The gleam in Meath's eyes gave him away, he knew. He kicked his legs up hard trying to score a hit at the enemy who stood before him. The man just sidestepped with a mocking laugh, watching Meath swing back and forth. It had been a mistake - the leather straps had tightened from the effort, cutting into his wrists even more, and causing his shoulders to blossom in an agonized frenzy of burning and pulling pain. Meath cried out again.
"What is in a name to a dead man, anyway? If you must know, I am High Priest Kinor of the Blood Lotus tribe," he laughed, amused by Meath's pathetic attempt.
Kinor walked over to the table and pulled a bone knife and small clay bowl out from under the hide. He came back over to Meath and snarled, slamming a sharp fist into Meath's abdomen, knocking the wind from his lungs. He grabbed hold of Meath's leg and cut deeply into the back of his calf. Meath cursed through his coughing and wheezing. The blood soaked through his leather pants and started to drip towards the ground and into the small bowl Kinor had placed there.
"You bastard! When I get down from here, I am going to kill you!" Meath spat.
"Well, I hate to leave since things are just getting amusing, but I must prepare for the ceremony that will be taking place in two days." The Shaman laughed, picking up the bowl of blood as he left the hut, without so much as a glance back at Meath.
Meath hung from the beam, his mind racing. As long as he was in this circle, there was nothing he could do. The hours went past, the last of the sunlight faded away, and his thoughts brought him to Nicolette. He wondered if she was okay. He knew Ursa would not let any harm come to her, but the ache in his heart from not knowing grew by the minute. He wondered where they were and if they were going to try to save them. Or did they think that he and Zehava were dead and were just continuing to Dragon's Cove. He shook his head. He could not lose hope, for hope was all he had now.
The cut on his leg bled for a long time until it had scabbed over. He had lost a lot of blood and now the dirt floor below him was stained with it. He tried to force circulation into his arms by flexing them and moving his fingers, but it seemed an insurmountable task - it did, however, give him something to concentrate on aside from his grueling fate ahead.
*****
Zehava had all but exhausted himself in his quest to free himself from his prison. The bars were just too thick and well set in the wooden frame. He had tested every bar, top to bottom, but it was no use; his cell was built well for its purpose. He had thought to try to pick the lock that held the door shut, but he could find nothing in or around his cell that would work. Defeated, he sat back down.
He could hear the light breathing from the crazed man to his side. He had thought to try to make conversation with him again, but knew he was asleep and did not have the heart to wake him. The man's dreams were most likely the only joy he had left in his life.
Zehava slowly closed his eyes, and was moments away from sleep's embrace when the sound of the barn door opening stirred him. There was no torchlight following the figure in. The figure was cautious and checked to see they had not been seen entering the barn. Zehava's adrenaline surged as he got to his feet.
"Meath, I am over here!" he whispered as softly as he could, though his enthusiasm was easily detected. "I never thought I was going to see you again."
The figure stopped and looked his way for a brief moment before moving to the center of the barn and kneeling down. Zehava's heart sank at the realization that it was not Meath coming to rescue him. He heard the spilt pot being moved and knew who it was.
"Shania is that you?" he whispered.
She stopped what she was doing and seemed to ponder if she should respond. "Yes…I cannot talk. I must go."
"Are you all right?" He could tell there was something wrong, her voice was faint and somber.
Shania stopped her pursuit to the door. "Why would you care?"
"I am not really sure," Zehava admitted. still remorseful, "maybe because, you and me have something in common."
He heard her disbelieving chuckle in response. "How do you mean?"
"We are both slaves, we both have had our freedom taken from us," he replied.
She stormed up to his cell, holding her face inches away. "I never had freedom - I was born a slave!" she barked, her voice crackling with anger.
Zehava looked closer; the left side of her face was bruised and swollen badly. He moved closer to where she stood, his eyes never leaving hers. "It does not have to be like this you know - I can help you."
"You know nothing," she replied, tears welling up in her eyes.
"I know this is not how life was meant to be," he assured her. "And is not how it has to be. Help my friend and me escape and we will take you with us. You can start your life anew." Zehava saw the twinkle of hope in her eyes at the notion, and, as fast as it came, it faded back to despair.
"My fate is sealed…" she whispered, her eyes falling to the floor. "…Your fate will be no better. They will break you, like him." She pointed to the crazed man who was still soundly asleep. "Or sell you."
"I will never be like him, ever!" Zehava proclaimed sternly.
"Then they will kill you," she told him solemnly.
Zehava felt helplessness sinking in, he had hoped she would see the truth in his words and fight for it, but her spirit had been crushed. "Then release me. Tell me where they are keeping my friend and give me the chance to escape, with or without you."
"You will be massacred before you ever made it to the ceremonial hut."
"At least I will die like a man," he shot back, more angrily than he had intended.
"What is your world like?" she asked, her eyes finally leaving the floor to meet his again. They were full of a forbidden hope.
"It is not like this," he told her, "nothing like this."
Slowly her hands rose up to touch the lock that contained him. A small sliver of metal was gripped tightly in her trim fingers as she pondered her actions one last time.
Zehava's eyes were wide with anticipation. He had not expected this at all ... he had no idea how he was going to be able to free Meath and survive. That part did not matter; he would be free. He licked his lips as she slid the metal into the lock and maneuvered it around until a soft click sounded out, and the lock fell to the floor.
"Thank you," he said, as he opened the cell door to freedom and a gloomy shroud seem to drop from his shoulders.
Shania grabbed his arm and turned him toward her, her expression torn between hope and helplessness. "Take me with you, I beg you…!"
"Ye filthy little wretch!" slurred a deep angry voice from behind.
Shania knew who it was before she even turned around.
"I should have feed ye to the wolves the day you dropped from the womb of that whore!" her father slurred again.
"Father…I was…just…" Shania stuttered terrified.
"Do not dare call me that, ye wench. I know what you were trying!" he barked, pulling a malicious whip from his belt.
"No please… no… no…" Shania cried out at the sight of the cruel weapon, knowing its bite.
Zehava snarled and charged, his fist balled tightly, hoping to get to the brute before he could put the weapon to work. But the barbarian was ready for him. Before Zehava could get there, the tip of the whip stung him across the right shoulder and chest, slicing through his light leather shirt and into his flesh. The snap knocked Zehava off balance and he stumbled. He heard the sharp unyielding crack of the whip again and felt a biting pain across his thighs. His legs buckled and he crashed to the floor.
"NOOO!" Shania cried, knowing they were both dead if she did not act. Without thinking, she charged forward and latched onto her father's arm before he could rain down another brutal assault.
"You wench!" he screamed at her. His fist connected solidly with her already swollen face and her grip loosened. He heaved his arm free and backhanded her hard, sending her sprawling to the ground. Swinging his whip back, he took aim at Shania. "I am done with you, wretched girl! Y
ou have caused me nothing but shame."
Zehava lifted himself on all fours just in time to see the tip of the whip slither to a stop just in front him. He lunged forward and grabbed it just as the savage was about to unleash his fury upon his half-breed daughter. Zehava pulled back hard as the barbarian swung, nearly dislocated the savages' shoulder.
Zehava got to his feet, rushed the barbarian, and landed a hard punch, crushing the barbarian's nose flat to his face. He stumbled back a step and Zehava pressed on, not wanting to lose his advantage. He launched several more staggered blows, hoping to keep his enemy off balance and defending. He caught movement by the door and knew it was too late when three armed barbarians entered the barn wondering what the ruckus was. When they realized what was happening, they leveled their weapons Zehava's way. He stopped his attack and backed away with a curse.
"You okay?" asked one of the new arrivals with a thick accent.
"What happened?" Another questioned, while he slapped the flat of his sword against Zehava's knees forcing him to the ground.
The barbarian wiped the blood from his broken nose. "The new slave was trying to escape with some help," he replied, turning back to regard his daughter who was on her feet, her eyes on the floor. "Take her to my hut and watch her until I return." He turned back to Zehava with a glare filled with malice. "I have unfinished business with this one!"
"We will stay outside in case you need us," one of the barbarians told him - the other grabbed a hold of Shania. She went with him willingly, knowing if she struggled, it would be worse.
Zehava's mind was blank - his chance of escape had dwindled away before it had ever truly begun. He knew if he tried anything now the man would kill him, though he had to wonder if that was his plan now anyway.
The man stared long and hard at Zehava with an icy, dark glare. It seemed like forever before he moved toward Zehava. He felt a lump well up in his throat when the man let the slack from the whip hit the dirt floor.
"Well slave, it looks like I came in at just the right time." His tone was so cold that it made Zehava's heart stutter right there and then.
Zehava just stared at the barbarian in defeat. There was nothing for him to do anymore. He looked over to the crazed man. He could see him rocking back and forth, muttering to himself again, trying to ignore what was happening, hoping the man would kill him. Zehava got to his feet knowing it would enrage the barbarian, and it did. Die well Zehava, die well, he told himself, seeing the whip flail back.
Zehava flinched as the first blow caught him across the leg and tore through his leather pants into his flesh. Still, he stood his ground, proud and firm. A second snap left its malicious stain across a forearm. A third and fourth tasted his chest with its fierce sting. Zehava gasped, trying to block out the pain.
Time seemed to stand still - the only sound was the sinful crack of the whip and the heavy breathing of his attacker. Zehava did not even know when he had fallen to the earth, but the cold dirt felt good on his skin.
Each time the whip found Zehava and licked another part of his tender flesh, he clenched his teeth, tears escaping his tightly closed eyes. Never in his whole life could he remember being in so much pain or being so afraid. All he could do was curl up on the floor and hide his head while the enraged man whipped him mercilessly.
Zehava did not even notice that the man had stopped hitting him, his body had become so cold and numb. He lay there in a puddle of blood and tears and stared blankly at the flies that buzzed around to feed on it.
"Get in here now," the vile barbarian called to the others outside. "Put him in his cell and watch him."
The two savages looked at the bloody mess on the floor that had once been a proud man. "Why need watching? He go nowhere. Be dead before sunrise."
"Do not argue!" he barked, leaving the slave barn heading to his hut where his daughter waited, the whip still in hand.
It seemed like hours had passed before he had the strength and courage to move. He was afraid the man might still be watching him, though he had left long ago. Zehava dragged himself into the far corner of his cell, curled into a tight ball, and whimpered himself to sleep.
*****
Shania crept around the barbarian camp stealthy as a shadow in the fading night. Her two curved twin blades in hand at the ready. Dried blood still flaked off the finely crafted weapons, though she ignored that resolutely. She had found the blades a handful of years back - in a pile of supplies her brethren had returned with, after taking out a military supply caravan. She had kept the remarkable weapons hidden. Had her father found them, he would have surely beaten her nearly to death - as he had on several occasions when he had thought her hiding something.
Shania had trained many hours with these blades in secret. She would sneak out of the camps when the warriors were off pillaging or hunting and her father had gone with them. She had watched the warriors train and practice with their weapons and had learned from observing them and then rehearsing the sequences later. On several occasions, she had trained on the corpses of animals and even dead slaves, by hanging them up and running drills on hitting the body’s kill points. She had even improved several of the attacks to compensate for her smaller size and strength.
Shania had gone willingly enough with the barbarian back to her hut and she had known before she left the barn what she would do. The man had never expected it and had not even seen it coming. She had granted him a quick death - more out of necessity than respect.
She had thought of escaping the camp then, but knew she would not make it far once her father returned and had seen what she had done. The whole tribe would go after her. Plus, she felt compelled to help the man back in the barn, Zehava, had been his name. He had been kind to her and talked to her as if she was an equal, something she had never had before. Almost like a friend, in truth, he was the closest thing she had known to a friend. She had been forbidden to play with the other children growing up; she was not of pure blood.
Shania had waited for her father to return. She knew he would beat her to death. When he had entered the hut, he had not even noticed the body off to the side. His eyes were instead transfixed on the weapon-wielding figure that stood in the middle of room. They had stared long and hard at each other - a lifetime of unspoken hatred spread from her eyes into his. Then, he had just grinned at her patronizingly, until his eyes drifted off to the side where the corpse of her guard lay. His eyes had immediately snapped back to her, her intent clear to him now.
He dropped the slack of the whip to the earth and gritted his teeth. He had not even cocked the whip back before Shania had let loose one of her deadly blades, and followed its course in fast pursuit. Her blade hit true, half the blade's length implanted into his chest. He had not even realized a blade pierced him before Shania was there - her other blade quick to work. A downward slash severed the thumb and first two fingers on his weapon hand. Before he could scream, a tightly balled fist connected with his windpipe, stealing his voice. She brought her free blade around low, cutting deep into his thighs, dropping him to his knees. He breathed several curses before she had ended his wrath forever.
Shania had collected a pack full of things before she made her way back toward the slave barn. She had to make sure he was still alive before she made her next choice.
Shania could hear talking from inside the slave barn and knew the two others were still inside. That gave her hope that he still lived.
She moved to the back of the barn where she knew of several loose boards that she could dislodge silently. A moment later, she was in the barn behind several empty cells. She could see the two guards sitting on stumps around a supply crate, gambling with cruelly carved bone dice.
Shania maneuvered through the cells and crates to Zehava's cell. She almost gasped aloud when she saw the sight before her - she was sure he was dead. She was about to leave when she noticed the rise and fall of his chest. She watched long and hard before making her decision. His breathing was weak but she knew he
was not on his deathbed, at least not yet.
She moved through the shadows, back around the way she had come, getting as close to the guards as possible. Though they were still a good dozen paces away, she knew these two men well, through stories she had heard. They were both remarkable fighters and had won the respect of many tribal members for their prowess. It eased her mind a little when she noticed several empty ale jugs beside them. Their postures were sluggish and their coordination was careless.
Shania knew if she acted quickly, she could do it - but if she faltered and they had a chance to react she would be doomed.
She had only ever killed once before this night. Two winters ago, a prisoner, a boy about her age who her tribe had taken from a farmhouse. One night out of some sadistic lust, her father had decided to pit the two against each other. The tribe had forced them both into the middle of the village and surrounded them in a tight circle so there was no escape. She and the boy had been given a dagger and both a separate promise. The boy, if he could kill her, would be set free and for Shania, she would finally win the respect of the tribe. Something she had yearned for her whole life; a chance to finally lift the shame. They had both taken the promise to heart as they circled each other, the firmly gripped blades in their hands, and a statement of their intent. Wagers were placed and hoots and howls ensued as the bloodthirsty crowd encouraged the scrap.
It had not been until after she murdered the boy that she learned the promises had been hollow. Shaking her head at the memory, she steeled herself and then crouched. She took a deep breath to center herself before she dashed out stealthily towards her targets.
The two barbarians swayed in their seats and slurred, making their bets before the die were thrown. All was silent as they waited for the cubes to stop and reveal their marks to prove the winner of the round. The savage on the far side roared in victory as the die landed in his favor. He looked to his opponent, continuing his gloating. But his mirth was cut short when he noticed the blood spilling out of his wide-eyed partner's mouth and the two glossy scarlet blades that penetrated through his chest.
The False Prince (Fall Of A King Book 1) Page 14