Daughter of Two Worlds: Book Three of the Aun Series

by Lee Bezotte

  Son suddenly noticed that his leg was throbbing with pain, and he tried to keep his weight off of it. Bolstering his confidence, he replied, “You won’t be getting away with anything, stinkmonger! Maren and I are leaving here and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

  “What?” the slaver croaked. “Did you just call me a stinkmonger?”

  “Of course I did,” the boy continued, hoping that his aggression would overtake the pain in his leg. “You smell like a vomiting armpit!”

  Micah glared at Son, then turned his gaze to his father. “Are you going to let him speak to you like that?” he asked.

  “Quiet!” Sevuss snapped, clearly riled by Son’s insults. “I’ll tell you what, ragamuffin; if Maren wants to fight my son for her freedom, I will give it to her.”

  Son was taken aback by the man’s offer. He was certain that, no matter what happened, the slaver would not be agreeing to let Maren go today. Hoping that Dulnear would be along to assist them soon, he agreed. “Okay, but you have to promise not to cry when your little lad is beaten by an even littler girl.”

  Sevuss snarled behind tobacco-stained teeth, then looked at his son. Handing his knife to him, he instructed, “Don’t end it too quickly. I want to enjoy the show.”

  Micah confidently held the blade out in front of him and made a slicing motion through the air. “As you wish,” he hissed.

  “I don’t agree to that,” Son protested.

  Maren stepped forward with her sword firmly in hand. “It’s okay,” she said. She glanced briefly back at Son, who also had a solid grip on the hilt of his weapon. “Part of a bigger story,” she whispered to herself.

  As Son watched, every muscle in his body tensed and he thought about every action he could possibly take if he felt the fight was going unfavorably. He wanted desperately to just stop it now and take his chances with fleeing on a wounded leg.

  The two children stood face-to-face. The young boy looked down on Maren, murmuring insults with a stony expression. As he raised the knife over his head to strike, there was a high-pitched whoosh, and his left ear fell to the ground.

  “Ear!” the girl yelled, pulling her sword back to the ready position.

  The boy looked down to see his bloody ear laying in the grass and stumbled backward with disbelief. “You…you cut off my—”

  “Ear!” Maren yelled again, this time catching only the lobe of the right ear.

  “Micah!” Sevuss called out as he ran to the boy, catching him in his arms. Wiping the blood from his son’s face, the slave master growled at the girl, “You cut up my beautiful boy!”

  “Now I can go free,” Maren reminded the man sternly.

  Sevuss gently laid his son down in the grass, then stood to face the girl. “I’ll set you free, Maren. Free to feel pain, free to bleed, and free to die!” He then took the knife from Micah’s hand and began to charge her.

  Before he could reach the girl, Son stepped in and swept his sword low, hacking the man’s shin and causing him to tumble to the ground. “Leave her be!” he yelled. “Or I’ll take your ears too!”

  Sevuss grabbed his leg and groaned in pain. “I’ll kill you, boy!” he proclaimed. He then hoisted himself to his feet and ran at Son as he released a slew of curses.

  Son tried to step out of the man’s way, but his own wounded leg held him back. Sevuss tackled him, kneeled on his arms, and raised his knife to plunge it into the boy’s neck. “No!” the boy yelled, and he pulled his left arm loose just in time to hold the blade back. As he did, he could see Maren come up behind the slaver and pound him repeatedly with the pommel of her sword.

  The man howled like an alarmed fox and swiped backward with his knife.

  Seizing the distraction, Son wrenched his right arm free. They were too close for him to use his sword, so he made a stone-like fist and punched the man in the mouth, sending a brown tooth sailing through the air.

  Sevuss coughed, then wiped his mouth. Without saying a word, he raised his knife once more. Suddenly, he dropped it and the ends of two of his fingers fell to the ground.

  “Fingers!” Maren yelled as she stood over the man.

  Like an animal, the slaver roared, spun around, and sprang at Maren. But before he could fully get to his feet, Son was on his shoulders, pounding furiously on his already wounded head.

  Ignoring the pain and bleeding from his leg, the boy continued to punch and thrash, and would not relent. Finally, the man fell face-first to the ground, letting out a warbled groan of agony as he slipped into unconsciousness.

  Maren stood over Sevuss with weapon in hand and arms shaking. Everything in her wanted to plunge her sword into the man’s body, but she knew that it was not right to kill for spite. Turning around, she saw Micah, now sitting up, holding his ear in his hand. There were tears of hatred in his eyes as he glared at her.

  Maren walked over to the boy. “I thought you were my friend,” she said with eyebrows pressed low.

  “I was never your friend,” the boy answered. “My father said you were a mark, so I did what he said.” He then added, “Besides, who would ever want to be friends with a graymind imbecile like you?”

  The words cut deep into Maren’s heart, though she did not show it. She had yearned for friendship her whole life but found it in very short supply. The disappointment she felt by Micah’s betrayal was like an anchor around her neck. She searched her mind for the words to say, and finally replied, “I am not less.”

  “What?! What’s that supposed to mean?” the boy snipped. “It’s like you’re not all there!”

  Maren looked down at the boy’s ear, then back up to his bleeding face. “Then we are the same,” she said.

  “I hate you!” Micah cried out. “I’ll get you for what you’ve done!”

  Just then, Son appeared next to her. Placing his hand on the girl’s shoulder, he spoke to the boy. “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” he said. Then his expression changed, and he did something Maren was not expecting. He stepped closer to the boy, lowered himself onto one knee, and offered, “Why don’t you come with us?”

  “Come with you?!” the boy shrilled. He glanced at his unconscious father, then back at Son. “Just stay away from me, and take your broken ward with you!”

  Suddenly, Maren noticed the young man with the dark-blue tunic jog by, as did several of the other slaves from the camp. Then Dulnear appeared, looking rather pale and exhausted. “It is time to go,” the northerner said. “Make your way to Faymia.”

  It was lighter now, and the girl surveyed the camp where she had been enslaved. The caravans burned, and bodies littered the ground like rubbish after a festival. She turned her eyes toward Dulnear, whose blood ran from under his coat. “Are you okay?” she asked the man.

  He met the girl’s eyes briefly and smiled weakly, then answered, “I am now that I am with you again.”

  She then reached up and took his arm, walking with him behind Son. Soon they were with Faymia and the horses, who were now waiting for them on the path, midway to the road. When she saw the woman, she ran to her and threw her arms around her waist.

  Faymia picked her up and held her tightly, beginning to weep. Maren placed her head on the woman’s shoulder and gently stroked her hair. “Thank you for coming for me,” she said.

  “We are not home yet,” the man from the north reminded them as he mounted his horse. “Son, would you mind taking the reins?” he added.

  The boy hopped on in front of Dulnear while Faymia and Maren rode together. Once they were on the road toward Laor, Maren felt a sense of peace, and looked forward to seeing the farm again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Return to Laor

  Maren rode along, sitting in front of Son. There had to be some rearranging of horses earlier since the girl felt the other one emitted an odor that no one else detected. Occasionally, the boy would let her take the horse’s reins and direct the animal. They were surrounded by the other recently released slaves. They were chatting on about life-
rights, legalities, and the like. Faymia walked nearby, leading Dulnear’s horse as he slept. They had been on the road together for some time and were approaching Laor.

  “Son?” the girl spoke up.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I say that I’m sorry now?” she asked.

  The boy took a deep breath and replied, “I suppose so.”

  “I’m sorry that I caused so much trouble,” she said with her eyes still on the road ahead.

  Son waited a moment to speak. Maren could tell by his breathing that he was carefully considering what to say. “You know, I would run the length of Aun, and back again, to make sure you were okay,” he began. “You’re my sister and I love you dearly.” He then paused again before continuing. “But even more difficult than breaking through a castle’s defenses, fighting slavers, and riding through the night, is the pain I feel from your dishonesty with me.”

  The girl glanced over at the wounded man from the north, then at his wife, who was wiping tears from her eyes as she led his horse. Something stirred inside of her that couldn’t fully be called remorse, but couldn’t be called indifference either. Her chest felt heavy, and she knew she didn’t want her friends to suffer on her behalf again. “I’m very sorry,” she said. “I wish that I would have listened.”

  “Me too,” the boy said. “I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to find you. We had to go to the king of slavers himself to find out where you were.”

  Maren shuddered at the thought of a slaver king. Just being with a slave owner was bad enough. “I was in Ahmcathare for a little while,” she stated.

  “Ahmcathare?” the boy sputtered. “What were you doing there?”

  “I worked for a fat tool seller,” she said plainly.

  “Oh,” the boy said. “How did you end up back at the camp?”

  “I walked,” she explained. “Well, most of the way. A funny man named Treyvin gave me a ride too.”

  “What happened to the tool seller?” he asked.

  “He was going to take me to a brothel, so I ran away.”

  “Ran away? How did you manage that?”

  “An old man told me the same thing you did, so I slipped out of my cage and ran.”

  “An old man?” Son asked.

  Maren could hear that her guardian was now breathing more deeply, but couldn’t tell why. “He was in my cage with me and told me that I was made for more.”

  “What did he look like?” the boy asked.

  “He had white hair and was tall and strong. He was cooking food. He was there one moment, then gone.”

  Son sniffed, and his shoulders shook. He was quiet for quite some time as they continued along. Finally, he said, “I’ve seen him too. And every day since, I’ve thought about it.”

  Maren looked over at Dulnear’s sleeping form draped across the back of his horse. She admired his courage and strength and wished to be more like him. “Is he going to be okay?” she asked.

  Son wiped a tear from his eye and observed the man from the north. “He’ll recover,” he answered. “He always does.”

  The townspeople of Laor gathered around, welcoming back their family members who had gone off with Sevuss and his crew. There were many tears and even more questions. Maren watched as they embraced each other and shared stories of the past few weeks. She also noticed that several of the shops had been boarded up, and the once tidy village appeared rather unkempt.

  “Will it go back?” she asked Son.

  “I sure hope so,” the boy answered. “I have never known a place like Laor. I wish the slavers would just walk off the end of Aun and never come back.”

  “I agree,” the tired, deep voice of Dulnear said from behind them. He was sitting on his horse now, and the blood on his hand and face was dried and black.

  “That giant bloke over there mowed them down like grass!” someone shouted. “I never seen anything like it!”

  “’Twas nothing,” the aching man from the north said.

  It tickled Maren that her friend was receiving so much attention, so she moved closer to his horse and put her hand on his leg.

  “You have fans,” Faymia pointed out, still standing there with the reins.

  The warrior chuckled quietly and admitted, “I suppose I do. However, I think we should make our way home. I have many wounds that need tending, and my bed is calling.”

  “As you wish, giant bloke,” his wife said with a smile, and she joined him atop the horse.

  Son and Maren mounted their horse as well and, as they rode out of the village, the girl looked back and hoped it would again be what it once was.

  They traveled in silence, tired and sore. Eventually, home could be seen from their stretch of the road.

  As they approached Gale Hill Farm, a strange sensation that the world was different arose in Maren. She noticed that much was overgrown and the house looked derelict, but the garden seemed to have been ravaged by animals. Though it still carried a sense of home, it was shabbier than she remembered it. As they approached the house, the front door appeared to have been kicked in.

  “Wait!” the man from the north cautioned. “It may not be safe.”

  “I’ll go inside and look,” Son volunteered, dismounting the horse and withdrawing his sword.

  Faymia held out her bow and placed an arrow in it. “I’ll cover you from here,” she said. “If there’s anyone in there, run out the door as fast as you can and I’ll make sure they never pay us a visit again.”

  The boy tightened his grip on the sword and stepped into the doorway. As Maren watched, her heart beat rapidly and she began to massage her ear. “Be careful,” she whispered.

  After being inside for a few moments, Son called out, “Hey!”

  Suddenly there was a horrific yell, followed by a crash as the boy came bursting through the window. Dulnear got down off his horse and withdrew his sword. Standing over his friend, he asked, “What did you see?”

  Son struggled to breathe, and he painfully coughed out, “M-m-m-muuule.”

  “Earl!” Maren shouted. She jumped down from her horse so quickly that she landed on her bottom. Springing up, she ran into the house and immediately came back out leading her donkey by a rope.

  Dulnear assisted the boy to his feet and Faymia joined them at the doorway. The four of them looked at each other with a knowing stare, then tiredly began to clean the mess that Earl had left in the house.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Wisdom of Mules

  Maren worked in the garden under the early afternoon light. As she did, she whistled the tune she’d learned from Athas. Though they had been home for several days, there was still much to be done to bring the farm back to a presentable state. There were plenty of vines and roots left behind after Earl devoured the garden in their absence, and the ground needed to be prepared for a new planting season.

  Appearing at the edge of the field, Son complimented, “This is looking really nice, Maren.”

  Somewhat shaken from her thoughts and the tune in her head, the girl peered back at the boy and said, “Thank you. I should be done soon.” She still wore the apron that Athas had given her, and it was so covered in soil that the embroidered flowers were no longer visible.

  “It’s okay,” Son said. “I was hoping you would take a break so I could show you something.”

  Maren was curious about the boy’s request, since he had never asked her to take a break before. “Um, okay,” she said. “I’ve been working this whole time.”

  “I know,” he assured her. “Just come with me for a little bit.”

  “Okay,” she answered. She placed her dirty hand on her ear and began to massage it as she made her way to her friend.

  Son took her free hand and led her toward the southern edge of Gale Hill Farm. As they neared their destination, Dulnear and Faymia could be seen waiting for them. “What is it?” the girl asked.

  “You’ll see. It’s special,” her friend answered.

  “Special!” she chirped, a
nd she let go of the boy’s hand and ran out to her friends. When she reached them, she noticed that they were standing in a giant ring of climbing violet, filled with dried flower petals. In the center of the ring were three vases cast in iron. She recognized the first vase as the one Dulnear made for Son to honor his mother. “What are the other two?” she asked as she approached.

  Faymia walked out and took the girl’s hand. Leading her into the circle, she explained, “We wanted to do something for your mum and dad.”

  Son stood behind the girl and placed his hands on her shoulders. “It didn’t seem right that we never remembered them properly,” he said. “They were just left under that stone on the road to Blackcloth.”

  The feelings of that day began to escape from whatever box they had been stuffed into, and sorrow washed over Maren like warm water. She turned and wrapped her arms around Son and wept deeply.

  Dulnear knelt behind her, placing his hand on her back. “I am so sorry, and I am so honored that you came to be a part of our family,” he consoled through tears.

  Faymia joined him and added, “You have my heart like no one else.”

  When Maren had found her composure, she knelt in front of the vases that Dulnear had crafted. “Brae” she said, reading the memorial to Son’s mother. “Darra,” she continued, reading her father’s name. Then, her shoulders began to shake and her eyes turned red and full as she read, “Eifa. Mother. I miss you so.”

  Her friends knelt beside her and wept along with her. As they did, they asked all about the girl’s parents and learned more about them in that short time than they did the entire time they had known her. When she had told all of the stories she had wanted to tell, she scooped up handfuls of flower petals and placed them inside the vases. She then encouraged her friends to do the same before they stood.

  “Thank you,” she said to her friends.

  As Son and Maren walked back to the garden together, the girl scratched her head and murmured, “I thought it was supposed to be special.”