The day had brought a reprieve, and the young woman fought her way to wakefulness. Usually she was awakened with harsh words, even harsher hands, and the occasional sharp kick, for all she wanted to do lately was sleep, and there were chores to be done.
She blinked, studying the stained wall beside her. John had not come to wake her; even though the light was rosy upon that wall. James, likewise, had not come to wake her, trying vainly to spare her his brother's attention. She took a shallow breath, and listened...
Yes, she could hear John and James both, just in the doorway, their voices low and intense. "John." James hissed. "The only smart thing to do is to evacuate. Get Bess up. Get the cart. We head for Light's Hope and the paladins there..."
"And let Torgin have my land? There is no plague, James. It's all a trick to get the dam' fool peasants off of their land..."
The woman cringed at the barely restrained rage in that voice. When John sounded like that, she paid for it. "John. Torgin has already evacuated. We're the only ones left here."
Evacuation? This was the first that the woman had heard of it, and she frowned at the wall. Even if John was in the mood to take her along, which he undoubtedly wasn't, she was in no shape to run for Light's Hope. She'd just be a burden. James was an optimist... that cart, that ox, would not make it that far. If the menfolk ran, then they weren't taking her with them. Plague? An illness bad enough to chase Torgin from his land? Then she had no chance. She was already so sick that it seemed a sad miracle every morning she woke up into. Was this the way that this was finally going to end? Was this finally it? That would have bothered another, but it brought an odd calm peace in its wake.
"Cart won't make it to the crossroads, much less Light's Hope." John gloomily noted. "If we leave, James, then we leave it all. An' that includes Bess."
"She'll never survive a sickness, John."
"An' she'll never survive a trip to Light's Hope, James. It's all the same. An' do you want to turn up in a passel of paladins with her? They'd hang us for still living and what good would that do?"
"Then we leave her, John. To shift for herself. But we have to run."
Left alone to die, by herself. Bess had never contemplated such a great gift. Could she truly be that lucky? No...never. But James sounded serious enough, and his brother was not discounting the evacuation argument nearly as easily as he normally would. He was actually considering it, considering running, fleeing, these lands, and her.
"Then get your things. And leave her to sleep. I don't want to hear her whining at me." John grumbled. Bess smiled at the blank wall before her, she'd do precious little whining if that was indeed their plans. Maybe, one way or the other, she could finally free herself of this hell.
"Right." His brother sighed, and she heard him move back into the house. She felt him come up right behind her, and was not surprised when his hand fell on her shoulder. "Bess." He breathed and she shifted slightly.
"I heard, James." She murmured, and he sighed.
"Wait for us to be on our way, and then run. Head away from the capital, I'll leave you what I can in the salt barrel."
It took them precious little time to flee, the house had been eerily silent for more than an hour before Bess finally stirred and forced herself to stand. John was right, they'd taken precious little... the pigs still rested in their pen. The ox, her bones as visible as Bess's, still tied to her tree. It was another four hours before Bess convinced herself that they were truly gone, and that this wasn't a trick John was playing. The sun was high in the sky when she released the ox much as she'd been released, free to die off of a battered lead. The pigs were in better shape, lean but not emaciated, and showed little interest in leaving their pens when she propped the gates opened. There was a small bag of provisions in the bottom of the salt barrel, and Bess slung it over her shoulder as she headed down the path. It ended at the road, and she stopped. Away from the capital... a brilliant idea, except... she had no idea which way the capital was. Right? Left? Bess had never been more than five miles away from where she stood now. She didn't know where Light's Hope was. Had no idea where the capital was.
"Lovely, James." She muttered, glancing in both directions warily. "You could have guessed."
Well, he obviously hadn't, because she was still standing, at the road, lost as a stunned bee. Right? She looked down that way. It looked much the same as left did.
"Left."
Why she was so suddenly certain, she couldn't say. Bess had never been completely certain about anything before in her life, but she was suddenly sure that left was the way to go. And left was the way she went, headed straight down the road...towards the capital.
The day was warm, and Bess's waning strength faded more and more with every step. It was a blessing to be left alone, peaceful as she walked down the dusty track. She could die like this, left to her own devices, not beaten to death when John's rages rose as they did so often now. She had almost decided it was time to find a place to settle, well aware she was not going to make it to Light's Hope, or any other bastion, when she heard the first voices. They were low, calm, a welcome cool breeze in the air. Ordinarily, Bess would have turned away; tried hiding in the tall grasses beside the road, but the same certainty that had turned her left kept her walking calmly forwards.
There were five men in a covert next to the path, not a sign of horse or other mount between them, although she knew they were wealthy the first moment the light danced across darkened armor.
"Hail." The closest of them stated, and she could hear the edge of amused surprise under his voice.
"Hail the camp." She returned warily. Every fiber of sense told her the stupidest thing in the world she could have done, she had just done. John and James, and pretty much everyone else, had left her alone once the sores had started to show. She knew it had been too late for them all, for there were sores that had not shown for months before those that did did... but every male with a hair of sense cut her a wide berth now. But soldiers were an all different breed, if she'd wanted to commit suicide, home would have been a fine enough choice.
"Lost, Lambkin?" he chuckled, removing his helm. He was pleasant enough to look upon, she guessed. And he still had the cheery amusement clinging to him. His companions remained silent, oddly so for a group of men. "Which way do you head?"
"I was told to go to Light's Hope." She began, and a flow of expressions crossed his face, much too quickly to pin down. "But this isn't the way there." Where that came from, and why she said it, she wasn't certain. John and James had gone for Light's Hope. Obviously she didn't want to go there. Anything but John, again.
"No, you're quite right, Lambkin. This is most certainly not the way for Light's Hope. You've come from the way there..."
"She's touched." One of his previously silent companions noted, and Bess bristled. That was not the first time that statement had ever been brought up, and neither John nor her father had ever appreciated it. And when they didn't appreciate it, she didn't appreciate it.
"So she is." The first speaker glanced to his side, at the man who had not turned at her approach. That one remained ominously silent, his attention elsewhere, his head tilted as if someone unheard spoke to him.
"Welcome to our camp." He finally spoke. "Little one. Falric, see that she has something to eat, and a place to lay."
The amusement fled from the first's face like it had been slapped away. "Yes...your Majesty." He stumbled over the words, and Bess's stomach dived for her ankles. Majesty? What had she gotten into now? She attracted trouble like trumpet flowers attracted stingers, and today seemed no different. "This way...lady...?"
"Bess. M'name is Bess."
The first speaker...Falric...only nodded and began to rummage through bags, finally offering her a greased linen packet. "May be a little stale." He muttered, his gaze again going to the large, silent form staring in the direction she had been traveling towards. "Eat, and I'll get you a bedroll."
If it was stale, Bess couldn't tell. The bread was heavy, filling, baked with dried fruits. The savory loaf was filled with fine spices and meats. It was the best food she'd ever had, from a packet dragged out of the bottom of a bag. And the bedroll, likewise, clean, warm and thick. She was asleep the first moment her head touched it.
And she woke up to a completely unfamiliar sensation, a rolling, rocking movement. She was, as usual, too hot on awakening, wobbly, feverish and trembling. "She awakens, your Majesty. You wanted...?"
"She is to drink this. It will keep her going long enough."
Long enough? Long enough for what? And why? Not even John had considered keeping her going for any reason. He had been waiting for the inevitable, for her to drop dead, so he could find another. Besseth opened her eyes. She was cradled like a babe to the first knight, Falric, the bedroll she had fallen asleep in wrapped around his shoulders. "Drink." He murmured, and the very smell of the bottle made Besseth want to gag. The taste was worse, and if she could have struggled, she would have. But he had her completely bound in the roll, and she wasn't going anywhere. She repaid the compliment by vomiting all over him, a situation he accepted with silent stoicism. His companions accepted it with the same silence; the jeering retorts she'd been expecting never came. But she must have held some of the medicine down, because she faded right back into an uneasy sleep.
She woke to a thick silence. The illness had not died, it still hung around like an unwelcome visitor, but she felt better. Better than she had in months, and she shifted cautiously out of the bedroll her companions had been using to carry and contain her within. She had been left on a bed, in a farmhouse. Much nicer than John's, clean, and oh, so desperately empty. "Hello?" She called warily. Had they abandoned her here? If they had, they'd done a much better job of it than John had... the bedroll alone was much more than she'd left home with. There was a stack of those linen packets on the small table next to her. A wicked looking knife, almost as long as her forearm. A tiny black bottle. A jug of water. And a sheet of paper with some writing on it. She glanced at it, shrugged, and searched the house. Yes, quite empty... and more supplies scattered throughout the kitchen. The owners had obeyed the evacuation order, and left most of their possessions behind. She was definitely sitting better than she had been before falling in with the very quiet knights.
They returned at nightfall, and Besseth froze. They had not had horses before, and now, well, those weren't precisely horses. Well, those weren't precisely living horses. Those were dead. Skeletal. Their eyes burned with no mortal light, and she raised her own to Falric's helmed face.
"Bess." He sounded as wary as she did, his glance falling behind him to where she knew his lord followed him. "You seem...well."
"I feel better, yes." And why did she? And what payment would they exact for it? Surely they were bright enough to know better? Every other man had been when the sores started to show on her lips.
"Good." He did not so much climb from the horse as it dissipated beneath him, vanishing into the low lying fog. "You got my note?"
"Note?"
"Note. I left you a note..." He pulled his helm off and studied her for a long moment. "Oh." He finally stated, "You don't read. You didn't take the bottle?"
"No."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, that's good." The other...horses...pushed into the yard behind him, trailed by the massive, silent form of their owner's master. "It's poison. Would have been ugly if you had. Left it in case you needed...a little gentle persuasion. There are still people moving in this area. They might need a little hint that you are to be left alone."
"With the knife."
He frowned. "I'd prefer the poison, until we teach you better."
Teach? Since her mother had died, no one had bothered to teach Besseth anything at all. She shrugged, turning to go back into the house. No matter what, it was still better than home. So far, none of them had even raised a voice to her, much less a hand. She had food in her belly, hell; she had medicines in her belly. A warm roll. And now, a weapon. John would have died before he'd armed her.
A good dinner was definitely in order. They'd done such a fine job of caring for her that they deserved some sort of payment. And a payment that wouldn't give them the same sores that she'd given to John. And, rather unfortunately, to James. But that couldn't be helped.
Falric studied her as she worked, the ominous silence of the royal one behind him. It didn't seem right, somehow, that royalty...and Besseth was willing to agree that was indeed that, would be out here like this. Without any more people than these four to take care of him and keep him well.
"Of course not, little one." The royal one stated into the silence and Falric glanced between them. "That's why you've come, isn't it? To serve...me? To serve who I serve? Come to me so that I can care for you, give you a place, and you grow into my service?"
"Ah...yes...?" Well, it certainly sounded good. Serving royalty was an obvious step up from serving John. She placed plates down on the table, while Falric stared at her. The other three stood, silent as statues. She'd never heard any of them speak. Seen any of them without their helms...
"You don't need that many, Besseth." Falric finally stated. "Only two will be eating."
"I..." Don't understand. She almost said the words, but something held them. The fewer questions asked, the better... He smiled slightly, as if she'd said the thought.
"Exactly, Lambkin. Exactly."
She had plenty to work with, and was able to produce a fairly decent meal in her eyes. Probably not for royalty, but the silent stoicism of his men seemed to be shared by the royal one, who merely sat and ate. And ate well, surprising her. John wouldn't have let a meal pass without some comment or slap, but this one did.
"We ride in the morning." He finally stated, long after the silence had become how it was to be. "We must catch up with the urn."
"Ah. So we leave the woman?" Falric demanded, and the royal one glanced up, his green eyes falling first on her face, and then Falric's. Besseth was not even remotely put off; they'd done more than she could have ever asked for. As well as she felt, she could probably make it somewhere, if not Light's Hope, especially after what she'd found here.
"No."
"We...kill the woman?" One of the silent ones finally spoke, and Besseth wished he hadn't. Surely they hadn't done all this just to kill her now? It made no sense. They could have done that at the crossroads with much less fuss...
"No." He stood, extending a hand to Besseth. She was leery, after the talk had turned to killing, but she took it. He led her out into the yard, darkened, silent...eerie. It felt as the world had just...ceased to be. And like this, it would never bother her again. She could be wrapped, safe, in this stillness. The royal one chuckled, coming up behind her and planted his open left hand against her belly, and her right hand in his. "Exactly." He breathed in the same voice as the mourning breeze moved through the trees with. "No one will touch what is mine, Besseth. And you were called to be mine. They let you rot, Besseth. It is time for you to bring the rot to them. Make them pay. What have they ever done for you?"
Nothing. From the moment her mother had died, no one had done anything at all for Besseth. That had changed. And these were the ones who had changed it. "Nothing, Majesty..." She could feel a rising in her gut, things clicking into place, reality changing around her. Power, a glut of it, and the illness waning within her. Not gone, but lurking, held at bay.
"Exactly nothing. And we will change that. But first, you need a mount, for tomorrow, we ride hard. So. Feel them out there..."
The world slowed, thickened around her. There were things out there to feel, when he pointed them out. So close. Had they always been there, waiting, watching? "Call one of them. Attract its attention. Pull it to you..."
There was a faint whinny on the wind, and the royal one raised his eyes in its direction. "Nicely done." He stepped back, his gaze falling on the one who had inquired if they were going to be killing Besseth, and shook his head. "She comes with us."
The whinny grew louder, and Besseth could hear hooves coming on fast. A horse sprinted up the hill into the yard, dark in the shadows. It snorted, stopping, and Besseth regarded it. It would be impressive, except for its vacant eyes and the gaping wound in its side. It was dead. As dead as four of the five men with her. Only the royal one yet lived...
"It's dead." There was a keening in her voice that she would have killed if she could have. She felt Falric move cautiously, and locked eyes with him. "You're dead. You're all dead!"
"And you, Lambkin, walk on the verge of death."
She'd known that. It had been obvious to all of those around her. Besseth was dying. A long, slow, drawn out death that would not be wished on an animal. Dying before she'd ever really even lived, just one terrible moment after the next. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Nothing had ever been. And sadly, it seemed that the best group of men she'd ever met in her life were dead.
"She is not up to this task, your Majesty." Falric sighed, shaking his head. "It is too much to ask of her..."
"If she were raised..." The one who seemed to only have death, her death, on his mind mused. "That would overcome much of what she lacked."
"No. "The royal one finally disagreed. "She must live. She must serve. She called a dreadsteed true enough. She can channel the power quite easily, it flows through her. The master wants her."
Master? The royal one called someone else master? Fascinating. A master who wanted...Besseth? Fascinating as well, in a dire sort of way she wasn't sure she was comfortable with. He paused, as if waiting for her to ask, but Besseth had learned long ago that asking impertinent questions got her bloodied and bruised for her troubles. She knew better now.
"Ah." He breathed slowly. "All the questions beaten out of you. Pity. We'll have to work on that. Until then, Besseth…" He pulled another vial from a pouch and handed it to her. "Your medicine. Try not to vomit it this time. We don't have much of it left. We ride in the morning and you'll need to be able to stay in your saddle." He glanced at the dead horse she'd called, and then shrugged. "Eat. Sleep. Bathe, and have Falric tend your wounds. We ride at first light."
Eat. That was easily enough done, although Besseth had eaten more in the past four days than it seemed she had eaten in her entire life. Take the medicine. Not as easily, or as pleasantly done as the eating, but still a viable task. Bathe… again, not pleasant, huddled in the tiny hip bucket as an amused and stoic Falric dumped water over her head and sponged out the worst of the welts of John's attentions. "Who?" He asked after a long silence.
"Husband." Besseth replied tersely. The only thing that made this at all bearable was that he still behaved himself impeccably. There was no lust, no real interest except an interest in cataloguing and tending the damage done, in his eyes or manner.
"Animal." He replied. "Doesn't matter now. He'll never have you back."
Besseth believed him to the bottom of her soul. And she'd give that soul, and heart, to any who promised that. She had few doubts that these five were bad, that they harbored darkness in their souls. That was fine; the past decade had grown quite a few shadows in her own soul. And sleep…well; warm, dry, full and dosed… it came easily enough.
Besseth rode at the tail of the group, behind one of the silent ones. He occasionally turned his head enough to be certain she still followed, but otherwise the six of them rode in silence. Even the horses made little noise, sliding from one patch of leaf mould to the next. She was dulled into near lassitude when her mount suddenly stopped. The one before him had halted. As had they all, up to the royal one who rode at the front. He flicked a hand commandingly, and his retinue, Besseth included, fanned out along the rise he had stopped on. It overlooked a road, and she could see dust, hear hooves coming closer.
"Uther…." The royal one breathed when the riders became visible. There were four of them, coming slowly down the road. All men. All heavily armed and armored, their very stances felt…somber. Tragic.
"Prince Arthas?" Falric asked, and there was the faintest edge of doubt in his voice, and the royal one…the prince… tilted his head. "We cannot mean to…"
"Besseth. Do you know who that man is?" Although he did not gesture in any way, she knew he meant the man riding in the front right.
"No." It was the truth. She'd never clapped eyes on him before in her life.
"That is Uther, the Lightbringer. A great paladin…"
She curled a lip. Paladins. What a joke. Lying, arrogant hypocrites… What good were they? Protectors of the downtrodden, indeed. She ran a thoughtful thumb over the cluster of sores at the corner of her mouth. "So?" She finally demanded and he laughed.
"She says so, Falric. I agree with that judgment. My judge has spoken…"
Something slid within her soul, as if some facet of her being had been uncovered, recognized for the very first time. A nod, if it were.
"You are his judge. So it is."
"Tell me, Besseth… Is he worthy?"
She regarded the man through narrowed eyes. "He is worthy." She finally whispered, and Arthas tilted his head, listening to that unheard voice again. Why she'd said something that blatantly stupid, she wasn't certain. Silence was always the best answer. How could she be overlooked when she spoke out of turn?
"Worthy, yes. As only you can see. As only you can tell Arthas. However, that one has something we need. Something he will not give up without his blood being spilled for it. Spill his blood, my judge. Take my gift, ride at Arthas's side, and take what must be taken. Walk forwards, there is no going back."
"But he must die anyways. He has the urn." Well, at least when she broke from sanity, she did it in good company. Mad princes and dead retainers, it was all good.
"Quite." Arthas agreed, and his steed moved to intercept.