He shrugged, moving nearer to me than I liked, but I tried not to act nervous. Weird makes me nervous because it's hard to know where a weird stranger is headed. He was probably harmless, but maybe not. I made myself think of him as Prince, a tad better than thinking of him as The Barbarian.
The typecasting worked because he did look a bit like a short version of a Disney prince, handsome enough if I ignored the frown. His hair looked rather like a dandelion, pale yellow, thick, and tumbled about his forehead and ears, chopped off in jagged layers.
“The Daughter is our guide to the Sun. We have built the Sun a great temple so one day he may find us. She has promised he will come north and we will never more suffer winter,” he said.
“Uh-huh?”
“It has been promised by the Daughter. She came to us with her beloved, and they told us many things. Now they have returned to their father, the Sun, and left us to darkness. We watch at the temple for their returning, knowing they have not forgotten the line of Kovat. They guard us even now and will one day return.”
I had not heard such bad lines since I once heard a crazy neighbor say he could send the ghosts of the dead to Hell and the ghosts would return with messages. Maybe that could be worked into this script.
The role assigned to me was a puzzle. “Why did you say I was a priest?”
He smiled, looking pleased with himself. “I knew my men would believe it.” He caught my chin in his hand and turned my head so that I had to stare into his eyes. “You look enough like the Daughter that I knew they would believe me.”
“Is that why you brought me here? Because I look like whoever plays this Daughter person?”
“It is why I did not kill you when I saw you in the stream.”
Rewind time. I did not like the word kill. At first I thought it was some scorekeeping thing and I can fall over and howl and tremble and then go stiff. I used to do that back in the days of Aliens versus Astronauts on the playground. Something else was going on here. I needed to have “kill” and “dead” defined.
Before I could ask, a man backed into the tent through the flap and turned slowly. He carried in his hands a heavy tray covered with food which he placed on the table. Although he was blond like the others, he was dressed differently, wearing rough wool cloth, and around his ankles were metal bands. A chain ran between them so that he could walk but not run. He bowed to my captor, cast a frightened glance at me, stared at the floor and backed out of the tent.
“Uh, he's joking, right?” I asked.
Prince grinned. “He is a slave who behaves as a slave should.”
“I will carry trays for you, if that's what you want. Only I hope you don't expect me to do the cooking. You wouldn't want to eat it.”
“You cannot prepare food? What can you do?”
“I am a priest of the Daughter, whatever that is,” I said solemnly, hoping to distract him while I considered escape routes.
“Eat your meal. I will go out with my men.”
He sounded annoyed. I hoped he was. If I could manipulate his emotions so easily, that could be useful. I'd offer to rewrite the storyline for these amateurs except more and more I was getting this odd message that they didn't know they were playacting.
After he did a sharp turn on his heel and strode out, leaving me alone in the tent, I wandered over to the table to pick through the food. There were berries and cheese and hunks of whole grain bread and some really dark, bitter beer in a flask. By now I was so hungry, I decided to trust in the beer to defeat the bacteria.
I waited in the tent until a woman entered, dressed much as the male slave, carrying a bowl of water. She, too, was weighted with ankle bands and a chain. She was the first woman I had seen in the camp.
Quickly I asked, “Who are you?”
Her face closed in what honestly resembled fear and I said, “You're good! Hey, are there hidden cameras? You folks making a film?”
She would not speak, stuck with the mute bit, and I gave up for the night. I dropped my pack by the table and pulled out my toothbrush. When I poured water from a flask into a bowl and managed to wash a bit, she looked startled.
“I don't suppose there are showers around here?”
No, but wow, she pointed to this big old crock thing that apparently served as a toilet and I remembered another reason why I hated camping.
My shorts and shirt had dried from my excursions into the stream, but were badly stained with mud and berry juice.
“I can sleep in these, can't make them any worse,” I said, hoping talk about clothing was harmless enough to earn a reply. I even added a smile.
Keeping her gaze lowered, she pointed at the mound of blankets and sheepskins in the corner, then left, backing out as the other slave actor had done.
The room filled up with shadows as the sunlight filtering through the tent faded into night. I was too weary to worry any longer about running away. Tomorrow, when I knew my captor better, I would figure this out. And when I got back to town, I planned on throwing a hissy fit in the middle of the store that sold me my useless cellphone.
Now I dropped down on the blankets. Beneath my fingers I felt the tight curls of sheep's wool, not the best smelling bed, but it was soft.
Unable to sleep, I stared up into the darkening tent and wished I'd never left the city, wished I'd remembered country air is unhealthy. Wished I knew a quick and permanent way to avoid Darryl. Why me? I muttered over and over to myself, like a chant, because counting sheep while lying on a dusty sheepskin is not at all conducive to sleep.
Through my weary stupor I heard Prince return to the tent. He moved around slowly, walking softly, dropping something on the floor. There was a rattle of metal on wood as though he set a mug on the table. And then his footsteps approached me.
I kept my eyes closed, hoping if he saw me sleeping he would be satisfied I was settled for the night and would go away. I heard his breath as he leaned over me and I stopped breathing.
He dropped down on the bedding beside me, and although he was not actually touching me, I felt the near heat of his body, felt his breath on my face as he leaned close to me. If I had to, I could probably do a little street fighting but in the end he was a lot stronger so my best bet was to figure out which would work with this one, insults or flattery? I tried to remain silent but must have made some small noise.
Far from friends, alone with a guy whose intentions I did not want to think about, my indrawn breath of frustration was loud enough for him to hear. His hard hand clamped over my mouth.
“Cry out and my guards will rush in to slay you,” he whispered.
Perhaps remembering the bite I had given him earlier, he removed his hand. I opened my eyes and stared into his face, which was much too close to mine. In the darkness I could see his light eyes.
Okay, I'd go for distraction first. “Why should men obey a boy?”
“I am not a boy. I am nineteen years, which is as old as you, I think.”
The fear in the slaves' faces had looked awfully convincing and that worried me. And knowing Goldilocks was three years younger than me did not exactly fill me with confidence because it meant he had a whole lot of teen hormones pushing him.
Before I lost my courage, I said, “Go on then, kill me, sweetie, because that's the only way you're going to score.”
He sighed, he actually sighed, and sounded weary of my arguments. Was he regretting that he hadn't just left me in the stream?
“I am not going to harm you, Stargazer.”
Okay, he was stripped to the waist but he'd kept his pants on so maybe I was being unfair to judge him. But why lie down next to me, why not sleep across the tent from me?
As though he read my mind, he said, “I feel safer with you beside me than across the tent.”
He pressed a weight across my throat and from its hard cold touch I knew it was the blade of his broadsword. He settled down beside me, not quite touching me but close enough that I could feel his body heat, saying in a low voice
I could barely hear, “If you try to escape, I will cut off your head. Now go to sleep.”
“Pleasant dreams to you, too, fella.”
Sure, he was joking about the beheading thing, but what if his hand slipped? What if I rolled over too quickly? An accident could leave me just as dead.
I lay motionless with the sword across my neck, wondering what I dared do. Was I to spend the rest of this insane fiasco sleeping beneath a sword?
He wasn't noisy, I'll say this for him. His sleep breathing was closer to low humming than snoring. When he moved slightly, I drew in my breath. If he rolled over in his sleep, would his sword slit my throat? How was I supposed to sleep? I turned my head to peer at him through the shadows and whispered, “Could you move the sword?”
He continued to snore softly. As my sight adjusted to the night, I saw the outline of his head. In sleep his face was smooth planes, free of expression and very young, short thick white lashes pressed above the line of cheekbone, his wide mouth open. His face rolled slightly away from me and his pale hair fell back from his ear. Something glittered. I focused on the shine until I could see its shape. In his earlobe he wore a small gold ring.
A pity I had never read his horoscope so I could better judge what to expect of him and how to maneuver around his whims. Now I was more puzzled by the sword on my neck.
Moving very slowly and carefully, I edged upward, steadying the sword with my hand so it would not shift. The blade was wide and heavy and sharpened on both edges. It was definitely capable of doing really messy things to my windpipe. I knew even in his sleep he grasped the hilt.
When I had moved until the blade rested across my shoulders instead of my neck, I stopped, afraid to move more. With the weight off my throat, I could sort of think, and all my thoughts turned to the same question. Now that I had marched myself into an impossible situation, how was I supposed to get out?
My mind grew as heavy as his sword and without meaning to, I fell asleep.
In the morning when I woke he was gone. Another silent woman in slave costume brought me food and water. I washed and changed into my clean shirt and stuffed the dirty one in my backpack. As I was picking through the unappetizing food, sleep-buddy returned to the tent, scooped up my backpack from the floor, grabbed my wrist, and, without a word or even a look at me, dragged me outside to toss me on his horse.
He jumped up behind me, kicked his heels into the horse's sides and we sped out of the camp. The guys who were playing guards were unhappy, with deep scowls and stage whisper muttering.
I had heard the angry voices outside the tent before Prince Whatsit returned from wherever he'd gone, brushed aside the tent flap and stomped toward me.
The guard called Artur, who seemed to be in charge, had argued that he wanted several of his men to ride with us. The prince had hissed at him, sounding rather like an angry cat, threatening the man with dreadful punishments. I did not understand why these grown men were putting up with the kid. Had they drawn lots for casting and he'd lucked out, got to play spoiled ruler?
We crashed through the trees following a stream bed until we were beyond sight and hearing of the camp. Then he pulled on the reins to slow his horse to a walk. Banner shook his head and made odd snorting noises, as did the guy.
Mumbling more to himself than to me, he said, “How dare he speak to me that way. I will have him broken. I will put up with him no longer. I am a man now and within my rights. I will give orders to suit my wishes without some stupid guard forever stopping me.”
“Game's over,” I said. “Or not. But there's no point trying to impress me.”
His fingers grasped my shoulder and he shook me, as though I were the offending guard, saying, “I am their ruler's son, do you understand?”
“Yes, I get that. You're Prince Charming or whatever, which means daddy is a king. That's easy. So where to now?”
“My father is a warlord, not a king. My name is Tarvik. My father's line goes back seven generations. The first son of the line of Kovat is always known as the Garnet Prince.”
“Weird, I mean, not like Shakespeare, not Dungeons and Dragons, oh! Surely I am wrong here, but let me ask. All those blonds, are you supposed to be Vikings? If you are, I don't think you've quite got the costumes right.”
“My father is Kovat the Slayer, the greatest warlord in all the lands.”
CHAPTER 3
“Love the names,” I said.
A night of sleeping under a sword had cured me of any hope of winning by intimidation. Flattery was the way to go, maybe toss in flirtation though I wasn't yet sure how far to go with that. The kid was nineteen, raging whatsit age. And he thought I was nineteen. Wasn't that sweet and aren't teenagers blind? If I explained I was legal drinking age and he wasn't, would that make him contrite or angry?
“I don't know if he'll let me keep you.”
“But you said I was your slave,” I pointed out.
“To make you hush up, girl. No, my father won't want you as a slave. I have another idea, but if he doesn't like it, he might separate your head from your shoulders.”
“What unpleasant hobbies you folks have, “ I muttered, then tried for a joke. “Are you hoping he will let you do the beheading?”
“You deserve it for biting my hand.”
As he was obviously one of those people who wake up cranky, I decided to shut up.
We rode through the day, stopping occasionally to rest and eat the food he carried in a pouch tied to his belt. His mood improved, though I did not know whether that was due to the passing of the day or my charming company.
This sounds all downside, but it had an upside. Not a chance in Hell Darryl would consider hiking through a forest in his fancy suit and polished shoes. And right now, this odd prince guy seemed considerably safer company. He chatted to me as though we were friends, pointing out landmarks and telling me their names, and, as long as I occasionally nodded, he remained cheerful.
“Do you see that far mountain, girl? My father's lands stretch beyond it. His city is ahead of us, in the direction of sunset. Do you live in a city? Is it large? You cannot be a shepherd's daughter if you do not eat mutton. What do you eat? Yes, I remember, I saw what you left on the table. You eat fruit and cheese and bread but not mutton. Do you like nuts? I have some with me.”
The only time he was completely silent was when he ate. He would slide off the horse, lift me down, and then reach into his pouch. Whatever he pulled out he divided in half, handing half to me. He did not offer me that truly disgusting dried mutton but he shared the rest. I wondered if it was really beef jerky, not that I ate that, either. He carried a flask of the dark bitter beer and called it mead, now there's a good medieval word, and several times we stopped by streams and were able to dip out water.
He chattered nonstop, asking how I liked this or that, until we settled cross-legged on the grass. Then he bent over his hands and stared at his food the whole while he ate, as though he expected it to disappear if unguarded. He was rather fun to watch.
“Do you really not know how to cook?” he asked once, when we were seated on a fallen log sharing nuts and dried berries from his supply.
“Do you?” I replied.
“Yes, certainly. Or I would sometimes have to eat my food raw.”
The thought of raw meat was too nauseating to discuss and so I said, “I thought your slaves did the cooking.”
“Slaves? Sometimes. But no one can depend on them and there are times when it is safer to cook my own food.”
“Use a pinch of poison for flavoring, would they?”
He nodded yes.
Gosh, I'd meant it as a joke.
“But then why keep slaves? Or are they like pawns, the first line?” I pictured a neat row of game losers serving as a line of blockers, first to deflect paint balls.
He frowned, lines deepening between his eyebrows. He said slowly, “In battle we can either take prisoners or we can kill everyone. That would be worse, wouldn't it?”
“My chess skills aren't much, but don't pawns get set to the side of the board after they're captured?”
“Is that another name for slaves?”
I spent a couple of evenings a week working with teenagers at the Center and this was supposed to be a time out, so I didn't bother answering.
Sometimes we walked, leading the horse, when the path wound between boulders. I preferred walking on my own feet to riding across the valleys at full gallop. When we walked, Tarvik kept hold of my hand. His hands were square, strong, and he folded his fingers around mine. Annoying, but not worth arguing about. He was cheerful and pleasant, but still, he was a sword-carrying guy.
I had been well schooled, but somehow no one ever mentioned what to do about a handholding, sword-carrying guy.
Dusk fell before we reached the city. He lifted me back onto Banner. I considered telling him to cup his hands into a step to give me a boost and let me swing up myself, then had this mental picture of me flying head first over the stupid stallion and crashing back to earth. Decided against that.
He leaped up behind me, made a clicking sound at Banner and we wound up a low hillside. We stopped on the top of the hill, where an evening breeze ruffled Banner's mane and blew my hair across my face. Tarvik reached around me, brushed my hair back from my eyes, and then I saw it, a city unlike any I had ever seen. It stretched across a line of low hills. Our journey upward had been gradual, and now I looked across a valley of low hills surrounded in all directions by blue mountains, a valley in the Olympics and good Lord, at the moment I realized how very little I knew about my home state because I had certainly never heard of a hidden valley in the mountain range. More, I had been told only hikers were allowed in these mountains. A misinformation like that could get me killed.
Something reminded me of ice cubes being dropped inside my collar to slide down my spine, one of those fun/misery childhood tricks. I felt my skin tighten, my breath stop, my mind flash danger signals. I grew up in a world where reality often clashed with common knowledge, that's what Mudflat was all about, but whoa! This was hallucination. Oh. Maybe. Had Roman and his creepy friends slipped me something? And when was I going to wake up?
Tyrant Trouble (Mudflat Magic) Page 3