The Dothan Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Charissa Dufour

  A short while later, the knight bent his head low and whispered, “You’re a fool.”

  “I know,” the princess whispered back before sinking into comforting blackness.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shortly after the knight had lifted her onto his horse, she had fallen asleep—not because she felt safe in his arms, but because she was incapable of anything else. Therefore, it came as a surprise when she was unceremoniously dumped from the knight’s saddle. She woke just before colliding with the packed earth of the bailey. Through nothing more than sheer luck, she managed to keep her head from making contact with the ground. Still, she felt the muscles in her wrist scream as she landed on it awkwardly. No doubt her hip and shoulder would be bruised before the day was over.

  “What is this?” asked the queen.

  Bethany glanced up. The royal family was descending the vast steps of the inner keep followed by the other knights.

  “Do I want to know why you are carrying a slave on your horse, Sir Caldry?”

  “Probably not,” he grunted as he swung a leg over the horse and landed on the ground near Bethany’s feet. “This one was caught burning the withies.”

  The queen glanced at the wagon where the other slaves were unloading unburned reeds and withies.

  “Ann, you scoundrel…” chortled the prince, evidently unaware of the danger his slave was in.

  “She’s worked through the last two nights to replace your stocks.” Sir Caldry reached down and yanked Bethany to her feet.

  Arabelle’s eyes flashed as she took in her laughing son, the working slaves, and Bethany still trapped by Sir Caldry’s firm grasp.

  “I still don’t see why that thing was riding with you.”

  Bethany could hear the cold rage in the queen’s voice. Suddenly, she realized her punishment was far from over.

  Surprisingly, the knight laughed.

  “I wanted to get home sometime today. If I’d left her to walk, it would have been dawn before we’d arrive. Hardly seemed fair to everyone else to suffer for her misdeeds.”

  The queen glowered down at him, annoyed at his logical answer. Bethany felt her stiff, sore legs begin to shake. It seemed an extraordinary length of time before the queen spoke again.

  “You are grace itself, Sir Caldry. Still, we cannot leave her unpunished. Give her a good whipping and throw her into the pits.”

  “I hope you don’t intend to punish my slave too long, mother,” chuckled Féderic as the royal family returned to the warmth of the keep.

  Sir Caldry took her by the wrist and dragged her towards one of the small side entrances used by the slaves. They descended the steps, Bethany tripping over her own unstable feet. Sir Caldry stormed down the narrow corridor, slaves and guards pressing themselves into the doorways in an effort to stay clear of the angry man.

  Bethany felt hot tears of dread and fear well in her eyes. She knew the price of her small rebellion, but that didn’t mean she looked forward to paying it. Bainard met them at the entrance to the enormous slave dormitory, which took up half this level of the basement. The portly slave master backed out of the way as his mouth gaped open.

  “What has she done now?” he asked around the wad of stale bread he had just shoved in his mouth.

  “None of your business,” barked the knight.

  He dragged her straight to the entrance of the pits, where the trap door laid propped open.

  “Shall I take care of her for you, sir,” Bainard asked.

  “No. Leave her to me. You are dismissed.”

  The slave master hesitated for a brief second before scurrying out of the room as quickly as his thick legs could manage. Bethany felt the already scarred skin on her back tingle in anticipation. Sir Caldry picked up the heavy whip, while ignoring the fact she was still on the floor rather than hanging from the ceiling. He reached down and undid the bindings of her gown. It fell open, revealing her back. The knight lifted the whip over his head and brought it down hard upon her back.

  Bethany felt the skin on her back break as she bit her lower lip in an effort to stay silent. Despite her efforts, a small grunt escaped. To her surprise, she heard the whip clatter to floor and felt, rather than saw, Sir Caldry crouch beside her. Bethany let the tears flow freely as she considered the possibility that the knight wouldn’t beat her anymore.

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but it’s not worth it.”

  He paused.

  “Now get down there and toss your frock up.”

  Bethany nodded feebly before climbing down into the tiny, dark pit. She felt an unusual sense of thankfulness towards the knight as she slipped the rough gown off and tossed it through the small opening. He seemed to know how much she detested showing her naked body to anyone. Or maybe he just didn’t want to see her battered flesh.

  He caught the fabric without seeming to look down, closed the hatch, and marched away. Bethany listened to his footsteps pound on the floor as she settled against the icy stones of her pit, while trying to keep the gash on her back from touching anything. It wasn’t easy and she finally drifted into a merciful sleep lying on her side with her arms wrapped around her legs in an effort to conserve heat.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cal sat at the large table with King Wolfric, Prince Féderic, Lord Mandek Payne, a few other selected counselors, and the other knights. They were discussing future strikes against King Middin, the last resistance to Wolfric’s domination of the entire peninsula. There were many kings across the Great Sea, but thankfully Wolfric had shown little interest in expanding his control over those distant lands, at least not until he had destroyed Middin. The Great Sea was turbulent at the best of times; the small strip of land that connected their peninsula to the mainland was narrow and fraught with quicksand, poisonous animals, and monthly flooding. More men would die during the journey, via either route, than during the actual fighting. Of course, that which deterred them from attacking their enemies, also kept their enemies at bay.

  To King Wolfric’s growing frustration, Middin continued to elude his deadly reach. The Tokë nation was small, but resilient. It helped that the entire kingdom was blocked by either the Narrow Sea or the White Cap mountains, which included some of the highest peaks on the peninsula. Like the mainland, the Tokë people were well protected through natural geography. Unlike the mainland, Wolfric was determined to conquer their northern lands.

  One of the king’s lesser counselors had been droning on for the last half hour. Most of the knights, who only had a head for swinging a sword, were whispering to each other or twiddling their fingers. Cal slouched in his chair absently picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his padded gambeson. No doubt the rest of it was equally frayed from the heavy chainmail he often wore.

  Cal absently wondered if Féderic would allow him the use of one of his slaves. Cal didn’t own any slaves himself; as a guest of the castle, he found it unnecessary. Besides, he’d been a slave once himself, and couldn’t stomach the idea of owning one.

  During his tenure as the king’s slave, he had accidentally saved the king’s life, and thereby earned his freedom and the opportunity to become a knight. Despite the long scar that now marred his good looks and his continuing hatred for the king, Cal found himself glad that he had acted the part of the hero all those years ago. After all, his life now was a far cry from what it had been during his time as a slave, and the scar was a small price to pay for his freedom. After all, he never intended on attracting a mate.

  Even though his freedom came at a small price, he continued to feel a deep loathing toward the greedy king, and in his mind the faults of the king extended to all people with royal blood. They were all selfish, brutal bastards, and they had taught him to be cruel just like them.

  But then, his hatred was due to a great deal more than his own personality shift. When his small village had been captured, Wolfric’s men had killed his parents and burned his village to the ground. Unlike the more populated areas, his village
had not been worth establishing a lord to keep the locals in check, so the soldiers had killed anyone over sixty and enslaved the rest. His parents, though not yet sixty, had looked older and more worn, and were murdered with the others.

  His sister—well, that was a different story.

  The men had taken a liking to her. The officers took her into their tent. Cal could still hear her screams. Somehow she lived through the night. She was strong, like her brother. They were brought to the castle and put to work. Though Cal had earned his freedom, he could not procure hers. He had done everything from offering to buy her, to attempting to steal her away.

  The king looked on Cal's efforts, legal or otherwise, as a sort of game to entertain himself during the long winter months. Wolfric took pleasure in forcing her owner to sell her at random occasions, to random people, and then see if Cal could track her down again. Cal played his game, because he had no other options.

  It had been six months since the last time Wolfric had moved her, and Cal was at a complete loss as to her whereabouts.

  Cal’s anger over the loss of his family had dulled into an echoing ache that lived in the pit of his stomach. It was a constant reminder of the life he had lost, and the glories he had gained. Now he slept on silk sheets, drank wine with every meal, and had his pick of busty wenches, but it was not the life he was born to and his sister paid the cost. Had nature been left to its devises, Cal would have inherited his father’s sheep farm, married a local girl, and raised a horde of small children. His sister would have been the wife of a neighboring farmer. She would have been happy. She would have been safe.

  Thankfully, Féderic’s chipmunk laugh pulled Cal away from his sobering thoughts. He glanced around, noticing the other mens’ looks of consternation and disgust. Evidently the prince had interrupted their conversation, though what was being said was a complete mystery to the knight. Lord Payne coughed gently before turning back to the speaker.

  Before the balding man could resume his statement, Féderic’s voice pulled the attention back to his end of the table.

  “And how, my dear Lord Godfrey, do you intend on transporting an entire army across the Central Wastelands in the height of summer?”

  “Do you offer a better suggestion?” asked the king, his voice cold as steel.

  “We should move the army to the edge of the wastelands, and then during the winter move it north. That way, come spring, it will be on Middin’s very doorstep.”

  “The cost of keeping an army in one place over so many months would be astronomical,” wailed the elderly man who had guided the king’s finances for the last half century.

  “I never said it would be cheap,” spat the prince, “but it is the safest way to move the army to the White Caps without losing men to ridiculous things, like thirst.”

  “And would you allow Middin’s spies to see the army sitting on his doorstep for all those months?” asked Cal from his place, his interest in the conversation only minimally increased.

  “If they camp on the banks of the Narrow Sea it is unlikely anyone will notice them. And archers positioned a mile out from the camp, hidden in trees could eliminate anyone who gets too close.”

  “You forget the Lurran, my prince,” offered Cal, trying his hardest not to smirk.

  The Lurran people were an odd race, with their long features, teak color skin, and silver eyes. They lived in the White Cap Mountains, though not officially a part of the Tokë nation. Their population was small enough that neither Middin nor Wolfric bothered conquering them. Still, they were known to be some of the best woodcrafters in the world, able to blend in with any surroundings and survive any terrain. They would be great allies, or deadly enemies.

  Féderic barked another grating laugh. Cal saw the others flinch slightly at the sound.

  “The Lurran people hold no allegiance to anyone, but themselves. Besides, our archers could pick off their entire population before one of them even noticed our army.”

  Cal didn’t agree with the prince’s assessment, but kept his own counsel. It was the king’s decision, and he honestly didn’t care if the plan worked or not. Cal returned to the examination of his tattered gambeson, while the others debated the problem. Yes, he needed to have it mended. Perhaps the pretty slave girl could do it. Like so many things, she sewed extremely well.

  Of course, that would require her to be released from the pits. Cal felt his stomach squirm at the thought of those filthy stone holes—not large enough to stand up or lie down. Cal had spent a large part of his first year of slavery in similar pits. He had not been an obedient slave. Somewhere under his scar, he bore the mark of a runaway slave. Of course, he bore the same mark on his leg, from his first attempt. The second attempt had warranted a brand on the neck. Eventually, like all slaves, he learned nothing was worth such punishment. It was better to just obey.

  Why then, did Ann burn the reed stock? Had she done other things?

  Cal thought back to the missing carrier pigeons and a few other odd incidents. Were these all the results of one slave girl? Most of the king’s slaves were from conquered nations, each one with their own hatred towards the man that had destroyed their lives, but never before had Cal seen a single slave put up such a fight.

  A piece of him couldn’t help but hope for her success.

  Still, the why was only one part of the puzzle. Who was she, exactly, was a far more interesting question. Perhaps a lady-in-waiting to one of the Domhain lords? There were a few of them that had not immediately capitulated to Wolfric’s rule. No doubt their households would now be in slavery.

  Cal felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. He hated to think about how the nobility of his people had given in so easily to King Wolfric’s army. True, there had been no hope for the small Domhain nation lasting for long; nevertheless, Cal thought it cowardly to give in without the slightest resistance. Surely someone else was equally sickened by their cowardly surrender.

  But Ann? Could she really be one of his own?

  She looked the part, but then again, the Domhain, Tokë, and Ardê people all looked alike, with pale skin, a variety of hair colors, and stocky builds. Over the centuries, the three nations had peacefully intermarried enough that it was hard to tell them apart. With Wolfric’s war, that had all changed.

  When Cal thought he might erupt with frenzied energy, the meeting was called to an end. Cal positioned himself to follow the young prince out. Féderic grinned at him as they made their way toward the great hall, where the midday meal waited.

  “I was curious, my lord, when would you be returning that slave girl to her duties.”

  “What?” came Féderic’s distracted reply. “Who are you talking about?”

  “The girl who burned the withies a few days ago,” prompted Cal.

  “Oh. Ann,” snorted the prince. “I’d forgotten about her. Why? You takin’ a liking to her?”

  Cal clenched his jaw shut. Unlike the prince, he was not interested in forcing himself upon any woman with a figure.

  “No. I have some garments that need repairing, but if it is inconvenient…” he trailed off, knowing that he had said enough.

  “No, no. Take her,” said the prince with a wave of his hand.

  Cal bowed and took his seat at the table in the great hall. He had to work at staying in his place until the queen had dismissed them. He wanted to watch the slave girl, study her movements and dialect. Perhaps, with enough observation, he could discern which part of the Domhain nation she was from.

  With a relief that was almost painful, the queen dismissed them. Cal rose and exited the room before any of them could call upon him. On his way to the slave dormitory, he spotted Flora, a female slave who had become a sort of assistant to Bainard, the slave master.

  “You, there. I need to get that girl out of the pits,” he said as the brown woman turned towards him.

  “Ann? M'lord.”

  Cal followed her into the empty dormitory. She flipped open the hatch and called down to Ann b
efore moving to a hook where Ann’s dress hung. Cal averted his eyes as the naked slave crawled out of the hole and into the dress waiting for her. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t help but notice the infected gash running down her back as Flora laced up the dress. He had struck her hard, but only once.

  It was a kindness, he told himself over and over again, trying to make himself believe it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pelor shuddered as he slowly slid off the aged courser given to him by Tethys, the man who’d hired him to track down the slave. The mission was proving more challenging than he had expected. Now, he was killing wolves in an effort to gain the confidence of a man who might know something of the runaway. Sadly, he couldn’t think of another way to track the slave, especially now that he was weeks behind, and the trail had gone cold.

  Perhaps he should just give up, he thought as his feet hit the packed earth in the village square.

  He slammed his jaw shut in an effort to not scream. Gavius and his pretty daughter, Dana, emerged from the village inn. Gavius caught him as he staggered away from the old horse.

  “He’s bleeding,” shrieked Dana.

  Pelor heard another pair of soft footsteps beat against the earth through the pounding of his own heartbeat. Pelor felt, rather than saw, someone lead his old horse away. Where was it going? No doubt the animal had once been a valiant aid to some soldier, but now, in the twilight years of its life, it was fit for little more than carting vegetables to the market. Still, it was all he had and he didn't care to have some unknown person take it from him.

  “Help me get him inside,” ordered Gavius, his controlled voice providing a sense of calm to the frantic people spilling out of their homes.

  Pelor felt two people sling his arms over their shoulders and support his weight. He lifted his injured foot and allowed them to help him into the inn, where he collapsed on a bench.