Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
TW: Violence
It was a week since that night. She knew the stories, those awful stories, and had waited every day with horrible dread, but their leader never entered the tent, which had become her prison. Bara was never allowed to leave it, neither night or day. All she ever saw were the servants who brought her food and took away the chamber pot. Bara did not know what to think of it, what to expect next.
She had fallen asleep at some point during that night a week ago, when she could never say. Their leader shook her awake at sunrise and pulled her to her feet. The water was like ice, but she was to lie in the stream again as he cleaned her as before while the sun lit the sky. He left once she sat at the fire. He returned when the sun had risen, fully dressed, his blade sheathed behind his back, the hilt a bright silver at his shoulder, showing dragons and flames. The horse followed him without reigns or saddle. He held something in his hands, a dress in muted yellow. The horse grazed while she pulled on the simple cloth, it reached beyond her wrists and ankles. He set her on the horse like a sack of wheat and began walking, the horse following by a sign of his hand. He left the fire burning as one would with sacred fires, leaving it to the Gods to end its flames.
They walked along the stream until it branched to a river which was broad and shallow. They forded it, then walked through a vale and up to the crest of a mound and suddenly they were at a wide meadow surrounded by trees. The camp was at its centre. Guards were on horseback, swords sheathed, arrows in their quivers, lances raised. They turned by the sight of their leader and rode away. He walked to the very centre of the camp, Bara counted at least fifteen tents. Banners flapped in the light breeze, Black Dragon on White, encased in Golden Flame, the Mark of the Demon Horde. She had shuddered at the sight and known there was no escaping.
All was silent and deserted as they approached the tents, though Bara could feel many eyes watching her. No one was in sight. Their leader stopped before a tent, plucked her off the horse, and waited. It seemed he wanted her to do something. Not knowing what else she could do, Bara walked into the tent. It was the one she knew. He did not follow.
*
Now, a week later, her eyes could not stay as they were and Bara caught a glimpse of the bed. The covers had been changed to something opulently red. Since she entered the tent again Bara never went near it. She remained in the first part and slept on the longchair, its silk soothing to her cheek, using such covers as she found in the cabinets. Lying on the silk as she did, she spent many hours listening to the sounds about her, trying to decipher something, anything, but all to no avail. She forced herself to her prayers morning and evening and she tried to eat only what was yielded from the Gods that they gave her, though she made exception with the bread. With the baking, some of their heathen touch would have been burnt off, allowing for only a little defilement that could be easily cleansed.
One day became another and another, until another week had passed. Bara spent most her hours praying to the Gods, hoping for some way, any way, to come away from this place, but instead her bleeding returned. It was a shock at first, then a deep relief. She finally had to ask one of the female servants for something to keep herself clean. Those were shameful, arduous moments, but the girl finally understood. Bara was brought cotton cloth and water and none entered the tent save female servants for the following week, the girl she had had to confront showing her concern with looks and gestures. The servant girl was as young as the novices who once served Bara, a thickset creature with shrewd eyes, but a quick mind by her understanding. She also brought Bara a broth of milk and heavy bread and would not leave until Bara touched it. It did not taste vile as she expected. It was sweet, they had probably dripped honey into it. After eating nothing more than the fruits for days, drinking only water and allowing for a little bread when the hunger was too strong, the sweet milk and heavy bread were like tasting Food for the Gods. Bara felt it was shameful. She should not feel such relief at heathen nourishment.
*
The girl brought the sweet milk and heavy bread every day of her bleeding. Finally it subsided, and the girl began bringing a thick broth of meat instead. She would not leave until Bara touched it. She ate enough to appease the girl and did not touch it again once the girl left. It seemed they had sent her to see that Bara fed herself. They were not so dim as not to notice that she only ate the fruits and water. Over two weeks passed this way. And one evening, very suddenly, their leader was back again like a demon from the Nine Hells.
He walked into the tent just as Bara was finishing her cup of tea, she had come to see boiled water and herbs as nothing too defiling. Bara nearly choked on the beverage, scalding her throat with too large a sip. He stopped and looked her over much like that day on the white terrace. Bara wanted to hide herself behind one of the pilfered cabinets, yet to show fear, she knew, was worse.
“You have name?”
It was that harsh bark again, but she understood. Bara nodded.
“It is.”
“Baraniaré.”
He seemed to repeat this silently to himself.
“Deltas?”
“Yes.”
The Low Deltas to be precise, to the south of the Alathan Coast that was no more, thanks to his kind and their demonic allegiance to the Nether Realms. It was said monstrosities from the Dark were unleashed against the spell-cast walls, wrenching them apart like wet paper. It was said, those monstrosities ate their way through Alathan in a matter of hours, so quickly, so horrifically, those who sailed to rescue came far too late. The funeral pyres burnt for eight days, the smoke pillars rising so high they could be seen from horizon to horizon. And now she was here, among these acolytes to the Dark and there was no escaping. For her prayers did nothing, her tears did nothing, and all her calls to the Gods fell into a deep, empty void that remained quiet and still. Bara felt as if she had lost her voice, her sight, as if her own self had been robbed from her, and the wrenching pain of it was beyond description.
Their loathsome leader nodded right then, as if Bara had answered correctly. He did not offer any sound one could use to address him. Bara at first did not want to ask, but then thought she was the First of a Sanctuary. Or had been. She was owed that at least.
“And you?”
Their leader looked surprised. Then he smirked before saying something Bara hardly understood.
“Dren?”
This seemed to amuse him, Bara hating that she blushed. He barked something again, smirking still, but nothing more. He sat down to her left without a warning, right onto one of the high-backed chairs with carved armrests showing lion heads. He took an apple from the platter of food the thickset girl had brought to entice Bara, biting into it with relish, watching Bara with that discerning stare that probably saw more in one glance than many could decipher in one hour.
Bara did not know where to look and so kept her eyes fixed on the cup of tea in her hands. She wished to be somewhere, anywhere else. She wished, more than anything, for the Calm she once called her own, but it had disappeared, much like her sanctity, destroyed before her very eyes. Something moved right then. Bara looked up sharply, everything lurching with dread within. One of the loathsome horde had walked in, followed by another and another. The line would not end and suddenly there were ten vile heathens before her, taking seat on the haphazard chairs, eyeing Bara with surprise, curiosity, and twice with open hostility. Bara could no longer sit, her whole body was a plain of goose bumps and all the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
She got to her feet and saw how they followed the motion. She made her way past those she had to pass and walked to the other part of the tent she had avoided so far. It was lit by two windlights, shedding their speckled light on the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Someone spoke and there was laughter, loud and coarse and full of mirth. Bara knew they were laughing at her, as such men would. She chose to ignore it, for better laughter than anything worse.
*
Bara searched a place she could be that was as far away from the bed and the sudden assembly. She finally found a strongbox she could use as a seat, hidden from sight by the thick curtains, though giving Bara full sight to the opulently covered bed. She tried not to look at it, see it, yet it remained there, right before her, mocking her with its crimson folds.
She had tried her best not to think of it, but with the rough voices beyond the curtain, broken by sudden barks, grunts, and coarse laughter, Bara could no longer close herself from the memory. She could not think of before. That was impossible. She could only think of afterwards, after she tried to keep the water from seeping into the carpet. What happened at that stream, with that fire, still defied comprehension. She could not forget that moment of understanding, when she saw what he used and knew what it was. A ritual had been performed, she knew it. Yet why was still beyond her.
In the middle of her thoughts, Bara was scared back to the present by a tap on her shoulder. The thickset girl stood before her, with a plate laden with food. She spoke, pointing to the other part of the tent. She handed Bara the plate and left only to return shortly with a goblet filled to the brim with wine. She did not leave and Bara knew the girl would stay until she ate it all, the meat, the bread, the carrots, green shoots, and cárn roots, everything. It was chicken at least, thus not hunted meat, and bread she had already relented to. As for the fruits of the soil, their cooking had softened them but they were still from the earth and the earth was from the Gods. Bara began to eat, drinking from the wine when the girl insisted with stern looks and insisting finger.
The girl stood watchful over her while Bara ate, Bara who knew she would have to finish everything otherwise the girl would never leave. She finally finished the meal. She did not know the spices and her tongue and lips were a little numb from their sharpness, but her stomach was filled. And again, her body felt relief at the nourishment. It made Bara an Oathbreaker once more, but the deep hunger she felt could not be denied. Now that it was stilled, there was relief. It was shameful. She wished for forgiveness, but knew it would not be given.
The girl took the empty plate and goblet and left, a look of satisfaction on her face as if she had achieved an accomplishment. Once alone, Bara got to her feet, wishing to flee, yet even a few steps would reveal her to the vile heathens still sitting with their leader. Some had left, she had heard, but there were still enough to laugh and bark, at times cackling like jackals. Bara sat back down again and did what she had done so far. She closed her eyes, laced her hands, and prayed for steadfastness, courage, and guidance, though not for Mercy. It was foolish to ask the Gods for what they would not give.
They left early in the morning and continued as the day before. The girl sat before him, to the side, leaning her head against Gav’s shoulder. It was almost as if she knew what raged in his mind. Her presence kept the worst at bay.
They rode through villages, passing towns at the far horizon. He acquired what food they needed, he had still enough coin left, it would last him well to the High Hills, for she ate barely more than a child. The sun beat down from the sky, making them cover their heads with cloth and ration their water more strictly. They did not rest till nightfall, where a farmer’s wife defied her husband and let them sleep in the hay. Once in the dark, she undid his breeches. Gav laid a hand on hers to stop her, but the girl continued.
“You don’t have to,” he said, but she did not stop and did what she clearly felt she must. Gav could not enjoy it as he wished. He could still hear her crying the night before.
*
They continued in this manner for many days. In a valley they met others on their way who saw his koba sword and livery and asked to join them. Gav had no reason to gainsay them once he made certain they were who they professed to be and not robbers in disguise. Once the group joined them, men, women, and children, the girl never left his side. She would not speak to the women, she would not play with the children. If one of the men talked to her she ran away. They asked him if she was soft in her head and he told her, “She just lost her child,” which made them nod, understanding.
No one disturbed her then. At night when they pitched tents around the fire, she slept crushed close to him, clutching his tunic. She would not sleep if he didn’t hold her against him. She hardly ate and when Gav saw she was getting weak, he sent the group a little ways ahead, dismounted, and made her eat the two apples and the slices of fresh driedfruit bread one of the women had given him as her ration. She refused at first until Gav showed his anger and she complied in fear. He regretted it, but he couldn’t have her faint on the high road. She never spoke, no matter what he asked, and she was as skittish as a young foal. By the end of the week, he wanted the group to leave them again, but he knew they would stay until they reached the next larger town. By what knowledge the group had, that was still three days away.
Rumours flew in the group about him, some even suspecting he was of the infamous Seventh Legion, but that did not interest Gav. He rather heard of what stories the men knew of the borders. The great battles were still being fought, the borders moving marginally every few weeks. Cities Gav knew had been sacked and burned, Tarna, Wésh Anar, Elparion. Others were still under siege as he had known, for a large faction of the Demon Horde was still trying to topple the Iron Gates of Sój Par, spell-cast in ages past by the Ág Manar, the First Builders, and so unbreakable. The Beast, as it seemed, raged on, undeterred by those fleeing.
Some of the men showed their curiosity, one even asking about Jirigan, but Gav kept his peace and the man did not ask again. And thus they travelled on. Neither elder nor youth were insolent and deferred to him in matters of pace and rest. There was a dispute between a younger man and another about one of the women, but Gav settled that quickly, the young woman wanted neither and kept with her child sister, who cried unceasingly for their mother. Otherwise they travelled rather peacefully, the group came mostly from the same village.
On the second to the last day, they were attacked by plunderers. It was in the middle of the day and the pillagers were disguised as tinkerers abandoned by greymerchants a few days past. Apparently, the bastard Greys up sticks and vanished over night, leaving them to their own devices on the high road. The tale was plausible, greymerhcants knew no loyalty, not even to their own, but Gav sensed something was wrong, the tinkerers were too meek somehow. He knew he was right when he felt a small hand clutch his tightly. He looked down, the girl was standing next to him, so close even, it was as if she was trying to hide inside him. Her eyes were as wide as saucers again.
Gav gave those villagers who could use weapons a hidden sign, men and women alike. In these times, all who still held their senses had learned to wield blades, axes, hammers, scythes, whatever they could get their hands on. It was known among the legions never to underestimate the peasantry, who used anything as a weapon. Some thought it dishonourable, Gav thought it showed sense. Even peasants valued their humble lives. Once all were quietly notified, Gav whispered to the girl.
“Stay with the grandmothers. Keep to the children.”
He waited until she nodded. Then he plied his hand free from her grip, and made to speak with the leader of the eight tinkerers, a heavyset man with a full beard and benevolent face of a family elder. They spoke, the tale was retold, but the sense of unease remained.
“Where do you hail from, good sir?”
“Tarna, Captain,” the heavyset man smiled, a little too eagerly. “Only ten days ago we saw its high gates and wish to return unscathed.”
One of the villagers stepped forward, frowning.
“Tarna? It was sacked and ashed three weeks ago. No way you’re from Tarna. You don’t even have the right accent.”
This caught the heavyset man off-guard. He had not expected them to have such fresh news, such precise knowledge. One of his comrades pushed back his mantle and drew his weapon, demanding.
“Enough of this. Give us your coin.”
“Gabra, wait,” the heavyset man said soothingly. “We can negotiate. They seem sensible.”
“I’m done negotiating, old man,” Gabra snarled, raising a very sharp-looking cleaver.
The rest of the tinkerers drew their weapons as well, two longknives next to Gabra’s cleaver, and a couple koba, the heavyset man hefting a Dág Án battle-axe that looked genuine, all benevolence drained for his face and eyes, the cold certainty of a born killer finally showing.
To Gav’s surprise, the women stayed silent and the grandmothers in charge of the young did not scream. They gathered up the children instead, quickly, commanding them not to cry, rushing them into the high grasses beyond the road, while the village men and women raised their wood axes, fighting sicks, and butcher knives. The tinkerers smirked, convinced a dozen villagers, five women among them, were easy prey. They attacked without ceremony, the sing and clash of honed steel bright and sharp.
It was quick and brutal, blood spraying crimson everywhere, the slice and stab of blades into soft flesh unmistakable, the crunch of bone loud when the blacksmith’s hammer smashed into a skull. The villagers, Gav saw, knew how to fight together, as one unit, much like the legions. Those taller fought from the top, the smaller from the side, and one of the women crouched down and stabbed everything above the knee, causing lethal damage. The pillagers quickly found they underestimated who they were facing. And they lacked the determination of those who had to survive. Where the plunderers fought for loot and worse, the villagers fought for their lives and knew no mercy. They killed six raiders together, each aware of the other much like Gav had been with his cohort in days past, so much so, Gav had little more to do than deflect sudden stabs and save the small woman from getting crushed under a toppled pillager, her butcher’s knife dripping scarlet with blood, her face a grim mask of determination. Gav knew that look. He understood what it meant. They had once been village of seventy fighting men, discounting the women. Now only these twelve of fighting strength remained.
The two pillagers who survived turned and ran once they saw themselves outnumbered. They were quickly dropped by two arrows darting out of the high grasses, shot by two village boys with vengeance in their eyes. One of the women scolded them sharply, then gathered them fiercely into her arms.
*
The villagers collected what weapons they needed and burnt the dead, for none were left to the Winds. They still had such faith in the Gods. While the men carried the corpses to the pyre and the women tended the flames, Gav retrieved the Dág Án battle-axe from the bearded killer, fixing the rare blade to his saddlebags, for the Dág Án would want it returned, and the villagers would not know how to talk, let alone fight their way out of such an encounter. Once done, Gav walked into the high grasses and found the grandmothers hidden well among far bushes, the children clutched close. All were present and accounted for, all except one.
“Where is she?” Gav asked one of the grandmothers. The stout woman shrugged and shook her head, showing sadness.
Gav did not feel fear. He knew the girl had run to save herself, he simply had to find her. He told the stout grandmother not to wait for them, mounted his horse, and went and looked for the girl.
He found her not long after, up in a tree. She was clutching a branch and trying to be as still as possible. Gav only found her by the tracking he knew, which required a skill only those who wielded spell-cast blades could acquire. Gav understood then how she must have escaped after five moons of utter Hell. She could disappear from all sight and sound if she found the necessary Calm. She had learned to merge completely into the background until she was one with the trees and grass, even the sky. Which meant she must have had genuine training. Which meant she must have served the High Court, for none other in the realms were allowed to know the Art. Which meant she had once been part of a High Temple, if not a Shrine, maybe even a Sister Shrine to Alathan. Which meant he should not touch her again.
Gav dismounted the horse, leaned against the tree trunk, and waited. She did not move.
“They’re dead,” he said. Nothing happened. “We will have to continue. The villagers want to reach the next town by tomorrow.”
She still didn’t move. He looked up. The girl had managed to climb quite high. He stepped away from the tree. There was no other choice. Gav grabbed a branch and was in the tree. He found her near the top, clinging to a bough sprouting with leaves, her eyes wide as saucers again.
“Give me your hand.”
She didn’t immediately, but after many heartbeats she finally stretched out her hand. The branch swayed, he pulled her to him. The branch sagged under her weight, but he caught her in time. She clung to him fiercely. Gav could hear her whimper and feel her heart race. He climbed back down again, carefully, holding her. Three women were waiting at the foot of the tree, one of them the mother with the two sons. Another woman had tea with her, yet another a blanket. The girl would not let him go but for the eldest’s gentle coaxing.
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