by J. V. Jones
The guards came to a halt only a few yards from where she was. Two of their number moved forward to the stream. One of them had his sword drawn. “Go no further, lady,” he warned. As he spoke, he motioned to his men to surround her. Melli waited in the middle of the stream as she was encircled by seven men. All now had their swords drawn. She stroked her horse and tried to control the wild beating of her heart—she would not demean herself by showing fear.
“Take her down and bind her.” Hands pulled cruelly at her legs and body, some lingering unnecessarily over her breasts and thighs. She was pulled down and carried to the bank, where she was thrown hard to the ground. The smell of dead leaves and earth assailed her nostrils.
“She’s a pretty one,” said the man who appeared to be in charge.
“Aye, and she’s well filled out under that cloak,” commented one of the others who had just handled her. Melli grew frightened. The men had sheathed their swords and were looking to their leader.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we had a little fun with her,” he said, grinning to his company and moving toward Melli. He knelt beside her and untied her cloak. She lashed out at him. “You bitch!” The leader slapped her cruelly on her face, the force of the blow sending her head reeling. The men cheered.
One of them shouted, “Give it her rough, Traff, and hurry up about it so we can all have a go.”
The leader grabbed the bodice of Melli’s dress and tore it from her. Her pale breasts were exposed to the men. She tried desperately to cover her chest, but the leader was pressing down on her, forcing his lips on hers and roughly handling her breasts. The man was fumbling with his belt buckle with one hand while pushing up her skirts with the other. Melli was screaming hysterically, trying to fight him off.
Suddenly, the pounding of hooves could be heard. The leader stood up quickly, worry creasing his brow. Melli used this opportunity to pull her dress together as best she could.
“To your mounts,” cried the leader, flashing a look of contempt at Melli. “Draw your swords.”
A group of horsemen were bearing down on them. Melli could tell from a distance they were her father’s men—the silver and red was clearly visible. Relief flooded through her. She noticed the men were now paying her little attention as they waited tensely for the approach of the horsemen, and she slipped under the cover of some nearby bushes.
The two parties met. Her father’s men had drawn their swords and the sound of clashing blades filled the air. The adversaries seemed to be evenly matched at first. They thrust mercilessly at each other, eager for blood.
To Melli, the fight she watched bore no resemblance to the dainty exchanges that were demonstrated at court. The swords were yielded with no finesse; the men sliced and hacked with savage frenzy, caring not if they injured man or horse. The fight grew long and bloody. The dull, heavy swords cut through leather and into flesh. Melli thought she spied her brother amongst her father’s men, wielding his sword in the fray. She could watch the fighting no longer.
Unheeded, she crept silently away. On her hands and knees she crawled, the dry growth of winter brushing against her tender belly. As she went, she could hear the sounds of combat, the grunts and cries of the men, the squeal of frightened horses and the ringing of blades.
Melli headed downstream until she found a place that was easy to cross on foot. She waded into the stream, welcoming the sensation of cold water on her legs; it helped cleanse the stain of unwanted hands.
When she reached the other side, she found a small glade and fell to the ground. She was shaking, and tears soon followed. She wept for a long time. Leaving home, being robbed, the chase and the capture and finally the fight—it had all proven too much of a strain on her emotions. She cried quietly, hugging the remains of her dress close to her body. She didn’t really care anymore if her father’s men found her as long as the first men did not. Melli swore she would rather be killed than ever touched again.
After a while she grew calm. She could no longer hear the sound of fighting, but couldn’t remember when it had ceased.
She pulled the cord from her hair and tied her dress together as best she could. She no longer had a cloak; she’d left it at the scene of the fight. She doubted that she could survive the night without it. Her head turned quickly as she heard the snapping of twigs and rustle of leaves that announced someone’s approach. She would not run anymore. She stood up and held her head high, prepared to return to the castle.
It was her horse! He must have left the stream after she had been pulled from him. Running to the tired creature, she flung her arms around its neck. Melli kissed the old horse many times, and then her eye was caught by its back. Somehow it had managed to keep possession of her precious supplies! Quickly she untied the sack, letting it fall to the ground. She would use one of the blankets as a cloak. She drew a blanket around herself, beginning to feel much better: she was warm; she had her horse and her supplies.
She decided it was high time to eat. With relish she tucked into the dried pork and drybread—never had a meal tasted so good.
Lord Maybor was in a terrible rage, and his eldest son Kedrac was feeling the full strength of it. “You imbecile, how could you let her get away?” Maybor threw his cup across the chamber, where it hit his precious mirror, shattering the glass. “How could you let this happen?”
“It was the armed men, we had to fight them,” retorted his son.
“What armed men? What fight?” Maybor raged. “What were you doing fighting armed men when you were supposed to be looking for your sister?”
“The men had her, that’s how we found her. We heard her screaming.”
“What men were these?”
“I’m not sure, father. They had no colors. I think they were mercenaries.”
“By Borc! What is this?” Maybor felt the pressure of blood pumping in the veins of his neck. “What were mercenaries doing with my daughter?” His eyes scanned the room looking for something else to hurl: he felt the need for destruction.
“Father, they may have just come across her in the woods and decided to have a little fun with her.”
“What do you mean?” Maybor’s voice was as cold as ice.
Kedrac could not meet his father’s eyes. “I think they tried to rape her. I can’t be sure, but from the sound of her screams . . . and then later we found her cloak.” He watched as his father’s face became ashen.
“Did you capture any of these men?”
“No, Father. We killed two of them and wounded another three, but they escaped deep into the woods.”
“And the bodies?”
“We searched the two that we killed, and the only thing we found of interest was that each man had eight gold pieces.” Maybor thought for a moment, growing calmer.
“Eight gold pieces, eh? These men have been paid to do a job, and handsomely at that. Are you sure no one besides you and my men know that Melliandra is missing?”
“Father, we have been most discreet. I myself asked around the town about her and made as if it was a casual inquiry. As for your men, you know they are loyal to you.”
Maybor nodded his head; what Kedrac was saying was the truth. Still, he had a feeling someone had paid the mercenaries to find his daughter. “Kedrac, you must go back into the forest tomorrow, take a tracker and the hounds. She must be found at all cost.”
“Yes, Father.” Kedrac took his leave.
When he had gone, Maybor went over and inspected the shattered mirror. He’d paid over one hundred gold pieces for it ten years back.
He was sure that the mercenaries were in the pay of Baralis. The king’s chancellor had no men of his own, so that would fit. How had that scheming viper come to know of this? Maybor struck the shattered mirror with his fist. The sharp glass drew blood, but he didn’t notice. Baralis had sent mercenaries to capture and rape his daughter.
Five
Jack was beginning to feel the first signs of a fever. He was soaked to the skin and his bones fe
lt the chill of water and air. He had no food or dry clothing, and somewhere in the chase he had lost one of his shoes.
Jack had spent the rest of the day walking around the forest, hoping to catch sight of Melli. At one point he heard the clash of blades in the distance. He felt it would be unsafe to draw too close to the sound of fighting, so he veered off in another direction, his route taking him ever deeper into the heart of the wood.
His clothes were slow to dry in the frosty air, and he found himself shivering violently. His ankle was still tender and he walked with a limp. He tried to find berries or nuts to eat, but winter was drawing nigh and the forest had little bounty to offer.
Tired, hungry, and feeling the cold deeply, Jack had made a meager bed for the night. He curled up at the base of a great oak, hoping for some small protection from the wind. He covered himself with fallen branches and leaves and fell into a restless sleep.
Jack awoke the following morning to the smell of rain. His eyes looked up past the naked canopy of the oak and the sky confirmed his fears. It was gray and water laden. Rain would soon fall. He noticed his body was acting differently from normal. All his muscles seemed to ache, his head felt unsteady, and his limbs were slow to move. His skin was clammy and drawn, and despite the obvious cold, he was feeling hot and sweaty. Jack had caught fevers before and he recognized what the symptoms meant. What he was unsure of was what to do about it in a forest leagues from home.
In the castle now the first batch of loaves would be baking, the air would be heavy with the smell of yeast, there’d be a bowl of pork broth for breakfast and an hour to waste by the fire. Jack had to laugh. It was quite ridiculous: how could he ever hope to be a hero when he’d only been away from home for two days, had already managed to catch a fever, and would have given the whole thing up for a hearty breakfast and a missing shoe?
Laughter made him feel stronger and he struggled to his feet. Nausea swelled in his empty stomach. He stumbled and was long regaining his balance. It occurred to Jack that if Frallit were watching now, the master baker would think he was drunk and ration his ale for a week. The idea of a week’s rationed ale seemed very appealing at this point—he would have gladly suffered Frallit’s scorn for as little as a cup of soured water.
Jack labored on. He remembered drinking from a spring the night before and headed toward it. His mind drifted from subject to subject: Bodger and Grift warned of the dangers of ditch water, and Findra the table maid mocked his bare foot. He was becoming confused and disorientated: the people from the castle seemed as real as the trees. He spent what he could have sworn was an eternity making his way through the woods only to end up at an oak tree that looked suspiciously like the one he’d slept under.
Every tree and bush began to look like the last one. He was growing light-headed; he no longer even remembered what he was supposed to be looking for. He desperately needed to lie down, to stop the voices of reproof that were spinning in his head. A tiny part of him was aware that lying down was not a good idea. Jack ignored his own warning. He had to stop his body from reeling. He had to sleep.
He collapsed by the foot of the tree. His last thoughts before he dropped into unconsciousness were that the rain had started to fall, and he was pleased. It felt cool and delicious on his hot skin.
Other eyes watched as the rain fell, just as they had watched the boy wander in circles for most of the morning. The man to whom they belonged paused as he considered what to do. He knew the boy would die if left there for the rain and cold to take their toll. Yet, he was not a man given to acts of compassion. He lived in the heart of the forest and did not trouble himself with the world of men. He knew the beast and the tree, and had little interest in that which did not concern him.
He was compelled to watch, though. He had seen much in his time; he had seen men murdered, men robbed, men hunting, and men hunted. He watched it all from his green havens and had never once intervened.
The boy’s plight had touched him. He was an innocent, and that was a rare quality to find in the forest. But there was more to it than that, for the man had seen people die many times from cold or hunger. The boy struck a chord within the man; he felt as if there was something more to this traveler. The man imagined he saw the pale glow of destiny around the lad. He shook his head, smiling at his own whimsy.
The man thought at great length as he watched the still form of the boy. To act might threaten his own safety. It might bring unwanted scrutiny upon himself, and he had spent many years avoiding just such thing. Even as these thoughts formed, he knew he would ignore them. He walked forward from the deep trees and made his way toward the boy.
Baralis met with his mercenaries outside of the castle walls. It was a chill day and he drew his cloak close. He already knew that they had failed, but it suited him to act as if he did not.
“So, are the boy and the girl in the said place?” he asked Traff, the leader.
“No, lord, they are not. We had both the girl and the boy, but Maybor’s men descended upon us.” Baralis knew the man lied. They had never caught the boy; his dove had watched the chase. Baralis was not concerned about the lie—they were, after all, mercenaries not priests.
“How many of Maybor’s men were there?” he asked slyly, knowing full well there had been less than ten of them.
“Two dozen,” said the leader.
“More, I would say,” interjected another. The rest of the men grunted in agreement.
“How many did you lose?” Baralis genuinely did not know this, as he had sent the dove to watch over the boy and had not been witness to the end of the exchange.
“We lost two, but we took out double that number of Maybor’s.”
“Hmm.” Baralis was skeptical. “Go away now and conceal yourselves in the said place. I will call you to pick the fugitives up when I have better intelligence on them.”
The leader made no move to withdraw. “My men were not engaged as fighters. You said we would just be picking up two young’uns. Two of my men are dead and the rest are not content.”
“What is your point?” Baralis spoke coldly, knowing precisely what the leader was after.
“We want more money. Eight more golds apiece.” Traff rested his hand upon his sword—a subtle threat.
Baralis was not so easily intimidated. With a sudden sweep he threw open his cloak. Once he was sure he had the full attention of the gathered men he spoke, his voice a harshly coiled whisper. “Do not be foolish enough to get greedy with me. With just one finger I could send you to an oblivion so deep your own families would forget you had ever existed.” Baralis sought the eye of each mercenary, and not one of them could return his gaze. Satisfied, he modified the tone of his voice. “I will call you either later in the day, or on the morrow. Be sure to be ready. Now go!”
Baralis watched as the men mounted and rode away, the faintest of smiles on his grim face. He drew his cloak around him once more and headed back to the castle. He had much to think on. For his plans to succeed, Melliandra’s pretty face must never be seen again at the court of the Four Kingdoms.
His mind travelled east to the dukedom of Bren—the mightiest of the northern powers. The duke was getting greedy: he wanted more land, more timber, more grain. Baralis knew he would have to tread carefully to bring about what was planned between them. People in the Four Kingdoms were nervous of the ambitions of Bren, yet ironically, that very same nervousness might actually help seal the pact. It was always easier to neutralize, rather than eliminate, a threat.
Not that he would use that particular tactic with the lovely Melliandra. She was a threat which required swift elimination.
When he was finally back in his room, sipping on mulled holk to relieve the pain in his fingers, he considered what his dove had shown him. After leaving the queen yesterday, Baralis had returned to his chambers, deciding he would look upon the capture after all. The dove had seen his men descend on the fugitives. It had watched as the girl and boy were separated. Baralis looked on as t
he greatest number of mercenaries had followed the girl, sending only three of the number after the boy. He had willed the dove to follow the plight of the girl, who he felt might be easily lost on horseback. He had seen the approach of Maybor’s men and had watched as both sides let the girl slip away.
His dove followed the girl and, satisfied that she would not go much further, he sent the bird to look for the boy. The boy was nowhere to be seen.
Baralis had remained calm; the baker’s boy was merely a puzzle that needed solving, while Maybor’s daughter was a hindrance to glory. He sent the reluctant bird back to watch the girl. Once she’d made camp for the night, Baralis let the dove sleep. The bird was cold and exhausted, and he feared it would not be long before the unfortunate creature died.
As the holk alleviated his pain a little, Baralis considered what to do next. In all likelihood, Maybor knew by now that the men out looking for Melliandra were in his pay. Maybor was sure to move against him—those damned fool mercenaries had tried to rape his only daughter! Maybor would bear watching closely: an indignant father could be a dangerous adversary.
* * *
“No, Bodger, the way to tell if a man’s well hung ain’t the size of his kneecaps.”
“Old Master Pesk says it is, Grift.”
“The reason why old Pesk says that is because he’s got kneecaps the size of watermelons.”
“They are unusually big, Grift. I can’t argue with that.”
“No, Bodger, the way to tell if a man is truly well hung is to look at the whites of his eyes.”
“The whites of his eyes?”
“Aye, the whites of his eyes, Bodger. The whiter the eye, the bigger the pole. It’s right every time.”
The two men pondered this thought for a while, Bodger secretly planning to check out his own eyes at some point. They downed some more ale and then the talk moved to other matters.