Excerpt from Torn

Excerpt from Torn

Bethany squatted in the tiny cell. It wasn't anything more than a small, stone box with a tiny drain, and an access point in the ceiling, which was securely fastened from the outside. The cell was too short for her to stand up, and too narrow to lie down. She shifted to a new position, trying to stretch out her cold, aching body in small segments without causing any further pain to the throbbing mark on her thigh.

Solitary confinement wasn't enough for a runaway slave. She had been branded—discreetly of course. The wealthy didn't like ugly slaves. Granted, she knew if she were caught running again, she would be branded on the neck. A third offense would mean her death.

She leaned her head back against the wall and flinched away from the cold stones pressing against her bare flesh. Bethany had lost track of the hours since she'd been placed in the cell, though she suspected it had been about two days. Twice she had received a cup of water and a leftover scrap of food.

The first had been maggot infested bread, which she refused to eat. The lump still sat in the far corner, as far away from her as she could place it. The second offering had been some charred meat, which she'd eaten mostly out of desperation. Bethany never said thank you when they dropped the food and lowered the cup of water. They didn't expect her to, and she hadn't been taught such manners. Then again, she hadn't been born a slave, either.

No one was. Slaves were people who either had been unable to pay their debts, or unable to protect themselves from the dreaded slavers. Bethany was the latter. She tried not to think about her life before slavery, but it was difficult, nigh impossible. The two lives were so very different.

Bethany had been born the daughter of a king. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to remember the tall walls that surrounded her family's keep, or the sprawling city encompassing it. The only thought that kept her calm was the knowledge that her home still existed, that her family continued to live. She knew because she'd often heard King Wolfric, the father of her new master, complaining about their continued defiance. Of course, he didn't know she was the youngest daughter of his enemy, Middin, King of Tokë.

She had been returning from Garrul, near the border of her family's shrinking land, when they were attacked. Her large caravan was traveling through the winding mountain pass. Bethany squeezed her eyes tighter, but the memory invaded her senses unbidden.

“Are you comfortable, my lady?” her lady-in-waiting, Nuala, asked.

Bethany nodded, keeping her thoughts to herself. She hated traveling through the steep mountains, even in spring, when the forest was alive with new growth and noisy birds. The jostle of the large wagon gave her a pounding headache and a rolling stomach. These were more than ample reason to not want to visit Uncle Lord Elias in Garrul. The fact that the old man was completely inept at entertaining a young woman was just salt in an open wound. He was gouty and lazy in general, but he was family and her father had insisted she make the visit. There had been peace between him and Wolfric for nearly two years, so there seemed little chance of an attack. Well, a lack of fighting, if not actual peace. Besides, her uncle was sickly and in need of encouragement—what better occupation for the youngest daughter of a king than lightening the heart of a war-weary man?

Finally, after a long and lonely month, Bethany was returning home.

The first hint of trouble came when the cumbersome wagon came to a stop. Such an event only happened at high noon or at the end of the day's traveling; it took too much time and energy to get the six enormous horses moving again. The men often rode ahead to clear fallen branches from the road or lay gravel on muddier portions, and sometimes the forerunners would even turn aside other travelers, forcing them to wait until her caravan had passed. Of course, seeing the wagon of a princess was a form of entertainment to the lowly bystanders. Occasionally, Bethany would even condescend to waive at them from the small window.

Bethany was just about to send one of her three maids out to see what the delay was when she heard shouts, followed by a piercing cry of pain. The clanking of swords and yelling of men quickly followed. Bethany shrank into the fur lined bench. The other women in the wagon followed her example. All, but one. Her lady-in-waiting, Nuala, jumped to the tiny window and tweaked the thick drape aside to peer out. She quickly ducked back as something thudded into the wagon, jostling the heavy wooden frame. Nuala's eyes had grown in fright, but she kept her wits about her while Bethany quivered in her seat.

Nuala yanked the fur covering from the floor to reveal the tiny trap door. “You have to run,” she ordered, staring at the princess.

Bethany understood the words, but couldn't grasp their meaning. Fear deadened her limbs and slowed her mind to a crawl. More out of shock than obedience, she moved towards her lady-in-waiting and the small opening in the floor, which permitted the sounds of battle to fill their plush sanctuary.

“Where do I go?” she wailed, as though the other women would have some hidden insight.

“Anywhere! Just run and hide. And don't come back until you know the battle is over,” Nuala said before unceremoniously pushing the princess through the trap door. Bethany didn't fight her, though she barked her shins against the axel and smacked her forehead on the opening. Before she could respond, Nuala closed the hatch and locked it. For a fleeting moment, Bethany wondered if Nuala had sent the princess into the forest to save those still in the wagon. Would they spare the women if they didn't find royalty? It didn't make sense. Then again, the entire attack didn't make sense.

Bethany didn't wait to figure it out. She inched her way to the edge of the wagon closest to the lining forest, glanced in both directions to be sure no one was too close, and bolted for the surrounding trees. Three steps from the wagon she found herself dancing around a frantic horse's backend. Thankfully, the rider didn't notice her, his whole attention on his frantic mount. Just a few feet from the nearest tree, her soft leather slippers sank into the deep mud and disappeared. Bethany hesitated, wanting to stop to dig them free from the mire, but the screech of an injured horse sent her flying.

She tottered up the incline and into the forest. The trees were close together where large slabs of granite didn't interrupt their growth. Some even twisted around the protruding rocks, determined to grow despite nature’s obstruction. The rocks and pine needles defaced her feet as she scrambled through the forest. She stumbled a few times, adding new bruises to her legs and hands while the branches reached out, clutching at her dress and hair.

A few minutes into her headlong run, she vaulted over a rock, right into a river. The water was slow, but icy cold. Her long gown quickly grew so heavy she could barely keep her head above water as she paddled towards the other side. At the opposite edge, she dragged herself out, using the thick branches of wild berry bushes to keep herself from slipping back into the water. The banks were covered in spring mud, and by the time she reached solid ground, Bethany's elegant, green dress was caked in black sludge. She almost wanted to jump back into the river to cleanse herself, but a gust of wind reminded her just how cold the water was. Another dip in the river would only make her colder; besides, she'd just have to climb through the mud again.

For the first time, Bethany stopped to take stock of her surroundings. She stood next to a wide river that came from a short waterfall a half dozen yards away. Enormous fir trees grew in splotches around the river. The ground was covered with last winter's pine needles that pricked her bare feet. Through a clearing, she thought she spotted a road. Had she doubled back on herself or was this a different road? She wasn't even sure which direction she'd run. As the princess forced herself to think about it, she had a sneaking suspicion that she'd run in the general direction of King Wolfric's lands.

Bethany shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest in an effort to conserve body heat. She belatedly realized that her plush cloak had been torn off at some point. She reached up and touched her head; the simple ring of gold had fallen off, too. Bethany wanted to go back and search for it, but that would require another dunking in the river. Not really worth it, she realized as she considered her predicament. Another guest of wind set her teeth to rattling. From the distant clearing she heard men's voices and horse's hooves.

Bethany forced herself to move and find some cover. The only thing she could find was a large bush, much closer to the road than wisdom promoted. Other than that one dead bush, every other piece of ground cover was too thin or small to hide her entire body. In retrospect, Bethany had one moment of wisdom that day; following a sudden instinct, she pulled her small, gold signet ring from her pinky and slipped it into her mouth, hoping she wouldn't swallow it in her fright.

“What's that?” a man’s voice called out.

Thinking she'd been discovered, Bethany stepped out from her bush. “P-please, h-help m-m-me,” she asked, her teeth clattering together and making it difficult to speak. She felt the ring pressed between her gums and her cheek.

The man smiled, showing the many gaps in his teeth. Bethany glanced at the rest of his caravan and realized just what a mistake she had made. Trailing behind the smiling man was a row of men and women connected by a rope twined around their necks.

She had just asked for help from a slaver.

Bethany didn't think she had any energy left, but fear gave her strength, and forced her legs to move again. She ran along the river, towards the small waterfall, hoping to find a fordable stretch further upstream. Of course, the hope was fruitless. Faster than she thought possible, she heard the sound of hooves gaining on her. Bethany didn't waste time looking over her shoulder, but turned to jump back into the icy water. Just as she did, two hands reached under her armpits and yanked her off her feet. She cried out as she tried to break free from his grasp, but before she could, he had her lying on her stomach across his lap.

The slaver turned the horse and pushed him into an excruciating trot, the saddle and his legs digging ruthlessly into her stomach. The horse took a sudden turn forcing her body into the saddle at an awkward angle. Her side erupted with fire. The slaver jerked his horse to a stop, and Bethany let out a gasp of pain.

Another man yanked her from her perch, and dumped her on the ground near the end of the line of pathetic individuals. Without being told, Bethany scrambled to her feet with as much dignity as she could, which wasn't much, considering she tripped over her sodden dress twice. Once on her feet, Bethany tried to take a deep, calming breath. The movement sent a fresh stab of agony through her side. She clutched it as she bent forward, doubled over with the pain. It was nearly enough to make her forget the importance of the ring hidden in her mouth.

The man grabbed her by the hair, and jerked her back into a standing position while quickly slipping a loop of rope over her head and tightening it around her neck. Despite the pain in her side and scalp, Bethany felt as though a large rock had been thrown at her stomach—the rope sliding into place around her neck felt very final.

There was no escape now.

To continue reading Bethany's story, check out Torn, Book 1 of the Dothan Chronicles on amazon.

To read the next book in Bethany's story, check out Lost, Book 2 of the Dothan Chronicles on amazon.

Most of all, whether you enjoyed the story or not, please consider writing an honest review to better help other readers make an informed decision. 

Thank you.

Excerpt from Bought

Excerpt from Bought

Bethany stared down at her ruined slippers. They had been soft doe hide, perfect for dancing or a relaxed day during the summer. Now they were so wet she could barely keep them on her aching feet.

Her dress hadn’t fared much better.

The rich green fabric had turned a dull brackish brown color after her recent plunge into the icy river and the subsequent crawl through the mud. The wet folds of the skirting clung to her legs until every curve showed. Bethany felt fresh tears roll down her face and drip off her chin. Every inch of her body ached.

As a princess, she had never been forced to walk farther than the castle bailey, but that life had ended with the attack on her caravan.

Bethany’s mind broiled with righteous indignation. How dare they attack my caravan? How dare these vagabonds take me prisoner! And how dare my father send me so near King Wolfric’s land in the middle of a war? It is all his fault.

In Bethany’s short life, she had never before experience true hatred toward any member of her family. She had been angry with her parents for taking away a toy or keeping a master on when she had tired of the subject, but that was a far cry from the rage building up in her chest.

Her father had sent her to Garrul to “lighten the heart of her uncle” or rather to entertain the old, gouty soldier. Bethany hadn’t wanted to go. She had even thrown a fit, inappropriate for any twenty-year old, but common enough for her. Though it usually worked, it had done nothing to sway her father, and her mother did as her father bid.

If it hadn’t been for them, I’d be safe at home, rather than trekking through the woods of this forsaken country.

Bethany shifted her hands, trying to ease the pressure on her wrists. The ropes were too tight!

The princess glanced up from her feet to look around at the men walking alongside the long row of captured individuals. Something about them told her they were not part of the group that had attacked her caravan. They had just been at the right place to pick her up after her headlong run through the woods.

When the attack began, her lady-in-waiting had sent her through the trap door of their wagon and into the woods, to wait until the attackers had been killed. Somewhere out there, her people were looking for her.

A dusting of hope brushed across her senses. They were looking for her! It was only a matter of time before they found these slavers and freed her.

“What’r you smilin’ ‘bout?” demanded one of the men before pounding her on the back of the head with the hilt of his sword.

Bethany’s vision blurred as she slumped to her knees, the rope tied around each of the slave’s necks cutting into her flesh. The princess blinked a few times before her eyesight cleared.

“Choow…” she began, trying to say “how dare you,” though the only sound to escape was a gagged choke.

The slaver hauled her to her feet and pushed the whole group forward.

Bethany opened her mouth to try again before clamping it shut. They didn’t know she was a princess, and she needed to keep it that way. Besides, every time she tried to talk, she risked spitting out the signet ring hidden in her mouth.

The princess clamped her mouth shut and stared fixedly at the back of the man in front her. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other. Her soldiers would finish off that mob of vagrants who had attacked her caravan, and then they would come in search of her. Another hour, maybe two, and she would be safe, and warm, and happy all over again.

Then will I have a word or two to share with my parents!

Two hours passed slowly by with the only change being in her feet. A shoe had slipped off, and when she tried to stop to retrieve it, the two men behind stumbled over her, dragging the whole group down by the neck. The slavers cursed and screamed as they beat their captives back into order, giving Bethany a few extra blows to her back and shoulders as punishment for causing the incident.

In the end, she never retrieved her lost shoe.

Bethany marched on, tired, cold, and hungry.

They’re just running a little behind, she told herself firmly when the group stopped in a narrow valley for the night. The slavers led their horses to a small stream to drink. Bethany and another unfortunate soul rushed forward to do the same. The rope around their neck tightened as the rest of the line, those smarter than they, stayed where they were. Bethany and the other slave took a beating as they were dragged back into the line.

“Wait yer turn!” snapped one of the slavers, striking her across the cheek.

“Not the face, man,” said another. “She’s a pretty one. Don’t go ruining the merchandise.”

“Yessir,” mumbled the first man.

Bethany stared at the second man, the one in authority. Should she announce her true identity to this man? He was clearly the one in charge. She even suspected he had a smidgeon of education. Bethany hesitated until the leader noticed her gaping stare.

“What’re you looking at?” he demanded, whacking her in the back of the knees hard enough to bring her off her feet.

The fall brought the rest of the line down to the ground. Bethany heard the other slaves grumble as once again she caused them to fall. All the slaves bore heavy bruises around their necks from where the rope had been jerked tight by her repeated tumbles.

Bethany tried to keep her eyes to herself, suddenly feeling as though her fellow slaves would be just as happy as the slavers to hurt her. She needed a friend and an ally when all she had were enemies.

After the horses and slavers had both drunk their fill, the slaves were led to the stream bed and allowed a few quick sips of water before being dragged to small cluster of forest. One end of their line was tied to one tree, while the other was attached to another, giving them just enough slack to lie down.

“I hear a peep outta any o’ you, and I’ll chop off a toe!” snapped one of the slavers.

The other slaves collapsed onto their backs, forcing Bethany to lie down too. For the first time in her simple life, Princess Bethany slept under the stars with an empty belly and a parched mouth.

“Sir Caldry,” said a shy voice. “Your horse is ready.”

Sir Caldry, or Cal as his friends called him, gave his shaven face one last examination in the reflective surface of the river before turning to look at the speaker. It was a young lad; a squire to one of the other knights, he thought though he couldn’t remember a name. The boy’s eyes were puffy and Cal spotted traces of hastily wiped tear tracks on his smudged face. From where Cal squatted by the river, he could see a long tear in the shoulder of the boy’s tunic and the beginnings of what would be a nasty bruise.

“Éimhin,” Cal sighed as he pushed his sore legs into a standing position. “Stop biting the help.”

Cal took the lead to his majestic warhorse and turned the animal’s head away from the lad, to keep the horse from getting any ideas. Cal was the only human Éimhin wouldn’t take a bite out of. Granted, if the horse ever tried, Cal would have punched him in the face. Cal loved Éimhin, but he didn’t take any funny business from the horse. They now shared a deep relationship, knight and horse, the result of which was an almost indestructible fighting unit. Not entirely, but almost. They both bore their scars from incidents where it had been proven that they were not perfect.

Of course, Cal’s largest scar was from long before he had ever purchased the little colt, now grown into one of the largest warhorses he had ever seen. The scar running from his left temple, down his face and neck, and ending in the middle of his left bicep had been received when he had saved King Wolfric’s life, an act that had earned him his freedom from slavery.

Like so many people on the peninsula, he had spent many years after his nation had been conquered as a slave to the people of Tolad.

Now Wolfric’s people are trying to conquer yet another nation, Cal thought as he surveyed the long swath of neatly arranged tents running up the gentle slope away from the river. One last nation stood between Wolfric and total domination over the entire peninsula.

The thought frightened Cal in a way little else did. He knew the power that Wolfric wielded. Though the militant king ruled his ever-growing nation in complete peace, he was always seeking the next victory. The nations under his control were now considered safe lands, so long as the locals resided in peace under their overlords, and for the most part they did. Fear was a great motivator.

Most of the nations now under Wolfric’s control had been conquered so swiftly and so brutally that no one dared attempt any rebellion against their new lords. It disgusted Cal to see his people subservient to the Aardê nation.

Then again, he had basically become one of those lords, though without the official title. He was a knight, but a knight in the king’s good graces, often residing in the king’s castle and eating at the king’s castle. He couldn’t be a greater hypocrite even if he tried.

The scarred knight pushed these sobering thoughts out of his head as he mounted Éimhin and began making his way through the large army camp, confirming that each unit leader was training their men or preparing for their assigned duties for the day. There wasn’t a major push scheduled for the day, but that didn’t mean the men got to spend the day lying about with whores.

One more day and I’ll be free to return home, Cal thought as he turned his gaze away from two men exchanging money over some secret deal. Cal assumed it involved a woman.

Didn’t these women know there were better places to be than on the frontline of a war?

“Cal!” cried a voice from down a row of tents.

Cal pulled his horse to a stop, slowly turning the animal around just as one of the other royal knights appeared. Sir Olaf Gregory emerged from between the tents and jogged to Cal’s side. Olaf was a dedicated man and one of the few men to believe in what they were doing. He thought one king, one nation the best course for the peninsula. Granted, Cal suspected Olaf to be looking toward a distant future when the residents of Wolfric’s nation no longer thought of the nation of Domhain or Topaq, no longer identified with their ancestors, but considered themselves to be true Aardê people.

“What?” asked Cal.

“Sir, the unit we sent out yesterday is back. Their leader says he has news. They’re at General Drystan’s tent.”

Cal urged Éimhin down the nearest cross path between the tents, leaving the other knight behind. Though Olaf was in the king’s inner circle, and one of Wolfric’s most trusted knights, Cal was still his superior. Sometimes Cal wondered how he had managed to come to such intimate terms with the king he hated, but mostly he tried not to think about it. It was easier to live his hypocritical life if he didn’t think too much.

“What’s the word?” Cal asked as he swung down from Eimhin’s back in front of the general’s tent.

A large group of men stood in the clearing around the large tent, bloodied and looking tired. They had been fighting though he specifically sent them out purely to do reconnaissance. In fact, if Cal wasn’t mistaken, their numbers were greatly diminished.

Cal trained his well-developed glare onto the unit leader. “What happened?” he demanded.

“We found a caravan.”

“They attack you?” Cal asked when it became clear the leader was tripping over his own tongue.

“No. We… I mean…it was a royal caravan. And I thought… well, I mean, what if…”

“You attacked the caravan?”

“Yes, sir,” said the leader before swallowing a lump in his throat.

“I thought I told you to slip in quietly and find where Middin is hiding his army for the summer. Search towns, villages, valleys, whatever. How is it you have mistaken that for ‘attack a royal caravan’?”

“I just thought…”

“You were not ordered to think,” snapped Cal. “What happened?”

“It was going well at first. We caught them totally off guard. But then they rallied. Only a few of us escaped.”

Cal ground his teeth together. “Did you at least discern who was in the caravan?”

“We heard them calling out to save the princess, but that’s it. I don’t know if there was an actual princess with them or not, or if she was hurt in the attack.”

“So you know nothing?”

The leader nodded his head once before dropping his eyes to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Cal spotted the general standing in the doorway of his tent, watching Cal’s interaction. Cal and General Drystan did not always see eye to eye, but Cal couldn’t bring himself to care. When he was present at the frontline, the general had to obey his orders whether he liked it or not. Cal didn’t care if people liked his orders, so long as they obeyed them, and this unit leader hadn’t.

“You there,” Cal said to two soldiers loitering around the clearing. “Take him to the stocks. Three days in the stocks, after which you will be demoted to camp crew.”

The men around him began to murmur quietly. Camp crew was mostly made of men too wounded to return to battle. They helped cooked the meals, hunted if they could, fed the livestock, and did other menial tasks. Unless you were honorably wounded, being on camp crew was the worst degradation a military man could endure.

To Cal’s surprise, he spotted the general’s mouth tweak up into something resembling a smile.

The group began to disband with Cal’s verdict; the wounded shuffling off toward the healer’s tents; the loiterers off to look for some other form of entertainment. Before the scarred knight could remount his horse, a messenger skidded to a halt at his side. As Cal unfolded the note, the gasping messenger collapsed on the ground. Two other soldiers rushed to his side, one pulling the runner’s legs straight and massaging the over-worked muscles while the other poured splashes of cool water on his face.

The note simple read “slavers spotted on the eastern slopes.” Cal frowned down at it. What did he care if King Middin allowed slavers in his lands? Wolfric certainly didn’t bother with the issue. In fact, slavery was the foundation of the economy throughout the vast Aardê nation.

Drystan had numerous scouts hidden throughout the disputed White Cap Mountains, spying on any movements of Middin’s forces. What was the scout thinking when he sent this message. Runners took days to recover after pushing themselves to the limits to transport a message across the rugged mountains. They didn’t use horses to carry such messages. Runners could hide more easily and could travel over terrain that would break a horse’s leg. Besides, horses were harder to come by than men. Men could be conscripted from any conquered village. And practically any man could run, even if they couldn’t fight.

Cal crinkled the note in his fist, disgusted by the waste.

“Get that man taken care of,” he ordered to the men at hand.

They carefully lifted the runner, who was in the throes of a sever leg cramp, and carried him to the portion of the camp where the healers resided. A tent there was reserved for the recovery of runners.

Cal glanced up at the rising sun. It wasn’t even nine o’clock and the day had already turned to crap. What was next?

The knight regretted the thought the minute he noticed one of the general’s aides walking toward him. Cal nodded at the man as he turned toward the general’s tent. He didn’t need the aid to tell him that he was being summoned. The other man smiled knowingly as he turned to walk beside Cal.

They entered the large tent where General Drystan stood over the enormous map of the White Cap Mountains. The tent held the huge table where the map lay, a large stove—aglow with a merry fire—a wide bed, and a few trunks with the general’s personal items. From the cross beam of the tent hung three large braziers, lighting the entire tent. The tent was even carpeted with numerous furs. Cal always felt annoyed at the opulence of the general’s quarters.

Granted, General Drystan had been serving Wolfric in the military since the very beginning. The old man had earned a little opulence in his life. Cal knew he owned a vast estate in Nava, a port city some two hundred miles from the camp, and that the general spent the winter months at home.

“General,” Cal said as he entered and looked down at the map.

“Sir Caldry,” replied Drystan.

Despite their years of on-and-off interaction, they had never gotten past a formal relationship.

“What can I do for you?”

Drystan’s jowls jiggled as he shook his head. The general was old enough to be respectfully retired, but he fought on. He was a robust man, despite the appearance of great age. His white hair hung in ragged heaps around his ears and his three-day beard did nothing to hide the way the skin on his face sagged. Even his ears looked as though gravity had won the battle.

The general grumbled to himself for a moment more before turning to Cal.

“I’m worried about the mess that unit leader made for us. I know you’re supposed to leave for Tolad tomorrow, but would you mind riding into the mountains and making sure he hasn’t done any permanent damage. I’m not sure who else to send, to be quite frank.”

Cal hid the smile forming on his lips. As much as he didn’t want to delay his journey home for even one moment, his ego enjoyed praise from a general who had never liked him personally.

“I’d be glad to. Let me change and gather some supplies, and I’ll be away.”

“Excellent. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you not to be caught.”

Cal’s hidden smile turned into a glare. “Not in the least.”

With that he turned away to prepare for his journey into the disputed mountains. 

 To continue reading Bethany and Cal's story, check out Bought on amazon. 

To read the next portion of their story, check out Torn, Book 1 of the Dothan Chronicles on amazon.

 Most of all, whether you liked the story or not, please consider writing an honest review on either amazon or goodreads, to better help readers make an informed decision. Thank You.