Shackled, I have a sense of freedom. My stiff, hobbled gait, is a proud march into a future that is a lot brighter than it was in a king's dungeon. A living death, the kingsman had said. It's a punishment reserved for crimes deserving death, and criminals too useful alive. Garbed, armed, armored, shackled, shoved onto a cart headed towards a hell. Battlefield. Close enough. Dasir is a land at war, and while normally that would mean a great deal of fun for someone like me, it's also a land of magic. I have no great affection for magic. I am a woman of the blade. Blades. I like to keep more than one on me at all times, and I was greatly pleased when the kingsmen armed me to the teeth, as requested. Between that and my white armor, a ghost's armor as my soon to be ex-jailors called it, I was feeling more and more like myself. Nevermind the shackles, as I hear the sounds of an encamped army,I'm fairly trotting ahead, tripping on the chains every couple of steps. A living death, you see, to a woman like me, is nothing more than life. We're all guaranteed death, but I'll be thrice damned if I let myself die any way but with a weapon in hand. I keep my head as high as the heavy collar lets me, fairly sure it's carved a bloody furrow into the back of my neck. The kingsmen easily keep pace with me, unhindered and weapons at the ready, just in case I turn out stronger than I look. I suppose I had to look fairly strong, with how heavy the damned chains were. For not the first time I'm actually glad they cut off all my glorious hair when they originally shoved me into that dank hole in Kingshome. If my hair had been intact I'd probably have ripped it out by now from getting tangled in the chains, possibly taking bits of my scalp with it. As we enter the camp proper I keep my back straight as my restraints allow. The presence of kingsmen deter any official stop until I see a stout dark woman with braided hair brandishing an axe in a helmed man's face The helmed man seems unfazed by the deadly weapon threatening to shave his already clean face, but he walks away all the same.
"Ho there!" Calls out one of the kingsmen. His name in my mind is Shorty, if only because if a man is shorter than I, then he truly deserves the title. "Is The Steward receiving visitors?"
I feel the blood drain from my face. The Steward's company, a company known for being heroes. In other words, a load of fools and simpletons ready to actually die for this war. I have to be twice as fast, twice as strong, twice of everything I'd been before if I plan to survive. As the initial shock wears off, I try not to grin; as long as we stay away from actual mage-lords, it might be fun. The woman who I figure must be an Axe and I assume The Axe of the company, with the way she carries herself, simply shakes her head.
"No. You've got me. What in the three hells is that, anyway?" She points her weapon to me. It's a well-crafted axe, intricate etching stemming from the haft, fanning along the flat of the two blades. Surely more trouble than it's worth to clean.
"Delivery from Kingshome," Shorty starts, "A prison---"
"Forget the gods-damned chains!" I snap, rattling the links so hard, the collar cuts upward, bleeding me in a previously untouched bit of my neck. "I came here to fight of my own free will, such as it is. If this is The Steward's company, then I'm gladder than ever to be here instead of that Kingshome hole I was in. His is the best bunch, or so I've heard. Better than the last bunch of supposed soldiers I was with. I'm Lexnia Guerrin-Blackshire, once The Blade Master of the Lion's March, and if you'll contract me and get me out of these damned chains, I'll be The Blade Master for the Steward too."
No comments:
Post a Comment