Bought (3 page)

Leaving his horse in a little cave, well
hidden from travelers, Cal discreetly searched the area. He found
no traces of military action. He found no outposts established, nor
any traces of an army traveling toward the boarder. Still, he knew
that didn’t mean Middin didn’t have anything planned.

If only he knew whether there really had been
a princess in that caravan. Cal was tempted to travel on to Dothan,
Middin’s capital. Surely he would find the truth there, even if he
just visited a brothel or two. The rumor mill was a powerful
weapon.

The scarred knight thought through his
options, eventually deciding on turning back. Whether there was a
lost princess or not didn’t really matter, and he didn’t care
enough to delay his return to Tolad a day longer. Let Middin worry
about it. Either way, it didn’t appear as though the attack had
changed the foreign king’s plan.

Cal returned to Éimhin and rode through half
the night, determined to put some distance between himself and the
attack site.

Eight days later, the small group Bethany had
been traveling with descended into a larger, flatter valley than
the others they had crossed. Tucked up against a hillock, Bethany
noticed a campsite with a large fire. To her surprise, Nigel turned
them toward it.

Bethany was just as sore as before, and her
feet were covered in scrapes and cuts. Each step was agony, but
each step was required. As they reached the bottom of the valley,
the ground turned from rocks and mud into a thick turf, cushioning
her cut and bruised feet.

A few hundred yards away from the camp, a
rider raced to meet them.

“Nigel!” called the rider. “How many did you
find?”

“Twelve,” announced Nigel. “One’s a real
beaut! What about you?”

The other man hesitated. “Only three. But we
got ourselves a real life Lurran!”

“You mean not a dead one?” smirked Nigel.

“Where’s Hattle?” asked the new man, looking
around the group.

“Couldn’t keep him. He doesn’t respect the
property.”

The new man nodded once, likely understanding
the full meaning of Nigel’s short speech.

A little while later they journeyed into the
camp, where the most enormous wagon sat. Alongside it grazed six
large horses, the type Bethany had seen in fields pulling plows or
towing carts of cut timber.

Leaning against the other side of the wagon
sat three individuals, one of them bearing the tell-tale signs of a
Lurran. The Lurrans were a reclusive people who lived in the
highest peaks of the White Cap Mountains. They were a small enough
civilization that neither King Middin nor King Wolfric had bothered
assimilating them. Granted, from what Bethany had learned in her
studies, some of that was due to some very real difficulties. The
Lurran people were known to be the best woodsman on the peninsula.
Their ability to maneuver through the woods unseen was
unparalleled, making them hard to fight.

Bethany had learned all she could about them
from her tutors, but had never actually met one. Had she been in
better shape, her interest would have been peeked, and not even the
threat of another beating could have kept her from talking to the
young, tan-skinned girl, but she was barely able to put one foot in
front of the other. She didn’t have the energy to seek knowledge,
all she had was the hope of a meal.

The slavers pushed and prodded them to where
the others sat and tied them to the wagon. Again they were given a
small piece of bread, which Bethany ate without remorse or disgust.
She was beyond caring, beyond worrying. There was no rescue for her
now, no salvation. Maybe someday she would find someone to share
her secret with, someone with power to save her, but until then she
was trapped.

Bethany didn’t have any more tears to shed
for her lot in life.

Fifteen days after he intended on setting
out, Sir Erin Caldry finally left the army camp heading south
toward Tolad. It was a long trek back from the frontlines, and not
one he enjoyed taking alone. Still, alone was better than with most
of the available company.

Cal lowered his hand to the reins, surprised
to find himself once again rubbing unconsciously at the perpetual
ache in his shoulder. He had been at the front for six months, and
a portion of that time had been spent recovering from a battle
wound. This one, for some reason, seemed to linger.

It’s your age, you ol’ fool, said a little
voice in the back of his mind.

“It’s not the age, it’s the wear and tear,”
he told himself out loud.

Éimhin whinnied in reply.

Caldry was barely thirty, but so many
portions of his body felt centuries older. His body had taken a
beating more times than he could count, from his years as a slave
and his years as a soldier. Each period of life adding its own
scars, both inside and out.

For example, he bore a particularly nasty
scar, besides the big one, on his side from where he’d failed to
block a blow. Cal thought back, trying to remember which battle
that had been. The assault on Nájera, if his memory served.

It had been a nasty affair. Nájera was a
little island just off the Bumi coast; too far away to ford the
swath of ocean dividing the island from the mainland, but also too
close for large boats to maneuver. The king had already returned to
Tolad, leaving Drystan and Caldry to finish off this one last
city.

Drystan, in his typical fashion, had wanted
to attack the city head on. Caldry had overruled him and devised an
unusual plan. The general, being a stout soldier of unflinching
ethics, had not liked Caldry’s subterfuge, but Cal didn’t care who
liked him or his plan so long as it saved lives.

Caldry had taken forty men, disguised them as
fishermen, and sent them off in boats to troll the clear Bumi
waters. At an agreed-upon time, the boats docked and the men
unloaded, ready for a fight.

The city of Nájera had no walls, but it did
have seven strong towers placed around the island’s coast. In their
disguises, Caldry’s men were able to take the first five towers
within minutes of landing. The last two, which were stationed at an
unusual distance from the others, were later taken by Drystan’s
force. Once the first five were seized, Drystan’s large forced
landed and conquered the island.

Now Sir Caldry was hailed a hero when all he
had done was trick the poor fools tasked with manning the towers.
Even now, years later, Caldry could see the surprise on their faces
as grubby fisherman charged into their tower, swords swinging in
the hot Bumi sun. Sir Caldry remembered never feeling so hot in his
life as he charged up the winding staircase of the tower, his
gambeson and chainmail hidden under the flowing robes used by the
Bumi men. Sweat dripped from his face as he reached his first
opponent in the narrow staircase, leaving him little room to
duck.

The guard tried to bring his sword down on
Cal’s head, having the higher ground, but Cal was faster and easily
blocked the blow. As he battled the strength of the other man, he
twisted and rammed his elbow into the guard’s gut, thereby pushing
the air from his lungs. The guard doubled over just as Cal brought
his knee up into his nose. Blood gushed from the guard’s broken
nose, covering his face and the outer garment concealing Cal’s
armor. The knight took the opportunity to bring his sword down on
the guard’s back as the guard reflexively grabbed at his broken
nose. The guard collapsed in a heap. Caldry dodged around the
tumbling body and continued his charge, absently hearing the sound
of his soldiers struggling to get past the dead man.

It wasn’t long before another guard came
charging down the stairs. The second guard tried the same maneuver
as the first, and again Cal blocked the blow with his sword. What
Cal had not be prepared for was the dagger hidden in the guard’s
other hand, which quickly came up and sliced him along the
side.

Cal shook his head as Éimhin continued to
ramble forward, ever closer to Tolad. He had been such a fool
then.

Still am, his mind reminded him.

It was memories like that this that made Cal
wonder why people insisted on calling him a hero. He wasn’t a hero.
The Bumi had been a peaceful, thriving nation until Wolfric had
decided to conquer them. Those guard towers had not been built to
protect Nájera from other nations on the peninsula, but rather from
the distant mainland. For centuries the people of the peninsula had
lived in peace, trading and marrying alike. That was all ancient
history.

Now it required special permission from an
overlord for an Aardê man to marry a foreign woman, while an Aardê
woman was never allowed to marry a foreign man. In the same way,
trade among the different nations had ceased, in part because the
different nations ceased to exist, but mostly because those living
under the overlords didn’t have anything left to trade.

Caldry had been from Domhain until Wolfric’s
army rampaged through the small nation of sheep and cattle
ranchers. Secretly Cal thought Wolfric regretted conquering the
Domhain, though it had been only logical in his quest to control
the entire peninsula. Still, Wolfric avoided the rainy nation at
all costs.

Cal was happy to see Wolfric avoid his home.
The nation’s new overlords were bad enough. He didn’t want the king
traumatizing his people any more.

The scarred knight let out a gusty sigh
before kicking Éimhin into a canter. Maybe some speed would cleanse
his mind from the depressing thoughts.

Despite whatever he might wish for, the world
was before him. He could make the most of it or spend his time
complaining.

Sir Caldry had chosen to make something of
this new world, and the result was that he had a comfortable life
in Tolad and the trust of the most powerful man on the
peninsula.

It could be worse, he told himself firmly
before resorting to counting his horse’s steps.

The next day another small cluster of slavers
arrived at the central camp, bringing five more unfortunate souls.
Nigel and the slavers herded their merchandise into the enormous
wagon, condescending to help the weakest of the slaves to climb the
high tailgate. Bethany was one of the first to climb into the
wagon, settling near the front. The large vehicle was covered with
thick, black curtains which blocked out nearly all the sunlight.
Bethany would have gladly lounged along the very front of the
wagon, but there were enough slaves to require her to tuck her
knees up under her chin and wrap her arms around her legs.

Within hours the novelty of getting to ride
rather than walk wore off. Bethany felt sick as the wagon jostled
this way and that, her body colliding with the side of the wagon
and the other bodies with each jolt. As the day progressed, the
heat in the large wagon increased until Bethany was sure she would
suffocate to death. Breathing became a chore until she finally
drifted off to sleep.

When she woke, the temperature was still
stifling. Bethany groggily looked about, wondering what had woken
her?

“I need to pee!” shouted one of the slaves
near the back of the wagon.

Bethany felt a blush rise to her cheeks as
she realized she had the same issue. From where she sat, she heard
Nigel yell back before the slave yelped in pain. Bethany couldn’t
see what happened, but knew it would be best to keep from repeating
the same mistake. It wasn’t many minutes later before a foul, stale
smell began to waft through the confines of the covered wagon.

The smell made Bethany want to gag as she
slowly realized where it came from. One of the slaves had been
desperate enough to wet themselves.

Despite her determination not to degrade
herself to such a level, the next day Bethany followed the example
of the others and urinated on the rough boards of the wagon.

What would her mother say about her now? she
wondered as she tried to cry, but her body was still to
dehydrated.

The stream of her urine was small, just
enough to wet the back of her dress and make her feel the
uncontrollable shame of what she had just done.

And to think, had I been home we would have
been celebrating my birthday today, she thought bitterly.

Bethany lost count of the days and nights
that passed while she continued trapped in the putrid wagon. Long
after any of the slaves had stopped looking for a release, the
wagon began to take sharp turns as though it had entered a city.
Bethany tried to peak out through the flaps of the wagon’s
coverings, but all she could catch were the occasional glimpses of
passing pedestrians or stone buildings. She quickly slumped back
against her neighbor’s shoulder and let the wagon carry her
away.

A few minutes later the wagon came to a
sudden stop and the back flap of the wagon opened, bathing them in
spring sunlight. Like the other slaves, Bethany blinked her eyes
furiously, trying to give her eyes a chance to adjust to the
unusual brightness after countless days in the dark. The light made
her head ache, and though she tried to cover her eyes with her
hand, the slavers immediately started dragging the blinded slaves
out of the wagon. Before Bethany’s eyes could adjust, she began to
crawl toward the tailgate of the wagon.

Bethany dropped clumsily to the ground,
barely able to stand. She was in a small courtyard surrounded by
high walls topped with spikes. The other captives were shaking in
the heavy wind that whirled down among the walls. A gust of frigid
air hit her from the side, causing her to tumble into the mud.

“Get up,” demanded one of the slavers while
giving her a blow from some sort of staff, which forced her to
scramble back to her feet. Evidently, the slaver had no desire to
touch her. She couldn't blame him; she didn't want to touch herself
either.

“Get them cleaned up,” ordered the same man
to a plump woman in a warm shawl, and a heavy skirt that jerked
around her thick ankles in the fierce wind.