The king put on a brave face as he turned and watched many of his supplies float away. He looked at the backpack draped over his saddle and it was nearly empty, supply compartments were now full of water rather than the provisions of moments earlier. The commander was next, but instead of following the king’s lead, he moved up the riverbank where he found a shallow path across. Even as shallow as the new crossing was, all the men were dripping wet and frozen to the core when they reached the south side of the river.
On the south side of the river, nothing was dry. No one was warm. They peeled away the wet clothing until they were naked, brushed away the wetness from their skin with dry snow, and worked quickly to build a fire. They shivered and wondered if they had been lied to: maybe hell wasn’t full of fire. Maybe hell was cold and froze your very bones—it seemed like hell. Soon they were thawing out near a bustling fire, and though none said it, it cultivated in the shaky soil of everyone’s mind and was ready to spring off every tongue: the king was going to get them killed.
The king had worse problems than the disappointment, the lack of confidence from his men. He had lost the scroll Sierida had given him, and he couldn’t remember the name of the dark prince they were traveling to confront, only that he lived near the city of Pinsk. He laid his clothes near the fire and didn’t share his worry with his men. “You,” he said to a rather plump soldier who had warmed up faster than the others, “prepare a warm meal. Everyone else, lay your clothes out to dry near the fire and prepare for a cold night! We move at daybreak. Commander, a word.”
The commander stood, his limbs still rigid from the cold. He moved as a clunky ice statue toward the king. “Yes, sir?”
“Is anything dry?”
“No.”
“Get the men in dry clothes as soon as possible. Prepare a sentry rotation for the camp. If the rumors are true, we’re on the outskirts of horror country. Ensure the sentries have dry clothing before the others. Stakes and alarm horns, too. Pick the men that seem the most alert, but don’t let them fill their bellies. If any are derelict in their duty, they put us all in harm’s way.”
“Yes, my king.” The commander sensed uneasiness not in the words, but the tone of the king’s order and asked, “Is everything alright?”
The king selected a warm stone near the fire and rolled it in his hands to warm them. His toes were stiff, still frozen, and the feeling had not returned. He feared they might be frostbitten. He ignored the commander’s question. “Have the men check their feet, too. The river was far more challenging than I had anticipated. A small setback, but don’t let the opinion from the men mark this as evidence of our future path. Any questions of concerns from them should be answered with: we are on course and advancing nicely. First thing at daylight, send a party to hunt game. We will need a hearty breakfast to increase morale.”
“Yes, my king.”
Throughout the afternoon, and into the evening, the main fire migrated to several fires around the camp, where the men huddled between them using them to buffer and escape the cool air. The fires’ flames flicked toward the dark sky above, heated their skin, and warmed their bones. The king watched them from the edge of the camp. Some of the troop would disappear behind a wall of white smoke, a kind of white smoke that created a dull reflection and clung to everything with an oily pine resin, only to reappear smiling and chatting. The warmth of the fire and warm soup made of turnips and garlic in their bellies improved their outlook and they were generally in good spirits. As clothes would dry, they would dress, and when the moon hung high in the pure black sky, they slept.
Later that night, the alarm horns blasted and the king, with his stake and pike in hand, was the first to rush to the sentry line. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Two of his men lay in the snow, bleeding and gurgling from wounds in their necks. A third man was fighting a shadow, a blur. The horror moved so swiftly that the king had difficulty tracking him in the moonlight. Then more men arrived and surrounded the creature that was now on top of the third man, whose body thrashed in death throws in the deep snow. The horror growled and bared his teeth as he released the third man and let him fall to the ground. The men inched closer, their pikes encroaching the creature’s chest and heart. They were ready to attack, but were shocked when the king yelled, “I want him alive!”
One soldier yelled back, perplexed, “And how would we do that?”
“Sound the alarm horn!” The king shouted back.
Alarms burst and echoed through the woods. When the creature turned toward the sound, the king rushed and buried his pike through the horror’s thigh, driving the silver tip deep into the ground. “Another!” the king shouted. No one moved. “Another attack, pin him to the ground!” the king ordered again. Two more men rushed, one targeting the horror’s other thigh and the other his lower torso. The horror shrieked, swung his left arm into the pike in his thigh and shattered it, ripping it from the soldier’s hands, but the remnants still pinned him in place. He grabbed the pike in his torso and began pulling it free.
The king aggressively took the pike from a nearby soldier and approached the creature. He pressed its tip to the horror’s chest, mere inches from his heart. The horror stopped, his fangs dripped blood that ran down his chin. The horror grabbed the pike and pulled it into him so that the tip broke his skin. He grunted, “You had best kill me.” Almost immediately, three more pikes were at his chest. “Get two leather straps,” the king ordered to the men behind him. When a soldier returned with the straps, the king tossed them so that they landed at the creature’s feet. “Tie them to your wrist or I will do as you asked and kill you where you stand.” The king wondered if his voice was steady or if it trembled like he sensed it did.
The creature bent over at the torso. He howled out in pain when the angle of his movement caused the pike in his torso to rip open the wound. The men backed away. “Do it!” the king shouted at the horror and it grunted and snarled before it picked up the straps, secured them to each wrist, and let the slack fall to his feet.
The king looked at the soldier to his left. “Grab a strap and pull it tight. Make sure it’s in place and restrain his hands.” The soldier stiffened and his jaw fell open.
“Do it now!” the king ordered.
The soldier crept toward the tails of the straps on the ground, all the while eyeing the horror. When he reached out for the strap, the horror mocked by lunging forward and the soldier fell over himself. The horror howled and almost seemed to laugh. Without waiting, the commander blatantly walked up to the creature, knelt, and grabbed the strap. He backed up and pulled it taut. Another soldier, equally as brave, collected the other strap.
“Move,” the king ordered the horror as he nodded in the direction of a nearby tree.
The king secured the straps at the rearmost part of the tree. The horror was secure, his hands pulled tight behind his back and wrapped around the base of the tree. The commander, when ordered, corralled the men back to the camp. The king and horror were alone and the king desperately needed an answer. He needed the name of the dark prince and he was sure the horror knew. Shouts and orders from the commander in the distant camp masked the king’s interrogation.
“Do you know of the trade, horror?”
The beast didn’t answer. He only growled and bared his fangs. He chest muscles rippled as he pulled and tested the knots of the straps.
The king found his wooden stake in the snow and brought it in front of the horror. He pulled his knife from his pocket and began sharpening the point. “You see the red color of my stake? It has killed before. Do you know the trade horror? They kidnap royalty and introduce them to a sex trade near Pinsk.”
The beast growled, “I know not of this trade.”
The king stepped forward and brought his knife to the beast’s throat. He could smell the stench of the horror’s breath. “If you know nothing, then you are no good to me. Am I understood?” He dug the blade in until it pierced the skin and drew blood. “I want the name of
the dark prince that runs the trade.”
“Gaten is the only name that I know, but he is not in Pinsk. You had best kill me.”
“Very well.”
Afterwards, the king walked far from the camp and cleaned his blood-covered hands in the river. He returned to camp, selected two men to bury the body, ordering them to cover the fresh grave with wild rose branches. Later that night, he walked the sentry line and was lost in his thoughts. Empty eyes of retrospect looked out on a moonlit forest glade. The horror had given the name of Gaten before the king had had enough and pushed the pike in. The name didn’t match that of the scroll, but much had happened today. Maybe Gaten was the dark prince he sought. Maybe Gaten was the one who had kidnapped his sister. He couldn’t help but feel the name wasn’t correct.
Suddenly, he was pulled from his train of thought as movement to his far left caught his attention. He kneeled, concealed himself behind a snow bank and watched a grey wolf weave through the forest of small trees on the outskirts of the camp. Wolves were nearly extinct in Sweden and he hadn’t seen one in years. He marveled at the animal. Then his eyes played tricks on him. He could have sworn he saw the animal stand on its hind legs. The wolf’s fur seemed to roll off its body and although it couldn’t be true, the wolf somehow took human form. He watched it disappear into the thick of trees heading toward the lowlands. Then a distant howl sent a shiver down his spine.
He returned to camp, found his commander, and pulled him to the side. “Keep the sentry line tight this night. Set a schedule of reports and ensure it is kept. There are more horrors in the woods.”
“More my king?”
“Yes, and they appear to be …”
“What? What is it?” the commander requested.
“They appear to be wolves.”
“Wolves, sir?”
“Yes, wolves chaperoning horrors. Or, they are the horrors themselves. Keep the sentry line tight this night. Instruct the men to be on guard for any wolves that come near.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * *
Viktor, against his own desires, had cowed to the request of his men and they stayed the night in Nyberg. He woke before they did and the small training camp was in complete silence. The sun had not yet risen but soon it would set the horizon on fire and summon him east. He was anxious to get moving. He made his way to the banks of Lake Malaren nearby and its inlets were already starting to ice over. The rolling fog was as heavy as wet clothing and it seemed to cling like wet clothing, too. He studied the weather and knew the trip across the Baltic would prove difficult. He mentally prepared their plan of action: he and his men had to make good time to Stockholm. Once there, they had to find the bravest sea captain they could. The night’s rest was a good calculation and would be beneficial in the trip east, but he could not, he would not accept further delay.
He found his two companions still asleep and rudely woke them by yelling, “Get up! We move in ten minutes.” The men grumbled and moved far too slowly and this displeased Viktor. He waited outside for ten minutes and when the men were not at his side, he burst open the doors of their quarters. “You two have two minutes to be in formation! Need I remind you that not only do I have a decree from the princess, but I am also a commissioned officer. If you are not by my side in two minutes, I will find you blameworthy and report your dereliction of duty. And if I leave without you, I will order you to the stockades.”
Five minutes later, Viktor returned to the building on horseback, holding the reins of his men’s horses in his hands. He was relieved to find them waiting and ready. “We move. Saddle up,” he ordered as he tossed the reins toward them.
The men mounted their horses and Viktor shot off out of the village. His horses’ lungs bellowed out warm breaths that sat on the cool air as a vapor trail behind him. The men followed and they galloped across the frost-covered land towards Stockholm.
Chapter IV
~ Profound Attraction ~
Darya, still fuming from the lashing, jerked away from her caretaker and stepped into the bathing pool. The warmth of the water felt good on her cold skin, but stung the streaks the lash had left on her bottom. She closed her eyes and mentally traced the stings and relived each lash’s roll over her cheeks. The first was oddly exciting. The second was pure punishment. She ducked her head underneath the water and screamed out in part anger, part frustration and humiliation. Odd, she thought. There was a sense of pride in her humiliation. As if she had finally stood her ground.
The caretaker, intent on carrying out her orders, collected a sponge and some rose oil, then entered the pool with Darya. She sponged the warm water of the pool over Darya’s shoulder.
“What is your name?” Darya asked softly.
The caretaker didn’t immediately respond. The question was something she never contemplated an answer to and it caught her off guard. Something she had never expected to be asked, certainly not by a royal member of the house. She moved behind Darya and brought the sponge to the nape of Darya’s neck, “My name is Adile, my lady.” The warm water streamed past Darya’s shoulder blades and dripped into the waist high water.
“Adile,” Darya resounded the name. She let it slowly roll of her tongue. “It’s a beautiful name. Do you have a man, Adile?”
Adile cleared her throat, “My lady, I think it best I bathe you and cleanse your wounds.”
Darya reached over her shoulder and grabbed Adile’s wrist. She pulled Adile onto her back and wrapped Adile’s arm around her chest, over her collarbone. The moment instantly became intimate and close, like two girlfriends consoling one another. “I take your refusal to answer as a yes, Adile. Does he love you? Does he bring you gifts on bad days and good days? Especially on bad days?”
“He loves me and brings me lovely gifts, my lady,” Adile answered, almost a whisper in Darya’s ear.
“Do you feel a wonderful vulnerability when you’re with him?”
“I do, I suppose. But it’s a safe vulnerability, a deep connection of trust.”
Darya sighed. “So you can show him when you’re lonely, tell him secrets, all in the strictest confidence. I envy that. Is he a good man? A good lover?”
Adile tittered at the question, and felt sorry for the young girl. She sensed where the conversation was going. “He’s good enough. Why these questions, my lady?”
Darya rocked back and forth, still holding Adile’s arm in place and Adile rocked with her. “Have you ever had enough, just couldn’t take the loneliness anymore? I’m eighteen years old and have been waiting for love since I was fifteen. I read La Belle au bios dormant a year or so ago. Do you know the story?”
“Not sure that I do, my lady.”
“It’s a lovely tale. You see, fairies offer gifts: beauty, wit, and musical talent at a baptism of a princess. But there is a wicked fairy, too. She harbors scorn because she was not invited to the baptism and places the princess under a curse.”
“A curse? My, what was it?” Adile asked as she started bathing Darya again, somewhat relieved Darya had stopped asking her personal questions.
“That she would prick her finger on a spindle of the spinning wheel of death and die.”
“Oh, my. Yes, we have a similar folk tale. There is truth there, you know.”
“Truth? How is that, Adile?”
“Boys and girls change, my lady. I recall playing games with the boys of my village when I was younger. Not a care in the world. Then one day, one boy’s smile, one that I had seen hundreds of times before—it brought new feelings to the surface, as if I had awakened from a dream, a transformation that exposed a new spirit within me. The princess in the story is released from the curse by a prince, right?”
“Yes,” Darya answered. “One good fairy is left and she partially reverses the wicked fairy’s curse so that the princess falls into a deep sleep for one hundred years. Then a prince braved the forest to find her asleep in a castle. Enamored with her beauty, he fell to his knees at the sight of her. He kissed her an
d she woke up. Adile, I feel as though I just woke up from a long dream. What happened between Sergen and I was so unexpected. It was the most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt.”
Darya cupped water from the pool into her hands and guided it to her hair and face; it flowed across a woman in deep thought. “When Sergen and I were together, fire flowed through every inch of me. My breaths escaped as soft pants and every muscle wilted. It was something I’ve never felt before and it overcame me. It was captivating, as if we were exchanging and sharing our souls. I told him that I loved him. And as sure as I breathe, I meant every word of it.”
“I see,” Adile said, “but the countess has forbidden it, my lady. And she is to be feared and her orders honored. We should speak no more of this lest you become too brave for your own good.” Adile stood and exited the pool. She returned with a botanical mixture of willow bark, bloodroot, and jimsonweed. “It is late. We should cleanse the lash marks and prepare you for bed.”
Darya slanted her body across the pool’s edge, the cool air again reminded her of the punishment when it rolled over her exposed buttocks and traced the outline of the lash marks. Adile hummed as she rubbed the mixture over Darya’s bottom. The marks were superficial and would leave no permanent scar, but Adile wondered if they were enough to stop the young girl’s love. She thought not.
* * * *
Later that night, Darya couldn’t sleep. She lifted herself up on her elbows in bed and listened to the wind thrash through the courtyard below, outside her window. It snatched the rope that still hung from the lashing structure and battered it against the wooden frame, an eerie reminder of the lashings she and Sergen had received earlier. She could still feel the burn of the strap on her bottom and grimaced when she rotated on her side.
For no particular reason, she stood, made her way, and parted the curtains of her window. The night had deepened to the pitch of black velvet. The moon hung high in the sky, but heavy cloud cover casted sinister shadows of darkness that danced in the courtyard. The clouds flew by on a westerly wind, and the moon’s dim light danced briefly on the ground, as if large wicked draperies flapped between the moon and the earth. She had played in that courtyard since she was a child, but this night it was so dark at times that she had to depict it more from her memory, rather than the outlines she saw shifting in the stirring moonlight.
Crimson's Captivation Page 10
