by Kim Bowman
“I know you are a filthy Engel.” She spoke to him with a sharp tongue in her former language.
“Ahh, a smart one you are. What gave it away? My handsome good looks or the fairly bad tongue I don’t care enough to replicate?”
“The hideous clothing you wear, My Lord, and that atrocious dark hair on top of your fat head gave you away.”
In two strides he was at her side, jerking her upright enough to plant his palm across her cheek. Her head snapped back at the blow but she did not cry.
“I shall enjoy taking you, whore. I enjoy a feisty tart every once and awhile… especially one who fights back.”
At his release, Brynn placed her palm to her cheek, rubbing away the sting. “I’m not a whore. You have no right to assume so.”
She had heard of Westmore during her time spent in the tavern, although none had spoken his name. Some said he’d strategically set his sights on the Crossroads to use as a military outpost between the two neighboring countries, while others argued he only raided the villages to strengthen his army. He promised good Archaean men lands and wealth if they joined him. Defy him, and he killed anyone in his warpath who didn’t accept his sovereignty. He had been the sole cause of the many uprisings throughout the highlands, striking fear into the hearts of those not able to defend themselves. Westmore had arrived in the Crossroads not to rule it, but to take from it what he wanted — traveling soldiers looking for work and women to satisfy them.
“Tell me, where did a slave learn to speak such forthright Engel?”
Brynn spit at his face.
Infuriated, Westmore snagged a fistful of hair, pulling her close so that she would have no choice but to look him in the eye. “You are mine now, Archaean, do you understand that? It would be wise to treat your master with respect!”
Fighting back tears, Brynn tunneled her anger into her words. “You may have bought me, but I will never be yours. You may try to lay claim to my body, but my heart and soul belong to another. And the gods help you should you ever decide to touch me — I will slit your throat while you sleep. You have been warned, Lord Westmore.”
“Such bold words for someone in your position.”
“I have been in worse,” she muttered.
Westmore tossed his head back in a laugh. “Worse? Tell me, when was the last time a man raped you for nothing more than the pleasure of hearing you scream?” Her gasp only fueled him. He forced her against the closest wall, allowing no escape. Tracing her jaw line with a long, slender finger he seemed to soak up her features, memorizing each line and curve, the color of her eyes and the fury that lay behind them. He clamped a palm to her breast, and squeezed it, assessing the validity of the flesh. “Let us see if your words ring true,” he snarled, reaching for the hem of her skirts.
Brynn swung at him, throwing her weight behind her attack.
He overpowered her, his fingernails tearing the tender tissue of her inner thigh. Her screams fueled his madness as he verged deeper, forcing a finger between her apex. He slipped the finger inside her. “Ah, see how you yearn for me already.” Westmore released her, his fingers lingering on her fleshy thigh before she clamped them shut. “Yes, I shall enjoy you immensely. When I am finished with my campaigns, I will send for you. A pure virgin shall be my reward for a perfectly played out war.”
Brynn drew a ragged breath. “Remove your hands, My Lord.”
“Learn your place, whore.” His attention turned to his two guards. “Watch her. I have business to attend to.”
~~~~
A small ray of light flickered over swollen eyes from a night’s worth of tears. Rising, Brynn paced the empty floor. As she stood near a window contemplating whether or not she could wriggle through it, the locked door clicked and in walked Lord Westmore, bringing with him a cold gust of winter’s air. Wrapping her arms around her chest, she backed away from the window.
A strange man followed Westmore through the door. A thick beard and mustache covered most of his facial features, leaving only round bulbous eyes and a thin nose poking out from his bushy face. He carried a bag over his shoulder with stains matching those on his hands.
“You… take her arms.” Westmore pointed to a guard, who obediently rushed at Brynn to pin her arms behind her back.
She balked, throwing her weight against the guard, but was no match for the man’s wrenching grip.
“Must I teach you another lesson? There is no use in fighting me. Bare my brand so all will know you belong to me or slit your own throat. The choice is yours.” Lord Westmore tossed a dagger to the floor.
Brynn watched the blade clink across the stone, stopping only inches from her feet. She chose the dagger, without hesitation. She would gladly plunge the blade into her chest rather than be subject to another assault. But before she had a chance to declare her answer and reach for the dagger, a light breeze from the open door entangled itself through her skirts. It wrapped around her waist to play with her golden hair before settling in her nostrils.
His face flashed before her eyes, and for a moment, she could have sworn he was standing there beside her, lovingly caressing her cheek. “Marek?” she whispered to the air, closing her eyes to absorb the touch.
“What is your choice?”
“So be it.” Brynn chose life. The gods had given her a sign to trust them. They told her Marek was coming.
She was held against the floor, her arm askew, while the branding man inscribed Lord Westmore’s symbol of choice deep beneath her skin. The chosen spot was inconspicuous enough — hidden on the underside of her wrist, but noticeable in dark black ink. With each jab of the bone needle her thoughts drifted to Marek — his kisses had left their own brand on her skin. Brynn thought of his overwhelming desire to taste her, to love her. She reveled in it, losing her mind to the pleasure he’d given her to drown out the pain.
Soon her branding was finished, her wrist wrapped in a cloth, and Brynn was sent on her way. A guard followed close behind, watching her every step. As the days blurred by her scars healed, leaving the curving emblem of Lord Westmore for all to see. Most knew of its existence as word spread throughout the village, and no one dared speak to her. It was as if she had returned an outcast and unrecognizable, gruesomely maimed by the gods themselves.
~~~~
Brynn spent her evenings working for a few scarce tips in the tavern while her mornings and afternoons were occupied by Daman’s fields, tilling the softening spring soil and sewing seeds for his crops.
Brynn’s body had strengthened and filled out with the daily extra meal she received per Westmore’s instructions, but her spirit faded with the passing of the seasons.
“Oh, I am getting too old for this, I fear.” Abby stumbled behind the tiller.
“Just wiser, is all.” Brynn gave Abby a half-felt smile, wiping her neck with a dusty hand.
“That sweetness doesn’t fool me, girl. Help an old woman up.” Abby reached out to Brynn, who helped Abby to her feet. “The sun is setting. Get the horse, will you?”
Brynn unlatched the straps of the harness. “Here, you should ride.” Brynn steadied the horse, helping Abby to mount. “What are you looking at?” Brynn stuck out her tongue at her guard she affectionately referred to as “brute”. She quickly learned how to deal with her bodyguard by fueling his ale addiction until he could no longer stand. Brynn would pay one of the other women to flaunt at him until he vanished with the whore, not to be seen for a better part of the night.
“Owen tells me there will be a wedding during the full moon,” Abby stated, trying to fill the silence with useless blather as they traveled.
“I heard rumors. Owen doesn’t speak with me much anymore.” Brynn missed her friend. Before her branding, there had been talk of him buying her freedom and perhaps asking her to be his wife — she heard the women chat about her when they didn’t know she was listening. But now… he barely had the courage to look at her.
“Horse shit. Go ahead and speak to Owen. He misses you, I’m su
re of it.”
“He is afraid, Abby. Everyone is.” She was. Lord Westmore said he’d return for her in the spring. The season’s end drew ever closer with each passing day.
“They are afraid of his return, not of you. Don’t confuse the two, my dear.”
“We must leave this place,” whispered Brynn.
“Shhh!” Abby scolded, turning to see if the guard listened to their conversation. “Don’t let the brute hear you speak of such things. He will report it.”
“Oh, but we will,” Brynn countered. “We will be free of this place, I know it.”
Chapter Twelve
We Will Go Home
Daman’s
Late autumn, seven months earlier
“Marek!” She screamed for him, struggling through the archway. Daman tightened his grip around her arm and jerked her free of the threshold, pulling her deeper into the darkness. “Please, I am begging you, don’t leave me! Take me with you, Marek, I promise to behave. I’m sorry for what I said! You’re making a mistake!”
“You wouldn’t be the first!” A deep scowl hardened his mouth. Marek had never been one to second-guess himself. He twisted his steps, but all that stood before him was an empty black hole. He bellowed in frustration, tossing his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “The gods be damned to hell!” He kicked at the dirt, continuing his cursing tirade as he made his way to the tavern to drink away his aggravation and disappointment.
Marek downed several mugs of ale at the bar before joining his men at their table. He listened to their prattle and stories until he could stand it no longer. “Come on, lads, let us leave this place.”
“But we have just settled in! Come on, Marek, have some fun.” Gavin beckoned another pitcher to be brought to his table.
“Come, join us, brother. Take your frustrations out in the ale. Wallow in your own self pity if you like, but don’t take it out on us… especially because of a woman.” Ronan clutched Marek’s shoulder, then slid a frothy mug to his brother.
“I would like to get the money I am owed, aye?”
“Och, tomorrow, lad.” Gavin downed the rest of his ale as the barmaid approached. “Fill it up,” he told her, hiccupping. “What a good lass.” Gavin strained around Aiden to watch her sway away. “Did you see that?” He took a long gulp, wiped his mouth, and grinned at her from across the room. “She smiled at me.” He rose from his chair, a bit tipsy, and chuckled as he stumbled sharply to the side. He pawed the air for balance, and finding nothing, careened head first to the floor.
Ronan kicked Gavin slightly with his toe. “She’s not smiling now, you drunkard.”
“He cannot ride like that.” Aiden took a swig of ale to keep from laughing.
Marek finished his drink then stood. “Then tie him to the damned horse. Come on, pay your tab and let us be gone.”
“You need to find yourself under a woman before your cock explodes. A simple fix for your foul mood. Go find the one smiling after Gavin. She was willing enough for him, and well, you seem like a better prize right about now.” Ronan laughed, jabbing his brother in the gut with his elbow.
~~~~
The journey home without the girl tagging behind did indeed prove to be quicker, but he missed her. Her eyes haunted his sleepless nights. Dreams left him restless and cold from sweat. Many nights he imagined she was beneath him, but would awake to find only darkness. The men pushed forward for days on end. The only detour during their travels was stopping briefly near one of Brockington’s outposts to collect their fee for disposing of Lord Dugray. A hacked off lock of the man’s scalp proved death and they were rewarded with their share of coins. Spirits lifted and their pace quickened as they passed familiar territory. Marek could taste the sea salt when a misty breeze forced him to pull his cloak tighter.
Snow would fall soon. Digging in his heels, Marek spurred his mount ever faster.
Five days later, the group reached the mouth of the valley hugging their homes. Their tiny ocean village awaited their return just over the peak of one last hill.
To Marek’s dismay, there was no welcoming party, no children running to greet them at their sighting. Instead only the scorched remains mingled in between a few new crofts scattered across the dull horizon.
“What in hell?” Ronan’s bewildered gaze matched his brother’s.
Urging their mounts onward, the men cantered toward the seemingly abandoned village.
Every scenario possible ran through Marek’s mind as he paced his horse through the village. Recognizing the largest of the remains as what was once the meeting hall, Marek dismounted and worked his way through fallen timbers to the entrance. The door was missing and fire had scorched most of the walls, but the structure was still relatively sound and standing. “Hello?” he called, half expecting someone to jump from behind the rubble to greet him. His voice only echoed off the walls. Frustrated, Marek kicked a chunk of ash. It crumbled on impact.
“What happened here, brother?” questioned Ronan.
“The proper question would be, ‘Where is everyone, Ronan?” Marek’s growing concern turned to his own wife and child.
Ronan tried to comfort him. “Perhaps they escaped the raid. Maybe there was just a fire that took wind and latched on to thatch. There are rebuilt crofts here. Someone had to build them.”
Marek returned to his mount. “Let us take a look around, aye?”
The men spread out to search the entire village, leaving no cranny overlooked. Shortly after Marek began his search, he heard his brother’s excited shout riding on the gust of a sea breeze.
“Lads! Over here!”
The urgency in Ronan’s voice made the hairs on the back of Marek’s neck stand tall. A shiver ran up his spine and he veered his horse toward the voice, intercepted by Gavin and Aiden. The four met on the crest of a hill overlooking the shoreline with mouths agape at the sight of two funerals below.
The villagers faced the sea, watching two bodies burn on a raised ceremonial platform. Marek recognized many faces, but realized many were missing. He practically fell from his saddle in dismount, scanning the small crowd for his family. There in the back with head hung low, a weathered woman caught his eye. “Mother?”
At his voice, the head perked, turning in recognition. At the sight of her two sons, Murron gathered her skirts and rushed toward them, disbelief radiating from her face. Her arms wrapped around them both as she wept tears of joy. “And all this time I thought you were dead. Oh, my sons…” Pulling their heads down to hers, she kissed them both before beginning her motherly prodding, searching for injuries and missing limbs. She raised their arms, turned them in circles, and clucked after Ronan for allowing such a serious injury.
“Mother, we are fine, and in one piece. All is accounted for.”
“Praise the gods!” Murron raised her face to the sky briefly before her palm connected with Ronan’s scruffy cheek. “That is for leaving us.” Next, she cuffed Marek and chided, “And that is for my suffering.”
Marek rubbed his stinging cheek, examining faces. “Where is everyone?” he asked. “What has happened?”
“Our numbers are few. We were attacked by an Engel raiding party. Men are swearing fealty to that Lord Westmore along the coast. He promises land and riches, but—” Her words were cut short as Marek left her side. “Marek.” She reached out for him. “She is not there, my son!” Murron grunted as she shifted her weight from one hip to the other, following her eldest son.
Marek’s home graced the shoreline. It wasn’t much, but it provided shelter for his family. He raced for it now. Every imaginable thought flooded through his mind as he galloped the overgrown trail. Heavy stones seemed to have been placed on his chest — trying to catch his breath was impossible as he rounded the last hill before setting eyes on what was once his home.
Nestled quietly in the shadows was a charred building overrun with weeds and the remains of summer’s growth. Autumn’s leaves huddled in crevices, ready for a long winter
. The wooden fence he had spent so many summer days constructing had fallen into disrepair. Marek pushed aside what his gut was screaming and swallowed the burning sensation in his throat.
“Nya?” he choked. Hearing no reply, he hastened his steps ever closer. A shard of pottery crunched beneath his boot as he approached the entrance.
“Ewan? Da is home.” Hesitant, he took a deep breath and entered the remains. A floor board cracked under his weight and Marek took a leap back, stumbling into a scorched wall. It fell to the ground, spewing dust and ashes into the air. His breathing quickened, his heart settling in a steady pace. “Nya, answer me!”
“They are gone, son,” said Murron.
“What?” Marek didn’t want to listen as he pawed his way through the debris, searching for his family. “Where is my son?”
“We burned their bodies and buried the ashes on the hill overlooking the sea. The spot that Nya loved so much seemed appropriate.”
Marek shook his head, pursing his lips. “No.” He refused to hear the words. He had asked her to be his wife on that very spot. “No.”
“I am so sorry, Marek…”
His mother couldn’t comfort him. Hell, he couldn’t comfort himself. Everything he fought so hard for was gone. Anger and heartache consumed him. Marek picked up a nearby rock, and hurled it into the rubble.
He screamed.
He cursed the gods.
A gut wrenching sickness overwhelmed him, bringing him to his knees. Crumpling to the ground, Marek covered his head with his hands and cried out in anguish. A tortuous wail escaped from deep within him. If only he had been there, his little boy would be running into his arms at that very moment. He would be kissing his wife — the celebration long overdue.
