Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 12–Punishment

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Fitz watched the King go and slowly turned to look at Britta, a mixture of expressions on his face, enough to send shivers down her spine. A sickly-looking smile crept upon his features as he stepped forward and flexed his fingers. “Ah, where to begin,” he said, laying a large, filthy hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled.

His eyes gleamed for a second, just before her cheeks stung from another slap. “Shut up.”

Ptui. A wad of spittle wedged itself in his eyes, forcing him to turn away. When he faced her again, the pretense of a smile was gone. “So, that is how you want it. Okay then, we can do this your way.”

Lunging forward, his hands seized hold of her blouse and pulled. With a loud rip, the fabric tore, leaving her exposed. Fitz quickly stepped back to admire his work.

Heart thudding wildly, Britta twisted sideways, trying to kick but couldn’t reach him. The clanking noises of the shackles and chains mirrored her growing desperation. She screamed in frustration.

The commotion competed with sounds from outside as Fitz grabbed her trousers and dug fingers into her waist. The tent flap moved briefly, and a figure stepped inside.

Fitz felt the presence, turned his head, and groused. “Get out. I’ll call if you’re needed.” He focused on her again and leered while wriggling her pants over her hips.

Whipping forward, she tried to headbutt him, but he dodged away.

Something dropped around Fitz’s neck. His eyes widened, and his face reddened while clawing at his throat. A thin wire dug into his flesh as terrible gurgling sounds rose from his lips.

Britta watched in horror as the dark figure behind Fitz twisted a garrote. The interrogator’s countenance turned blue, and his eyes bulged. She spun away from the horrible image.

Thump. Fitz fell over into her line of sight. His vacant eyes bore a hole in the ground. Britta could see the figure more clearly now. By size, it could not be Gall. The newcomer was dressed all in black, such that even his facial features were obscured. Angled blue eyes stared at her as wisps of light blonde hair poked from the edges of the covering that masked most of his face. A needle-like device appeared in his hands, and she shivered. But he slipped behind and picked the shackle lock in mere seconds. After briefly glancing at her nakedness, he scanned the room, grabbed a nearby blanket, and tossed it to her.

“Here, put it on, follow me, and do not talk.”

His manner of speech was unfamiliar, but she did not argue. Without a word, she followed her rescuing shadow out into the night, past the guards’ bodies. Minutes later, they darted beyond the sentry lines and into the tree line north of the encampment.

Once safely out of sight, they turned toward a slight rise topped with trees and made their way to the top. Among several large boulders, Britta and her companion stopped.

“We will stay here until dawn,” he said. Nearby was a horse, two bedrolls next to each other, and a water skin.

She examined the area around them and felt a growing sense of unease. “Who are you?”

He slowly unwrapped his face, revealing youthful features and ears angled like his eyebrows. “My name is Riasean.”

Britta stared at the unknown man, but the name was seemingly familiar. “Are you associated with the Preytars or with Gall?”

Riasean untied a bedroll and sat on it. “I don’t recognize those names.”

She hadn’t expected that response. One or the other should have been responsible for her rescue. “Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

After waiting for more, she quickly added, “I am Britta, Crown Princess of Cazidor.”

He remained quiet.

Unbelievable. She slumped against the rocks and sighed. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but why did you rescue me?”

“I was told to by a Caretaker. She said I would find ‘someone important’ being held prisoner by the King of Bretagne and that I had to set them free.” He looked at her with some interest. “Have you ever had dealings with the Caretakers?”

“Yes,” Britta replied, recalling the memory of the Caretaker pulling Gall back from death. “But how did they know I was a captive? Perhaps they meant for you to rescue Katun instead.”

Riasean shrugged. “I don’t pretend to understand why she asked me to do it, but I was obligated, so I did.”

Her face grew warm at the matter-of-fact response. “I’m sorry rescuing me was inconvenient,” she groused. “Nevertheless, I’m appreciative.”

 “I am not displeased in having to rescue you. It was merely a duty I had to perform. But judging by your circumstances, I was glad to help.”

The memory darted back into her awareness, and she shivered at what might have happened had Riasean not shown up when he did. She struggled with her emotions for a moment, then wrestled them into the dark recesses of her mind. “Thank you. I also understand the necessity of duty, demand, and obligation.” He remained quiet.

His reticence annoyed her, but then her gaze fell on the waterskin. “May I have a drink?”

“Go right ahead.” He made no effort to hand it over.

Not very polite, are you? She started to reach for the container, but the blanket across her shoulders shifted, revealing some of her upper body. “Uh, you wouldn’t happen to have something to wear, would you?”

“There’s a spare tunic in my saddle bag. Help yourself.”

The implication hung in the air. You want it. Get it yourself. Then again, he’d done enough for her in one night. She stood, walked over to the horse, and dug into the saddlebags. After searching inside, she discovered a white linen blouse. How do I pull this on without him seeing anything? A glance toward Riasean found him where she’d left him, eyes closed and leaning back against a rock. Though at that distance and in the dim light, it was hard to determine whether his eyes were shut.

Darkness descended upon them. Overhead a cloud passed by. Tossing off the blanket, she struggled to pull the garment over her head. It slid on after a brief wrestling match just as moonlight filled the area once again.

She walked back toward Riasean, feeling more complete and comfortable. He had a strange smile on his face.

“Something funny,” she asked, picking up the waterskin and uncorking it.

“Elves have excellent night vision,” he answered.

She swallowed the cold, clear water while considering his answer, but the realization set in. Her face grew hot. “A gentleman would not have watched me change my shirt.”

“I’m no gentleman.”

“Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself,” she shot back.

“Immensely,” he offered.

Infuriating peasant. She didn’t know whether to kick or brain him with a rock. But, though annoyed, the anger wouldn’t come, drained away by lingering fatigue. Instead, she corked the waterskin and stared at the same moon that hung over Cazidor.

“Sit with me,” Riasean called to her, patting the bedroll next to his.

“Why should I?”

“Because the night air is cold, and if we share body heat, it will be more tolerable.”

“No,” she answered flatly.

He shrugged. “Your choice, but the offer remains.”

 Grabbing the other bedroll, she dragged it a few feet away from him. Silence hung in the air as she prepared her bed. When finished, she asked, “So, what is next?”

“I have one more task to perform, and then I’m to take you to someone called ‘The Watcher.’” He paused. “Do you have any idea who that is?”

“Oh yes,” she said in a harsh whisper. “I know him very well, and he is not very far from here.”

“Good,” he replied, stretching back on the rock and closing his eyes. “Get some rest. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“What is this task you have to do?”

Riasean looked at her with half-closed eyes. “I am supposed to help whomever I rescue to kill King Edwyn of Bretagne. Are you that person?”

Britta smiled broadly. “Absolutely.”

“Sleep well, Britta, Princess of Cazidor,” he said, slipping down into his bedroll.

She lay back and stared into the night sky, thoughts of the day cascading through her mind. Her chest tightened as images of Cazidor’s fjords and mountain tops drifted by. If she weren’t so tired, she might cry. Tomorrow, she would either be Queen of Bretagne or dead. The former held no appeal, and the latter … no longer scared her.

* * *

She felt the sinking sensation and knew what would happen next. Her memory walking had decided to arrive, once again, unannounced and unwelcomed. The smell of pine filled her senses, as did the acrid stench of wood smoke. Cold air swirled as she took in the surroundings. Nearly enveloped by darkness from tall evergreens, snow lay everywhere, piled up in drifts and bowing the branches and tops of trees. Off to her right, a haze snaked from the chimney of a log hut, and light spilled out the frosted windows. She shivered as a frigid breeze swept out of the coal-black sky. This could have been Cazidor in the Krador Mountains, but judging by the stars, it was not. Voices cut through the night air, and the door flew open. A small figure of a young boy darted into the snow, stumbling and groping through the drifts. A man appeared in the doorway and charged out after him, knife in hand. He stopped and watched the boy scramble further into the darkness.

Fist raised, he shouted, “Damned half-breed, I’ll kill you if you ever come back.” With one last look, the man slipped back inside.

Britta watched the blonde-haired boy glance over his shoulder and slow to a stop. The child shivered while studying the hut, then turned and made his way toward a large pile of cut firewood. His pace remained steady, and his track did not wander. Near a tall snow drift, the thin but sinewy figure stopped. His night clothes grew damp as he dug barehanded but soon found what he was looking for and retrieved something long and narrow, wrapped in animal hides. Britta stepped closer. The boy untied the cords, fastening the cover around the object. Within seconds, it was free. A sharp ax blade glinted in the moonlight.

The man-child turned and looked at the hut, face inscrutable. Filled with determination and resolve, his blue eyes grew familiar. With martial-like efficiency, he marched toward the dwelling. Moments later, he stood at the door, ax balanced in his hand. Hands flexing, he hefted the implement, tested his grip, and perhaps took stock of his resolve. Then, his head snapped up, and he sank into a half-crouch. With a crash, he slammed into the door and darted inside.

Britta cringed and clapped her hands over her ears to avoid hearing anything. The efforts were only partially successful. Screams erupted immediately, and smashing sounds flew out the door into the snowy air. Shouts and curses bounced off the trees and snowbanks, followed by a sickening series of dull thuds and an anguished scream. From out of the door, the boy fled, thick jacket in one hand and an ax in another, racing headlong into the cold winter night, his passage traced by bloody footprints.

Britta jerked awake, sweat pouring down her face. She peeked over at Riasean, who looked placid and calm, motionless except for the rhythmic breathing. For a moment, doubt clawed at her. This was no dream. It must have been a memory. The vividness of the scene and the foreign subject matter was more than anything her mind would have concocted. No, this had to be Riasean’s. Her father said Riasean was an assassin. Did she just witness the first time he killed?

She swallowed hard, taking in her circumstances. A few feet away, in the darkness, was a killer. Not much farther was a King with an army who would just as well rape as hang her, and further still was a man who let her get captured and may have been involved in her mother’s death.

In the morning, she would end Edwyn’s life or lose her own. Neither objective she had envisioned when setting out on this journey with Gall. The first would be personally satisfying. The latter? Not so much. But then what? Would those left attempt to constrain her?

No, if she were to survive the next day and get control of events, she would take charge of her situation. No one was going to dictate her actions, not anymore. If her destiny were to be Queen of Bretagne, she would be just that- a Royal leader of people- not a puppet made for dancing by others’ pulling strings.

She pulled her blanket around her, struggling to trap the warmth of her body heat. Tomorrow would be different; she would step beyond being a victim and become independent … or die trying.