Since the attack on Kation outside the meeting chamber, Kahedin had started making enquiries. He was known for how many friends he had (albeit in that strange, unspoken way that people knew Tristan liked to kill things). Well 'friends' in this case meant people all along the length of the Wall and in the major cities of the province, who liked to answer his questions. Since Tristan had set them on this course of spy games (with a lot of unnecessary encouragement from that abominable girl), Kahedin had been talking to every single 'friend' he could contact, begging for information.
Asking questions about the conspiracy and its participants—both to the captured spies and his contacts—had led him down a frustrating path filled with vague half-answers, shrugs and memory loss. No one could answer him. Eventually, a nervous spice merchant from Eboracum had whispered to him in the middle of a very noisy village tavern that there were still plans that hadn't been put into action.
He didn't know what that meant, so after they returned to the fort after the debacle at Baron Donatus' villa, he went in search of Kation—who knew the strangest things—and asked her if there was anything in the baron's papers that might help.
She had just finished cornering Bors and had him frog-marched to Vanora's rooms by Dagonet and Dinadan and was sitting on the stairs in the tavern, slumped over and head hanging.
"Tired?" he asked, nudging her boot with a toe. She twitched and looked up at him—the dark circles under her eyes more pronounced than ever. She also looked thinner as she huddled inside her cloak-like outer tunic.
"More than you could ever imagine," she sighed, not getting up. "We found Bors, Dagonet's keeping him near Vanora on pain of instant execution. Now… it's just waiting…" anxiety stole onto her face. "It's just so dangerous…" she whispered, half to herself, surely. "If something goes wrong…"
"Nothing will go wrong, you know that. Vanora doesn't have time for such nonsense."
She smiled weakly, but it wasn't convincing. "So what is it now?"
"I need to talk to you and Tristan," he said quietly. "Your master is waiting for us outside the Eastern Gate."
Her shoulders sagged. "And presumably this cannot wait until I've got a decent night's sleep?"
"No." It wasn't fair on any of them, but that was the way of things.
The girl shook her head at some private thought and slowly got to her feet, stretching her arms above her head and sighing heavily. "When this is all over, I'm going to sleep for about two weeks."
An admirable plan—if totally unrealistic. He slapped her on the shoulder encouragingly and they walked to the Eastern Gate together. "My friends tell me that the ordeal is far from over," he said casually, as if they were discussing Vanora's labour.
She rolled her eyes at the obvious remark and nodded. "Setting aside my personal proclivities on the matter, it would seem that my master wishes to slaughter anyone involved. On our side or otherwise."
"He's just tired."
"Aren't we all?" she murmured bitterly, tucking her hands deep inside her cavernous tunic sleeves to keep warm.
It was his suggestion to get a quick bite to eat in the village before going back to the gate. After buying some bread and meat, they walked back to the fort by a more private route.
It was a mistake.
It was his head that was bludgeoned.
It was her muffled curse that rang in his mind as nothingness swiftly overcame his senses.
~oOo~
It must be said now that it was war. What was done cannot be excused, my actions included. But I defy my readers to deny that the times were different, I was different.
I noticed them first—despite Kahedin being the 'scout'. Clearly he wasn't expecting such a swift retaliation. Or perhaps it was a pre-emptive strike. I'll never know, but I have a hunch it was the latter. Communication cannot move that fast in a pre-industrial society.
But sadly I wasn't expecting them to hit him over the head with a cosh that had been hidden up the man's sleeve. I leapt forward, trying to catch Kahedin and prevent further injury. I was beaten to this dubious privilege by two of the men. They draped his arms over their shoulders as if he was drunk. Meanwhile a heavy pair of hands clamped on the back of my shirt and my hair, hauling me back. That hurt like hell, but I was too wound-up to feel sorry for myself. I back-pedalled into the man's chest, my elbow raised to drive up into his diaphragm. It didn't work because the man twisted away and tossed me into a second man's waiting arms. I was enveloped in a crushing bear hug and rags were looped over my eyes and between my teeth. Even if I escaped (don't think I couldn't), I needed to stay with Kahedin and make sure he wasn't killed.
So I went limp and offered no resistance as my arms were wrenched behind my back and tightly bound. Lacing my fingers together and squeezing tightly meant that the surface area of my wrists was slightly (but crucially) larger, meaning that when I relaxed I could probably work myself free. The men didn't notice—perhaps they weren't as clever as they thought they were. I was spun around, those huge hands like steel clamps on my shoulders. My head was hurting again—the not-yet healed laceration in my scalp stinging hotly. I hoped it wasn't bleeding.
"Knock them out, nothing too damaging." Someone said, and one of them punched me in the head, dazing me so badly that I was completely disorientated. Whatever happened next, I couldn't say but we were transported to their 'secret lair' during that time. When I came to, it was to the sounds of torture.
"Who—else—knows—about—this?!" someone yelled, each word punctuated by a horribly familiar thudding sound. They were kicking someone. That someone didn't have the breath left in their body to do much more than gasp and whimper. My stomach roiled in sympathy, but I remained still, eyes closed. Best to feign unconsciousness until the interrogation was over. I was lying down in a presumably darkish room, my hands tied behind my back and my ankles similarly bound. Clearly they were taking no chances. At least there wasn't a sack over my head. Thank… something… for small blessings. The kicking (and punching and lashing) went on for what felt like a small eternity. And while I was the sort of person who could survive literally any beating, I didn't really want to test my unnatural ability's limits even if it would spare another. The thing was, this ability was used against me during my last adventure, where the guards had alternated between torturing me and harming others in front of me in order to elicit some human feeling from me. But while I had talked—sung like a canary in fact—I had managed to keep the crucial truths back, choosing temporary death over betrayal. And it got easier every time.
So with these unpleasant memories in mind, I waited, keeping as still as possible (which is really difficult when you're so uncomfortable) and wondered what I should do. I could slip my bonds and make a break for it when the interrogator had left—but I had no idea where I was or how heavily we were being guarded. It would be a hard won freedom, and possibly fatal before it could be accomplished. I really didn't want to die too many times.
Worse still, I realised with an internal wince that this was exactly the sort of dreadful situation that would reveal my abilities in no time at all. If the God of Cloud-Cuckoo-Land had planned this, I was going to skin him alive. Best keep it together, gather information and then get out as soon as possible.
Then, out of nowhere a heavy boot slammed into my left shoulder blade, sending me tumbling onto my stomach as I gasped in pain. That was unexpected. No longer able to simulate a dead faint, I hissed through my teeth and curled back onto my right side, drawing my knees up to my chest protectively as I stared up at the man looming over me.
"Awake then, cur," he sneered. "Perhaps you'll be more helpful than your master's friend." Keeping half an eye on the brute, I looked at the quivering lump on the floor across the small room. His back was to me, but I recognised him instantly: Kahedin. Battered, scraped, bruised and bleeding…
This wasn't good.
I let my gaze return to our tormentor and felt my expression harden into the blankness which had earned me the highly flattering nickname of 'Cold-Eyes' in Narnia. The man was clearly a sadistic imbecile, though, because he grinned back at me.
"Oho, you've got some fire! What makes you so cocky, slave?" he slapped my face, not too hard, but enough to sting. I paid it no heed—he hadn't even begun the interrogation. I didn't recognise him, but I wondered if this man was working for the Prefect or Baron Donatus.
So I asked him exactly that. "Who's paying you to kick a conscripted Sarmatian?" I retorted calmly. "Donatus? The Prefect? Or perhaps the mysterious Merlin from beyond the wall?"
The man looked annoyed that I had the temerity to interrogate him, and slapped me again—properly this time. My ears were ringing slightly, but otherwise it wasn't too bad… considering. The worst part was that the man had grabbed me by the front of my tunic and hauled me up into a sitting position, screaming into my face. "I am asking the bloody questions, you little bastard!"he shook me a little for good measure. I remained as stoic as a rock, not rising to his temper or attempts at intimidation. Like I said, this wasn't exactly the worst thing to ever happen to me.
I looked the man over for any signs of affiliation, nothing. Moreover he was far too brutish and unrefined to be a real interrogator, which meant that our kidnappers were probably working on a smaller budget. This ruled out the Prefect, who could certainly locate and afford a torture master and a convenient cellar to squirrel us away in without arousing any suspicion. This set-up smacked of an amateur production. Hence why I distrusted it immediately. We were still being deceived before being taken to our final destination. Perhaps we were being kept somewhere away from the Prefect's property so that if his place was searched there would be no evidence of us. Clever man… clever and also rather stupid. I'd have had more difficulty breaking out of a villa in Eboracum than this place.
"You know, I think this is something that the Prefect has organised. I have no idea why he's going to such trouble to hide at this stage," I grinned facetiously. "He could have just sent us a letter—after all, we've already heard so much about him. Did you know we're his very greatest admirers?" That earned me a solid, sincere blow which left my head spinning. I felt a sharp sting in my lip and tasted blood. I sighed and shook my head, trying to blink away the stars. I'd almost forgotten how much that hurt. It wasn't like the movies, where one can shake such things off easily. The muscles in my neck and shoulder screamed from being wrenched around.
On the other hand, taunting him was pretty fun… "Where is the old bastard, anyway? Holed up with his latest dancing girl? Or has he finally sent a direct message to Arthur that says something like 'Surrender or I kill your spy-hunters.'?Or perhaps he's meeting with his confederates? I'm afraid Donatus won't be in attendance. We've already dealt with him."
I was shaken hard, so that my teeth felt like they were rattling in my skull. "Will you shut up?!" the man roared, flinging me away and then aiming a kick at me. It caught me squarely in the gut and I was instantly winded. Gasping, unable to speak, I bared my teeth at him in a savage rictus as I tried to inflate my lungs again. As we kept up this staring contest, another man walked into the room. He was leaner than the first brute and with long blond hair and a neat handlebar moustache suggested he wasn't from this side of the Wall. A Germanic. I glared at him too, but he was ignoring the bound prisoners.
"Your chief wants to see you," he rasped, clearly this wasn't his first language. The bulky brute lumbered off with only the most animalistic of grunts, leaving the Germanic to watch over Kahedin and me. I finally got my breathing under control and sat up again, slowly and painfully now, wincing at every ill-advised twitch and misjudged movement. The man watched me curiously, but said nothing.
Did that mean I could begin procedures? Goodie…
"Are you a mercenary?" I asked, my voice a breathy whisper. But the man heard me perfectly and his eyes snapped to mine. "How many of you has he hired?"
"What are you talking about?" he snarled.
"You are a Germanic," I said, patiently. "Are you a mercenary or part of that Germanic cavalry legion? Is this official business, or do you know what's really going on? What have you been offered in return?"
"What does it matter to you, a Sarmatian's dog?" the man retorted. "No more questions."
I shrugged as best I could and leaned back against the wall, watching everything. If the Germans were involved then that settled matters rather neatly, I would break us out of here as soon as possible. Those guys were completely mad, and thought nothing of running ten miles in the rain with a full pack and possibly their horse strapped to their hugely muscled backs. Worse still, some scouts could read the land like human X-Ray machines. I wished our guards would wait outside… I really wanted to get out of these bonds already! And so the Germanic and I waited for what seemed like an age in mutual grumpy silence. Eventually our original guard appeared and relieved the scowling blond. Then he too left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Finally! I thought.
"Kahedin?" I hissed. The man groaned. "Kahedin!" I said, a little louder and more urgently.
Eventually, he sighed and managed one pained word: "What?"
"Where are we?"
"I don't know, that fat bastard woke me with a hefty kick and started asking me who else knew what I'd been told," he wheezed. "I think he broke a rib or three," he added piteously.
"Aren't you supposed to be a fearsome Sarmatian warrior with a core of iron?" I challenged haughtily. This guy needed to get in touch with his inner badass.
"Shut up you little demon," he grumbled. "Unless you have a clever idea for getting out of these bonds, we'll have to just wait."
That was the attitude of the defeated. I cannot say I was impressed. Our treatment so far had only served to make me angry. So, mentally hurling a spear at Kahedin, I lay down and arched my back, by degrees inching my wrists under my bum until they were under my legs. For once I thanked Mother Nature for being such a skinny arse. From there I could untie my feet and manoeuvre my hands into my lap where I could untie the knot with my teeth. Stage 1 was complete.
Stage 2: put boots back on, get up and walk to the battered Sarmatian co-habiting prison. Untie and turn over groaning man. Perform brief examination of his injuries. Summary: two broken ribs (and a third cracked), mild concussion, broken fingers, severe bruising to back and abdomen, minor cuts and abrasions all over.
Stage 3: Whispered Conference of the Prisoners of War:
Me: (brightly) Well, surprise! We're in the shit now.
Kahedin: (being helped to sit up) Shut up, you are unnatural. Why are you so happy?
Me: I'm not happy, I'm angry. And you should be too. We let our guard down disgracefully. Now, what was it you wanted to say to me before we were… forcibly relocated?
Kahedin: Only that the Prefect plans to spark a full-scale rebellion in our fort—thus proving Arthur is an incompetent moron—OW!
Me: (splinting his broken fingers using a stick and strips of material torn from Kahedin's under-tunic) Sshhh! Sorry, keep talking.
Kahedin: Well, during the chaos some of the Prefects agents will sneak into Arthur's quarters and steal back the incriminating papers we took from Donatus. In the aftermath, not only will the governor's faith in Arthur be destroyed, but the legion will be decimated, we'll probably be shipped off to fight on another perishing frontier, and Arthur will be forced to commit suicide. It was due to take place around midwinter, during the festivities when we'd all be pissed out of our skulls.
Me: How fucking bleak. How long have you known?
Kahedin: Just since this afternoon. I had a bit of free time and decided to meet my friend who had just returned from Eboracum. They must have been spotted us talking and followed us. I don't doubt he's dead.
Me: And then they came for you as soon as they realised that you were heading straight to Arthur… via Tristan and I. Why did you think to come to us first?
Kahedin: Because in case they killed me before we could talk to Arthur, the message would still get to him.
Me: How noble. You're lucky I put it upon myself to be your protection detail, oh keeper of urgent secrets.
Kahedin: (Scoffing) Some guardian. I'm docking your pay.
Me: Don't make me hit you.
Kahedin: What now? Despite getting out of our bonds, we're in no fit state to get out of here.
Me: (Disdainfully) Speak for yourself, I already have a plan. Moreover, I've still got my emergency gear.
Kahedin: Emergency what?
Me: I still have my tent-peg and my tiny knife on me.
Kahedin: (cautiously) Tent-peg?
Me: (Retrieving it) I hid it at the bottom of my legging so that once I was wearing my boot it couldn't be felt through the thick sock.
Kahedin: Clever little creature. And the knife?
Me: It's still underneath my sash and belt. Again… hidden underneath so much fabric that it couldn't be found unless they knew where to look. I had a different handle put on it so that it lies flat against my back. Hang on, I'll dig it out. (Produced a knife as long as my middle finger.)
Kahedin: You are enjoying yourself, aren't you?
Me: (Cornered) … Okay… maybe a little.
Kahedin: (Irritated) Stop being a twit. How do we get out of here when we have no idea how heavily we are being guarded?
Me: (Disapprovingly) You are severely lacking in the necessary cunning and savagery, my friend. I shall generously blame it on your concussion. We are going to subdue the guards and make a run for it, since our legs are in perfect working order.
Kahedin: But we don't know where we are.
Me: We'll find out soon enough.
Kahedin: We have no supplies.
Me: Considering we can't be that far away from anywhere, I think we can go a day without food.
Kahedin: How did you figure that?
Me: We were only knocked out once, each.
Kahedin: (Grudgingly) Fair point.
Me: (Happily) So, ready to wreak some havoc?
Kahedin: (Gloomy) And die in the escape attempt.
Me: (Tiredly) Strive to cultivate a bad attitude, Kahedin, we're going to need it.
Conclusions:
1: Kahedin might have some impressive scars, but he doesn't like pain.
2: I ought to seek some therapy for being genuinely excited about unleashing some grim-faced kickass.
3: It was high time we got our badassitude on.