Daughter of Two Worlds: Book Three of the Aun Series

by Lee Bezotte

  He startled and looked behind him to see his friend Dulnear standing there with a lantern in his hand. “Hold this,” the man said, handing off the light. He then withdrew his sword and added, “Quickly, lead us out of here. I will guard our backs.”

  Son sprinted through the halls of the manor, surprised that it was so dark and empty. There seemed to be no occupants other than Ocmallum and his soldiers. He would have dwelled on the observation longer had the slaver’s crew not been growing louder.

  “That way,” the man from the north directed.

  The boy could see a large wooden door that was barred shut from the inside. His friend moved forward to remove the bolt, and he could smell the night air rush into the castle. Just outside the door was the portcullis, lowered shut.

  “Let us go!” Dulnear urged, running toward the gate.

  “What about the gate guard?” the boy asked.

  “Already taken care of,” the northerner stated as he gestured toward the arrow-ridden body hanging from the wall.

  As they reached the gate, Son looked around for a winch to raise the bars. “Where are the ropes?” he asked, feeling fear and desperation build in his chest.

  “No time for that!” Dulnear stated urgently. He then sheathed his sword, reached down, and threw the portcullis above his head. “Go!” he shouted.

  Son ran past his friend and turned around, spying lights moving inside. “I see torches!” he exclaimed.

  The man from the north glanced over his shoulder, took a deep breath, and ran forward, allowing the barred entrance to fall behind him. “Quickly!” he shouted.

  The night was black, and the boy could see very little. He reached out and grabbed his friend’s long fur coat, afraid that they might become separated. His steps were much shorter than his long-legged companion, and he struggled to keep up. Unexpectedly, a cold voice could be heard from the high corner of the castle, stopping them both in their tracks.

  “You should have killed me, boy!” the voice of the slaver king rang out in the darkness.

  “Did you hear that?” Son asked his friend.

  “Pay no attention,” the northerner replied. “He is only trying to sow fear. Intimidation is his greatest weapon.”

  Son swallowed and tried to push the mounting angst away. He was about to move forward when the voice called out again.

  “You should have run me through when you had the chance! Now she will have to die.”

  The boy shook, and a tear formed in his eye. “What are we going to do?” he asked.

  “Keep moving forward,” the warrior said. “Do not let his words dampen your courage.”

  Son wiped the tear from his eye and set his mind to rescuing Maren. But what little fortitude he had seemed to melt away as Ocmallum’s voice seemed to grow louder and more ominous.

  “Gale Hill Farm!” the old man yelled.

  The boy’s knees threatened to buckle. He felt exposed and defeated. “Dulnear!” was all he could think to say.

  The man from the north said nothing, but the boy could feel him breathing more heavily.

  Suddenly, the noise behind them grew louder and he reckoned that the soldiers had reached the portcullis. “They’re gaining,” he warned, with more than a hint of desperation.

  “There!” Dulnear whispered back, beginning to plow forward.

  In the distance, the boy could see a torch glowing. His instinct screamed to reach it as fast as he could. He let go of the northerner’s coat and ran as though his life depended on it. Like a drowning man racing for the surface of the water, he shot through the darkness until he was upon Faymia and the horses, with his friend close behind him.

  Gesturing with the torch, the woman urged from atop her steed, “Quickly, mount up! We must ride hard and ride fast.”

  Son hopped onto the horse’s back behind her, and Dulnear mounted the other animal.

  “Toward Redbramble,” the man from the north instructed. “If we ride through the night, we should be there by first light.”

  “But it’s dark as soot,” the boy answered.

  “Then we take our chances,” the man said, moving out onto the path that led back toward Dorcadas. “If Ocmallum dispatches soldiers to fortify the slaver camp, and they reach it before we do, then all of this will have been for naught.”

  Son looked out into the void of night. He knew it would be dangerous, but the men approaching from the castle would be even more so. He swallowed and responded, “Then let’s go.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Heart to Fight For

  As Maren stood in her cage, she wondered what was to become of her. Her pen was the only one that was locked, and as she watched the other slaves come and go, she felt a strange emotion that was one part jealousy and one part sadness for those souls (herself included) that had exchanged their freedom and dignity for sweets and amusements.

  Noticing a plump woman walk by with a piece of blackberry pie, her stomach turned. I never want another slice of that as long as I live, she thought to herself. She sat down and leaned back against the bars. As she reclined there, she remembered the words that the old man said to her in Ahmcathare.

  “I’m a part of the Great Father’s story,” she said to herself with a sigh. She then wrapped her arms around her knees and closed her eyes.

  “Hey,” she thought she heard someone say, breaking her rumination.

  “Little girl,” the voice said again.

  Maren opened her eyes and looked around. In the cage next to hers was a young man with unruly, brown hair. He wore a deep-blue tunic that he kept neatly buttoned up despite its unclean condition. Sitting there, he leaned against the bars of his enclosure and peered at her.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Why can’t you leave your cage?” the man inquired.

  “I ran away,” she answered plainly.

  “Why would you do that?” he asked.

  Maren thought for a moment. She didn’t enjoy working for Kugun at all, and she hated the idea of going to a brothel. Turning so she could see the man’s eyes, she said, “Because I was made to be free,” she stated. “And so were you.”

  The man stared curiously at her for a moment, then replied, “Well, it looks like we may have missed the mark on that.” His eyes fell and his lips continued to move. However, Maren couldn’t hear a thing the man was saying.

  The girl paused for a moment as she held her gaze on him. “You were made to be powerful, and heroic,” she added. “Not a slave to plays and pies.” She then leaned back again and stared out into the night as the commotion in the camp died down and people began to settle in. As she watched, her eyes grew heavy and her mind contemplated what it meant to endure the pain of living in the real world.

  “Pssst,” the young man whispered, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  Maren remembered how she had squeezed through the bars of her cage in Ahmcathare. It was difficult, but not impossible. She looked around and knew that she could do the same thing here if not for the guards that regularly passed by. It frustrated her, but she still held onto a fragment of hope. “You’re welcome,” she finally replied to the man, and went back to her contemplations until she slipped into a deep sleep.

  It was nearly pitch-dark in the town square of Redbramble. Son, Dulnear, and Faymia had ridden all the way from Dorcadas without stopping, and the horses needed a brief respite. There was a trough outside of the village pub and the animals drank heartily as the three travelers stood together and discussed their plan to liberate Maren.

  “Do you think they’re following us?” Son whispered. With the exception of a small number of people inside the tavern, the entire town had turned in for the night, and he didn’t want to rouse anyone.

  “I do not know,” the man from the north answered in a hushed tone.

  “What if they are?” the boy asked. He was exhausted, anxious, and shaken from the events of the day. The fear of being captured
by Ocmallum’s mercenaries was nearly suffocating. “I don’t want to end up like Tcharron,” he added.

  “We are few, and traveling light,” Faymia tried to assure him. “If they did decide to pursue us, it’s likely that they’re still trying to organize themselves.”

  “There is a chance that the slaver would not waste his resources,” Dulnear added. “He deals in fear and intimidation masterfully. When I faced his guards, he went as far as to employ a strange incense that caused a terrible sense of dread to come over me. I have never experienced anything like it.”

  Faymia leaned in to examine her husband. The dried blood on his neck and coat appeared as black stains in the dim light. “I despise them,” she declared. “They lure people in with delights they don’t need, have them believing that they can’t live without them, then oppress them to keep their loyalty.”

  “I agree,” the man from the north concurred. “However, our sole focus should be on retrieving Maren. When she is returned to us, then we shall worry about pursuers and slaver injustices.”

  Son breathed deeply of the damp midnight air. He fought off thoughts of Gale Hill Farm ruined, slaver ambushes, and violence. He imagined finally arriving back at his home just to collect his things and leave. The peace he felt from sharing life with his companions there was evaporating and insecurity was nagging at his heart. “Well then,” he said. “We shouldn’t stay here any longer. Let’s go get her.”

  “Go free!” Maren shouted with a voice that echoed liked thunder through the forest.

  In her dream, she was out of her cage and there was fire all around. Though the flames were approaching the circle of pens, the people inside of them sat passively and refused to get out.

  “What’s wrong with you?!” she pleaded. “Death is upon you, and all you can do is sit there!”

  As she stood in the center of the camp, she gazed into the faces of the slaves. Some she knew from Laor, yet others were unfamiliar and difficult to make out. Though there was not a single pen locked, they insisted upon remaining caged like animals.

  “You were made for more!” she continued. “Have you forgotten who you are? You are mothers and fathers! You are daughters and sons!”

  As she continued to cry out, the stubbornness on the faces of some of the slaves began to melt, and Maren could see tears forming in their eyes.

  “You were meant to hold your heads high! You were meant to carry dignity and reflect glory!” she boomed, with tears now flowing down her own face. “Why would you give that away for pie and shows?!”

  Now, the flames were burning higher, and the slavers appeared around her. Their appearance was larger, more menacing, and distorted somehow. They startled her for a moment but, when she noticed some of the slaves pushing against the doors of their pens, she was filled with a fresh boldness.

  “Remember who you are!” she urged, and some of them started out into the circle to join her. “Remember what you once dreamed!”

  Soon, the mangled-looking slavers were surrounding her more closely. They were contorted and angry, and they were ready to pour their wrath upon her for encouraging their source of gold to go free. “You will die for this!” one of the monstrous-looking men raged before reaching out for the girl with his gangly arms.

  Maren ducked and rolled out of harm’s way, then ran past each cage shouting, “Be free! Remember! Live fully!” As she did, she could see that some of the slaves were now weeping in remorse. They sobbed and covered their faces in shame, but remained prisoners.

  “We deserve to burn!” one woman yelled as the girl ran by.

  “No!” Maren cried as her face burned red with sweat and tears, and she pleaded all the louder.

  A hideous cackle filled the air as the gnarled slavers laughed gloatingly at the penitent woman’s statement. “That’s right! No one would want you now, anyway!”

  The young girl’s desperation turned to indignation upon hearing the laughter of the slavers. Running to the woman, she called through the bars, “That’s what they want you to believe! The door is unlocked. You can have your beauty back! Come out!”

  A warm, clammy hand wrapped around Maren’s shoulder and spun her around. The slavers were now too closely upon her for her to run away. “You will all burn,” they said in unison through twisted, blackened mouths.

  Fear gripped the girl and she felt unable to breathe. Mustering all of her strength, she was only able to force out a quiet whisper to the slaves, “You were made for more.”

  Raising her hands in defense, she expected to receive a fatal blow from the evil gang surrounding her, but it didn’t come. Instead, all went black and gray, and she could hear mighty shouts coming from the slaves that had come out of their cages.

  The night’s darkness still fought against the light of the morning but, through the early dawn haze, Maren could see panicked legs dashing to and fro around her cage. The clanging of steel and the pained cries of injured men snapped her out of her slumber and she sat up, squinting through the mist to see what was happening.

  Breaking through the gray-black sky were fiery arrows being launched from just outside the camp. As they struck tents and caravans, men screamed and ran. It was a hurricane of terror and commotion. The fact that the girl’s cage was locked heightened her sense of helplessness. She was trapped inside the maelstrom and couldn’t get out. She was still afraid that she would be caught trying to squeeze through the bars.

  Maren could see a figure moving through the madness. It was all rage, and steel—and fur. Immediately, she knew, and shouted, “Dulnear!”

  The man from the north continued through the camp like a man on fire, cutting down slavers like wheat in season. As the girl violently shook the door of her pen, a young voice broke through, “Stay in your cages! You will be free soon but stay in your cages!”

  “Son!” she called out.

  “Maren!” his voice rang through the thick, smoky morning air.

  “I’m over here!” she cried.

  The boy ran to the cage and reached through the bars to touch her. “We found you!” he crowed.

  Upon seeing the face of her guardian, the girl was awash with a sense of comfort. Many words flowed through her mind, but what came out of her mouth was, “I’m sorry.”

  Son’s eyebrows shot up and he looked surprised by her apology. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” he said. “For now, we need to get you out of here,” and he smashed the lock with the hilt of his sword.

  “Can I come with you?” a voice asked. It was the young man in the blue tunic beginning to exit his pen.

  “No!” Son yelled. “That northerner will cut down anyone he doesn’t recognize and is not in a cage. If you value your life, then stay put until he says that it’s safe to come out.”

  As Maren stepped out to join Son, she hugged his waist tightly, almost pushing him off of his feet. “Thank you!” she burst.

  The boy took her by the hand and began to lead her toward the path that headed out to the road. “You can thank me when we get home,” he said, and walked quickly with his sword at the ready.

  Before they were able to go very far, the man with the long, gray hair stepped out in front of them. “Where do you think you’re going, Maren?” he asked. His usual amiable demeanor was gone and he clutched a hammer in his hand.

  “I’m going home!” the girl declared, and she began to step forward.

  Holding his ground, the man objected, “You belong to Sevuss. You will be going nowhere! Get back in your cage before I break your arms!”

  Son drew his arm back to strike the man but, before he could extend his blade, a blur of coat and steel swept in front of him, carrying the man away. Turning his surprised eyes toward the girl, he insisted, “Let’s go!”

  Maren could hear the dirty-haired man pleading for his life in the distance. She had never seen Dulnear like this before and was both frightened and relieved at the same time. From out of the smoke and confusion, she heard the northerner’s voice yel
l out, “Maren, take this!” and a blade was flung through the air, landing at her feet.

  “It’s a sword!” the girl exclaimed.

  “Grab it!” Son instructed. “You may need it before we reach the horses.”

  “Indeed,” she smiled widely, and snatched the weapon from the ground.

  Son could see the path leading out of the camp and darted toward it. There was so much confusion between the burning caravans and Dulnear violently whirling about that no one seemed to be paying any attention to him.

  Pulling Maren along, they were just beyond the circle of cages when he felt an intense pain in the back of his left leg. Spinning around to see what happened, he noticed a ginger-haired, leathery-skinned man and a young boy running toward them.

  “That’s Micah!” Maren announced.

  Son reached back to discover that a knife was partially embedded in his leg. Clenching his jaw, he pulled it out and forced it into the ground. “And who’s that man with him?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  Before the girl had a chance to answer, Sevuss and his son were upon them. “Where are you going with my slave?” the man demanded.

  “My friends came to take me home!” Maren shouted.

  “So YOU brought this upon us!” the slaver reckoned. “That northerner has killed half my crew, my tents are destroyed, and my slaves are running off!”

  “I am her guardian,” Son spoke up. “I, and the man from the north. We did not sign for her life-rights to be taken, so you have her illegally!”

  Sevuss’s face turned red and his fists curled tightly. “Do you hear that, boy?” he asked Micah with a sarcastic grin. “What do I always tell you?”

  “That the law only applies to those who can’t buy their way out of it,” the boy answered with a proud smirk.

  “There’s not much we couldn’t get away with doing to the two of you,” the slaver boasted as he reached down to pull his knife out of the ground. “I could gut you like a fish and the authorities would just look the other way.”