Bought

Bought

By Charissa Dufour

© 2014 by Charissa Dufour

All rights reserved.

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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,
knight 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?”