Bought

by Charissa Dufour

  “Excellent. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you not to be caught.”

  Cal’s hidden smile turned into a glare. “Not in the least.”

  With that he turned away to prepare for his journey into the disputed mountains.

   

  Chapter Two

  Princess Bethany woke to the feeling of every muscle in her body screaming at her. She groaned and tried to roll over, momentarily forgetting that she was tied to a group of other unfortunate souls. The movement pulled the rope around her neck even tighter, further irritating the raw skin. The man next to her grunted and shoved her away, bringing her fully awake.

  Her commotion woke the slavers, bringing the angry leader to his feet in record time. He grabbed the rope and jerked her to her feet, those nearest her following to keep themselves from being chocked. With a special twist and tug of the rope, the slaver released her from the group while the others kicked the slaves back to the ground.

  “You’ll learn your place, girl, high-born or not,” growled the leader.

  He thrust her to the ground with the force of a strong arm. Bethany landed on her knees, sharp stones making her cry out with the impact.

  “You think that hurts?” snapped the slaver.

  From some hook or loop on his belt, the slaver retrieved a long, flat paddle and quickly brought it down on her back. She screamed again, and repeated the sound with every blow until her throat grew raw and she lost her voice entirely. Even when she couldn’t scream any more, they continued to beat her.

  “Sir,” yelled one of the slavers as he grappled with the leader’s arm. “Nigel, ‘member whatcher always tellin’ us. Don’t damage the merchandise. She the pretty one, ‘member.”

  Nigel lowered the paddle and glared at her bruised back. “She’ll heal,” grumbled Nigel as he lowered the paddle and reattached it to his belt. “Get her back in line with the others.”

  The slavers dragged her back to the line and tied the rope around her inflamed neck. The other slaves glanced at her out of the corner of their eyes, unwilling to show her any marked signs of kindness though there was pity in their eyes now. Bethany tried to blink the tears out of her eye so that she could be ready for whatever happened next. If they moved out, she couldn’t cause another commotion. She had to be ready to walk again.

  But she didn’t think she could. How could they expect them to walk some more on nothing but river water? Bethany hadn’t eaten since breakfast two days ago. Her muscles shook from hunger, fatigue, and pain.

  You can do this. You’re a princess after all. The daughter of King Middin. You can do anything they demand of you, Bethany told herself firmly.

  She believed herself for the first few hours of marching as she ignore the cramping muscles of her legs, the sharp pain in her one shoeless foot, or the slow throb in her bruised back. They walked on for hours. At some point, Bethany lost her other leather slipper, not even contemplating retrieving it.

  My people will find me. My people will find me, she chanted with each dogged step until the small caravan suddenly emerged from a thick patch of woods at the top of a steep slope.

  The thought of being found fled from her mind as she looked out over the rolling hills and the distant shimmer on the horizon. She had never been taught to tell her direction of travel from the sun and other natural hints. Now, looking upon the unfamiliar sight of the southern foothills, she knew where the slavers had been leading her: into King Wolfric’s lands.

  A few more hours of walking and she would be beyond the reach of her people.

  Bethany began to wonder if she had already crossed into the enemy’s territory. If that were true, she would never get home. Unbidden by her, fresh tears sprung from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Was she lost to her father and mother? Would she never see her home again?

  That night they stopped in a little valley surrounded by thin birch trees, just beginning to bud with spring greenery. In any other situation, Bethany would have been enthralled with the beauty surrounding her. Instead, she collapsed on the soft turf, unable to move another inch.

  Finally, the slavers tossed a small lump of bread to each slave. Bethany gobbled up the precious food and even degraded herself to pick the dirty crumbs off her ruined dress. The princess looked down at her dirty, broken nails and wondered how she had gotten to this place. She knew the facts, the events, but a sense of astonishment and wonder still overwhelmed her.

  This couldn’t be the truth. She would wake up and it would all be some horrible dream. But her mind knew better. She would never have been able to invent such a fantasy, such a terrible, sordid fantasy.

  Bethany reclined with the others, feeling just as hungry as she had before the meager meal. Some hours later she woke to a rough shake only to discover that something was clamped over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the sound was muffled.

  “Make ‘nother peep and I skewer you,” whispered a voice she recognized to be one of the slavers.

  Bethany felt the tug of the rope around her neck as the slave next to her rolled over, giving them his back.

  The slaver began to fumble with the skirts of her once-elegant gown until his hands touched her bare legs. Bethany squirmed against the man’s weight, screaming as loud as she could despite the hand clamped over her mouth. It was getting hard to breathe; the man’s hand occasionally slipping until it plugged her nose too.

  Her eyes burned with the need to cry, but she was too dehydrated to do so, and her sore muscles screamed as she used them to fight the man. As she was growing too weak to continue the fight, the man’s body was yanked forcefully from her body.

  “What’re you thinking?” demanded Nigel.

  The leader jerked her attacker to his feet and drove a dagger into his gut. The man grunted, his eyes bulging for a second before he slumped to the ground at her feet.

  Bethany was still panting for breath when Nigel turned to glare at her.

  “You’re almost more trouble than you’re worth,” he said before turning back to the space he had been using as a bed.

  Bethany didn’t go back to sleep.

  It had been many hours before Sir Caldry could escape the demands of the army camp. When he finally did, he found himself glad to enjoy a reprieve from the stresses of his post, even if he was traveling farther away from home. A little time to himself would be a welcome respite.

  The sun was long set when he began to climb the foothills of the White Cap Mountains. He needed to stop for the night, but he found himself relaxed in the saddle, still happy to ride on. He heard a distant disturbance, waking him from a light doze, and decided to investigate.

  Cal dismounted, left Éimhin to graze in a little clearing, and snuck through the underbrush toward the noise. He dropped to his knees and crawled on his belly until he reached the edge of a clearing. From the light of their fire he spotted a long row of men and women, tied together by the neck. Surrounding the little fire slept a number of men: slavers.

  The knight’s eyes were drawn back to the row of slaves where one man was trying to take advantage of a female slave. Before Cal could slip away, unwilling to see what he could not stop, one of the other slavers climbed to his feet, grabbed the offender, and dragged him away from the struggling woman.

  “What’re you thinking?” asked the man who had saved the woman.

  A second later the offending man dropped to the ground, dead.

  “You’re almost more trouble than you’re worth,” said the slaver before returning to his bed.

  In the firelight, Cal could see the shape of the slave girl’s face. She was very pretty. If the slaver didn’t get her sold off soon, he would have even more trouble with his men. Serves him right, thought Cal as he crawled away from the scene.

  It took Cal five more days of solid riding before he found the site of the attack. Even after the rains and efforts of King Middin’s people, he could see signs of the battle. Broken arrows still littered the ground, the remain
s of an enormous fire spoke of how they dealt with the enemy bodies, broken branches hung from scarred trees where swords had bit deeply into the wood.

  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.

  Chapter Three

  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 her
o. 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.