North & South

by K T Munson

  “I will never truly leave you,” she said holding the child against her chest as she turned to speak in all directions. “So long as I am in your hearts, I live on in Roanoak. With time Roanoak will open its gates to the Vargosians and in turn they shall open the way for us. I may become the Queen of Vargos, but I will always be your princess.”

  They cheered, and she smiled at them, many coming forward to touch her clothes and whisper prayers. She paused when she saw him; his dark tunic stuck out against the sunshine colors of her people. Him and the shadow they called his knight. She met his stare until the babe in her arms took hold of her veil and tugged.

  Ashira could not help but laugh as she kissed the child a second time before untangling her hold and returning the infant to her mother. She had always thought to be a mother. Yet in her mind it had always been here, amongst her people and family. When she passed the child over she glanced towards where he had been only to find he was gone.

  An illusion? She wondered as she touched those around her wishing for her blessing. The Rohan bloodline was considered blessed. They never got sick, none of them died from childbirth but instead of old age. Her mother had not carried any Rohan blood. It was common for those within the Rohan family to marry cousins, in an attempt to strengthen their bloodline. Until King Highlander and his war, she had always thought that was her fate.

  She should be grateful that she remained in the south; fate could have taken her even farther from her home. She could have gone into the even more foreign north or even into the dunes; though any place but home made her feel forlorn. She focused on Missari, her light brown hair bound in a single butterfly clip.

  As she left the courtyard, having said farewell to those who came to her and seeing that food was brought to them for their journey, she slowed to stand next to Missari. The girl looked up at her in surprise as she stood next to her. Ashira noticed the girl also wore earrings in the shape of butterflies.

  “Why would you wish to leave your home and go far away?” Ashira asked, walking close to the petite girl.

  “I am the fourth of seven girls,” Missari answered, “but you are but one. You have no sisters and only an Aunt who hasn’t been to the Royal Palace in many years. I wish to be a companion to you, a sister. I have always admired you, and I knew if I came you would accept me.”

  “I will not turn you away, you are correct,” Ashira admitted, tipping her head to the side. “However, I would ask that you take the night to remember your family and consider them. Once you leave, it will not be so easy to change your mind and return. I can keep you safe only so long as you remain with me.”

  “I understand,” her voice was subdued but she showed no sign of changing her mind.

  “Good. If your mind is not changed, seek out Laserah, she will find a place for you.” Ashira responded before stopping in front of her father’s temporary study.

  “I will,” Missari said as Ashira slipped inside.

  Her father was sitting on his knees, a brush in his hand as he wrote. His left hand held his long sleeve. She stood watching his long strokes for a moment, remembering Mohit’s enthusiasm for calligraphy. She closed the door which roused her father from his work.

  “Daughter,” he said warmly, he had been much warmer since this war had seen its end.

  “Father,” Ashira said walking into the room.

  “I was going to send for you when I was done here,” Rodrick, the king of Roanoak said, his voice no longer holding the same warmth.

  “I saw King Highlander leave,” Ashira said, knowing that she was talking to her king.

  “A very shrewd negotiator,” Rodrick said his voice full of respect. “I am content he will make you a suitable husband.”

  “I understand,” she said softly, careful to conceal her turbulent emotions. “When shall I be wed?”

  “Once all the preparations are finalized,” he answered resting back on his heels, “A week’s time.”

  Ashira nodded, words were too difficult. It was too soon, she was not ready to face this marriage. She swallowed all her misery and uncertainties down. She pressed a smile on her face while speaking to her aged father so that he might hear it in her voice.

  “I shall leave you to your writings.” Ashira said, leaving without being dismissed.

  Chapter 15

  Hadrian

  They came to another village that was burned and razed, and then another. Death smelled of charred flesh and ash. These people had built homes in Lorian and hoped to live long peaceful lives. That was the way of Lorian, peace before anything, and these Blood Riders had taken it from them in fire and blood. Vica remained quiet, only voicing her wish to bury the dead but she also understood that if they slowed their hope of rescuing anyone lessened with each stop they made.

  He had made a choice that day among the wreckage and to the dying old woman. Vica had pressed him for it, but in the end the choice had been his. His search for a new face and a new faith would have to wait. He had a feeling the gods would not care for one man’s search for faith. Yet he had found purpose in those ruins and his wandering had been stayed in the process.

  He felt as though Vica had given his life meaning again, the moment she had made that promise. She may not have known how lost he felt, that his choices lacked ambition or meaning. She was the best decision he had made, and he had decided to protect the girl for what she had given him. Flesh and choices. That is what they were, but they had lost their appeal before her. By no means was he a young man, but he had been a lost one. She was his savior in a way and he would see this mission through.

  They were not far from the closed city of priests and priestesses when they caught the first signs of their recently left camp. They would only be a day’s ride ahead, if that. He squatted down and touched deep tread marks. The captives were being held in wagons, and from the weight they were full. There was also shuffling footsteps, which meant they were bound.

  “There are many and more here than you thought,” Hadrian said standing.

  “That is good right?” She asked leaning forward in the saddle to look at the tracks.

  “It is and it is not,” he answered walking ahead.

  Vica cleared her throat to prompt him into explaining; a habit she had taken to indicate she didn’t understand. It was defiance on her part, but he allowed it.

  “She will be harder to find but once we find her it is unlikely they will notice she is gone,” Hadrian explained, and she nodded her head in acceptance.

  They continued as they started; in silence. Hadrian enjoyed the silence of their company and he used it to plan. They would need every single strategy covered, his mind rolled over every possible situation. He would need to prepare for every possible outcome. He did not want to draw his sword and be forced to use it. Besides the mercy kill, he had not killed since the Wildlands, many years prior. He could kill but did not relish the task.

  It was nearly evening before they caught up with their prey. Men carefully scouted ahead and behind but it was easy to hide the two of them. They followed the scout back to see where he made his report. From the top of the hill they saw the raiding party had joined with its larger group. They could have faced the smaller party alone, but all seventy-seven appeared to be accounted for.

  “It is not good,” Hadrian managed and Vica shook her head; she could see it too.

  “We have come too far to turn back now,” Vica said, her head still swaying side to side.

  “Our deaths wait down below,” Hadrian said moving back from the only hill higher than the camp.

  He made it a few steps before he turned back. Vica wasn’t there; she had started down the hill. A curse fell from his lips as he went after her. She had made her choice and his with it; he would not abandon the girl, though reason said he should do otherwise. She moved fast for an untrained girl, and nearly silent in the moonlight. It took him a few moments to see where she had headed.

  The wagon sat filled to the gills with captured villager
s. Women were huddled in one, and children in another. The men were chained and staked to the ground and each other. He could see straight away that she did not go for the men but the women and children. It would lead only to chaos and butchery. The little fool was delivering them to their own deaths, instead of freedom.

  Hadrian paused only a moment, taking a steady breath before he drew his sword and made his way towards the men. The sword could break any iron; it was born of fire and sorcery. How else would the blade cut so well? He had taken it many years ago, a lifetime ago.

  He set the sword down before creeping up behind the first guard and breaking his neck. Dragging his body back, he retrieved his sword. The songs from the camp were drunk and merry but not everyone was partaking in the festivities. The men did not know he was there to help until his sword severed their bounds. He struck three more free before anyone took notice.

  Then, the shouting started, and he pointed at the wagon with the weapons. “Arm yourself.”

  He broke another link and two more went free before the horde was upon him. The first was a bald man with a long beard. Hadrian’s blade bit through his sword and his belly. The rest saw through their bloodlust and slowed. Not many weapons could cut through steel and iron as though it was bread for the dinner table.

  “For free men,” Hadrian said, hoping that Vica was seeing the women away as he distracted them.

  There were whispers as they circled around him. A man pushed his way to the front. He was bald, and his head was covered in tattoos. He was missing two of his teeth the rest were black and rotted. He spat on the ground when he came to the front of the group. Hadrian could see the madness in his eyes.

  Behind him the men held stolen shields and spears while others hurried to release the others. The bald man roared and charged at him. Hadrian did not turn to see if they followed, this was an honorable death. He had made the choice to die so that innocents might live. So that Vica might live to see all the wonders of the world he had experienced.

  He sliced and hacked, his sword unyielding as it passed through armor and flesh. The bald man struck a blow to the sword that chipped his own fine sword. Hadrian was rusty so the left hook caught him on his temple. He stumbled and just narrowly raised the sword when the bald man brought his own sword round again.

  Hadrian was careful, he had to watch the bald one and the men who were pushing past to get at him and his freed men. It was many blows later that Hadrian fell to one knee. The ferocity behind the blow drove him into the mud, but the sword kept him safe. Hadrian pushed off and drove the sword towards the bald man’s belly. He hopped just out of range but it put him off balance so Hadrian swung wide.

  He felt the bald man’s sword tear into arm as his sword split the bald man’s skull like an egg. Hadrian wrenched free as the other men looked at each other and backed up. The bald one had clearly been their leader. The free men were running into the trees; those that did not, lay dead at his feet. The women too, as he slunk back into the forest, holding his sword like a pointing finger.

  He spied six women helped someone up the side of the hill, he moved through a daze. He put the sword back in its sheath as he approached. Instantly he saw the pale girl was Vica. There was blood matted on her head; and she was clearly unconscious.

  “There is a horse just ahead,” Hadrian said. Those that remained of the Seventy-Seven Saviors came up the hill in pursuit of him, leaving the safety of their camp. “Take her, for your life is yours because of her. Be free.”

  The women nodded, but one said, “Come with us.”

  “Take her,” he repeated and turned back. “She must live, but I will die this day.”

  He walked down towards the men who parted as he was amongst them. They no longer chased the woman as they were too weary of his sword. All men, all marked, all once slaves he could finally see as his arm grew heavy and his fingers cold. He raised his sword and turned in a circle.

  “You have all tasted the chains, why do you wish them on others?” He asked and saw as the crowd parted for them.

  A handsome young man with black hair and sharp eyes stood from the fire as though there had been no battle. “We cannot appreciate freedom until it is taken from us. I was making them stronger.”

  “I would not wish enslavement on any man, woman, or child,” Hadrian replied as the sword swayed.

  Hadrian took a wavering step and fell to his knees blood slick on his arm. The boy walked forward, his face carefully calm; the worst sort of madness in his eyes. Emptiness. They were devoid of hope and any belief in goodness existing in the world hummed like sad melody in the pools of his eyes.

  “You are a monk or emulate them,” he guessed coming forward and looking down on Hadrian. “They do not understand freedom. Not like we do, freedom comes at a price. We paid the toll and now we wish to give others the joy. The clean smell of the air, the softness of woman’s willing flesh, and taking something that belongs to others because we can, are all blessings we wish to bestow.”

  Hadrian felt the sword slip from his fingers as he slumped to the side. He whispered something so softly that the boy had to lean down to hear it. The boy had put his fingers around the sword and brought it up, ready to strike, but curiosity got the best of him and he drew closer.

  Hadrian grasped the young man’s shoulder and thrust a knife through the bottom of his mouth. “Burn in the darkness.”

  His hand slick with the boy’s blood he slumped back and felt a different kind of darkness take him.

  Chapter 16

  Celia

  Celia wore so many jewels she was likely to tip over if the breeze was great enough. She wore pearls and rubies, the two most commonly used to signify purity; pearl for innocence and rubies for an untouched maidenhood. Though the second was a lie she dare not mention it. She had been washed, perfumed, fed delicacies, and covered in finery.

  It was all to make her a fine purchase for the patrons of the Satin Pillow. The last was a veil of red; the man who removed the veil would have her blood. Too bad she had already lost the blood on Harrison’s member; she could still remember the excitement when his tip had been covered with her maiden’s blood that night, nearly a year earlier. What a little fool she had been.

  It was evening before he came for her. She had been made to wear the outfit for an hour while she waited. The women had left one by one to enter the main area, until she was left alone. They had all laughed, wondering when the last virgin had come through.

  Vovo strode in as though he was on air and called out to her, “My little treasure, you shall make me proud tonight.”

  “I shall try,” Celia said standing.

  She held her hand up for him to lead her into the room, but instead of doing so he gripped her hand and whispered, “You had better or I shall return you to the red room.”

  Celia’s head snapped around, but she kept herself carefully silent. He held her hand in his as he led her into the room. The jewelry chimed as she walked, slowed by the weight of the jewels and clothes. When she entered the room, every man turned to look at her. Virgins were not only worth a lot, they were also rare to see in Ostapor. Even if they could not afford her they could gaze upon her and whisper that they saw the virgin of the Satin Pillow.

  There were only two or three virgins a year in all of Ostapor and Vovo had insisted she was beautiful. She was pretty, Harrison had told her as much many times. She did not think herself some great beauty but the higher the price the better. The women had told her if she received what Vovo had paid for her in a single night she would have more freedom as did all the girls that he considered good investments. It was her intent to do so.

  They soon left the larger area and entered a smaller one behind a thick curtain. Men sat smoking cigars and drinking expensive wine. There were seven, seven had paid to see her and bid on her. She glanced between them timidly, taking note of each one; two fat men in fine silks, two younger men with dark eyes, an old man who licked his lips, a tall thin woman with long nails a
nd sharp eyes, and an older distinguished man. Instantly, she knew she must have the last for he scared her the least.

  “Welcome gentlemen and lady,” Vovo said parading her before them, “Tonight, for the first time in five years a virgin has come amongst the residents of the Satin Pillow. I shall start the bidding at 500 gold pieces.”

  “Let us see her,” the fat one said licking the grease off of his fingers.

  Vovo stopped and released her hand to lift the veil up and when he did she smiled at the distinguished man. She was careful and shy about it, immediately dropping her gaze as though she was timid. The woman stood and came closer, gazing upon her, but Celia carefully kept her head down.

  “See, as beautiful as I claimed,” Vovo said with a smile.

  “She is a pretty little thing, but I would hardly call her beautiful,” the woman said, and Celia raised her eyes to look at her, glanced at the man she wanted to buy her and back to the ground.

  “I entreat you to consider me worthwhile,” Celia said carefully and tried to keep her voice airy.

  “I am happy to see she is not too shy to talk,” the woman said with a laugh. “For there will be no time for inhibition in the bedroom.”

  “You must pay for her first,” Vovo reminded the woman who took a drag from a long stick she held between two fingers.

  “I will pay the five hundred for her,” the other fat man said.

  “I will pay one thousand gold pieces for her,” the woman said.

  “I will pay two thousand for her,” one of the younger men said, “I have not enjoyed a virgin in a while.”

  As so the bidding went, up and up until she was worth four thousand. Yet Celia knew it was not enough. She had cost five thousand, and she needed what little freedom she could get. So, when the bidding halted she panicked. She had to do something, something to endear them to her and bring in enough to cover her initial cost. The last bid had been with one of the young men and for some reason he made her skin crawl. Perhaps it was because he reminded her of Vovo.