causing the incident.
In the end, she never retrieved her lost
shoe.
Bethany marched on, tired, cold, and
hungry.
They’re just running a little behind, she
told herself firmly when the group stopped in a narrow valley for
the night. The slavers led their horses to a small stream to drink.
Bethany and another unfortunate soul rushed forward to do the same.
The rope around their neck tightened as the rest of the line, those
smarter than they, stayed where they were. Bethany and the other
slave took a beating as they were dragged back into the line.
“Wait yer turn!” snapped one of the slavers,
striking her across the cheek.
“Not the face, man,” said another. “She’s a
pretty one. Don’t go ruining the merchandise.”
“Yessir,” mumbled the first man.
Bethany stared at the second man, the one in
authority. Should she announce her true identity to this man? He
was clearly the one in charge. She even suspected he had a smidgeon
of education. Bethany hesitated until the leader noticed her gaping
stare.
“What’re you looking at?” he demanded,
whacking her in the back of the knees hard enough to bring her off
her feet.
The fall brought the rest of the line down to
the ground. Bethany heard the other slaves grumble as once again
she caused them to fall. All the slaves bore heavy bruises around
their necks from where the rope had been jerked tight by her
repeated tumbles.
Bethany tried to keep her eyes to herself,
suddenly feeling as though her fellow slaves would be just as happy
as the slavers to hurt her. She needed a friend and an ally when
all she had were enemies.
After the horses and slavers had both drunk
their fill, the slaves were led to the stream bed and allowed a few
quick sips of water before being dragged to small cluster of
forest. One end of their line was tied to one tree, while the other
was attached to another, giving them just enough slack to lie
down.
“I hear a peep outta any o’ you, and I’ll
chop off a toe!” snapped one of the slavers.
The other slaves collapsed onto their backs,
forcing Bethany to lie down too. For the first time in her simple
life, Princess Bethany slept under the stars with an empty belly
and a parched mouth.
“Sir Caldry,” said a shy voice. “Your horse
is ready.”
Sir Caldry, or Cal as his friends called him,
gave his shaven face one last examination in the reflective surface
of the river before turning to look at the speaker. It was a young
lad; a squire to one of the other knights, he thought though he
couldn’t remember a name. The boy’s eyes were puffy and Cal spotted
traces of hastily wiped tear tracks on his smudged face. From where
Cal squatted by the river, he could see a long tear in the shoulder
of the boy’s tunic and the beginnings of what would be a nasty
bruise.
“Éimhin,” Cal sighed as he pushed his sore
legs into a standing position. “Stop biting the help.”
Cal took the lead to his majestic warhorse
and turned the animal’s head away from the lad, to keep the horse
from getting any ideas. Cal was the only human Éimhin wouldn’t take
a bite out of. Granted, if the horse ever tried, Cal would have
punched him in the face. Cal loved Éimhin, but he didn’t take any
funny business from the horse. They now shared a deep relationship,
knight and horse, the result of which was an almost indestructible
fighting unit. Not entirely, but almost. They both bore their scars
from incidents where it had been proven that they were not
perfect.
Of course, Cal’s largest scar was from long
before he had ever purchased the little colt, now grown into one of
the largest warhorses he had ever seen. The scar running from his
left temple, down his face and neck, and ending in the middle of
his left bicep had been received when he had saved King Wolfric’s
life, an act that had earned him his freedom from slavery.
Like so many people on the peninsula, he had
spent many years after his nation had been conquered as a slave to
the
In the end, she never retrieved her lost
shoe.
Bethany marched on, tired, cold, and
hungry.
They’re just running a little behind, she
told herself firmly when the group stopped in a narrow valley for
the night. The slavers led their horses to a small stream to drink.
Bethany and another unfortunate soul rushed forward to do the same.
The rope around their neck tightened as the rest of the line, those
smarter than they, stayed where they were. Bethany and the other
slave took a beating as they were dragged back into the line.
“Wait yer turn!” snapped one of the slavers,
striking her across the cheek.
“Not the face, man,” said another. “She’s a
pretty one. Don’t go ruining the merchandise.”
“Yessir,” mumbled the first man.
Bethany stared at the second man, the one in
authority. Should she announce her true identity to this man? He
was clearly the one in charge. She even suspected he had a smidgeon
of education. Bethany hesitated until the leader noticed her gaping
stare.
“What’re you looking at?” he demanded,
whacking her in the back of the knees hard enough to bring her off
her feet.
The fall brought the rest of the line down to
the ground. Bethany heard the other slaves grumble as once again
she caused them to fall. All the slaves bore heavy bruises around
their necks from where the rope had been jerked tight by her
repeated tumbles.
Bethany tried to keep her eyes to herself,
suddenly feeling as though her fellow slaves would be just as happy
as the slavers to hurt her. She needed a friend and an ally when
all she had were enemies.
After the horses and slavers had both drunk
their fill, the slaves were led to the stream bed and allowed a few
quick sips of water before being dragged to small cluster of
forest. One end of their line was tied to one tree, while the other
was attached to another, giving them just enough slack to lie
down.
“I hear a peep outta any o’ you, and I’ll
chop off a toe!” snapped one of the slavers.
The other slaves collapsed onto their backs,
forcing Bethany to lie down too. For the first time in her simple
life, Princess Bethany slept under the stars with an empty belly
and a parched mouth.
“Sir Caldry,” said a shy voice. “Your horse
is ready.”
Sir Caldry, or Cal as his friends called him,
gave his shaven face one last examination in the reflective surface
of the river before turning to look at the speaker. It was a young
lad; a squire to one of the other knights, he thought though he
couldn’t remember a name. The boy’s eyes were puffy and Cal spotted
traces of hastily wiped tear tracks on his smudged face. From where
Cal squatted by the river, he could see a long tear in the shoulder
of the boy’s tunic and the beginnings of what would be a nasty
bruise.
“Éimhin,” Cal sighed as he pushed his sore
legs into a standing position. “Stop biting the help.”
Cal took the lead to his majestic warhorse
and turned the animal’s head away from the lad, to keep the horse
from getting any ideas. Cal was the only human Éimhin wouldn’t take
a bite out of. Granted, if the horse ever tried, Cal would have
punched him in the face. Cal loved Éimhin, but he didn’t take any
funny business from the horse. They now shared a deep relationship,
knight and horse, the result of which was an almost indestructible
fighting unit. Not entirely, but almost. They both bore their scars
from incidents where it had been proven that they were not
perfect.
Of course, Cal’s largest scar was from long
before he had ever purchased the little colt, now grown into one of
the largest warhorses he had ever seen. The scar running from his
left temple, down his face and neck, and ending in the middle of
his left bicep had been received when he had saved King Wolfric’s
life, an act that had earned him his freedom from slavery.
Like so many people on the peninsula, he had
spent many years after his nation had been conquered as a slave to
the
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