surrounded by thin birch trees, just beginning to bud with spring
greenery. In any other situation, Bethany would have been
enthralled with the beauty surrounding her. Instead, she collapsed
on the soft turf, unable to move another inch.

Finally, the slavers tossed a small lump of
bread to each slave. Bethany gobbled up the precious food and even
degraded herself to pick the dirty crumbs off her ruined dress. The
princess looked down at her dirty, broken nails and wondered how
she had gotten to this place. She knew the facts, the events, but a
sense of astonishment and wonder still overwhelmed her.

This couldn’t be the truth. She would wake up
and it would all be some horrible dream. But her mind knew better.
She would never have been able to invent such a fantasy, such a
terrible, sordid fantasy.

Bethany reclined with the others, feeling
just as hungry as she had before the meager meal. Some hours later
she woke to a rough shake only to discover that something was
clamped over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the sound was
muffled.

“Make ‘nother peep and I skewer you,”
whispered a voice she recognized to be one of the slavers.

Bethany felt the tug of the rope around her
neck as the slave next to her rolled over, giving them his
back.

The slaver began to fumble with the skirts of
her once-elegant gown until his hands touched her bare legs.
Bethany squirmed against the man’s weight, screaming as loud as she
could despite the hand clamped over her mouth. It was getting hard
to breathe; the man’s hand occasionally slipping until it plugged
her nose too.

Her eyes burned with the need to cry, but she
was too dehydrated to do so, and her sore muscles screamed as she
used them to fight the man. As she was growing too weak to continue
the fight, the man’s body was yanked forcefully from her body.

“What’re you thinking?” demanded Nigel.

The leader jerked her attacker to his feet
and drove a dagger into his gut. The man grunted, his eyes bulging
for a second before he slumped to the ground at her feet.

Bethany was still panting for breath when
Nigel turned to glare at her.

“You’re almost more trouble than you’re
worth,” he said before turning back to the space he had been using
as a bed.

Bethany didn’t go back to sleep.

It had been many hours before Sir Caldry
could escape the demands of the army camp. When he finally did, he
found himself glad to enjoy a reprieve from the stresses of his
post, even if he was traveling farther away from home. A little
time to himself would be a welcome respite.

The sun was long set when he began to climb
the foothills of the White Cap Mountains. He needed to stop for the
night, but he found himself relaxed in the saddle, still happy to
ride on. He heard a distant disturbance, waking him from a light
doze, and decided to investigate.

Cal dismounted, left Éimhin to graze in a
little clearing, and snuck through the underbrush toward the noise.
He dropped to his knees and crawled on his belly until he reached
the edge of a clearing. From the light of their fire he spotted a
long row of men and women, tied together by the neck. Surrounding
the little fire slept a number of men: slavers.

The knight’s eyes were drawn back to the row
of slaves where one man was trying to take advantage of a female
slave. Before Cal could slip away, unwilling to see what he could
not stop, one of the other slavers climbed to his feet, grabbed the
offender, and dragged him away from the struggling woman.

“What’re you thinking?” asked the man who had
saved the woman.

A second later the offending man dropped to
the ground, dead.

“You’re almost more trouble than you’re
worth,” said the slaver before returning to his bed.

In the firelight, Cal could see the shape of
the slave girl’s face. She was very pretty. If the slaver didn’t
get her sold off soon, he would have even more trouble with his
men. Serves him right, thought Cal as he crawled away from the
scene.

It took Cal five more days of solid riding
before he found the site of the attack. Even after the rains and
efforts of King Middin’s people, he could see signs of the battle.
Broken arrows still littered the ground, the remains of an enormous
fire spoke of how they dealt with the enemy bodies, broken branches
hung from scarred trees where swords had bit deeply into the
wood.