Captivity
Authors: Ann Herendeen
Tags: #kidnapping, #family, #menage, #mmf, #rescue, #bisexual men
ECLIPSIS
Book Five of Lady Amalie’s memoirs
by Amalie, Lady Aranyi
edited by Ann Herendeen
Copyright © 2011 by Ann Herendeen
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either products of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely
coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the
author or publisher.
Smashwords Edition: November 2011
Cover image by Danielle Jacobs with T.T. Thomas
HERENDEEN
Harper Paperbacks (Kindle and Nook versions also
available):
Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander (2008)
Pride/Prejudice (2010)
Lambda Literary Award finalist, Bisexual Fiction
category
E-Books
ECLIPSIS: Lady Amalie’s Memoirs
Book One:
Recognition
Book Two:
Choices
Book Three:
Wedding
Book Four:
Birth
Book Five:
Captivity
Book Six:
Retribution
(December 2011)
Short Story
A Charming Ménage
In
Gay City
Volume 4: “At Second Glance”
THE AUTHOR/EDITOR
Ann Herendeen is the author of two Harper Paperbacks:
Phyllida and the Brotherhood of Philander
(2008); and
Pride/Prejudice
(2010), a Lambda Literary Award finalist for
Bisexual Fiction. Her short story, “A Charming Ménage,” will appear
in the 4
th
GAY CITY anthology: At Second Glance,
published later this year. She lives in Brooklyn.
www.annherendeen.com
CHAPTER 1
“H
alt!” The shout shattered
the stillness of the summer morning, ringing out from the edge of
the forest that narrowed our trail to single file. “If you value
your lives, halt and give up your weapons!”
They were on us before anyone had a chance to
react. Bandits—an army of them, swarming silently now, down from
the steep embankments on both sides of the trail. With swords
drawn, knives and daggers at the ready, in belts and boot tops and
in teeth, the outlaws forced our little group to a standstill,
unhorsing and disarming our four guards without having to strike a
blow. We were neatly ambushed, at this natural choke point along
the trail to Aranyi.
During the seconds of slow motion that
precede disasters, I had time for one session of “This is all my
fault.” How many of Dominic’s warnings had I laughed off in the
past six years? How many screaming fights over my Terran
foolhardiness had we resolved, in our enjoyably combative marriage,
with even louder reconciliations? Now, incited by corrosive
jealousy, I had finally done it—put my children at risk.
I had been riding uncovered in the summer
sunshine, soaking up the energy and the warmth, my inner eyelids
lowered in protection. But as if to emphasize my carelessness, I
had erected strong shields around my
crypta
, blocking all
incoming thoughts. Telepathy can be a burden on the spirit; I had
not wanted to spend a long day’s ride listening to any resentful
thoughts I might pick up from the guards or the women, annoyed at
my sudden decision to travel home without my husband or a suitable
escort.
If only I had not shielded my mind, I must
have sensed the eager anticipation of so many hostile men lying in
wait.
Surely, I thought, as tears stung my eyes, I would have
become aware of the bandits while we were far enough away that we
could have turned around, avoided the trap, made it back to safety.
A gift, we ‘Graven call
crypta
, a real justification for our
noble status. Yet I had scorned to use my gift, for silly personal
considerations, when it would have been most valuable.
Then the clock was running again in real
time. The barriers removed, my
crypta
merely confirmed what
my eyes and ears had already shown me. To a man, the bandits
projected thoughts of triumph: relief that the number of my guards
was as small as they could have wished; an edgy confidence now that
the first big step of some bold plan had been taken.
I looked first for Val. My son, a couple of
months short of his second birthday, did not yet know something was
wrong. He was half-asleep, dozing in the carrying pack on the back
of his nursemaid, Isobel. The slow jogging pace had worked like a
lullaby on my usually restless, observant boy. With any luck he
might remain blissfully ignorant of our close call.
Jana, my daughter, was all too well aware of
the situation. I could sense her mixture of fear and excitement at
this unexpected development. Everything military and violent
fascinated her. At five-and-a-half, she rode her own pony, and had
been accepted into the good graces of the leader of our little
troop, an avuncular and experienced guard who enjoyed answering her
barrage of questions. Now she displayed the coolness of a trained
warrior, looking down without expression at her friend and his
fellow guard, both lying prone in the dirt, their swords and
daggers appropriated, each with a bandit’s muddy boot pressing on
his neck. Jana, as her father had taught her, made no sound and sat
very still, doing nothing to attract attention in a battle she
could not win.
I did not have that luxury. It went against
my nature, but I hoped that if I identified myself, let the outlaws
know the prize they had inadvertently taken, they would leave us in
peace.
They should know without my having to say
anything
. If my silver inner eyelids were not reason enough,
there was another forceful argument for the bandits to treat us
with respect. The guards’ gray uniforms and our saddle blankets, my
cloak and the household women’s dresses, all had the Aranyi cipher
woven into their fabric in heavy, contrasting black. In a world
where literacy is rare, the stylized “A” encircled by the Greek
meander design proclaims Aranyi to even the most ignorant
backwoodsman. These northern borderlands, including the trail we
had been riding along and the woods in which our captors had been
lying in wait, belong to the Aranyi Realm, whether through outright
ownership, or by alliance.
No one, not even desperate men, could wish to
start a war with Aranyi. All it would earn them was certain defeat,
at great cost. While I supposed the bandits would rob us after
catching us so easily in their trap, they would know not to kill or
hurt anyone, guard or maid, who could claim my husband’s
protection.
I looked behind me. Our two rear guards had
suffered the same fate as the two in front: disarmed, forcibly
dismounted and pressed face down in the mud. One was struggling.
Wilmos, the housekeeper’s son, the one man from our household left
to guard me in Dominic’s absence, wanted to uphold Aranyi honor. I
could read the thought in his head, and I acted at once to stop
it.
“No dead heroes,” I shouted. My voice sounded
weak and quavering in the unnatural silence of so many armed men
holding themselves in readiness.
Better a live coward than a dead hero
.
I had remembered the old Terran proverb when we had been preparing
to set out from Stefan Ormonde’s manor, and had tried to put a
positive interpretation on it. One must never imply that Eclipsian
men lack courage, not even in casual talk. I had merely quoted the
last two words as a warning to the four men who would guard us,
explaining that I did not expect them to risk their lives on the
ill-advised journey of a disobedient wife. “Please,” I said, “dead
heroes cannot help me.”
The bandits were watching me after my
outburst, smirking at my high voice and small size. I pitched my
voice as low as it would go. “There is no need to fight. I am sure
these good men—” I tried not to sound too sarcastic. “—will not
wish to harm anyone in the service of
‘Gravina Aranyi
.” I
stressed the name and gulped in a shaky breath.
There was no reaction. As the ominous silence
continued, I became increasingly worried. My initial panic had been
controlled by the thought that once they knew who I was we would be
safe. My announcement of my identity had not produced the result I
had hoped for. They believed me—I could not doubt the evidence of
my
crypta
—but there was no fear or awe. In fact, it was as
if they had expected to catch ‘Gravina Aranyi, and were
experiencing quiet satisfaction in success.
I reached my left hand slowly and furtively
toward the sheath on my belt, hoping to extract my prism-handled
dagger without attracting attention. With the bright sunlight, I
would have the full range of power at my disposal. My gift should
allow me, a small middle-aged woman, to match strength with a band
of outlaws. Or so I hoped. It was best to have the dagger ready, in
case an opportunity arose to use it.
Forty-some men. I counted quickly, trying to
calm myself by a simple task. And there were more I couldn’t see,
lurking behind the trees. In my innocent imagining, fed by Terran
romances and Holonet dramas, “bandits” had sounded glamorous, like
pirates. The illusion died a quick death. The men were filthy,
their stink, even outdoors, enveloping our little group in a miasma
of foulness in the warm summer air. Their hair was long and matted,
greasy beards and mustaches partially concealing scarred and
spotted faces. They wore rags, the remains of what had once been
ordinary shirts and breeches, now held together with pieces of rope
or cord, encrusted skin showing through large rents and holes. Only
their weapons and the leather scabbards and sheaths were in good
condition, the essential tools of their “trade” kept in top working
order.
My moment of confidence died a quick death.
Forty men, maybe closer to fifty, were too many for me to overpower
all by myself. Any kind of force field or controlled beam of light
I could create would be limited in range to those closest to me. I
could probably kill one, maybe two, by using a directed bolt of
electricity to stop the heart. Then my strength would be drained
after such an effort, leaving our four vulnerable guards to rescue
three women and two children from the remaining bandits—almost the
entire group—who would be out for blood. Our only hope was
negotiation.
We had little enough worth taking. The
horses, and the guards’ few weapons, were our most valuable
possessions. Even if the bandits stripped us of our clothes which,
judging from the men’s ragged condition, they would be eager to
have, it was high summer. We would be able to walk to help before
the night’s snowfall began, and were in no danger of freezing. We
had passed a small farm a couple of miles back, and the Ladakh
estate, its connection to Aranyi reinforced by the birth we had
been celebrating, was not far ahead.
The men surrounded us on all sides, still not
talking. They stared at me boldly, not lowering their eyes as is
proper with ‘Graven, and pressed close to my maid, Katrina, drawn
to her pretty face and slender figure. Some made faces at Val as he
watched fearfully over Isobel’s shoulder. He was awake now, his
innocent hazel eyes opened large and round, their childish
milky-white inner eyelids lowered in reflexive protection at this
sudden strange apparition. I nudged my horse closer to Isobel’s, so
Val would know where I was, smiled at him and whispered what I
hoped sounded like reassuring words.
Another bandit sauntered down the embankment.
He had the unmistakable swagger that marks a leader, one pleased
with his men and himself. His eyes were concealed behind the bill
of a grimy wool huntsman’s cap pulled low over his ears, and a
piece of cloth so filthy it was impossible to guess what color it
had once been was wrapped around the lower half of his face. He was
dressed in the same rags as his men, but over them he wore a heavy
leather coat, shiny with grease and stained with sweat, but
serviceable.
The kind of coat Dominic wears into battle
, I
couldn’t help thinking to myself in surprise.