The Eldest watched as the adventurers threw Raikln off of one of the carts. He heard their every word with shame, with disappointment, his faith within himself lessening with every second. He hated that damned son of a bitch who had tricked him into doing all this. The Leader of that band of adventurers, that damned bastard. He had been confident, after all, he had even promised those bitches money. He had paid them goddamnit, and this was what they did to him. Fucking kill half of the eight and do whatever else with the rest. He could see some of the others chained up to stakes within another cart, pulled by two old mares.
There were three such carts, each pulled by two mares, and cushioned with prickly bundles of hay upon which a good assortment of supplies lay. That was except for the third cart, upon which lay The eldest, and the second cart upon which lay Raikln had lain until a moment ago when the adventurers had thrown part of him off without further ado. The rest of Raikln followed. As Raikln's figure lay upon the floor, spasming, heaving, The Eldest knew that there was no saving him. He was as good as dead, and two minutes later he was dead, his existence courted into the next world via kick to the neck.
It was a vicious way to end a life, but a practical one. The Eldest glanced at the man who had performed the deed. In a way, he admired The Leader of the troop of adventurers. He had the audacity to waltz into a guarded city and kidnap children, without even lifting a finger or making a single suspicious movement. Nobody would know until the next day when all eight of them would be missing, and their disappearance would be attributed to the adventurers, who would never be seen again. Or perhaps some of their bodies might be found in the wild when a search was commenced after much complaining, and then their death might be attributed to the wolves who roamed the Hills.
It was strange that he felt no compassion nor sympathy for the dead. Raikln was one of his friends, a close companion of his, somebody who had accompanied him since his childhood. Yet here he was, staring at the body of one of his friends thinking about how well-planned the kidnapping had been. At that moment, The Leader turned around and looked straight in the eye. He could not tell if it was intentional or not, but it was for but a brief moment. The Eldest truly admired this man. He was certainly more than what he appeared. All those fantasies of him battling evil, all of them had him imagine some armor-clad knight, some dark evil as his nemesis, but here he was, barely into his journey as an adventurer, and he had already found himself a worthy enemy. The Eldest promised himself that this man would be but the first of many whom he would have to fight.
____
The Leader looked at his men, who either lazily sat on their steeds, or sat around enjoying themselves. That Northern Bastard's poison was strong as hell, to have incapacitated all of those Dwarven runts for nearly a good three days. He would be damned if he let that little shit live any longer than was necessary. The moment he returned to Valk'in, he sure as hell was going to get some healer or battle-mage to join his party. He had barely slept for the past three days, each night laying with his dagger right underneath his pillow, and a lantern kept burning all night long. Whenever he had slept for even those few hours, it was a disturbed sleep. But now was the time for action, and he had to ensure that those Dwarven Runts stayed alive. At least enough to ensure that the Lord's wishes were satisfied. After all, all Balthazar had asked for was ten dwarves, and that was what he would provide.
It had all been written down in the contract, and Balthazar could not break a pact of magic. The leader chuckled lightly to himself, thinking of Balthazar's expression as he saw the cargo. They had a good sixteen surviving in the cargo when they started from Stannin. A good wholesome three they took from several smaller towns. A relatively good harvest. They had ten in one fell swoop at one point, but that had caught the attention of the damned dwarven knights. But what worried him was that these bastards were dropping dead like flies. Four they had lost in the melee outside Stannin.
They had twelve now. A meager twelve. He hated cutting it close. He scowled as he thought of all the problems that a living cargo entailed. Why couldn't they be made of Coldsteel? He sighed as he picked out Buck from amongst the other men. He walked over grimly as Buck and a few other men seemed to be frowning at one of the dwarves who had been tied up on the cart.
"He's dead" Fjird proclaimed as he raised up a limp, bloodless, lifeless arm.
"How many more seem to be almost dead?" He demanded. Fjird picked up the arm and threw it onto the grass, dampening it with blood, and ruining the fresh morning air. Mort threw the rest of the body, battered and in pieces as it was.
"They're all in fairly bad shape as it is. Can't expect them all to survive I suppose. A good thing only five dead so far." The leader hated Fjird, that pragmatical bastard. He was as bad as Buck. He glanced at Buck with disapproval. He kicked the corpse in frustration.
"Fuck Crowl if you want to, he stabbed that little bitch," Buck said casually. The Leader frowned just a bit more. He glanced back at the cargo, twenty eyes, some closed, some missing, all facing him; the bodies they belonged to heaped one upon the other. He glanced at one particular pair of eyes, open, terrified, in awe of him. If only all his men looked at him like that, he could sleep a bit better. He laughed. And then he left to go and kick that bastard Crowl half-dead, hoping that might improve his mood
____
The Eldest stared at the imposing figure as he laughed maniacally. He hung onto every single word of their conversation, listening desperately for something that might be even the slightest sign of good news. He was to be disappointed, as he realized the situation could get worse. They were cargo, slaves two be sold in some human settlement. He shuddered as he vanquished all thoughts of finding himself a nemesis, some arch-rival, some foe to beat, from his mind. This wasn't some damned heroic quest. This was a fight for their lives. He needed to escape from here. He did not know how long was left until they reached wherever the adventurers wanted to take them, but he knew that it was no doubt at least a week's journey.
They themselves were worried about how many would succumb and die in that time. He shuddered. He needed to escape from this madness somehow. He needed to leave, to run away. He had betrayed the eight and now they were but four. He had failed them. How could it go wrong? How, just how it could go wrong? What had he done to earn himself this fate? Had the gods cursed him?. How did he end up like this? He could keep keep on questioning things until his mind ceased to work, and he ceased to think, and then he might remember that pain again, that pain. Pain that he did not wish to remember but remember he did, for it was carved onto his memory, etched onto rock.
As sweat trickled down his forehead, the beginnings of an idea began to work itself out in his mind. He had to be vicious. Now was not the time to get sidetracked. At any point in time that pain could come back. That pain that reduced him to a thoughtless fool. He valued freedom over anything else, and that freedom, that freedom he had to achieve. But first, he would have to wait. He would have to wait to escape this madness. He would have to wait for somebody to wake. Till then he would conserve his strength. They were bound to feed him, these vile slavers. They were bound to raise his strength so that he might survive and so that they might have their money. He had failed already. He had failed as a leader, as somebody whom people might put their faith in. He had failed that faith. He had lost it all. He was far from the leader of those adventurers, that cold yet majestic man whom the group trusted. He had lost it all, all except his life. His life he would wait; he would wait and reclaim.
____
Miyar shivered as he thought of all that could possibly happen to him. Things couldn't be worse, could they? They were not afraid of killing. After all, Starus was dead now wasn't he? And they could torture him, for their Coldsteel blades did not refrain from hurting him. He failed to understand the point of it all. Why did they enjoy torturing him so? What was the point of that? He shifted his gaze around the wagon that he had been thrown, hands bound up and legs tied together. He could feel that he was on top of a pile of… of something.
It was somewhat bony, a hard bed, not unlike what he was used to. It was uncomfortable, somewhat clammy. He frowned and looked down at the arm that cradled his neck. He screamed desperately, only to regret that a moment later. Surely that Coldsteel blade would be coming for him now. His screaming stopped as abruptly as it had started. He stared wide-eyed at the man who was walking towards at him. The adventurer marched towards him, fists clenched, teeth gritted, dagger at his side. For that was what worried him the most. HIs past wounds had not healed yet. He could still feel every single cut on his body. Every point at which his flesh was carved, where that filthy poultice covered his wounds, he could feel all of it. Every step coincided with the pounding of his heart. With every step, the dagger approached him, closer and closer it got.
Miyar wanted to scream, but he couldn't, no he couldn't move a muscle. He couldn't move because he was terrorized by that awful, terrible pain. That terrible pain that froze him, tortured him, that terrible pain that wouldn't let him sleep. He didn't want to think about it, but he knew it was coming, it was coming, inching closer every second. How he wished he could just be over it. How he wished he could be immune to that pain. How he wished it were all a dream. How he wished he could have simply not left Stannin. How he longed for that Stannin, that boring dull, dreary town. How he longed for his father, the one man whom he had disliked for having held him back. Perhaps for once, he felt his love for his father. He wished he were back in Stannin, that beautiful town, he wished he were back.
The adventurer marched towards Miyar, his face curled up in a cruel grin. After all, these were humans, not dwarves, and who knew what was the difference between a cruel grin and a happy grin for humans. Not that it was particularly comforting if it was a happy grin, since that would only make it worse. Miyar hoped it was a cruel grin. Or perhaps he didn't, but he liked to think that the adventurer was out to torture him, for that made him feel a bit better about his innocence. It was the adventurer's fault, not his. If the adventurer's had chosen to simply escort them to Valk'in, it could have been so much easier. It could have been. What could have been. A lot could have been.
And then adventurer pulled out his dagger, straight out of its sheath, saying some indecipherable words to one of his companions. Miyar barely caught but a few of those words. 'Fjird...' was what stood out so clearly to him. He watched eyes wide open, unable to move as the dagger was raised. He began to tremble, as the dagger rose high above him, blocking out the sun's rays, hiding the sky from sight; its glinting blade was the only thing in his line of sight. Were they going to end him? Were they going to put him out of his misery? Were they going to kill him? He didn't know, he didn't want to know.
He stared dreading that rusted blade. That plain pommel, that unadorned hilt, that simple crossguard. The crooked fuller, he saw it all. And it occurred to him that he had been the one to make it. Why it occurred to him now he did not know. It was insignificant. Did it matter who made it? Did it matter whether it had been a hero's blade or a crook's? Did it matter at all? Did it matter now? Should he be proud that the blade he made would end him? Should he find joy in the fact that his creation was being put to use in the manner it was intended to be used? Should he be glad that his blade would taste blood now? He vanquished those thoughts from his mind. They had struck him, and left him in that singular moment. All those thoughts were forgotten in that instant, for his gaze was back onto that blade.
He was terrified. All those feelings of fear returned to him upon seeing this blade. He knew not if this was even the same man who had harmed him back then. He knew not whether this was the same blade that had harmed him back then. But the dagger was back. The dagger was back. He could feel the man's disgust, as he felt his naked, shredded thighs get damp. It only intensified the pain that he felt. He had to do something. He had to save himself. He had to do it somehow.
With every last ounce of will, he began to thrash, or perhaps thrashing wasn't what he should call it, since he was bound up, and couldn't move.
But thrash he did to the best of his ability, thrashed as he tried to escape, all while he screamed.
He screamed as the dagger rose, and as the man's face seemed to twist into an expression of wrath.
He screamed as the dagger hovered, the tall grass was a pale shade gray-green, waiting for his blood to wet it and nourish it.
He screamed as the dagger began to fall, the sky a bright blue, in stark contrast with the paler colors of the Iron Hills.
He screamed as the dagger fell and hit his thrashing legs, cutting through the ropes that bound them, and a good portion of his legs. He could hear the adventurer curse to himself 'Damn.' He abruptly stopped screaming. He stopped thrashing. Had there been a mistake? How bad was this man's aim? Even he could have dispatched a man more easily than this little bastard. Damned fool. A second later, he was satisfied, as the man raised the dagger once more, and this time Miyar had reason to scream. For this time the dagger was further out, raised out above his chest. So he diligently screamed. He screamed as if he would die, because he could see that he would die. Why did his life have to end so early? Why did things have to be like this? Why did he have to go like this? He felt strangely calm. He knew he was about to die, but he couldn't do anything. There was nothing he could do. Nothing that would save him. Nothing he thought, as the dagger cut through, shredding the ropes that bound his hand.
"Get up you little son of a bitch" Miyar stared slackjawed at the man. He... Wasn't he going to be killed? He stared at that man. There was bound to be something brewing. Some nefarious plan, some evil here.
"You don't understand me, you little Bitch?" Miyar stared at the man as he cursed him. He stared until he felt the backside of a hand smack his cheek, knocking him onto his other side. He could feel every single cut on his body. It was a rather distinct experience, one he would rather not remember. He continued to stare at the man, free to move now. "Want me to fucking kick you again before you move? Bitch" With that sort of vulgar mouth the man was sure to be one of the lower members of the group. At the bottom of the food chain. And he was even lower than scum like him. Miyar tried to stand up, obeying those orders. He knew he couldn't run. Perhaps the dagger might come out again.
He could feel the man prod him forward, every time he faltered there was a sharp jab that brought him back to reality. He stumbled forward near blindly, hoping he didn't fall, though he fell numerous times. Eventually, he could walk no more, even as the man continued to kick his sides. Finally, even the adventurer gave up. It was like flogging a dead horse. Miyar looked forward curiously as the man scowled and called for Fjird. That word again. What was it? A name? Some obscure human word? Some form of torture? Were they going to torture him again?
His questions were answered a moment later as a man walked forward, scowling vigorously. If he could kill somebody, there was no doubt that he would hesitate. The vulgar mouthed adventurer left the moment the man arrived. His name Fjird apparently. Miyar stared at his grizzled, bearded and scarred face. He had seen much it seemed. His eyes spoke of countless battles, those he had fought, and those that he had overseen. His thick frame was different from that of the adventurers. His pale, pale white skin contrasted with the somewhat more rosy hue of the other men. He was different, Miyar knew it.
Yet whether that was a good thing or not was left to be found out. He stared at the man, and the man stared back. Finally, the man grumbled and fumbled with something, pulling out a canister of water. Miyar recognized a particularly strong smell emanating from his belt. The smell of the dusty mat of poultice that had covered those hideous dagger wounds. The smell of that chilling, numbing poultice that had sped up his recovery, that he had been draped in for those past three days.
He looked up at the man. He looked up in gratitude, in thankfulness. Despite the initial pain that the poultice had been the cause of, despite all that, he could feel its far-reaching effects. It had healed him faster, he knew it. And for that he was grateful. He was grateful from the bottom of his heart.
Perhaps there was somebody he could trust in. This was kindness. He could almost imagine his benefactor going against that vulgar man, against that foul leader, that man who had bound him up here, against that man who had carved him apart with that despicable, despicable dagger. He looked up at that mans face. The man looked back down at him, before finally bending down to his knees. Fjird, Miyar remembered. His name was Fjird. Fjird the benevolent. A benevolent man. His benefactor.
And his benefactor lived up to that reputation. The man had pulled out a flask, a flask of the purest freshest water Miyar had tasted. As he felt his mouth forcefully opened, and the water poured down his dusty, dry throat, he felt thankful. There was still much that was worth living for in this life oh his. It wasn't all pointless. He still had somebody looking out for him. Unlike his father, unlike those fools in Stannin, unlike everyone else. Unlike Starus who had run away, leaving him alone, betraying him. Unlike them all, here was a person who was helping him. He could feel tears roll down his cheeks. Tears of gratitude.
He drank, he drank thirstily, greedily. He drank as much as he could, ignoring the water that poured down the outside of his mouth and scalded his wounds. He ignored the little pool of water that fell down about his cheek. He ignored the wasted water, and drank, drank as much as he could. He drank.
He saw from the corner of his eyes, that the man was back. That vulgar man with the dagger. He could still feel the fresh wound that had been made. It stung, but it was nothing compared to what the rest of his body felt.
He watched as the man came back, wearing that near permanent grimace of his, staring at him with that same look of disgust as he continued to drink. The man's arrival seemed to indicate for his benefactor to stop giving him water. The flask was tugged away from his lips, leaving him wanting for more. He stared back up, stared, hoping that he would be given some more. But it was not to be. He watched his benefactor cap that flask, and stow it away back onto his thick leather belt. That damned vulgar man. Why did he have to come back? Why?
He needed more water. He wanted more water. He had to have more water. Yet he could not have it when he needed it most. Perhaps that was the only blemish upon his benefactor's character. Ah, but a kind man such as Fjird the benevolent did not deserve this sort of criticism. He had gotten water after all. He had to be satisfied with that. He looked back up. What would they do now? What awaited him now? He did not know how these men thought. Their sadism was a concept far, far away from anything he had ever seen before. It was distant from the kindness that he had received till now.
He watched as the men put down a little bowl, or perhaps a plate was better to describe it. It was dented from a long journey upon horseback and scratched in numerous places. It was dusty, and as it fell upon the floor, a fresh coating of mud splattered across its surface. Miyar watched intently as the two men untied a little bundle, and threw down a simple chunk of bread. He immediately perked up at the sight of this. He was truly worthy of the title the benevolent. He was kind, magnanimous, so kind. For him to even give him feed; Miyar felt his eyes well up again with tears.
Yet the chunk was still out of his reach. It was just beyond his mouth, just barely, barely far enough away that he could not reach it. He struggled, to move forward, but that vulgar man put a heavy foot upon his back, making him fall back down upon the ground. His tired, exhausted arms gave way, and he fell with a soft thump upon the ground. His wounds flared up once again, and he could feel his some of his scabs breaking. It was intense pain, and for those few seconds he could not help but let out a loud groan.
What were they doing? Had they betrayed him? Where they only here to tease him with food, torture him as they eat?
He watched as his benefactor put in some crushed herbs, an intense smelling, green mixture of various leaves and whatnot. Medicine. He recognized it with a single glance. Not only had the man given him water and food, he had given him water. He was wrong. He shouldn't have doubted his benefactor. He should never have done that. The little tin bowl was dropped back down, and the foot was lifted. He turned and glared at the vulgar man, only for spit to land on his forehead. He didn't have time to waste on such fools. He crawled forward towards that plate, and this time nobody stopped him. He grabbed at the bread with his dirty grimy hands and devoured it. He ate it all, the bitter medicine, the bread, the mud the all of it. He went at the bread like a ravening wolf.
And when finally he was done, once he had finished it all, he looked back up and smiled and expressed his gratitude with two simple words. His throat was hoarse from all his screaming and had been parched until now. He doubted his voice was particularly audible. But still, he desired to express his gratitude. He grunted out those two painful words before the poison kicked in. "Thank you"
