Armand slowly led him out of the brush, back into the narrow canyon way, and he worked his way back to the main canyon. Looked both ways again. Nothing. Armand got up and re-mounted Jasper, and started up the canyon, thinking where he would head out, once they left the canyon.
Jasper started, startling him, and a man rose out of the rocks, aiming a lever-action carbine at him, smiling, and he shouted at Armand. The man grabbed the reins, looked behind him.
Another tribesman, with a similar carbine. Laughing. And no wonder.
They had Armand trapped.
The man in front came forward, as Armand held his hands up, and then there was a hammer blow behind Armand, as he was punched hard in the side. Armand fell off the saddle, hit the ground and thumped his head against a rock, biting his tongue. He was kicked in the side and his short sword was stripped from him, and Armand was hammered again. Jasper was kicking, trying to move away, as one of them tried to keep hold of the reins.
“You… you leave my horse alone, you bastards!”
More laughter, more kicks, and Armand’s face was bleeding and his ribs were throbbing. Then he was rolled on his side, arms grabbed, hands bound in front of him. Armand was hauled up, weaving, blood in his mouth. The two men were smiling at him, one of them holding Jasper’s reins, the terrified horse, bucking and straining, and the second man holding a rope that was bound to his hands and wrists.
“Hah,” he said, looking at Armand, revealing black and broken teeth. He said something else. Armand shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
He came up, punched Armand in the head. He fell down, rolled over, the rope tightening on his hands and wrists. Another kick to his sore ribs.
Armand looked up. The man gazed down at him, grinning even more. He slapped his chest with a free hand, leaned down, shouting: “Ayan! Ayan!”
Armand felt like wetting himself.
He understood now.
Chapter Eleven
Armand’s world had now shrunk to the space between him and the other horsemen, and there were now seven horses, including Jasper. As he was being dragged along by one of the horsemen, Armand had to admire the bastards, in spite of his thirst, hunger, aching ribs and hands, and bloody mouth. It was probably an old game to them, finding someone out on the plains, and then driving them to a trap. Four horsemen come in, four horsemen come out, and the quarry --– namely, one Armand de la Cloutier of the Empire of the Nunavut --– doesn’t realize there were two additional Ayan tribesmen hiding in place, ready to jump into action when the time came.
They chattered at each other, sometimes glancing back at Armand and laughing. They stopped once and Jasper became the center of attention, as they stripped off his belongings, examining them, sharing the food about themselves. Once a fight broke out over his binoculars and two of the Ayan went at each other until blood was streaming down their faces. Nobody made to stop them; in fact, they cheered them on, laughing and clapping, and one got on top of the other, started hammering the man’s head with both of his fists. The older of the six –-- who had streaks of gray in his beard –-- shouted something and the fighting stopped.
The march resumed, and poor Jasper, sometimes he would turn his head to Armand, like he was looking at him with shame, that his master had led him into captivity.
At dusk they stopped near a narrow stream, and within a few minutes, a fire was built and the horses were watered. Armand was tied to a sapling, and the Ayan warrior knew how to tie knots tightly and expertly. He could barely roll from side to side. His saddle was taken off Jasper, and the six men played some sort of game with dice, to decide who would win it. When the winner was chosen, he shouted in triumph, and another argument broke out, with knives drawn, until the oldest one shouted them down and order was returned.
They ate well from Armand’s Imperial Army rations, and he stared at them, legs and arms frozen from fear and the cold –-- remembering what Henri had said about the Ayans’ captives --– until one came over, tossed a chunk of dried bread at his feet. They laughed as Armand rolled around to get to the food. Humiliated and hungry, Armand lowered his head and gnawed at the hard bit of bread. When Armand was finished, they undid their blanket rolls. One came to Armand, grinning, and pointed to Armand’s legs, and to his arms. Then he made a motion with the fingers of one hand, like someone racing away, his fingers pretending to be moving legs. Then he pointed to Armand again, and took out his knife and grinned, making a motion of slitting his throat.
Armand nodded. Message understood. Try to escape, and you’re a dead man.
The Ayan went back to the campfire with his mates, and Armand was left alone, and soon there was snoring. But they were a wily bunch, with one of them remaining awake, tending to the fire, looking to the horses, looking out beyond the fire, sometimes looking at him.
During the long cold night, as Armand shivered and rolled himself into as tight as a ball as possible, there was a shift change and one of them ambled over, carrying a bit of burning wood to find his way. He stood over Armand, smiling, and in the light he made out the tattoos on his skull and his neck, of snakes, tigers, and an odd cross with crooked arms at each end.
He kicked at Armand and he tried to roll away, and of course, couldn’t go far. With one hand holding the small torch up, he reached down to his trousers with the other, undid a flap and worked out his member. He giggled as he let loose a stream of urine at Armand. He coughed and ducked and tried to roll away, but it was no use, Armand had to take it, until he was done. Then he kicked Armand again, smiling widely, and Armand looked up at him, eyes stinging, his face and clothes wet. He said slowly and softly, “I’m scared shitless of you, pal, but at some time and place, I’m going to get you.”
If he recognized Armand’s threat, he sure didn’t seem to appreciate it. He merely rearranged himself and went back to the fire, and Armand’s long night continued.
The Ayans had breakfast with his stolen rations, and there was nothing for Armand, as they resumed their march to the east, heading in the direction of the rising sun. His legs ached, his clothes stank, and his wrists were rubbed raw from being bound and dragged behind one of the horses. A few times, as the horse sped up, Armand fell and was dragged along the ground, and it was some work, trying to get up and resume his pace. He gritted his teeth and was thirsty and hungry, and at one point, Armand had to wet himself, for there was no stopping. The seconds dragged on like hours, the dust being kicked up from the horse in front of him, and Armand no longer cared about him, cared about Jasper, cared about his dead father or the Empire or anything else. All he cared about was the throbbing pain in his arms and wrists, the aches in his ribs and legs, and the rising sun in his eyes.
On and on it went, and then they stopped and Armand fell to the ground, breathing hard, rasping, and then he was dragged up again. There was a steep hill in front of them, with smoke rising up from structures on the hill, set behind stone and wood palisades. Armand knew he was coming to the end of whatever was waiting for him.
They rode through an open gate, made of logs, and on either side of the gate, bleached-white skulls dangled from lengths of rawhide. Some men and even women clustered about the open gate, laughing and pointing at Armand. He was dragged to an open cage made with wood and a thatched roof, and was tossed in, along with a couple of filthy blankets. A thick chain and a padlock secured the door to the cage. A couple of women were looking at him, whispering to each other. Their faces were dirty but were clean of tattoos, and their hair was long and braided, and they wore long skirts. One pointed to Armand and the other made eating motions with her hands, and that almost made him throw up. After they laughed they let him be, and Armand curled up in a ball, shivering, wrists and shoulders aching.
Armand woke up with a tapping, rustling sound. He sat up and saw he wasn’t alone. His cage was one of a series of cages, set together. To the right a woman was sitting, a blanket wrapped around her, covering everything from head to toe, save her eyes and long black hair. To A
rmand’s left there were three men, fellow captives, with dark hair and dark skin. Plains Indians, he was sure. At the end of each of their cells, there were a collection of belongings and such, and a wooden bucket, just like the one he had back in his interrogation cell in Toronto.
The nearby buildings were made of wood and skins, and there were others that looked like large tents. Smoke rose up and men walked around the buildings, all of them large, all of them armed, all of them tattooed. This time, he saw no women, and no children as well. There were a few dogs, barking and growling over scraps, and he smelled smoke, and wet things, and fear, most of all. There were shouts in the distance, and a burst of laughter, and Armand sat up and hugged his knees, looked around again at his companions.
One of them crawled over to Armand, and something climbed up his throat and tried to scream, for like the tale Henri had told him, the man just had stumps where his legs once were. His clothes were just rags, and there were bruises and scars visible on the skin. His thin dirty fingers clasped the wooden palisades, and he said something, and then repeated it, in a soft, pleading voice.
“I’m sorry,” Armand said. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
His voice repeated, again and again, and then he rested his head against the wood. Armand’s feet and hands were quite cold. It was his turn to repeat. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying.”
A softer voice, from the other side. “He’s begging for your help.”
Armand turned, surprised, to see the young woman looking at him. “You… you understand him?”
“Of course,” she said bitterly, still holding the blanket tight against her. “I’ve had plenty of time to learn their language.”
“What’s he begging? For food?”
“Hah,” she spat. “No, nothing as simple as that. He knows you’ve just been captured, have been tossed in here. He’s hoping you have a knife hidden on you, or some sharp blade.”
“Why? To escape?”
She stayed quiet for a moment. “In a manner of speaking,” she said “He’s hoping you have a sharp knife, so he can slit his wrists and kill himself. His two brothers, as well. That’s the only escape that awaits them… and better for them they do it on their own terms.”
Armand moved closer to her and stared, saw she wasn’t Plains Indians. “You’re from the Empire, aren’t you. My God, how did you end up here?”
Her face was sharp and edged, as lots of bitter memories came rushing to the surface. “Many lifetimes ago, I was an anthropology student, from the University at Calgary. My master’s thesis was going to be about the lives of the farmers and settlers on our side of the border with Amerka. To see how they were evolving, comparing their lives with similar families a hundred klicks north, to see what changes in culture, upbringing, society was taking place.”
More shouts from out beyond our cages. “I was living with a farm family, a few klicks north of the border. One night, the Ayans attacked them. Four of us were taken away and I’m the last one left.”
Armand saw that while her voice was steady and low, her shoulders were trembling. He said, “Armand de la Cloutier of Toronto, at your service.”
That got a raised eyebrow. “My word, a young noble. Here? How in the name of all that’s holy did you end up here?”
He hesitated, and then said, “M’lady, I’m an escapee from one of the Emperor’s oil sands prisons. I went south, to avoid proctors, the Imperial Army and the Security forces. Then I was captured, not two days ago.”
She laughed. “Oh you poor fool. You should have stayed back there. Should have been arrested. For whatever was fated for you within the empire, Armand, will be a hell of a lot better than your future here. Trust me on that.”
“Your name,” Armand said, desperate to change the subject. “What is it?”
“Melinda,” she said, her voice now soft. “You may call me Melinda.”
“That’s it? Just Melinda?”
She drew the blanket around her tighter, and it was like she was shrinking upon herself. “Melinda, that’s all. My family name is not to be known, for my family thinks I’m dead, and Armand, that is for the best.”
He didn’t know what to say, and then she surprised him by asking, in a hopeful voice. “Armand, you’re not a prince, are you?”
“No,” he said. “Not hardly.”
With that she shrunk back into her blankets.
Armand wanted to talk to her some more, but there was a rattling at the door to his cage, and he was pulled out by two men. More slaps and kicks, and then he was brought off to the rear of the camp. He again saw no women or children among the tents and the structures as he was dragged out. Just men and young men, most of them staring at him, others laughing, and then they walked past a paddock with horses. He spotted Jasper, standing by himself, and damn if he didn’t eye Armand as he went by. His poor Jasper. He was then taken to a fenced-in area, where a black kettle was boiling water. Next to the kettle were a pile of pots, pans, and metal plates. Some more kicks and nudges, and he nodded in understanding. Armand was left alone as he washed the dishes the best he could, using some rags and a soft brown soap that was homemade. It had a sharp smell to it but did its job well.
As Armand was washing, he was watched by one of the younger men, his head bald, with only two tattoos at the base of his neck, cleaning his fingernails with a sharp knife. It was warm by the fire and Armand was tempted to stretch out his task, but the knife in the Ayan’s hands looked very sharp and he got the job done as fast as he could.
When Armand was done the young man grunted, pulled him out and thrust a hard piece of black bread into his hand. Armand pushed it into his pocket --– next to his coin of Father Abram, thankful it hadn’t been stolen with everything else --- and he was taken back through the camp, counting about sixteen or so men and young boys, and the two same women again. Armand was kicked back into he cage, and he ate half the bread, and then scooted over to Melinda. “Here.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t want your charity.”
“Please, take it, m’lday.”
She sighed. “I’m older than you, and definitely not your lady. But if you’re in a giving mood, give to the poor souls next to you”
Which is what he did. The piece of bread went to the three Indians. The older one solemnly nodded in thanks, and broke it into three pieces. Armand went back to Melinda. “What is this place?”
“What do you mean?”
“No children, only a couple of women. This isn’t a permanent village, is it?”
She smiled. “My, you’re the sharp one, picking that up so soon. It’s a base camp for their raiding parties. The Ayan go out and tangle with Indians who wander into their territory, and sometimes get sole travelers, like you. They stay here for a while, and then they get relieved, by other tribe members.”
“And you’ve never been taken to one of their main villages?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said. “Tell me, Armand, how well were you situated when they picked you up?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.”
“I mean, did you have supplies like a good saddle, stuff like that.”
“Yes, I suppose I did.”
She nodded again. “That makes sense. Otherwise, they’d have killed you right off. They must think you’re rich, someone of value. I bet they’re waiting for someone to come here, under truce, to barter for your return. Is that going to happen?”
“No,” Armand said, “that’s not going to happen.”
She rubbed at her chin. “Well, you’ll have a few weeks before they decide what to do with you.”
The bravery in his voice didn’t match what was in his heart when Armand said, “Maybe I won’t be there by then.”
“Escape?”
“Why not?”
She laughed. “Did you see the skulls coming in on the palisade gates? That’s how far the latest escapees get. So tell me, what did you just do a while ago?”
“Washed dishes.”
“Hah, I hope you did a good job.”
“I think I did,” Armand said. “But…” and Armand lowered his voice. “The three Indians. What are they doing here?”
With that, she leaned back. “They are Sioux. Here for amusement, and other things.”
“Like what?”
She seemed to debate something in her mind, and then she said, “The older one, his name is Karr. The other one is Tom. Jimmy, he’s the one with no legs. You see, some months ago, there were heavy snows. Heavier than anticipated and food was short. Before the snows came, Jimmy had legs. After the snows came, he didn’t. Do you understand?”
Armand couldn’t recognize his own voice. “You’re just trying to scare me.”
“No,” she said. “Not trying at all, Armand.”
Chapter Twelve
In the dim light from the low fires, Melinda sat wrapped in the smelly buffalo robe and blankets, staring at the young boy slumbering in the cage next to her. Despite everything that had happened to her, she had to smile. For so long she had prayed for someone from the Empire to save her, and her prayers had come true. But some truth! Her savior was a thin, scrawny boy with barely a beard, who said he was a noble. A noble who was bruised, limping and looked like he belonged perfumed and well dressed at some Imperial function, and not here, among these barbaric Ayan. She had to smile again. Great-aunt Sophie had promised her a prince to rescue her, and what arrived was a scared young boy.
Then as if the gods of her ancestors were plotting against her, this young lad had also spoiled her earlier plans, for he had replaced her for kitchen duty, meaning her desire to steal a sharp knife and escaping once and for all from this place of hell had slipped away.
The Noble Prisoner (Empire of the North Book 2) Page 13