Chapter 5:
A/N – Sorry that it has been a while, guys. I've been getting back into the swing of college, and it's made writing a little difficult. I am really excited about this chapter, though! Hope you enjoy it!
TW – Lots of violence and crude language.
"It has all just begun."
It wasn't until weeks later the slave finally understood what exactly had been set in motion.
More curses.
Curses that came in the morning, like demons.
No one heard their hoofbeats or recognized the sharply pointed insignia printed on the billowing flag. But they knew what the symbol meant; they saw it in the blood-hungry soldiers' eyes.
The warriors were grim looking, their horses tall and painted with other twisted marks on their heads and rump, imbued with blessings of victory in battle. The men were wild in demeanor, but militantly ordered, obeying commands, and descending upon the village first with an arsenal of flaming arrows, mercifully killing some of the innocents before real onslaught began.
"Ymir—"
And their King.
He never moved as they fired their shots, nothing more than a silhouette, with the burnt orange Sun raging at his back, watching his curses befall her people.
He did speak, though, in a bloodcurdling roar that echoed through the chaos of their attack.
"Eldia Reigns!"
The men echoed it behind him, hundreds of voices drowning the screams of fleeing villagers below.
"Eldia Reigns!"
"Ymir!"
The slave felt something tugging on her arm, the tiny fingers of a boy trying to get her attention. But it was as though she were entranced, her eyes glazed over as soldiers began to cascade down the hillside and begin their raid on the village.
"Ymir, please—"
Shaking her head, Ymir fought the daze, anchoring herself in consciousness as she turned to face the sob-streaked face of Damen.
That's right. They had been at the well, drawing water. When had it changed? How long had it been since they'd noticed the pointed shadows of spears creeping towards them?
"By the Sun! Ymir! Wake up!" Vera called, finally drawing the girl's attention by waving her arms. "You have to take the boys and run!" She commanded, not giving the slave time to assess the wound where an arrow had pierced the old woman's shoulder, dangerously close to her neck.
"Go!"
Ymir nodded, eyes wide as she reached for Timald, who clutched Vera's tunic, fiercely refusing to let go.
"No, Vera, please—"
"Go, Timald!"
It took all the strength Ymir had to rip the boy away, pieces of Vera's shawl still woven in his white knuckled fingers.
"Go! Get out of here!"
Vera shoved her grandsons away, just as another arial assault struck the village, miraculously missing Ymir and the children as they took cover behind the well.
Vera was not as lucky, her sobs cut short as an arrow struck her throat.
"Vera—"
The slave pulled Timald close, blocking his view as she took the opportunity to run towards one of the houses not already enveloped in flames. The boy fought her grip, beating on her arms and legs as she ran, but she didn't have time to react to the pain.
Gritting her teeth, she threw open the door, thrusting the children inside before slamming it shut behind them and barricading it with her body.
"Hide in some of those baskets!" Ymir pointed towards an enclosed corner of the house where food was stored. "I will cover you both with something, but you can't make any noise. No crying! No matter what happens—"
It was too late.
Wood bit into her cheekbones as a soldier barged in, the force of the door barging open throwing her against a wall.
Impact. Ringing.
Then everything was distant.
Screams began, then were broken, and something red splattered on her face, once and then twice. It was warm, dribbling down her forehead and sticking in her hair. She didn't know where it came from, the ache in her head? Or from the glinting blade that flashed before her eyes? The blade that was coming down, down, down to meet her, almost grazing her neck before something stopped it, creating a clanging noise that split her eardrums open.
"—The King said to spare anyone of working age!"
"This runt?" A soldiers seasoned curses followed the insult. "She's not worth it!"
"She's strong enough. If not, more fun putting her out of her misery later! Just put her with the others!"
The soldier laughed. "Ahh, I see! Good thinking," he conceded, nodding in agreement as he turned to face the slave once more.
Then, it wasn't a blade that came down to meet her, but the bottom of a boot that brought a welcoming, consuming darkness.
"It has all just begun."
Smoke was what made the blackness subside. The acrid fumes burned her nose and stung her eyes as she opened them. Light, and heat flickering over her features, she fought to focus her vision, wincing with the pain in her head as took in the carnage before her.
Everything glowed orange.
Huts burned as brightly as the sun, creaking, and groaning with the crackling of the flames that consumed them. Screams added to the chorus of war, some of them were close, and others carried on a distant breeze, the final note of some of the slaughtered.
Ymir pulled herself into a sitting position, realizing she was surrounded by other women from her village. There were at least fifty of them, huddled in a quivering assembly, ghostly white and frozen in place. And staring. Some stared at nothing, while others stared at the warriors prowling around them, like wolves with hungry eyes and twisted expressions.
Some kicked at the women. Some grabbed fistfuls of hair and dragged a poor soul behind them, laughing cruelly at their wenches' withheld screams. They were all horrible devils. Blood-spattered demons that relished their agony.
"—I won't tell you again, woman! Join the rest of these filthy whores or die!"
A familiar voice, shrill as scraping iron, interrupted the roaring officer, unintelligible and sob stricken.
The slave knew it was Thelea before she turned to look, instantly regretting glancing over as the soldier roared in her mistress' face once more.
"Join the others or die, harlot!"
Thelea dropped to her knees, cowering at the man's feet as her whole body shook with grief.
"Where…are…my…sons?" Each word was broken by her wails, but their combined meaning hung in the air, expectantly waiting for an answer.
Her sons.
Ymir touched her face, pulling her hand back to see dark red staining her fingertips. It was still fresh; warm, and undried against her cheeks. And as soon as she realized, the slave buried her face in the sleeve of her tunic, scrubbing as hard as she could to clear her bloodstained skin.
"No."
The rough garment tore at her already scraped cheeks, but she didn't care. She had to get it off.
"No, no, no."
"Shhh—" One of the women hushed her. "They'll see you! Be quiet!"
They had already seen her. They had already made her be quiet.
"No. Get it off me. Get it off—"
She felt a hand on her shoulder, and the hushed voice of a woman at her back. "I'll help you, just calm down," The voice wrapped a shawl around her shoulders as she spoke, slightly irritated, but still soft. "You have to be quiet, or they will punish us all."
Tears Ymir hadn't realized had escaped dripped into the dirt as she nodded her head and turned around for the woman to help.
"Breathe," The woman directed, her eyes flickering nervously back and forth from the soldiers and Ymir's face. "Hold the shawl right here. Your head is still bleeding."
Pressing the fabric firmly into her scalp, Ymir wept as silently as she could, her eyes fixed on the dirt as the woman roughly scrubbed her cheeks and forehead.
"There," she nodded, wiping the bloody residue from her hands on the skirt of her tunic. "Whatever you suffered, I'm sorry." She finished, a solemn smile contrasting against her painfully empty eyes.
"What is your name?"
"Ymir," The slave whispered, but wasn't heard over the collective winces as a soldier barked their next orders.
"Stand up and form two lines!"
They did as they were told, rising, and shuffling slowly into a crooked formation.
Wrapping the woman's shawl around her shoulders, Ymir did her best to stay as far away from Thelea as she could. If her mistress asked her to explain what had happened…
"Hurry up!"
The slave stumbled, almost tripping over her feet in the commotion, but managed to find a spot a short distance away from the menacing soldier that was giving their orders. Her gaze flickered over him, nervously shifting on and away from him as he stood with his arms crossed, waiting for them to finish their assembly.
He was tall. Though he looked younger than most of the other soldiers, he had a demanding presence, and battle scars littering his well-built arms. She could tell he dressed better than most of the other soldiers, and the symbol that waved on their flag was pinned in gold on his shoulder. A mark of status no doubt.
He wasn't the warriors' King, but he acted like he could be.
Handing a thick coil of rope to one of his comrades, the man nodded his head with an unspoken order to his troop before speaking once again.
"Now we sort you out!" He explained to the women, as they finished filling into their lines. "My men will decide who is fit for a life of servitude, and who is not! However, you may choose death if you so desire. It will be rewarded to you as your right! We have no need for suicidal maniacs! So, choose now!"
Whimpers erupted at his words, but he didn't seem to notice as he signaled for his men to begin binding them together in two long lines. Preparing them for something.
"Silence!" One of the soldiers raged, shoving two girls who looked to be barely over fifteen into the opposite line as their mother. "I don't want to hear any more crying from you whores!"
The captives quieted immediately, but the crying didn't stop. It wouldn't stop for a while.
It was then that Ymir was given the chance to scan each face in the line, taking mental count of neighbors, shopkeepers wives, and family friends who stood next to her.
Thelea was still there, just a few paces down from her and there were plenty others she recognized.
Still, many faces were missing, and Ymir found herself fighting her own tears as she pictured Vera once again, sprawled in the dirt, an arrow wedged in her shoulder, and throat.
But Amena.
Where was Amena?
Scanning the crowd again, Ymir inspected each and every face for her sister, unsuccessfully.
She wasn't there.
She looked again. Nothing.
Amena was dead?
"No…"
"Quiet!" A grossly tattooed soldier said, grabbing her wrists and binding them along the with the others. He pulled the knot tight, enough to bite into the flesh of her wrists and almost constricting her circulation. Leaning down, he whispered one more command, his hot and rancid breath warming the tips of her ears.
"Obey, wench, or I will teach you what it means to be obedient!"
She blinked, her face warming as he moved on to the woman behind her, chuckling.
Was that anger?
Something within her burned. It wanted to burn through the rope on her wrists, it wanted to consume the whole village in its grasp. It wanted to feel the hot blood of the soldiers on her face.
But even as she stared at one of the smoldering houses, the piles of dead, and the soldiers pacing proudly in front of them, she felt the singeing feeling was too far out of reach for her to grasp, unable to be tapped.
It was like all those other times.
She would just stand and watch.
"Draw your blades!"
At the commander's orders, the sound of swords scraping against their sheaths shattered her eardrums.
"At the ready!"
The ground seemed to shift as the soldiers took their stance in unison.
"And…" The young man raised his arm to signal, as Ymir squeezed her eyes shut. "…At your leisure!"
Bodies hit the ground with a thud, and she felt the feeling once again, of hot liquid splattering on her arms and legs.
The rope shifted, as some of the dead pulled it down with them, and the warriors laughed as the women sagged with their weight, stumbling with the motion and suppressing their screams.
"Anyone who wishes to die, speak now!" The commander shouted. "But your sisters will drag you with them to their fate!"
No one moved, except for the antsy executioners, relishing their fear. Ready to strike.
Ymir barely breathed as she opened her eyes, avoiding eye contact with the ghastly faces of the dead, and waited for someone to step up.
But no one did.
By the Sun.
"Good! Now…" The man smirked at them as he paused, anticipation building with each second. "… You all will take your rightful places, by receiving the mark of a slave."
Their faces collectively paled as accompanying soldiers opened and closed giant pairs of iron clamps, the sound rattling deep in their bones.
"Now, women," The officer began again. "We take your tongues!"
Ymir was jostled as other captives screamed and tore at the knots in the rope, yanking her own bind painfully with their struggle.
Suddenly, the ground seemed much more appealing.
For once in her life, she should have chosen death.