The Captive (Secrets, Choices and Redemption)

by Shannon Peel

  The Captive

  Secrets, Choices, and Redemption Series

  Novella

  First in Series

  Shannon Peel

  Copyright 2016

  Smashword Edition

  Available in electronic form

  ISBN: 978-0-9917694-8-3

  The March 2016 Edition

  The Captive. The first novella in the Secrets, Choices, and Redemption series is the sole property of its author and cannot in any way be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopied, or any information storage and retrieval system. It may not be used without the express permission of the author. Requests can be sent to shannonpeel01@gmail.com

  The Slaver.

  I slam the mug down on the table. Where is that serving wench, I need another ale. The back of my hand wipes away the drops around my mouth. I need to get drunk. Where is that wench?

  How hard can it be to keep a man’s mug filled? Damn. I survey the dark room and don’t see one in the place. The idiot owner of this Tavern needs some of my stock. Good help isn't hard to find - it just has to be bought from Raif the Raider. Hey, that’s a good slogan. Maybe I should make a sign.

  I’m the best there is.

  He’d be lucky to afford my product. My stock is highly sought after because I know what makes a product valuable, I find it and dress it up. It’s all in the packaging. Only the best, for those who can afford to pay it. No one can compete with my quality. It’s all about quality control.

  "Wench - Ale!"

  I hold up my mug and yell across the room. I need to get drunk, real drunk. Rosa is being moody and the boys are bored. I am annoyed with the nagging, the arguing, and the fights.

  The boys need a battle and Rosa needs a good pounding. I couldn't get near her without getting an earful today. Maybe I’m the one who needs sex and she just needs to sleep for the next three days. Damn woman and her time of the month.

  “The god's placed a curse on men called women. Ale. Wench.” I yell. "Are you Raif the Raider?" A voice asks.

  "Depends, who's asking?" I turn to find two very tall White Priests. Shit, what do these idiots want? "Sorry fella's but I already gave."

  "Raif, we would like to discuss business with you."

  "Sorry, but I'm out of stock right now. I'll let you know when I've got more." Not bloody likely, I’m not going anywhere near a church anytime soon.

  "We need your ability as a Raider.”

  "What does a church need with Raiders, some village forget to tithe? Look there are plenty of blood thirsty Raiders out there who will level a village for you, just for the fun of it." I turn back to my empty mug, damn wench. "Wench - Ale."

  "We have approached others and your name keeps coming up as the best."

  "I am not interested in what others say. Now if you don't mind I'm trying to get drunk." Or I would be, if I could get some ale.

  “It will be very profitable."

  "How profitable?" Now they are talking my language, profits. Since I can't get a full mug of ale, I might as well find out how much profit is involved.

  "We only want one small item from the village. You can keep the spoils. Your skill at raiding with few deaths is the main reason we want to hire you. We don’t want a lot of blood on our hands."

  "Ok now you have my attention, which village do you want sacked?"

  "Brathoid's"

  "Brathoid's? Are you insane? I don't think so! I like the land of the living. Thanks for coming."

  I turn back around to my empty cup scanning the smoky room for the bar wench.

  Brathoid is not a man to go up against without an army and lots of profit. His is the largest village on the High Flatlands, a primitive city. It would take some serious up front investment because I’d need to hire a few hundred extra fighters and the chance of dying is much higher than taking plunder. I’m not dying for no profit.

  "Raif, it is very important to the church. It is imperative that we safely extract the item from Brathoid."

  "Look, I don’t care about what is important to the church." "We will give you money up front."

  "How much per man are you willing to pay up front?"

  "How does $200 a man up front sound?"

  "Ah, $200 per man? Up front? What the hell is in that village?"

  I can hire guys for half that. It takes an honest man a year to make that kind of cash.

  "A baby."

  "A baby? I can walk down to the closest whore house or orphanage and get you one of those for a lot less trouble."

  "Not just any baby, Brathoid's baby girl. The seers have seen the future and it is vital the Church of Balla possesses her - for the good of all mankind."

  “Did you tell him you needed her?”

  Most anyone I know gives the church anything it demands of them, even my father and he doesn’t give anything away, to anyone, especially the likes of me.

  “We asked. He said no.”

  "You guys have weird magic, why not just use it to get her."

  Brathoid's village is filled with product. The prospect of profit is getting tempting. With the up front money I can hire the men I need, enough men to have a chance at success. It would only cost me $100 a man. I can pocket the other half of the cash. With the amount of product I can obtain, the profits would be good, really good.

  "We cannot use magic to force him to give her to us. We can only accept that which is freely given. However, you can take her from Brathoid and then freely give her to us."

  "Loophole huh! Heard you guys were fond of those. But aren’t you offering to pay me? Loophole closed guys."

  “No. We aren’t paying for the baby. We are paying you to level a village.”

  “Loopholes are tricky things, I guess.”

  I don’t like these priests, I don't like the odds of survival, but I do like the return on investment. Not only are these guys going to bankroll the venture, all they wanted from the spoils is one itty bitty worthless baby.

  "If I agree to this venture of yours, I also want a favour from your Church."

  "What is the favour?"

  "I don't know. I just like the idea of you guys owing me one."

  I wink at them and give them a, know what I mean, kind of grin. "Agreed!"

  "We'll then, you've got yourself a Raiding party." I have to die sometime.

  Logan

  My sword rings as it connects with Jorge’s. I step back, move to the left, looking for an opening. The man isn’t going to make this easy for me. I strike, he blocks, and I press him harder. Each strike I make, he blocks and I push him back further.

  He’s wearing down and his blocks are getting sluggish. I’m getting just as tired. I lunge he turns away and my sword misses it’s target. As he turns, his blade comes around, low enough to strike my neck and take my head off.

  “Point to Jorge.”

  “You’re impatient Logan. Defence is not a bad thing you know.” Jorge says.

  “Yeah. Yeah. You tell me that every time we spar.”

  “Well it’s true.”

  “We’re getting too old for this.”

  “En guard already, or are we going to flap our gums all day?”

  “En guard.”

  The dance starts again. My feet move to the left, circling him, waiting for him to strike. Problem is I know Jorge has too much patience and I have to little. He’ll wait for me to strike and it will be the same dance as before.

  He steps to the right and then towards me, away from me, teasing me, trying to get me to engage. Sweat is pouring from my brow and my muscles are beginning to weaken. The heat is getting to me.<
br />
  I circle and as I step to the left I see the opening that I’ve been waiting for. I strike, each blow moving to the right, opening his body’s defences because he’s tiring and favouring the right side. He might have pulled a muscle. I move fast and fierce. I push harder and his sword gets slower. I lunge and as I do, I bring my sword up and to the left where it connects with his chest armour plate.

  “Point to Logan.”

  “Defence is no good if you’re tired and hurt.” I say.

  “I pulled something in my back cutting your head off last time.”

  “You’re getting old Jorge.”

  “No more older than you.”

  “Draw?”

  “Draw.”

  “I’d say we earned ourselves an ale.” I say.

  “Last one to the Red Plank buys.”

  It’s always a competition. Who can drink the most. Who has the prettiest charge. Who has the most powerful charge. Who spars the best. Who can run round the Perns garden the quickest. Who can sleep with the most whores. Who can sleep with the prettiest woman. There is always a competition of some sort with these guys. I shake my head. I’m done competing for today. The temperature in the Perns training ground must be close to boiling. I’m cooking in this armour. All I want to do is find a bath, a clean tunic, a mug of ale, and a whore.

  “What about you guys? You done for the day?” I call over to a group of sell swords still sparring and those who were watching.

  “Sure. Where we drinking?” “The Red Plank.”

  Jorge, a couple of the guys who were sparring before us and I are removing our armour, poking fun at each other and laying bets on the last two sparring, Steve and Paul.

  “Logan Reachie.”

  I turn at the sound of my name to see a small herald standing behind us looking overly official. His hand extends out, handing me a rolled piece of paper. I unroll it. Fuck.

  “Summons?”

  “Yeah. Have an Ale for me, ok?”

  “Who wants you?”

  “The Lord Magistrate. Immediately.”

  “Fuck man, what did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  At least I don’t think I did anything. I rack my brain as I walk towards the Lord Magistrates offices. I’m sweaty, dirty, and thirsty. I should get cleaned up, have a bath, put on a clean tunic, and down some ale. Getting drunk might help the nerves. However, the summons said immediately.

  What did I do that would have the Lord Magistrate wanting me immediately? I can’t think of anything. I was drunk last night. I try to remember if I did anything extra stupid, broke any law, nothing I can think of. I got drunk with the guys and fucked a whore. She was alive and unharmed when I left to get more ale. No fights. What did I do?

  My mind goes round in circles trying to come up with a reason this man would want to summon me immediately. The Lord Magistrate is the one of the second most powerful men in the realm, he and the Lord Justice advise the King and manage the administrations. Being summoned by either Lord, out of the blue, is not a good thing.

  My knee is bouncing up and down and my fingers are tapping out a beat on my lap, as I sit waiting. Waiting. Waiting. I could have gotten cleaned up in the time I’ve been sitting here. It’s probably been close to an hour. I’m getting itchy and my skin is beginning to crawl from all the dried sweat and caked on dirt. I need a bath.

  Well, I’m not going to wait any longer. I stand. His door opens. “Ah Logan. It is good to see you.”

  “Hello Sir.”

  “Come in. Have a seat. Cigar?”

  “No I don’t smoke.” I sit.

  The last time I sat in this chair was seven years ago and I’d requested that meeting. Time has passed. We have a new King. The Lord Magistrate has more grey hair, probably Aleesa’s doing more than time though, and I am still a sell sword.

  “What are you up to these days? Any contracts?”

  “Lord Magistrate you know every contract in the realm, you know which sell sword is working for which family, and which ones are unemployed. In other words, you know how I am.”

  “Still as insolent as ever I see.” I just smile. “I could have –“

  “Sir. I apologize for my insolence, as that was not my intention. I only meant that we both know you already know I am between contracts. For the sake of time, could we please discuss the reason for you summoning me here and why it was an immediate summons?”

  “Yes. Yes. Time is of importance. Logan my boy, you are the best sell sword. Aleesa has been through twenty or more since you left my employ. When was that?”

  “I know Sir, I am acquainted with most of them.” Aleesa fired half of them and the other half quit. “I quit seven years ago.”

  “Of course you are.” He lights his cigar. “Thing is Logan. I am in need of a Sell Sword for Aleesa.”

  “Not interested.” I say on reflex.

  “Wait. Hear me out.” I watch the old man as he begins to pace back and forth, cigar smoke in his wake. “Can I swear you to secrecy Logan?”

  “I have not changed my morals or values since I worked for you. I swear whatever you tell me will remain in confidence.”

  “Aleesa is to be married.” I sit up a bit straighter. She’s going to be married? Who on earth would marry her? “I need you to escort her to her new husband and then return her here to court.”

  “A foreigner then?”

  “No. Not a foreigner. Aleesa is to marry the Count Della Terra.”

  I am.

  I don’t know what I am.

  I think the man just told me that he’s married his daughter off to the Count Della Terra.

  That is a huge jump in status. The Lord Magistrate is a minor noble, a baronet, with a small bit of land in an ice bound part of the north. He already overstepped his place when the old King appointed him Lord Magistrate ten years ago. The noble families are not going to be happy to learn of this. The Count Della Terra is one of the largest landowners in the realm and a member of the Royal family.

  “Sorry Sir. Did you say Count Della Terra, as in The Count Della Terra?”

  “Is there another? Yes. She is to travel to the Estate where she will marry the Count.”

  Any noble who hears of this will do everything he can to see it doesn’t happen. Can I keep such a secret? Should I? My father would know what to do. That’s when I hear my father’s words in my head, ‘honour above all else son. Do your duty and always keep your word, no matter the consequence.’

  “Good luck Sir.” I say and start to rise again.

  “Logan. I need the best sell sword to protect her and she will only have you. She will not leave with any other sell sword to protect her. You were friends once.”

  “We are still friends.” In passing. In a way.

  “Logan I will pay you double. Triple. She must leave as soon as she can.”

  Triple. Can I stand being around Aleesa for Triple my rate? Hell, I could do it for double.

  Who am I kidding? I’d do it for my regular rate. I cannot allow her to travel to Della Terra without protection. If anything happened, I’d never forgive myself, after all, we were close friends, once.

  Raif

  We attack en mass when the sun’s low. The element of surprise should be enough to tip the scales of war my way. I need every advantage possible to go up against Brathoid. If I can kill him quickly the villagers will surrender. I’ve offered a large bonus to the man who kills him and I expect many will die trying.

  The large village rises up out of the fields of yellow grasses on flat terrain making it hard to sneak up unnoticed. We have to be quick and well coordinated. The village is made up of round red clay and straw huts clumped together in a tight defensive circle surrounded by a fence of sticks and branches. The circle makes it easier for attackers to surround, but also easier for the villagers to defend. The fence won’t keep us out, however, it does provide cover for defenders to shoot arrows from. I need to get my men over it and behind the archers quickly before they know what is
happening.

  As the sun moves low signalling the attack, those on horseback come at a full gallop from all directions quickly. Dust from the hooves beating at the dry earth, rises up like smoke into the wind. I lead those on horseback encircle the village. Some are shooting arrows over the heads of the foot Raiders rushing at the stick fence, swords drawn.

  They have started to shoot arrows, hundreds of them fly out from the wall. I turn my horse, charge, clearing the fence with one jump. Other Horsemen follow me and when I look back, I see some of the horses have fallen from the ambush of the defenders arrows. Those who made it over are attacking the archers from high upon their perches making way for the raiders on foot to advance without resistance. The men tear at the makeshift fence creating gaps to pour through.

  When you don't control every movement of your troops there is little in the way of formal battle lines, chaos is what I wanted and chaos is what I got. The women and children are too scared to react, so horsemen are easily grabbing them to deliver to the guards outside of the carnage. Chaos makes it much easier for my footmen to kill the Warriors because they are distracted by the screams of their women and children.

  I ride through it all, my blood pumping through my veins. The sound of my heart beats in my ears. I chop and slash warriors as I go. I am covered in blood and I revel in it. Fear of dying and the need for self-preservation drives me to kill. Yet it is the chaos that ignites the flame of destruction burning hot inside me. The screams of the women and children dance around me beckoning me on. The smell of smoke from burning huts wets my appetite and I crave more destruction, more blood, more death.

  I am Raif and I am the monster of the night.

  Where is Brathoid? I want to taste his blood on my lips, this warrior of the High Flatlands whom everyone fears.

  I find him in the center of the village fighting in front of the largest round red clay walled hut. The straw cone shaped roof is on fire, smoke billows from the door, the only opening in the round red wall. These High Flatlanders need me to take them, civilize them, to transform them into people. They will thank me for this. Thank me for killing this primitive tyrant who forces them to live in squalor and poverty.