This story is being re-uploaded for archival purposes.

Originally published in 2017.

Chapter One

There were many ways Dera had expected her night to go, but being bound and gagged at sword-point was probably the lowest expectation on her list. It had been her fault, really – she ought to have been more careful, more aware of her surroundings, but the spikes of hunger in her belly had goaded her forward at a time when she should have been smarter.

Stupid, she thought angrily, her teeth gnawing on the sweat-soaked and foul-smelling cloth that had been forced into her mouth. She tried the ropes at her wrists and ankles, but they had been bound expertly. There was no way she was escaping those, unless she miraculously found her knife back in her possession. You stupid, bloody fool. How could you let this happen?

She glared at the man across the clearing from her, the one who had tied her up like a wild turkey and stuffed that horrid piece of fabric in her mouth to keep her from cursing and spitting at him. Her knife sat in his hand, and though she couldn't see his eyes from under the hood of his cloak, she knew he was studying her weapon. Probably laughing at it, but she wouldn't be able to tell. The knife was old and rusty and dull; an inelegant, crude blade, so unlike the great broadsword that hung from the man's waist.

Sitting and fuming, Dera watched as he flipped her knife once, slashed twice, jabbed another time, before strapping it to his belt, the blade disappearing beneath the folds of his grey cloak. Well, at least he hadn't chucked the thing entirely, as she would have done if their roles had been reversed. That was heartening. Slightly.

The tree at her back was beginning to hurt her, and she shifted roughly in her spot to sit more comfortably, hissing into the gag when the ropes chafed at her skin. The man noticed her movement, but said nothing; he knew as well as she that she wouldn't be able to get away that easily.

At length, he came and knelt before her, his face shadowed in the cowl of his cloak. Dera wished his face wasn't hidden, if only to see the man who had been one of the few to have ever caught her. She had always prided herself on her cunning and swiftness, but as her father had warned her so long ago, her pride had become her downfall.

"If I remove your gag, are you going to scream?"

She started when the man spoke to her, taken aback by his voice. It was masculine, but also much softer than she had expected, with a strange lilt to it that almost made it sound musical. A bandit with a penchant for singing ballads, perhaps, she thought wryly.

Glaring into the shadow of his hood where his face should have been, she slowly shook her head. For once, she was being honest – she wouldn't scream. She never screamed.

The man took the cloth out of her mouth quickly, as if afraid she would try and bite him, but she only coughed and ran her tongue over her teeth, trying to get the stale taste of sweat and dirt out of her mouth. He sat back on his heels, observing her, and she threw him a contemptuous glance.

"Are you going to sit there and gawk all night, or may I take my leave now?" she said. When he didn't answer her, she growled under her breath. "I didn't even take anything from you, you dim-witted dolt! Let me go!"

"You tried to steal my food," he pointed out in that soft voice, though there was no anger in it. Only a tinge of exasperation as if she were nothing more than a misbehaving child.

Dera scowled. "You ever been so hungry your stomach feels as if it's turned itself inside-out?"

"I have," he said. "Yet in all my life I have never resorted to thievery just to keep my belly full."

"You're a man," she sneered. "You could walk into any village and ask for work and they'd give it to you at the drop of a coin. It's different for women. All anyone ever asks of them is to clean out shit buckets and whore away their lives."

"And I take it neither of those options suited you?"

"Let me go, you bastard," she hissed.

"Or what? You'll swear at me for the rest of the night? I can always just put this back in." He held up the gag, waving it in his hand. "We both know you're not going anywhere otherwise."

"Why keep me then?" she demanded. "What use am I to you?"

"Don't know yet," he said, standing and moving off to the fire that was ablaze in the middle of the clearing. "Perhaps you'll be able to provide me some entertainment on the road until I find a suitable cell to drop you off in."

Dera clenched her fists, her teeth grinding together as she gave him the most poisonous look she could muster, but he ignored her, instead going about unpacking his horse's saddlebags. He began skinning the rabbit he had returned to his camp with before he'd caught her attempting to steal some of the rations she had found in those same bags not an hour earlier, the fire crackling merrily between them.

The sun had set by then, leaving behind only the faintest dust of orange and red in the darkening sky, the first stars beginning to appear above. The forest around them had awoken with the sound of crickets and the rustling of nighttime creatures, the trees standing silent watch, guardians of the woods and the great road beyond.

Wishing she could get more comfortable, Dera tilted her head up and gazed at the flickering stars, wondering if her ancestors were looking down upon her in shame at that moment.

"A true Dunlending is never caught," she could hear her grandfather saying proudly. "They are too nimble, too fast, like an arrow fired from a bow, like the wind itself! Remember that, little one: A Dunlending is never caught."

Well, she'd done a spectacular job of that so far; outwitted by a faceless man and outrun by a soft voice and swift feet – caught, like a rabbit in a trap. Her grandfather would be weeping from the sky if the old man ever cried.

As the evening wore on, the scent of cooked meat began to reach her nostrils, making her stomach howl with hunger. She curled up against the tree, turning away from the fire and the bubbling stew and the crackling meat, forcing herself to think about anything other than how hungry she was. How many days had she gone without food now? Two? Three? Whenever the last time she ate was, it had felt like a lifetime ago.

"Here."

Dera jerked. She glowered at the cloaked man standing above her, wondering how he kept sneaking up on her like that. His footsteps were practically nonexistent, like a phantom's. Perhaps he was a spirit. It would explain why he was so odd and quiet.

The man offered her a wooden bowl, and the scent from the stew washed over her like a hot wave. Steam still curled from the top, and Dera's mouth began to water. Despite her whining stomach, however, she simply stared at the bowl.

"Take it," the man said. "I know you are hungry." When she still didn't make a move, he sighed. "It's not poisoned, I promise you. Now take it before I eat it for myself."

She looked pointedly to her bound wrists, and if she could see his face, she bet she would have received a high-browed glance.

"Your bonds are loose enough," he said, avoiding her trap easily. "And I don't have another spoon anyway, so you don't need the use of your hands that much."

Dera snorted, all but snatching the bowl from his hands and lifting it to her face, the warmth fanning over her cheeks like a fire on a cold winter night. Uncaring that the stew was still piping hot, she tipped the bowl and let the contents enter her mouth, her body immediately warming and seeming to release an excess amount of tension from her muscles. The stew was bland and tasteless, but she ate it all in less than five minutes, even licking whatever was left over on the sides. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she looked up to find the man still standing over her, watching her. Wordlessly, he held out his hand and she thrust the bowl back to him, scooting back as far as she could until she was up against the tree behind her and there was some distance separating them.

"Good?" he asked.

"Needs salt," she replied, and she swore she sensed the man grin from beneath his hood.

"Noted," he said before going back to his place by the fire and making his own bowl. Dera settled back against the tree's base, observing the man as he ate.

Though cloaked and hooded, she could still pick out some characteristics of him, obvious things that she could see on the surface: he was tall, for one, and very broad. Perhaps it was because of the cloak and the layers of riding leathers beneath, but he had been strong when he captured her, his grip as solid as iron, but not rough. Indeed, there was a sense of gentleness about him – a wild sort of gentleness, like a wolf carrying its pups by the scruff of their neck. His voice conveyed much the same: a deep, coarse tone that managed to be commanding and soft all at once, yet with the faintest hint of an accent that made her think he was a foreigner. From where he hailed or what he looked like, however, she hadn't a clue.

The broadsword at his hip made her think he was a bandit at first, but his countenance and speech were much too civilized for that idea, so she quickly rejected it. Not a merchant, either; his clothes were too shabby, too worn for the silk lords and spice princes of the Eastlands. That left either a Ranger of the North or a Gondorian – but he was no Dunlending, that she knew for sure.

"You're a Ranger, aren't you?" she asked him.

She expected him to deny it, even ignore her, but he surprised her when he simply nodded. "Aye. What of it?"

"Nothing," she said, shrugging. "Just wondering."

He grunted, going back to his stew, but her curiosity was piqued now.

"What takes you so far from the north?" she said. "Shouldn't you be with your company, tracking down the evil beasties of the night and killing them? There are all sorts of terrible things this side of the Misty Mountains – wargs, goblins, trolls. Wild-men, too. Do you kill them?"

"I do not kill your kin," he said, and she knew he had seen the flicker of shock on her features before she had concealed it, for his voice now held a trace of amusement again. "Ah, so I was right; you are a Dunlending."

"What of it?" she repeated coldly, using his words from earlier.

"Nothing," he said, sounding as if he were holding back laughter. "Just wondering."

"Do I amuse you?" she said, her anger rushing back. "A Dunlending is such a funny sight, isn't it? Go on, then, ask me the questions, I've heard them all before. Do we sleep with bears and rut in the mud like cattle? Do we eat our young? Do we kill each other just for sport? Go on; ask me!"

"I did not mean to cause you offense —" he said, but she scoffed, cutting him off.

"Shut your mouth," she hissed. "You talk like a pompous arse of a lord, and I'm tired of listening to you."

"You really are an unpleasant thing, aren't you?" he said, and if she weren't bound she would have lunged for him right there. "I think that's my question now: Are all Wild-men as volatile as you?"

"Piss off," she said vehemently.

"You know, I never got your name."

"I'm not giving you my name. I told you to piss off."

"I'll give you mine."

"I don't want to know your bloody name."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself, then."

When he said nothing else, Dera allowed herself to curl up against the tree, wriggling until she found the least uncomfortable position to sleep in with her bonds. Figuring she would undoubtedly be stuck with the annoying man for the next several days, she would need all the rest she could get if she wanted to make a run for it.

Tomorrow, she thought, already nodding off. I'll kill him tomorrow.

Only hoping that she wouldn't wake to find his own blade cleaving her head from her shoulders first, she fell into a fitful sleep with the stars watching from above.

Obviously, I'm taking some creative liberties with Dunland and Dunlendings in this story, but I hope you still enjoy, nonetheless!