The Kesh brigand on the wagon had hit her good when she had opened the gate that fateful spring night months ago. The wagon master had dragged her from the cart and dumped her on the road, right on the very same bridge her son had leaped from. It had knocked the breath out of her, and the brigand who was standing on the rear had slapped her across her face several times.
In between slaps, while covering her face, the brigand had gotten too close, and Dareen took the opportunity to punch the man in his groin. He doubled over in pain, and she stood and kicked him in his face, knocking out two teeth and breaking the man’s nose.
The wagon master pulled his wooden rod out and hit her across the head with it, starting the assault. She lay there in the middle of the road, bleeding along with the other brigand for what seemed like hours as the rest spread out along the riverbanks, searching for her son.
She had thought that the worst was behind her when a group of riders went by and several other brigands returned to stand watch over the cart.
“Kill the she-witch,” the wagon master had said. She thought he was just posturing till the brigand she had wounded walked up to her and sliced her face with the knife.
She had fallen back, and the knife-wielding brigand was too impatient to bend over and cut her again, instead electing to kick her over and over again. Ann screamed, and it was her high-pitched wild scream that probably saved Dareen’s life. Just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, a voice had called out to stop.
“Enough,” a man said, mounted on a sleek steed with a staff in one hand and a peculiar-looking tasseled hat on his head, towering over her.
She couldn’t see him very clearly, and her vision was blurring while she fought to maintain consciousness. She had tried to move but couldn’t.
“We should kill her and kill her now,” the wagon master had said. “She used her she-devil wood-witch magic on us, she did. She deserves to die.”
“Yeah,” another brigand had chimed in. “Look what she did to poor Boots there.”
There were several voices all concurring in agreement before the calm voice of the mounted man spoke. “I said enough. It’s bad enough that you let a young lad and a small woman beat you half to death, not to mention this . . . this child here,” the man said, motioning to the locked cage.
“That is the witch’s banshee daughter spawn, she is,” another brigand said, a tinge of awe in his voice as if dealing with something supernatural.
“Shut your trap, Laces,” a large brigand with a wooden baton said.
“Enough.” The mounted man spoke again, his voice louder this time. “Put her in the cart and get to Korwell. The attack begins just before dawn, and you, Bolts, take me to their house. I want to see where they lived.”
“Whatever for?” the brigand asked.
“I have my reasons. Now do what I say and get them moving. I want to see this place for myself.”
“As you wish, Master.”
Dareen remembered being lifted and unceremoniously dumped into the wagon with her daughter. That was her saving grace as Ann took care of her, caressing her head and stopping the bleeding with what remained of a piece of her dress.
Dareen slapped more mud into a form and repeated the process angrily. The work allowed her to focus on something, and while she didn’t want to be productive for the Kesh, it was somewhat therapeutic for her all the same.
“Slow down there, girl,” Theobald said, concern for himself in his voice. “You’ll get them expecting that kind of work from all of us, and I don’t think you want to do that unless you like helping the Kesh?”
Dareen stopped for a moment and shot the man a look that could kill. He seemed to get the message and lowered his head, resuming his own labors.
“Don’t let that old fart upset you,” a lady said from the other side of Dareen, opposite of Theobald.
Dareen nodded and then smiled, forgetting for a moment her anger and pain. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. I’m Dareen.”
“Of course you are,” the middle-aged lady said, also nodding her head and gracing Dareen with the slightest of bows even though she remained seated. “I’m Gwendolyn, though you can call me Gwen.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Gwen. Did you say you knew me?”
“Nice to meet you too, dear, and in a way, yes, we do know you. Well, better to say we know of you.” Gwen smiled and kept her hands moving at her brick work.
Dareen smiled back and worked a quick line of bricks, giving the Kesh guard a quick peek before looking back to Gwen. “Begging your pardon, but how do you know of me? I don’t know you, and I don’t know most of these people.”
Gwen let out a soft chuckle before responding. “You were out of it for quite some time, my dear. Several of us had to take care of you when they brought you here.”
“And where is here?” Dareen asked, looking around.
“We are still in Ulsthor, don’t you know? Not far from our homeland of Ulatha,” Gwen said, speaking like a schoolmarm to a child.
“I didn’t know, though I remember sending word to the Great Druid of our plight. He should have been here by now to help us,” Dareen said, glancing down the row of tables at the Kesh guard who seemed to have taken a fancy to a young slave gal. He was occupied speaking to her, and they were both smiling.
Gwen caught sight of the two and scowled. “Those youngsters, consorting with the enemy. They have no shame, I tell you. They should know better, but now, where were we? Ah, yes, your feverish dreams and hallucinations.”
“Excuse me?” Dareen said, looking intently at the middle-aged woman.
“You spoke in your sleep. A fever took over, as your wound was infected, and you were delirious, speaking of a great eagle and the wood wizard that he served. It’s all right, dear. The fever has passed if not your false memories.”
“Excuse me, but those were not false. I do remember speaking to a great falcon. Argyll was his name, and he has a master he serves, voluntarily, of course, and I’ve asked for their aid. You’ll see soon enough,” Dareen said, regaining her confidence and slapping mud into the forms again.
The older lady who had hushed Theobald returned to Dareen’s table for more forms. “Don’t you fret none, Miss Dareen. Your daughter says she’ll be back to see you tomorrow night, and don’t you let that fever take you again. You work on that, my dear, and keep an eye on old Theobald there. He’s one for the woods.”
Theobald took enough time to look up and scowl again before ignoring the old lady and resuming his work. Dareen smiled, nodding. “Yes, I was told that we get to see our children weekly . . . if there are no problems.”
“That’s right, for those of us who have children. It be their way of keeping us in line. Them slavers know their business,” the older lady said, nodding. With quick hands, the old woman grabbed the forms and departed again.
“Isn’t she a bit old to be carrying those heavy forms?” Dareen asked Gwen, leaning over and lowering her voice, as she didn’t want the old woman to hear her as she walked out of earshot.
“You don’t know Mrs. Stone very well, do you?” Gwen answered, gracing Mrs. Stone with a look as she returned to the ovens.
“No, I guess I don’t, and neither do I know you or Mr. Theobald over there very well either.”
Gwen looked at Dareen, and then understanding dawned across the woman’s face. “I’m sorry, dear. We are all from Korwell, and you were one of the folks from the eastern farms, were you not?”
Dareen nodded at first and then shook her head. “Not really a farm but instead more like a homestead across from the farms.”
Gwen looked at Dareen, a tad of confusion on her face. “You mean across the river, near the woods?”
“Yes, that was my parents’ place, Luc and Julia Terrel.” Dareen smiled.
“Oh my!” Gwen brought her muddy hand to her mouth, almost sullying her face with it. “You poor thing, living that close to the Blackthorn Forest. I had thought that all the woodsme
n and their families had left from those woods.”
“Well, most had, all except us,” Dareen said.
Gwen nodded as if she understood all now. “I see, my dear. This explains much of your ramblings those many nights, but oh my . . .”
“What?” Dareen asked.
Gwen started to chuckle and then laugh, and it grew louder, eliciting yet another scowl from Master Theobald, but the guard was seemingly enamored with the young lady at the end of the row of tables, and in turn the young lady wasn’t working much if at all. “Oh my,” Gwen said again.
“What’s so funny?” Dareen asked, starting to get annoyed at the quirkiness of her table companion.
“Do you remember that brigand who you beat up?” Gwen asked, finally getting a measure of control and becoming more serious.
“Yes, the one who knifed me and gave me this.” Dareen pointed to the scar on her face.
Gwen’s face paled, and she stopped her merry-making immediately and then leaned in toward Dareen before speaking. “They call him ‘Boots,’ you know. Odd and funny names they give themselves, but he has a new name now. Want to know what it is?”
“I guess so,” Dareen said, feigning interest.
“You should want to know; you gave him the name in a way, so to speak,” Gwen said.
“Really?” Dareen dropped all pretense now and leaned in conspiratorially with Gwen. “Do go on.”
Gwen smiled. “We call him ‘Toothless.’”
“Why ‘Toothless’?” Dareen asked.
“Cause you knocked his two front teeth out,” Gwen said, regaining a small measure of joy at the thought. “Now when the evil brigand ‘Boots’ walks by and scowls, he looks like a silly toothless clown.”
Dareen looked in shock for a moment and then graced Gwen with a smile. “I didn’t know. Thank you for telling me, but I fear if he is still here. Last I saw him, he wanted to murder me.”
“Yes, he does, but you’ve been protected by their sorcerer,” Gwen said, her eyes going wide.
“How so?” Dareen asked.
“They talked about you for a long time, and more than once they stood outside our slave hut and debated the merits of killing you. Do you know they actually think you are a witch? I think they called you a ‘wood-witch’ and that is what they feared most. Well, almost the most, if you get what I mean.”
“Not really, but I follow you about the witch part,” Dareen said.
“They feared you and wanted to kill you, especially ol’ Toothless, but they feared the magic-using man who ordered them not to hurt you. Him they fear the most.” Gwen nodded, resuming her schoolmarm demeanor.
“Is he here?” Dareen asked, looking around for the man.
Gwen shook her head. “No, they talk about him in the past tense—that would be the proper way to refer to someone in the past—so his words still scare them, as does his memory, even if he isn’t here right now.”
Dareen was confused slightly and felt she was being treated as a school child. “I know what ‘past tense’ means . . .”
Gwen’s face brightened. “Wonderful to know you wood folks have some sort of education. I was worried you mainly dealt in lore and folktale.”
“And those of you in Korwell don’t?” Dareen countered.
Gwen chuckled softly, continuing her slow, monotonous brick-forming work. “Well, some of the lesser folk there speak in such ways. Ol’ Theobald there, for example,” she said, motioning with a muddy hand at the man across from them. “He is superstitious and backward as all get, even for us city folk.”
Dareen looked at Theobald for a moment, and the man was either ignoring them or didn’t hear them. Looking back, Dareen smiled, changing tact for a moment. “What exactly was it that you did in Korwell?”
“I was the second in charge of the prestigious charter school at the king’s court,” Gwen said, her face brightening and her voice uplifting a bit proudly as she announced her position.
“Meaning you taught the children of the nobles?” Dareen asked.
“Yes.” Gwen continued to beam, laying another half dozen forms and motioning for the old woman to come clean her table. “I worked under Mr. Whitfield, and we served the nobles, all save the king’s children.”
“I thought the king didn’t have any children?” Dareen asked.
“He didn’t, that’s why I said all save the king’s children,” Gwen responded.
Dareen nodded, thinking the woman to be somewhat daft, and then picked up her pace to fill a few more forms. A man, dirty and dressed in what looked like once fine clothes, brought a stack of forms and set them to the side of her table, leaving as quickly as he had arrived.
Dareen had just recently been placed on the table line two days earlier and was moved to the center of the line this very morning. She hadn’t talked to anyone the prior two days as everyone was sullen and focused on their work and, of course, to avoid the Kesh whip.
The mood was still sullen, though Gwen and the small amount of chatter from Mrs. Stone and old man Theobald was a refreshing change of pace. The group continued working, finishing their afternoon shift, when the sun was setting, and the guards arrived to round them up. A large contingent of troops would show up and collect the group and march them several hundred yards to the middle of a wooden stockade-type complex.
The wooden stockade consisted of walls that covered three hundred square feet. There was only one gate, double doored and hinged in the middle of the western wall, and along the outside of the wall ran a wooden catwalk that hung about four feet down from the top of it. This allowed the guards to patrol the entire wall and peer over it to observe and fire their crossbows if necessary.
Inside were many square huts, hardly worthy of mention, but they kept the rain and elements out and were, for the most part, dry. The rickety, wooden structures consisted of a square shape with a single door in it and nothing but bunk beds inside, stacked one per wall and three high. This allowed each small structure to hold nine prisoners.
More than once, Dareen had wandered into the wrong hut, and she paid attention this time to where she had to go. She entered the gate where a guard and another man who looked like a scribe counted them as they passed. She moved four rows over toward the north and then walked seven buildings down, finding her hut.
She entered, moving toward her bunk on the bottom, and fell onto it, dirty and not caring. Most of the others did the same. There would be a food call in an hour, and after that, they would have about another hour free before the horn sounded for curfew. After the horn sounded, no one was allowed outside their hut, and more than one Ulathan was shot with a crossbow bolt for disobeying this rule. Just before dawn, the same horn would sound, and they had fifteen minutes to assemble for breakfast. A thirty-minute feeding would ensue before the entire group was marched back to their work posts to repeat the day all over.
Dareen wasn’t sure if they had any day of rest, but she was assured that each week they would get to see their children. She began to understand the power and control that this one fact exerted over them. The Kesh seemed to have perfected the art of slavery and slave control.
There was a slight ruckus at the doorway as several people spoke in hushed tones just beyond it. Dareen didn’t bother to open her eyes; she was still sore from her wounds months earlier, and the sudden onset of hard labor when she had just been released from the equivalent of bed rest was too much for her. Not that the frontier hadn’t prepared her for the rigors involved in being a slave, but recuperating from her injuries had taken a toll on her.
The voices started to get louder. “Well, if she is in there, then we need to find out where she sides and either make it happen or no.”
Another woman’s voice came clearer as if the woman stood closer. “She was just released from the dungeons in the sorcerer’s tower. Give her a few days to regain her strength. She’s not ready for this now.”
“She’s had two days already,” came a man’s voice, though the timber was louder
and the words softer. “She needs to know what we are planning. She can help, she can, if the stories be true.”
“You place too much import on them tall tales, Walton,” said the same louder woman’s voice, much clearer to hear. “Best if you all run off before the call of dinner and let me handle this.”
Dareen opened her eyes and stood up. There were only three other women in the room, and all were sleeping or feigning sleep on various other bunks as the prisoners continued to be escorted into the stockade. Some came from much further away than the tables where Dareen worked, and she was often the first, or one of the first, back to the hut, not that three days was any proper sample of what was normal or not.
Straightening her dirty clothes and wiping her face with the back of her hand, Dareen walked to the doorway and peeked outside. “Handle what?” she asked.
There were three people there, huddled against the rickety side of the structure, and she seemed to have startled all three. The lady closest stepped back and grabbed Dareen by the arm, pulling her into the structure again, and the other two people followed. One was an older man, not too much unlike Theobald, and there was an older lady in her mid-fifties, if appearances weren’t deceiving. They both entered the room and roused the other women there, telling them to head off and get in the dinner line.
There was some complaining about their rest being disturbed, but the trio that had entered brooked no foolishness. In quick order, they were all rousted and out and the youngest lady looked at the man, saying, “Watch the door, Walton.”
“Aye, but be quick about it. The others will be here soon.” The man left the structure, closing the door behind him, and his faint shadow could be seen through the large cracks between the wooden door planks. Rickety is a generous word for the structure, thought Dareen.
The younger lady turned to Dareen, who had been more than patient, curiosity keeping her quiet. “I am Estelle and this is Margaret. We represent most of the others in this camp, and we have something of import to ask of you.”
“All right,” Dareen began hesitantly, “but I don’t know who you are or what you could ask of me. I can barely stand much less help anyone at this time.”
Dead Druid: Claire-Agon Ranger Book 2 (Ranger Series) Page 10