As it turned out, there probably hadn't been a better direction she could have walked toward. A great sand dune marked the end of the bodies roofing of under the early evening sun. They'd been growing thin on the ground for some time, and as she walked, bitterness and self-pity had begun to take their places, making homes for themselves in the back of her mind.
Just as she was thinking, for the umpteenth time, that she would have really wished to have taken a moment to talk to those men (just one moment! she'd end up dead of thirst anyway, so why did it matter if they had nefarious intentions?) she made it to the crest of the dune. The image before her was enough to bring her to her knees with relief.
The barren desert before her began to give way to sandy plains. Ahead in the distance, nestled next to the sea (or at least a large lake) were towers. Towers and walls. And in the foreground: tents. An encampment. It may as well have been a billboard advertising free food and water… not that she cared about it being free, not really. She'd put her life before two others already that day; she'd be damned if a little thing like petty lawbreaking stopped her now. Feeling giddy and weightless with her most prominent fears seemingly averted, she half-slid, half-walked down the shifting sands toward the nearest part of the tents.
Upon coming closer, she saw that the encampment stretched father to either side of the horizon than she'd thought at first. It was also, she saw, protected by low earthen walls. She likewise realized that the towers she'd spied from a distance weren't just any towers, or tall outposts, as she'd rushed to assume, but siege weapons. The encampment surely belonged to an army, and said army was definitely trying to capture whatever walled city it was that lie in the distance. She paused, wondering if she would be welcome there, or seen as an enemy – a spy – or a deserter. But dead was dead, whether it was at swordpoint from someone who wouldn't give her the time of day to hear her out (the irony was not lost on her), or from succumbing to the elements. And besides, she was close enough to see individuals moving about, so they'd probably already seen her; it was too late for turning back.
Squaring her shoulders and fiddling anxiously with the sword on her belt, she trudged toward the nearest person, a youngish man with light brown hair dressed not unlike herself, except that he didn't have dried blood spilled all down his front and caked in his hair, of course. He turned from his companion, to whom he'd been speaking in low tones, to look at her. She raised her right hand and greeted him with a "Hello!" that sounded far more robust (and amiable) than she felt. The man's companion, a dark-haired kid in his late teens whose eyes sparkled with malevolent excitement, like he was just spoiling for a fight, scoffed incredulously. Apparently this was not how greetings were carried out here.
The man she'd addressed responded in a manner that sounded both polite and somehow imposed upon. She didn't understand a word he said, and felt flustered. The panic she'd tried so hard to stifle throughout the day began to rise unchecked. She felt like she might cry.
Having received no answer, the man repeated himself, adding several inquiries at the end this time, including, "Ou allez-vous?" She might not have understood him again, had she not been asking herself the same question, quietly, insistently all day long: "Where are you going?" Having heard and understood this one phrase, she latched onto it, and held up her hand again to signal him to stop speaking. She took a moment to think, before replying simply, "Je ne sais pas." It had been quite some time since high school French class.
The kid looked as though she'd personally attacked him, lips curling in disgust. "How does he not know where he goes?" he demanded of his partner.
Correctly interpreting the duo's suspicion, she thrust forward the helmet that had been, until now, tucked safely under her left armpit, and lamely offered, "Je suis… hurt. Injured. Damaged?" She tried for a for her best clueless, non-threatening smile.
The older man stepped forward to receive the helmet, and turned it over in his hands, looking critically at the wide gash among the back of it, then back at the sweaty, bloodied, tired warrior before him. He stared into the stranger's wary, haunted eyes for a time, then broke his stiff posture, lowering the useless metal in his arms and standing taller.
"Je suis Alain. Hwat iss yoorr nom-eh?" He spoke slowly and clearly, eyeing her critically all the while.
She furrowed her brows at his bizarre accent. It was certainly not just English with a French accent. It sounded more Dutch or something Germanic. She felt as though she were being made fun of in some way. Eventually she answered, "Sam. My name is Sam."
The younger man laughed aloud at this, but his companion only sighed.
"Gote. Fullow may. Ee shall to an Engellish knisht brringeh you."
If she didn't feel overwhelmed already, she would have been completely in over her head now. Instead, she hopped over the low wall and trotted after the quickly retreating man (was he some sort of sentry?), completely ignoring his unnamed partner, who followed them with glaring gaze only.
All sorts of dusty-colored tents sprang up around them as they strode through the encampment, but there were overall far fewer than Sam would have imagined of an army besieging a city. There were no shortage of people, however; men and boys in various dress practiced swordplay, talked, knitted, ate, and milled about between the tents. The encampment didn't smell much better than the battlefield, she'd realized dispiritedly, and her stomach turned at the thought of food. Still, she had hope that she'd be brought to someone who spoke English (hadn't Alain said something about that?), and this would all start to make sense.
Alain stopped abruptly in front of a tiny tent, completely unremarkable and very similar to the others around them, except perhaps for its being somewhat more squat. He called out impatiently before crossing his arms to pointedly wait. Scrutinizing him a little more closely, Sam realized that everything he wore looked old and beaten down; his shoes, such as they were, had been patched at least once with very rough-looking leather; his white robes were more of a light brown, and little tears had been sewn up all over it, but particularly in the shoulders. Even the scabbard that lie sashed in his belt was dinged and scuffed. And the man looked thin, not just wiry. He looked hungry. Sam felt apprehensive of her future not for the first time that day.
In the few moments it took Sam to assess Alain's condition, the flap of the tent before then was violently thrust open, and a new man appeared from behind it. He looked older, and it wasn't just the fine wrinkles across his tanned face; he had a permanently harassed look about him. This man, too, looked hungry; he was gaunt and wary, and tacitly surveyed Sam while Alain spoke to him in a short, clipped reporting style. After a while of their conversation (French again? Sam could swear she heard Anglaise, at least), the new man simply nodded and waved toward Sam. She looked first to Alain, then back to the man next to him, before pointing to herself. "Me?"
Alain shrugged and stalked off, muttering something that sounded vaguely reassuring as he handed her back her split helmet. She was silent for a moment, too shocked and oddly dismayed at his departure to do anything but accept the helmet. Remembering herself, she called "Thanks! Merci!" to his back as he walked away. If he heard her, he made no signal.
/ / / / /
Yeah I'm no expert on middle English… This is my best educated guess at pronunciation and wording. We'll only deal with it for the next chapter anyway.
