by Kim Bowman
“As your brother, I would advise you to repent for your sins and take your punishment. The outcome may be more painful, but at least you will have a shelter over your head. You will save your own life.”
“Have I displeased the gods so much that I must suffer like this? I have lived my life chastely and dedicated to Father and his people. I don’t understand why this is happening. Do I even dare ask what the punishment is?”
“Thirty lashes.”
“Thirty lashes! But Marcus didn’t receive that many when he stole Father’s court horse and sold it at market for a belly full of ale!” Brynn couldn’t believe the words. Thirty lashes would tear her to pieces. She was strong of will, not strong of body. “He wants me to die, does he not? He knows full well I could not withstand thirty lashes. He has chosen this punishment so that I might leave by my own doing, not his. I know it to be true.”
“My thoughts as well, Brynn,” Michael muttered, pushing his dark locks from his brow. “What do you choose?”
“Tell him I shall take the thirty lashes,” she answered with defiance.
“Brynn—”
“What of Julian? I assume Father has told him the lies?”
Michael’s eyes wavered from hers. “He has renounced the engagement.”
Brynn held back a sob. “And what of our guests?”
“They shall be leaving with him in the morning. The women feel they are no longer safe.”
“Might I ask who will be doing the lashing?”
“Father. He believes it will cleanse you properly if he is the one.”
“Tell him I will be ready.”
~~~~
When daylight broke through the early morning darkness, Marek and his men trudged to the manor to inquire of the girl. Surely by speaking to the calmed earl, Bertram would be ready to hear the truth. When they reached the main entrance, the doorman explained the girl was in the village square for her punishment.
“What punishment?” Marek pressed the old man against door.
“Her repentance. She must be cleansed!”
“How do I get there?” spat Marek, releasing the man.
“Follow the road. It will lead you to the village. But you should hurry if you want a good view!” The doorman scratched his balding head with spindle-like fingers. “’Tis not every day nobility takes a lashing. The entire village is bound to show for it.”
Marek left the old man to mount his horse.
“What are you getting yourself into, brother?” asked Ronan, rechecking the girth of his saddle. “Do you want to do this?”
“I’m in the mood for a fight,” was his reply.
The four Archaeans stormed into the village, slowing when the crowd grew thick. After dismounting, they tethered their horses to a nearby rail and waded through the people, pressing farther through the commotion. Surprised stares greeted them at every turn. The villagers willingly parted a path for the beastly warriors.
The people formed a circle around the center square, awaiting the show. A stout man read from a piece of parchment in front of two tall wooden posts. Marek couldn’t hear the words over the thrumming of the spectators, but assumed the man announced the charges. Strapped between the two posts stood Brynn, her back outward. After the man made his proclamation, the earl uncurled a long, leather whip and released its fury. It bit into her flesh like a snake, leaving jagged lines of red across her back. Another lash whipped through the air and found its mark.
Shrieking out in agony, Brynn pleaded for her life. Another lash dug in. Then another. Her wails did not deter the earl. Her body went limp.
Marek elbowed his way through the blood-crying mob. With every crack of the whip, he pushed himself farther. He would slice these fools through if it would clear him a path. The girl’s screams echoed in his ears, signaling every lash reached its target. The crowd cheered with each crack. Five lashes.
Six. He cursed, finally stumbling from the spectators. The girl hung lifeless before him.
The seventh lash cracked through the air, and the earl pulled his arm back to deliver the eighth when Marek charged. He wrenched the leather from Bertram’s fist. Bertram lost his footing and tumbled to the ground.
Marek tossed the whip aside. Standing over the shocked man, Marek pulled his sword from its sheath. The edge lingered dangerously close to the earl’s throat. He wedged the tip under the man’s chin, pressing it into the fat. “Why do your people not rush to protect you, Earl of Galhaven?” Kneeling beside Bertram, Marek chose the words with care. “Touch her again, and I will kill you. I do not make idle threats, Engel.”
Bertram stared ahead, his face void of expression.
Marek drew back his weapon before rushing to Brynn’s limp body. Swinging hard against the ropes binding her, he freed her with a heavy blow. The girl dropped to the ground, landing in a small puddle of her own blood. After removing the ropes, Marek scooped her into his arms. Blood painted his arms as he pushed his way through the crowd to his horse. His men stood guard, but he met no resistance. Her lifeless arms dangled to her sides, swaying with his every step. A steady trickle of blood dripped from her fingers to the ground like dark drops of rain. Her heart beat against his chest. It was slow but still beating.
With Brynn tucked safely into the crook of his shoulder, Marek turned his horse away from the village. Only then did Bertram race after them, pounding his fist in the air, but not a yellow head turned in his direction.
They had started their long journey home.
~~~~
“We are traveling too slowly, Marek. At this rate we will never make it home in time.” Ronan told his brother.
“We have time,” he replied. For two days they had traveled at a walking pace, pulling the semiconscious girl behind them on a makeshift pallet built from saplings and a woven quilt. They made frequent stops to give her water and tend her wounds. She battled a raging fever, but would live.
“What are you planning on doing with the girl? The slower we travel, the sooner we might meet resistance.” Ronan’s voice didn’t waiver, but Marek could sense his worry. His brother’s injury, and now the girl, sent their plan to a sharp halt.
The concerns of his men weighed heavily on his mind. The weather could turn at any moment, snowing them in and forcing them to seek shelter at whatever village happened to be nearest. They had already spent too many winters away from home. “As soon as we reach the Crossroads, we’ll drop her off somewhere. We will make it home in time, Ronan. Do not worry.”
Ronan smiled before trotting ahead to the others. “Gavin, Aiden! Marek says we are to be ridding ourselves of the girl as soon as we reach the Crossroads!”
“I cannot wait to reach home.” Aiden sighed, the longing in his voice evident. “Och, to eat some real food. I am sick of this Engel shit.”
“When I get home, I’m going to fuck every woman I see,” Ronan boasted, a wide grin curling his lips. “What about you, Gavin? Care to join me?”
“Join you? Hell, no. I’m going to drink, steal a man’s woman, then drink some more, start a fight, and then keep on drinking. And maybe fuck another woman.”
Aiden and Ronan nodded in agreement.
“Sounds excellent.” Gavin gripped Ronan’s shoulder and gave him an excited shake.
~~~~
The smell of cooking meat tingled Brynn’s nostrils, rousing her from a wicked dream. She rolled to her back, stretching her stiff muscles. Sharp, needle-like pain radiated throughout her as she pushed up on her elbows. Brynn blinked, focusing on her surroundings. A cloth billowed in the wind, surrounding her on three sides. A large boulder blocked the open end. A tree branch jetted across her shelter, leafless and dark, casting strange shadows that seemed to follow even the slightest movements.
Someone went through a great deal to see to her comfort. Brynn crept to the cloth to peer through the opening. Seated around a small campfire were the Archaeans. Her hand covered her mouth to stifle a scream. They had taken her. A quick shot of panic quivered up her spine. Brynn follo
wed their movements until she connected with those cobalt eyes. A brazen stare met her gaze. There was a want in those eyes — something she had never seen before — and it frightened her.
Impulse told Brynn to move. She crawled from the shelter, scampering to a nearby bush to hide behind what false safety it provided. Even tucked out of sight, she couldn’t overcome the alarm rooting itself deep in her belly. She wasn’t sure if she should be terrified of this man or forever grateful for saving her life — twice. Brynn stayed huddled in her fortress of shrubbery while the four Archaeans ate their dinner, every last morsel.
Occasionally, Marek would glace her way, seemingly to check on her whereabouts.
The sun set well below the trees before Brynn mustered the courage to venture from her hiding place. She ached all over, and her stomach twisted in tight knots. She’d grown weary in the cold, was in desperate need of rest, and she certainly wouldn’t get it hiding behind a bush all night. With her luck, she would likely be mauled by some wild beastie in the dark.
The small fire popped and crackled, breaking the monotonous silence of the forest. A bitter autumn cold settled over the land and the warmth of the fire beckoned her forward, but her bladder had a higher calling. Surveying her surroundings, she contemplated her actions carefully.
Forward? Or backward?
Brynn crept into the darkness.
Her eyes wouldn’t adjust to night’s nocturnal mask. Trees took the form of people, reaching into the night. A rustling too close to her feet startled her and she stepped on a branch, its crack echoing through the trees. Brynn pawed the darkness as she stumbled through the forest, straining to see. Tripping over a tree root, she stepped into a shallow brook.
At last.
Brynn steadied her legs, lifted her skirts, and sighed in delight as she allowed the contents of her bladder to flow into the stream.
With that ache now gone, Brynn couldn’t help but enjoy what freedom she found under the trees. No one had come for her yet; perhaps they didn’t care enough to search. A thorn bush tugged on her skirts, keeping the fabric snug in its grasp until she yanked it free, leaving a swatch still attached to the branches. Quickening her pace, Brynn pushed onward, hoping she was heading toward Galhaven. The tree canopy above hid the directional position of the moon.
The forest only seemed to grow darker with no end in sight. Her mouth was dry, her chest heavy. Her breath formed into tiny little ice crystals as she trudged up a steep hill hoping a clearing in which to rest was at the top. The incline proved difficult. A slick frost covered the terrain, and she slipped several times trying to conquer it.
When Brynn reached the plateau, her toes snagged in the bramble, sending her reeling forward. She fumbled, trying to regain her footing to no avail. She clawed at the ground, reaching for anything to slow her descent, but the wet bracken only accelerated her speed. She groped at the darkness for a root or vine, something to grasp, but all Brynn found were fistfuls of dirt and leaves. Trying to dig her heels into the mess only ripped off her slip-on shoes. The ground vanished from beneath her feet.
Brynn extended her arms wide before certain death claimed her. By the grace of the gods, she touched a loose root. She wrapped her fingers around it just as her body slid from the edge of a cliff. Brynn screamed, crashing into the rock wall as the root ripped through the dirt above before coming to an abrupt stop. She dangled in the nothingness surrounding her.
Without a moment’s notice, the root gave way into the dark depths. A spatter of dirt rained from above. “Oh, no,” she whimpered.
Brynn prayed. “Tyr, god of strength, give me courage.” She slipped again. “Lunos, goddess of love, protect my family. Dragus, keeper of the dead, grant me a swift and painless death and safe passage when I cross.” Hot tears burned her chilled cheeks as the root slipped through her fingers. Clamping her eyes shut, Brynn waited to tumble to the depths below.
Brynn repeated her prayers, mustering what strength she could. There was no sense in delaying the fall — it would only terrify her more. Death was calling, telling her to let go. With a sob, she released one hand. Releasing the other proved to be a bit more difficult.
Uncurling one finger from her slipping grip, Brynn chanted her death prayer. As she let loose the last of her fingers and began to fall, a still calm flowed through her. She was ready. Then a hand curled around her wrist. She dangled in the cavernous void for what seemed like an eternity until another hand clasped circled her arm, pulling her. Fingers dug into her flesh, removing her from the jaws of death.
Safely retrieved from an early demise, Brynn breathed in heavy silence, exhausted. Her rescuers panted quick words to each other in Archaean before staggering to their feet. The familiar voice wafted through her muddled thoughts. Marek. Her rescuer. Brynn, too weak to stand, was plucked from the ground and flopped over Marek’s shoulder. He gripped her tightly, his arm wrapped across her thighs with a hand resting comfortably on her buttocks.
Brynn didn’t object. On the verge of tears, she kept silent. He must be furious with her, what man wouldn’t be? She could have pulled him over the cliff with her, but he’d taken the risk… for her.
Marek stumbled but held his cargo tight, chuckling to his companion. He flexed beneath her, readjusting her weight. She inhaled him deeply. Scents swirled about her, masculine sweat and earth, stirring her insides like nothing she’d ever before experienced.
The men seemed to encounter no difficulties finding their way back to the camp. They trudged through the forest with ease, talking to each other in hushed tones. Brynn’s view was limited to mostly the backside of Marek’s shirt and the darkness of night, but it didn’t take long to realize they weren’t far from where they had stopped for the night. Brynn had made a wide circle during her escapade in the forest, and the men must have heard her screams echo not far from camp.
Marek carried Brynn to the makeshift tent then set her down on a pile of blankets with an abrupt pitch. A lit torch with the end shoved into the ground provided light. Shivering, Brynn pulled the warmth of the wool over her legs. She picked at her hair and tattered clothes matted with mud and debris. Her lip oozed fresh red around the curve of her chin. Brynn watched Marek wet a cloth with a water bladder. He approached her, but Brynn pushed his hand away.
“You are covered in filth,” he told her. “Hold still.”
“Do not touch me!” she cried out swatting at him.
Marek growled and threw the cloth, hitting her in the face.
The cloth fell to her lap, soaking her skirt. Brynn took the rag and tossed it back with a scowl. It smacked his chest.
Marek watched the rag fall to the grass as he ran his fingers through his golden waves. “You need not be afraid of me, girl.”
“You are going to kill me,” she replied, hugging her knees. The surety of her voice surprised her.
He sighed, folding his palms over the soft yellow curls lining his nape. “You seem to be doing a fine job of that on your own.”
“You have no use for me. I’m better off dead to you.”
Marek turned, his eyes cutting through her like a steel blade. “If I was going to kill you, I would have done it by now.”
“Then why am I here if not to kill me or to—” Brynn shut her mouth, pushing thoughts of what these men could do to her from her mind. He shot her a menacing glance, and Brynn flinched.
“I give you no reason to fear me. I’m probably the only one right now who can say that.” Marek knelt to retrieve the cloth, sighing. “Are you going to let me help you?” His Archaean lilt was thick and rich when irritated.
Braving boldness, Brynn retorted, “I can do it myself.” She held out her hand for the rag.
“Oh, now you want this?” He squeezed the wet fabric in his fingers.
“Not if you’re going to throw it at me.” She pouted, tasting the blood with the tip of her tongue.
“Here, have at it.” Marek handed her the cloth and the water bladder. “When you need my help, I’ll be
waiting for your thanks.” Busying himself with the torch, Marek let her be.
The process was slow. Every inch of her ached. What she wouldn’t give for a bath — a proper one. When she was sure she had scrubbed her face thoroughly, Brynn set to work on her arms and legs. Mud resided in every cranny, making her tattered clothing seem like rags themselves.
“Would you care for help now?” he asked, watching her struggle.
“I’m fine.”
“’Tis all right to ask for help.”
“I said I’m fine,” she replied, peeling a section of matted hair from her shoulder. Brynn winced and sucked in a breath through her teeth, trying not to cry out while he was near. “Might I have a bit of privacy, warrior?”
“My name is Marek,” he corrected, “and do not worry — you haven’t anything I have not seen before. I’ve been cleaning those wounds of yours for days now.”
Brynn’s cheeks flushed, and she directed her attention elsewhere, ignoring his shameless stare. She focused on her wounds, keeping her distance.
Near the curtain, Marek unbuckled his belt to remove his tunic. He pulled the fabric over his hand and then down his arms. He stood bare-chested. Brynn averted her eyes.
Marek let out a rumbling laugh. “You are welcome to look, love.”
“I fear the gods will not forgive me if I do,” she whispered.
The man standing before her was breathtaking. His skin, kissed by sun and sweat, glimmered in the light of the fire. His muscles constricted with each movement; a taut definition like no other. Never had she seen such a sight. A fist-sized tattoo inked on his chest resembled a knot intertwining within itself, creating a marvelous spiral design. It came to a point at three ends. Her breathing quickened when he closed the gap between them, his tunic in his hand.
Kneeling beside her, he offered it to Brynn.
Brynn lowered her head. “I cannot do it by myself.” She looked up at him.
“Ask me nicely.” His eyes flickered over her face.
“Please, will you help me?”