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Post by Robbyn Jonathan on May 5, 2006 19:14:47 GMT -5
A Coward's Tale - Chapter 1
Nursing his wounds, Robbyn cursed himself for a pathetic useless fool. As he trudged through the rain he felt a cold trickle run down his back and shivered. He was cold and lost and terrified and, not for the first time, wished he had never left home. No, he corrected himself, anything was better than home.
He was just being miserable, he knew. There were things he loved about father's house, like freshly baked bread from Onna’s kitchen, or discussions with Mr. Fritzje as he fixed the security systems, or whispered book-stories with pretty little Zhi after she did the accounts. Of course, anything with her was good, he thought, flushing uncomfortably. He stopped trudging and put a sodden leather glove to his head in frustration at his own cowardice, muttering, “Even in the middle of a f-forest, in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to see me but robbers, wild beasts and k-kobolds, still I’m embarrassed.”
Robbers, wild beasts and kobolds! A wave of terror washed through him at the thought and he hurried forward again through the darkening Elwynn forest. He had barely survived his last encounter with two kobolds and had the bruises to prove it. He must have wandered too close to their burrow for they had risen out of the very rocks themselves and come at him screaming terrible curses and jabbing at him with devilishly-sharp blades. Strange beasts they were, half the size of a man and wiry, with long mole-like faces, beady eyes, and twisted minds. Their language was primitive but, unless he was mistaken, they had been convinced that he was come to loot their burrows and take their precious "candles". He had spent the fight alternately screaming frantically, back-pedalling madly, and flailing wildly about with his mace. Somehow he had survived. He had actually felled one of them, by accident. The other must have run off at some point because when he stopped swinging he found himself alone in the woods.
But the flush of victory had faded quickly as he realized that he had completely lost his bearings during the fight. Since then he had gone around in circles trying to retrace his steps back to the Maclure farm only to wander deeper and deeper into the forest. As the afternoon waned he had been set upon by coyotes, wild boars, and even one bear, all of whom proved the folk wisdom “they are more afraid of you than you of them” wrong by ferociously attempting to devour him despite his best efforts to steal away unseen. And then the sky had opened up. All in all, it was just about the worst day of his life.
Well, not actually the worst. He did not like to think about the worst day; the day his father had told him what he really thought of his second son.
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Post by Robbyn Jonathan on May 7, 2006 15:10:28 GMT -5
Robbyn was literally dragged kicking and screaming into life. A “lusty lad,” as they say, he came into the world a hefty babe of thirteen pounds, twelve ounces. To this day, the mid-wife claims she never saw such a massive head on a baby. There were complications. His mother was a small and slight woman, and ill-equipped to birth such a child. The best surgeon in Stormwind had been summoned in the night and had managed to save both child and mother, but not without trauma. People said that Robbyn’s mother was never the same after. She had been a socialite, outgoing and vivacious, in stark contract to the blunt seriousness of her husband. But she never gave birth again, and she withdrew into herself. So it was that while other Stormwind families had five, six or seven children, General Marcus Jonathan had two. Two boys, as unlike each other as could be.
Robbyn’s older brother, Vatorio, was everything that the General might have hoped for in a son. He was a blond-haired, blue eyed, broad-shouldered, good-looking boy. He was obedient, charming and easy-going. From the day his boys turned six, General Jonathan insisted upon at least one hour of combat training each day, which he himself would administer. On the practice field, Vatorio was strong, good with a blade, and a quick learner. As the General was wont to say, “the boy does not need discipline; he learns the first time.” Even when he grew to be a teen and broke curfew to sneak out and sow his wild oats, Robbyn was perpetually amazed at how Vatorio somehow managed to never get caught. Perhaps their father turned a blind eye to his elder son's indiscretions.
Robbyn, on the other hand, was a complete failure to his father. He had his father’s blue eyes, but often obscured by an unruly shock of red hair. He shared his brother’s broad shoulders, but where Vatorio was chiselled, Robb was chubby. He loved books, particularly histories and tales of old heroes such as Sir Anduin Lothar and Uther the Lightbringer. His indiscretions involved hanging around in the servants’ quarters and the kitchen and sneaking pastries. On his sixth birthday, when he opened his present from his father and saw that it was a practice sword, his lip quivered as visions of his older brother’s daily welts and bruises flashed through his mind. When he begged his father to take it back, the General flew into a rage and, over the weak protestations of his mother, dragged Robbyn down to the sweaty field behind the house and gave him a silent beating under guise of his first lesson. When he was done, Robbyn was left cowering, covering his head with his hands, and bawling on elbows and knees in the yard. There was no birthday cake for Robbyn that night; the celebration was cancelled.
The General never laid a hand on his boys. But every day Robbyn and Vatorio would meet their father for martial training in the practice field and a measure of their father’s displeasure could be read into his lessons. The sessions were always long and gruelling, but if Robb had been caught sneaking dainties into his room or if he had spent the day at the Stormwind library instead of doing his chores, he would be guaranteed of a sound thrashing. Vatorio would always go first, and Robbyn would start to shake even before his brother’s lesson was half done. By the time he stepped before the General, his palms would be sweating and his weapon would be shaking near-uncontrollably. His father would bark at him to keep his eyes up, but he could not meet his father’s steely gaze; those unwavering eyes exposed all of his secrets and bared him for the coward that he was.
When his father summoned him to his office and told him that he was terminating his lessons in swordsmanship and would only train him in blunt weapons, Robbyn knew it was because he was a failure. He knew how important swordsmanship was to his father. His father’s great sword, Oathbringer, was hung above the head of the table in the formal dining room, and Robbyn had heard his father say on several occasions that you could take a man’s measure by his skill with a blade. That night, however, the General sat rigid behind his desk, his pale blue eyes looking through his second son, and Robbyn tried desperately to straighten his back and stand at attention. The boy’s notched and battered practice sword lay displayed like a badge of shame on his heavy wooden desk between them. As his father spoke curtly about Robbyn’s lack of progress the boy fought to control his lips from shaking, only nodding or shaking his head when required, not trusting himself to speak. He didn’t need his father to tell him he was too slow or too fat, he already knew. It did not take long for the General to issue his decision on the matter. Robbyn stood before his father and the silence extended between them. Finally, the General stood, picked up the wooden blade and tossed it into the fire, and Robbyn fled from the room, dismissed.
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Post by Caspin Mordain on May 7, 2006 15:23:51 GMT -5
(( Damn. Excellent so far. Poor bastard. ))
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Post by Polrena on May 7, 2006 15:58:08 GMT -5
((Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!))
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Post by Celera on May 8, 2006 1:33:56 GMT -5
((Thirteen pounds? Are you insane? I just have to go lie down now.))
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Post by Robbyn Jonathan on May 10, 2006 22:54:18 GMT -5
Robbyn did not blame his father. The General was a hard man, but not an evil man, or even a bad father. He cared deeply about the upbringing and character of both his sons. True, he was not overtly affectionate; in fact he rarely touched his boys at all outside the practice field; but to his credit he took a direct interest in the rearing of his boys. Many men with his level of duties and responsibilities to the King and kingdom would not have even taken an interest. And if his sons succeeded at something significant, he would show his approval with gifts or special privileges and in rare occasions they might earn a priceless glint of pride from his eyes.
As Robbyn trudged along through the damp undergrowth of the forest, he recalled the time that Vatorio won his first sparring tournament. It was at the annual Anduin Festival, held every May in the battered and dusty tourney fields just north of the town of Goldshire. The main event of the festival was, of course, the knights’ jousting and heavy arms tournament, but on the sidelines of the main event was an amateur competition in which Vato was registered. It was fairly well attended, mostly by families and friends, but also with the odd enthusiast or recruiter from the Stormwind militia and Cathedral of Light. Vato was eighteen, which was young. The field contained participants ranging from Vato’s age all the way up to twenty-five years. Some were even veterans of a tour of duty. The General was well prepared for the tournament. He had studied all of the top contenders, he knew most of their trainers by name, and had taken his son to watch as many as possible as they practiced on the weekend of the tourney. In addition, for a month prior to the competition the daily combat training had been exceptionally hard on Vatorio and their father’s hits were punctuated with a thousand admonishments about how Vato would have just “lost the match.” Robbyn cringed every time the General drew blood, but Vato just set his jaw and met the challenge. Robb and Vato shared a room on the third floor of their father’s house and on more than one occasion Robb thought he heard his brother crying in pain from the wounds after he thought Robb asleep, but when Robb whispered to him and asked him how he could stand it, Vato curtly answered that the hard training was necessary if he was going to win. And perhaps he was right. On the day of the tournament Vato defeated seven opponents and took the day. He was the second youngest participant to ever win the tourney.
There were no bleachers for the spectators; someone had just driven three-foot metal posts into the ground in a rough circle and used red and white ribbon to mark out the fighting field. Onlookers brought blankets and chairs to sit on, or sat on one of a few stumps scattered about, or stood. Three judges sat on a rolled-up log, with a table in front of them, quills in hand. As the amateur tourney needed to be finished before the main event began, the matches began early in the morning while there was still dew on the ground. Their father saw to it that they arrived before first light and put Vato through his paces even before anyone had arrived. He had originally assigned Robbyn the task of “squiring” for his older brother, but had ended up wading in himself to make sure that the weapons and armour were are perfectly polished, fitted and adjusted. Robbyn did not mind being sidelined. He was actually relieved, having lost more than one night’s sleep worrying about how he would forget something and be responsible for a disaster.
Vatorio was clad in a red doublet under unadorned chain mail chest and greaves polished to a bright sheen. He wore perfectly fitted boiled leather boots, belt and gloves, and sported an iron half helm with chain mail coif. He fought alternately with longsword and studded pine shield or two-handed bastard sword and, to Robbyn, looked like a knight of old. Before he entered the ring, and as the General checked the fittings for the last time, he looked over at Robbyn solemnly. A lump of nervousness had crept into Robb’s stomach and it must also have crept into his face for Vato suddenly winked at him and teased, “Careful you don’t get hurt out in the crowd, Robb. You never know when they will go out of control.” The General’s eyes flicked up at Robbyn from where he knelt by his son, and then he ordered, “Go on. Make sure our spot is not taken.” Though they had placed their chairs the night previous and no one would have likely taken them, Robbyn immediately rushed off to sit and wait for the tourney to begin. No need for him to be infecting Vatorio with his cowardice.
He needn't have worried; Vato fought fearlessly. He exploited his opponents’ weaknesses the way that his father had taught him, and fought with a well-controlled fury. By his fourth fight word had spread of his successes and the crowd began to respond to him. At the end of each fight he would help his opponent up, then take off his helm and coif and turn to the judges for permission to leave the ring. With his high cheekbones, blonde hair shining in the morning sun and blue eyes flashing, he soon gained the fancy of more than one young fan. Robb watched as a group of young ladies flocked together to giggle at Vatorio and wave. Throughout, the General sat quiet, only rising to after each match to quietly check the straps and binding after each fight and issue whispered instructions.
By the time Vato had won his way to the championship match, there was a veritable buzz through the assembled onlookers. Vato was a tall young man, but his opponent, a Redridge farmer’s son who had recently joined the local militia there to make a future for himself, towered almost a head taller and had a good fifty pounds on him. The farm boy fought with a crude but extremely large hafted double-headed axe and had essentially beaten his opponents senseless through sheer force and power. Vato chose sword and shield. When Vato disarmed his opponent and forced him to yield, the crowd erupted with cheers and clapping. It was a spectacular victory. Some had even leapt to their feet in excitement, including Robbyn, but the General had sat still as stone, quietly apart from the general foolishness. Only when Vatorio tore off his helmet and looked over at Robb and his father before turning to the judges, did the General stand, and even then he only nodded once. But Robbyn could see a clear as daylight that his eyes were glistening with pride. He gruffly ordered Robbyn to help his brother out of his armour and told Robb, “tell your brother he has no curfew tonight.” Robb could barely push to Vatorio through the press of the throng of friends and well-wishers to deliver the message, and when he did his brothers’ friends started hooting wildly. The tourney prize was five gold after all, which went a long way even in Goldshire’s notorious tavern.
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Post by Polrena on May 11, 2006 0:14:58 GMT -5
((Fabulous!))
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Post by Fechak on May 11, 2006 0:44:02 GMT -5
((Wish I could jump in, great stuff))
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Post by Robbyn Jonathan on May 13, 2006 11:45:04 GMT -5
The sudden cracking of a fallen twig or dead branch ripped Robbyn from his reverie and sent a sudden shock of panic through his body. What with the overcast skies and late hour, it was now almost pitch black around him. Robbyn stood stock still, shaking in terror and straining his eyes and ears into the darkness around him. An absolute silence seemed to have fallen over the forest night around him, but Robbyn was sure that something or someone was out there in the darkness studying him.
“Hello?” he squeaked. “Who’s th-th-”
‘Who’s there’ was what he had meant to call out, but Robbyn’s tongue betrayed him and he ground to a halt, unable to put the necessary effort into it to get the word out. For some reason, the Light had seen fit to curse Robbyn with not only the heart of a coward but also with a terrible stutter. His condition had manifested as a young boy and had become progressively worse as he aged into manhood. Of all the things that he hated about himself, his stutter was the first. It was a neverending cause of embarrassment and frustration to him and was like a badge of shame advertising his cowardice to the world.
To his everlasting horror and chagrin, Robbyn’s speech impediment had grown to be his signature characteristic to the world. Possibly because of his father’s high position with the military, people were more apt to notice the garish advertisement of his fearfulness. Even people who didn’t know him knew of him because of his condition. Indeed, Robb had overheard more that one conversation in which the General was described as having two sons: Vatorio and ‘the Stutterer’. To make matters worse, his stammer became exaggerated whenever he got nervous. This fact was particularly terrible because he usually got nervous around his father. Inevitably his stutter would act up just when he needed to answer a command or sharp request from the General and he would be left spluttering and floundering, trying desperately not to see the blue of his father’s eyes turn cold and distant before him.
Robbyn knew from first hand experience that a stutter brought trouble upon him. He knew from his father’s lessons that projecting confidence and dominance was the best protection against attack. As a kid, he had seen Vatorio talk down boys twice his age with sheer force of personality and fearlessness. Robbyn’s stammer, on the other hand, was like a magnet to a back-alley beating. He could not count the number of times his brother had had to wade in to save him from crawling home with a blackened eye and swollen face.
But Vatorio was not here to save him this time. Robbyn stood frozen in space, palms sweating, his mace forgotten at his side.
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Post by Emizael on May 13, 2006 15:13:47 GMT -5
(( If Robbyn had a mean streak, he would be azeroth's Sir Harry Flashman...hahahah! Can't wait to see what happens next.))
(( yes, this was a misc. George Macdonald Fraser reference. ))
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Post by Sorcha'Rei on May 13, 2006 17:05:24 GMT -5
((Oh my freaking goodness!! What a *great* character concept! Flashman. . . Robbyn would need to be a bit more interested in swiving wives, too.))
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Post by Robbyn Jonathan on May 13, 2006 19:30:44 GMT -5
Out of the darkness, the ruddy red flicker of a torch flashed into existence not twenty paces from where Robbyn stood, quivering. It was only a single smoky torch, but the contrast of this sudden spark of light with the darkness about him caused the light to appear glaringly bright to Robb. The forest scene flashed into view about him, oriented on the light. Suddenly, he realized that he stood at the edge of a small dip in the forest floor, like a miniature ravine. One more step and he might have fallen down the side of the steep slope in front of him. With a sudden intake of breath, he quickly stepped back from the edge and pressed himself against the rough bark of the trunk of a nearby tree, breathing heavily.
The torch was held by a dark hooded figure, clad all in what appeared to be black leather, with a red mask over the lower half of his face. He moved with the surefooted step of one who was familiar with travelling secretly and at night, and Robbyn knew immediately that the figure below him was one of the notorious Defias bandits that more and more frequently plagued the local populous. More than one dinner at the Jonathon household had been ruined by the thievery and violence of the infamous bandit gang. The General was known to swear, throw things and launch into a tirade about 'limited resources' when his soldiers proven ineffectual against them. But though his father never said so, it seemed clear to Robbyn that the rogue gang that went by the name "The Defias Brotherhood" must be gathering growing support among the local populace, for no matter how many trumpeted successes and public hangings his father announced, the attacks of the Defias continued to grow more frequent. Indeed, most agreed, though not within earshot of the General, that the whole of the neighbouring county of Westfall was overrun and that there was nary a single farm outside of the town of Westfall itself that had not been abandoned to them. Robbyn could not blame the farmers for abandoning their homes and fleeing to Goldshire, or even to Stormwind. By all reports, the Defias were cold, ruthless and methodical killers, bent entirely upon destroying the rule of law to serve their own selfish ends. Some even said that they drank the blood of their victims, though Robbyn didn’t really believe it.
The dark figure held out the torch in front of him to light his step as he followed a path that led through the little gully. As Robbyn cowered above the hidden path he saw three more figures emerge from the darkness behind the first. The guttering light from the torch cast wild shadows, making details hard to make out, but from his vantage point Robbyn could clearly see that two of the following figures held between them a struggling captive. The figure between them was slight and sinewy, perhaps a boy of no more than fourteen or fifteen. He was dressed in what looked like a rough padded leather jerkin over a light-coloured loose-fitting shirt. A double scabbarded belt was wrapped around his middle, though both scabbards were now empty of their weapons. Dark leather pants, laced at the calves and ankles, over padded shoes completed the outfit and spoke of someone who moved quickly and silently, possibly a thief. His hands were bound behind him and his head was covered in a burlap sack. The captors were large bulky shapes in comparison to their slight captive, with the hard grizzled hands of experienced killers.
Robbyn’s heavy breathing caught in his throat and he pressed himself into the shadow of the tree behind him. The troupe approached beneath him and, as he watched the scene in silent horror, he saw the boy twist in his bonds and curse at his captors from inside the sack. A few steps more and they were within ten feet of him, though down in the gully, and Robb saw the signs of a recent struggle on the captive’s clothing: his front was covered in dirt and debris and his clothing had been cut or torn in a number of places. Notwithstanding the burlap sack, Robbyn overheard every word as if he were standing amongst them in the hidden pathway.
“Mother-fucking sons of a bloody Goldshire bitch, let me go!”
The voice confirmed Robbyn’s original estimate of fourteen or fifteen year of age, or possible even younger, for the voice was sharp and high, not yet a man’s voice. Evidently not your typical thirteen-year-old however, given the colourful choice of language.
“Don’t take your hands off for a second” the leader said over his shoulder, nursing a cut on his face.
In response, the captive lashed out with, “Colley, you cock-sucking coward, get this moth-eaten sack off my fucking head. I should have cut your eyes out!”
The leader ignored the prisoner’s tirade and spoke to the other two captors, or perhaps to himself. “Almost there. Then we can get rid of this sack of shit.”
Suddenly, with a violent wrench, the boy ripped out of one captor’s hands, then kicked the other. For a second it looked like the boy would break free, though how he would get away bound and blind was not clear. Then the three men fell upon him and dragged him to the ground with rough force. A heavy stream of profanity poured from the burlap sack as the men took a few kick and punches at the helpless youth into order to vent their rage and shut him up. As he laid into the slight form with his boot, the torch-bearer kept shouting, “shut up!” until the boy fell silent. Then the bandits dragged him to his feet again and headed off down the hidden path.
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Post by Polrena on May 14, 2006 14:57:27 GMT -5
((oh my!))
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Post by Robbyn Jonathan on May 15, 2006 13:10:14 GMT -5
As quickly as the strangers had come, they were gone. For a moment the ruddy light of the torch flared and moved along the grassy walls beneath where Robbyn stood, then it faded away as the bandits and their captive rounded a corner in the hidden pathway through the forest. Darkness reasserted itself about him.
With a start, Robbyn discovered that he had been holding his breath. His knees were weak and his head was spinning. With a large exhalation of air, he lowered himself to the ground and leaned heavily against the rough bark of the tree that sheltered him. His heart went out to the boy he had seen, captured by Defias and being taken somewhere for some dark purpose. The echo of the leader’s voice came back to haunt him. He hardly needed to guess what “get rid” of their captive meant. He had become an inadvertent witness to a troupe of murderers about to conduct their filthy business.
“It d-doesn’t involve me. It’s not my b-b-business,” he told himself. It was no use. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Robbyn knew that he was likely the sole witness to a planned execution or worse, and the boy’s only hope of rescue. But how could he rescue anyone? He had practically soiled himself just at the sight of the bandits in the night. And even if he were somehow able to screw up the courage to follow them, there were at least three of them. “And who knows how many m-more wherever they are g-going,” he whispered to himself. He was sure that all that would happen if he followed would be that he would end up captive and eventually strung up by bandits himself.
No, he was no hero. Robbyn pushed himself to his feet and turned away from the direction that the light had gone, trying to will himself to leave the boy to his fate. But he could not walk away. He stood in the darkness, torn inside. A tear trickled out of his eye at the thought of the terrible tortures and death in store for the courageous youth and a wave of shame washed over Robbyn at his own cowardice. A boy, perhaps five or even six years his junior, had shown the courage to stand up to three hardened killers, and Robb could not even find the courage to follow and watch for an opportunity to help. With a pathetic moan, and a racing heart, he turned himself around and forced himself to take a step in the direction of the vanished light.
The first step was the worst. Robbyn’s legs felt like jelly and he bit his lower lip as he edged up to the slope down into the hidden pathway, then half stumbled and half slid down the grassy side of the ravine. The noise of his clattering mail seemed to reverberate like cymbals in the darkness. Gathering himself up at the bottom of the gully he stood for a moment stock-still, his senses on high alert for any sight or sound in the darkness, but all that he heard was the distant hooting of an owl and the quiet wind through the trees above him.
His sweaty hands fumbled with the clasp holding his mace to his side and he drew it shakily forward in front of him as he started again to edge forward down the path. After a few steps he started breathing deeply to calm himself and his hands stopped shaking somewhat. He would not try anything foolish, he told himself, just follow out of sight and wait for the right opportunity. Maybe the bandits would leave the boy alone for couple of hours or something. Maybe they hadn’t eaten for days or would wait until the morning before they did anything with their prisoner and they would all fall asleep. A vision of himself stepping over the sleeping form of the leader, Colley, to untie the boy’s bonds, and then suddenly looking down into the bandit’s snapped-open eyes and a cruel broken-toothed smile caused Robbyn to stumble and grab his chest in the dark. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. No, he thought, bandits were light sleepers; sleeping was not safe enough. “B-but these are violent murderers,” he argued to himself. “M-maybe they will g-get into a fight and k-k-kill each other.” Somehow, thinking about murderous bandits did not help Robbyn quell his fears in the slightest.
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Post by Robbyn Jonathan on May 16, 2006 1:13:51 GMT -5
At the end of the hidden gully the undergrowth grew dense, camouflaging the path's existence. Beyond, the trees grew more sparsely, and then stopped entirely at the edge of the broad dark expanse of the Elwynn River. The clouds still covered the sky, but here and there patches of night sky were emerging as the rain blew off to the south. Thirty yards or so from where Robbyn stood and nestled upon the banks of the river sat a decrepit shack. Even in the scattered moonlight the single storey building spoke of wreckage and disrepair. Its flat roof bowed as if about to fall in, all of the windows were boarded up, and a few of the planks that made up its surface hung off the side of the building, exposing cracks through to the inside. Beyond the house, the sunken remnants of a pier floated half-submerged out into the slow waters of the river that bordered the southern edge of the forest. Evidently the bandits had taken their captive inside of the broken-down shack, for light showed through the cracks in the wooden walls. Robbyn crouched down into the brambles and shrubs that obscured the entry into the path he had followed, only to be poked in the face by a particularly unwieldy branch. Only barely did he stop himself from crying out in pain as he jerked his head away and stumbled blindly through the scratching branches out into the clearing behind the house. By the time his eyes stopped watering he realized that he had stumbled out into the open, exposed to sudden discovery. In a panic, Robb rushed forward to quietly press himself against the back wall of the house.
Up close, the shack was even more dishevelled than when seen at a distance. Bits of discarded rusted metal, broken glass and assorted garbage littered the ground around the cottage. Tall weeds and sprouted everywhere, even from the wood of the hut itself. Some of the boards were covered with mold and rotting. In more than one place bent and rusty nails stuck out haphazardly, waiting to catch the unwary. Very slowly, Robbyn inched his way along the back wall of the cottage, carefully avoiding the rusted nails and other debris, until he reached a crack in the wood. Then, heart racing, he peeked inside.
The crack he was peering through was about three feet off the ground. Part of his view was obscured by what appeared to be someone’s legs as they leaned against the wall inside, and so Robbyn could not make out the full scene, but what he did see was not heartening. The shack looked to be a single room dwelling of about eight to ten feet square. Hanging from a large metal loop in the centre of the ceiling was an oil lantern that filled the room with a pale light. The torch, no longer needed, had evidently been tossed into a large wooden drum filled with water by the open door on the far side of the room. The interior of the hut was essentially devoid of ornament or fixtures other than the occasional rope, box and barrel. In the far corner was a bloody cutting board with a few salt fish and something that might have been salt pork hanging from a rusty nail hammered into the ceiling above it. Underneath the lantern was a slanted table sporting mismatched legs, and upon the table was a large metal flagon and an unmarked bottle of liquor. Slouching or standing around the room were the three bandits from the forest along with two others evidently come in to see the “entertainment” that was the prisoner.
There were two chairs near the table. The first was directly across from Robbyn and in plain sight to him. It was placed out of legshot from the table and contained the wiry form of the prisoner, bound waist and legs with thick-woven hempen cord. The second chair was pulled up next to the table, but from where he kneeled peeking Robbyn could not see its occupant, he could only see two thick legs shod in ragged chain mail leggings and thick-soled boots.
The prisoner still wore the sack over his head and was still swearing a blue streak. Robbyn had heard a fair amount of cursing from his father and from the soldiers who occasionally came to visit the General, but still he was surprised at the sheer volume of profanities that poured from the sack. Every once and a while the captive would twist as if testing the bonds, but the rope was tight and the knots only grew tighter with each twist and turn. The men around the room stood silent, as if taking in the entertainment or waiting for the diatribe to end. Finally, it the boy fell silent. Then, after a lengthy pause, the man at the table spoke. He had a low raspy voice, old and slightly slurred as if his lips were disfigured. Try as he might, Robbyn could not see the speaker's face. He spoke quietly, but with the authority of a man who would nonchalantly kill any man who did not obey fast enough. As he spoke, he held up the metal flagon in a gnarled hand and tipped it from side to side.
“Colley, take it off.”
The man who had carried the torch out in the woods stepped up behind the captive and lifted up the burlap sack. Long, fine, straight copper hair showered down to stick to the prisoner’s sweaty neck and flushed freckled face. Angry blue eyes glared out from beneath sharp, fine eyebrows and above and a thin straight nose. In other circumstances the captive’s lips might have been full and animated. Now, they were pressed together in a thin tight line. As the prisoner stared daggers and blinked in the dim light, Robbyn barely stifled a gasp and squinted in disbelief. For the Defias’ fearless prisoner was not a young man, but a woman.
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