A/N: So tantalizingly close...if you think the Warlord is evil, you have yet to reckon with an author who enjoys stringing out her readers. And will you look at that, I'm on chapter 40. That's amazing, to me. Read on!
Chapter 40-Fear and Bruises
The camp seemed inherently evil, though that might have just been her imagination. Tents were all around, the dark material blending into the night forest, some of their occupants snoring slightly. There was a tight ring of sentries, all standing shoulder-to-shoulder, rigid at attention. One stepped out and blocked their way, speaking in an officious tone.
"Halt! State your business in our camp." Demelin took Rosellyn by the elbow again, gesturing to her with the other hand.
"My name is Demelin, night-sentry from the reserves camp. Myself and my commanding officer have abducted a young she-Elf." Rosellyn bristled at the "she-Elf" comment, but kept it to herself. Now was NOT the time to throw a fit.
"Commanding officer?" the soldier frowned, "Where is your commanding officer? Who is he?"
"Bain, son of Doin. And he's feeding the spiders. I believe the Warlord would like to see her?" The sentry nodded.
"I shall take her to the Warlord. Report back to your camp." Demelin's grip tightened on her arm, though his voice remained quiet.
"With all due respect, I will come with you." The sentry seemed to be weighing his options. Then he shrugged.
"I suppose you may come. Keep her quiet, and keep her with you. Follow me. The rest of you," this was directed at the Men directly to either side of him, "stay in formation." Rosellyn thought that the order was a useless formality, but Men always loved to hear the sound of their own voices, especially when they were giving commands.
They walked into the heart of the camp, and Rosellyn tried to do the quick counting again. Judging by the number of tents, there were maybe three hundred here, meaning there were roughly two to three hundred in the reserve camp. Those walkie-talkies Della had mentioned would have come in extremely handy.
She found herself shaking. She couldn't get scared, not when she was so close! But she was starting to feel the first nigglings of fear. She needed combat, not this waiting stuff. On instinct, she reached to her hip flask of miruvor. The sentry caught her hand.
"Don't even think about it," he said gruffly. She tried reasoning with him.
"I'm not going for a weapon," she explained, "just my hip flask."
"You're not drinking anything. I'm bringing you to the Warlord alive."
"It's not poison," said Demelin suddenly. "She would have used it, else. It's fine to drink, whatever it is."
"Miruvor," she supplied, "Elvish liquor." The sentry still looked suspicious.
"Give a sip to this fellow." She unhooked the flask and handed it to Demelin. He accepted it, and drank a bit without hesitation. His eyes widened as the effects hit him.
"Does that ever wake you up!" he said marveling, shaking his head slightly to clear it. "It's safe, she can have some." The sentry grudgingly allowed this. Rosellyn took a substantial drink. She would have drunk it all, had Della not stopped her. ~Liquor? As in, alcohol? Save some; I have a plan, in case everything goes bad. Just keep that handy.~ Puzzled, Rose did as she was bid, loosely hooking it back on, not the sort of fetters she'd give it if she was planning to run. -I hope you know what you're doing.-
They stopped outside of the largest, grandest tent, more of a pavillion than anything else. It was silken, unless she missed her guess, though it was stained and travel-worn. Four sentries flanked the tent flap. From the silhouttes cast by the dying fire inside, there was another way out, though it was guarded by only one soldier. She was trying to memorize every detail of the place, something, anything that would help her later. One of the sentries stepped out.
"What is your business here?" Demelin was brusquely shoved to the side.
"I have a captive for the Warlord." Rose bristled.
"You? When did you do anything?" she snapped. And got slapped across the face for her trouble, the same side that Awaren had slapped. She cried out as the still-tender skin re-bruised. Then she doubled over as another blow sank into her stomach. She dropped like a stone to the ground and covered her head as the irate sentry began to kick at her. Mostly they hit her back, but once his boot sailed squarely onto her temple.
She must have blacked out, because the next thing she remembered, she had entered half-way into an argument.
"...she came with me, not you! She had every right to--"
"Prisoners have no rights! She does not speak until spoken to!"
"But to lay her out cold like that, just for saying you were wrong--"
"I am a superior officer! Watch your tone!" The tent-sentry nudged Rosellyn with his toe. At least he did it gently, even if it was on her bruised side. Was there any side of her NOT bruised?
"Master Demelin's captive is awake. Stand her up." Before the camp-sentry could refute that, Demelin carefully stood her up on her feet, giving her his arm for support, if she needed it.
She did. "I cannot allow her in front of the Warlord so armed. She can unarm herself, if she so chooses." Legs shaking from injury, exhaustion, and fear, she slowly drew her knives out of her belt, so they didn't think she was launching an attack. She couldn't resist, however, giving one final, fond spin to Diamondsong. I'll see it again, she thought, I'll get out of here. She dropped her quiver and her bow, but, as Della had told her, she kept the miruvor at her side. No one commented at it. The tent-sentry gave her a rough pat-down, to see if she had concealed anything, then swept the tent flap aside. This was it. Moment of truth. She was going face-to-face with the Warlord.
A/N: I did warn you; I am evil.
Chapter 40-Fear and Bruises
The camp seemed inherently evil, though that might have just been her imagination. Tents were all around, the dark material blending into the night forest, some of their occupants snoring slightly. There was a tight ring of sentries, all standing shoulder-to-shoulder, rigid at attention. One stepped out and blocked their way, speaking in an officious tone.
"Halt! State your business in our camp." Demelin took Rosellyn by the elbow again, gesturing to her with the other hand.
"My name is Demelin, night-sentry from the reserves camp. Myself and my commanding officer have abducted a young she-Elf." Rosellyn bristled at the "she-Elf" comment, but kept it to herself. Now was NOT the time to throw a fit.
"Commanding officer?" the soldier frowned, "Where is your commanding officer? Who is he?"
"Bain, son of Doin. And he's feeding the spiders. I believe the Warlord would like to see her?" The sentry nodded.
"I shall take her to the Warlord. Report back to your camp." Demelin's grip tightened on her arm, though his voice remained quiet.
"With all due respect, I will come with you." The sentry seemed to be weighing his options. Then he shrugged.
"I suppose you may come. Keep her quiet, and keep her with you. Follow me. The rest of you," this was directed at the Men directly to either side of him, "stay in formation." Rosellyn thought that the order was a useless formality, but Men always loved to hear the sound of their own voices, especially when they were giving commands.
They walked into the heart of the camp, and Rosellyn tried to do the quick counting again. Judging by the number of tents, there were maybe three hundred here, meaning there were roughly two to three hundred in the reserve camp. Those walkie-talkies Della had mentioned would have come in extremely handy.
She found herself shaking. She couldn't get scared, not when she was so close! But she was starting to feel the first nigglings of fear. She needed combat, not this waiting stuff. On instinct, she reached to her hip flask of miruvor. The sentry caught her hand.
"Don't even think about it," he said gruffly. She tried reasoning with him.
"I'm not going for a weapon," she explained, "just my hip flask."
"You're not drinking anything. I'm bringing you to the Warlord alive."
"It's not poison," said Demelin suddenly. "She would have used it, else. It's fine to drink, whatever it is."
"Miruvor," she supplied, "Elvish liquor." The sentry still looked suspicious.
"Give a sip to this fellow." She unhooked the flask and handed it to Demelin. He accepted it, and drank a bit without hesitation. His eyes widened as the effects hit him.
"Does that ever wake you up!" he said marveling, shaking his head slightly to clear it. "It's safe, she can have some." The sentry grudgingly allowed this. Rosellyn took a substantial drink. She would have drunk it all, had Della not stopped her. ~Liquor? As in, alcohol? Save some; I have a plan, in case everything goes bad. Just keep that handy.~ Puzzled, Rose did as she was bid, loosely hooking it back on, not the sort of fetters she'd give it if she was planning to run. -I hope you know what you're doing.-
They stopped outside of the largest, grandest tent, more of a pavillion than anything else. It was silken, unless she missed her guess, though it was stained and travel-worn. Four sentries flanked the tent flap. From the silhouttes cast by the dying fire inside, there was another way out, though it was guarded by only one soldier. She was trying to memorize every detail of the place, something, anything that would help her later. One of the sentries stepped out.
"What is your business here?" Demelin was brusquely shoved to the side.
"I have a captive for the Warlord." Rose bristled.
"You? When did you do anything?" she snapped. And got slapped across the face for her trouble, the same side that Awaren had slapped. She cried out as the still-tender skin re-bruised. Then she doubled over as another blow sank into her stomach. She dropped like a stone to the ground and covered her head as the irate sentry began to kick at her. Mostly they hit her back, but once his boot sailed squarely onto her temple.
She must have blacked out, because the next thing she remembered, she had entered half-way into an argument.
"...she came with me, not you! She had every right to--"
"Prisoners have no rights! She does not speak until spoken to!"
"But to lay her out cold like that, just for saying you were wrong--"
"I am a superior officer! Watch your tone!" The tent-sentry nudged Rosellyn with his toe. At least he did it gently, even if it was on her bruised side. Was there any side of her NOT bruised?
"Master Demelin's captive is awake. Stand her up." Before the camp-sentry could refute that, Demelin carefully stood her up on her feet, giving her his arm for support, if she needed it.
She did. "I cannot allow her in front of the Warlord so armed. She can unarm herself, if she so chooses." Legs shaking from injury, exhaustion, and fear, she slowly drew her knives out of her belt, so they didn't think she was launching an attack. She couldn't resist, however, giving one final, fond spin to Diamondsong. I'll see it again, she thought, I'll get out of here. She dropped her quiver and her bow, but, as Della had told her, she kept the miruvor at her side. No one commented at it. The tent-sentry gave her a rough pat-down, to see if she had concealed anything, then swept the tent flap aside. This was it. Moment of truth. She was going face-to-face with the Warlord.
A/N: I did warn you; I am evil.