Tw - mild violence
Prompt: "We don't have seasons here. We have War or Not War."
Sheridan cleaned the grime underneath her nails, using the hunting knife her father had gifted her just before jumping off a cliff to prove his loyalty. She glanced at the seated prisoner, noting his hands had stopped shaking. He was definitely a foreigner; his speech and manners had been the first things to set him apart and make him a valuable target. Merchants were highly sought – not only did their families live in luxury, but one could easily lead them into the most lavish castles in the realm without so much as a whiff of suspicion. And that was exactly what the captain needed if their little plan was to work. It was up to her to ensure it did and Sheridan took her duties extremely seriously.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
Careful little steps were to be taken if they wanted the merchant to provide them with a ticket to the most lavish ball of the fall.
"What gave it away?" He replied from under the potato sack they had placed on his head so he wouldn't know their whereabouts. "Could you please remove this vile thing? I'm certain something died a very painful death in here."
She made no move to make him more comfortable, unsure if it would guarantee them a win.
"What do you want from me?"
"Are you not Rasim Kut, the son of the great merchant of the East?"
"If this is about my father not paying for using that trade route last winter, I assure you he intends to make it up for it."
She clicked her tongue and edged closer until she was sure Rasim could feel her breath even through the bag. He gulped.
"This isn't about the trading route, is it?"
"Nope. We don't even have seasons here. We have war and…not war."
Rasim exhaled slowly, getting his nerves under control. She had to hand it to him; he was good. Most of her former victims had cracked under pressure like glass, shattering into a thousand, irretrievable pieces. But Rasim was different and someone, surely not his forever-absent father, had taken the time to train him appropriately.
"What is this about then?" He chose the more direct route, knowing it was the one with more chances of success.
He really was good and if he hadn't had a potato bag on his face, he could have seen Sheridan's surprise mirrored clearly on her face as her guard dropped low enough to let emotions shine through.
"I think you know what we want."
"We?"
Sheridan caught herself before she cursed; she had let her guard slip much too low and now her tongue had gotten the better of her. But the situation could still be salvaged.
"Me and my employer, of course."
"I suppose you're not going to tell me who that is."
She slipped the knife on her boot and pressed it on Rasim's throat, reveling in how his veins bulged underneath the cold blade.
"You want me to slip you the tickets to the festival."
"Clever boy."
When he didn't continue, she pressed harder.
"Alright, alright. I'll see what I can do."
Not good enough. She gritted her teeth. If she pushed the blade harder, it would draw blood and the neck was not a good place to draw blood. Not when there were so many green maggots underneath. He'd bleed out and die and she would have to deal with the consequences.
"I'm afraid you didn't understand me, Rasim."
She dropped her boot on his foot, squealing when he dodged it and pushed her down. She had stayed so close, she hadn't noticed him fiddling with his bonds and, as any trained man would, he had managed to slip them and was now fleeing to the door, yanking the potato bag from his head while his captor was squirming on the ground.
But Sheridan had been trained as well. It would take more than that to evade.
She rolled on the floor and grabbed his leg, pulling him down with a pleased grunt. Rasim fell with a startled yelp, hitting his head on the wooden planks. Sheridan stared at his unmoving body and the trickle of blood dripping from his temple. If he was dead, she was dead too.
Rasim's leg twitched and Sheridan allowed herself to exhale slowly as she tapped him on the cheek. "Wake up," she muttered, increasing the frequency of the taps until his cheek turned red. "Wake up, damn you."
His eyes fluttered open and he grunted, but he made no move to inspect his situation. It would be the logical thing to do and that's what made Sheridan realized Rasim's injury was more serious than she had first thought.
"Rasim?" She stood above him on her knees, ignoring the spreading blood. "Can you hear me?"
His eyes were glassy, and a corner of his mouth was lopsided in an unnatural position. She'd seen this once before after a soldier had gotten a nasty blow straight to the head. And she remembered he had remained incapacitated for the rest of his life.
"Rasim." Her voice broke as she dared to shake him gently, hoping he would show any sign of consciousness besides keeping his eyes open. "Do you know where you are? Do you know what happened?"
He turned his eyes on her and blinked.
"Can you understand what I am saying?"
If Ambrose learned of this, he would hunt her down like a sucking piglet.
"Rasim, answer me." She punched the floor.
Rasim smiled – a happy smile, the one children usually have. Children and those who had their brains scattered by war, hunger, injury, or grief. She cursed, fighting to stand up, pain shooting up her ankle. It was definitely sprained, to say the least.
The light filtering through the dirty windows had dimmed; she didn't have much time. When the captain came, looking for answers, she should be long gone. This was her only chance to escape with her life. She stepped over Rasim, opening the door, and peeking outside. The horses she had used to get herself and Rasim to the little safe house were still there, neighing their anger at being left with no food for so long.
She glanced back; as a soldier, Sheridan had been taught against it. A sing of weakness, her captain had called it. You can show no weakness on the battlefield or you'll get a bullet through your skull or a knife stuck in your neck. Rasim was still oblivious to what had transpired, but his forehead was caked with sweat.
He'd be dead soon. And Ambrose wouldn't be able to do anything about it.
She left the door standing ajar, grabbed Rasim's armpits, and dragged him out. The horses stared at her; not even they could believe Sheridan was capable of such foolishness. It went against everything she had been trained.
It was what Ambrose would call counterproductive.
But her instincts told her she simply couldn't let Rasim die and she had learned to trust her gut, even when it went against direct orders. Getting Rasim on the horse was easier than she had bargained; the man wasn't half as stuffed as his father was. In fact, their intelligence reported he used to share his meals with the staff and the beggars and, sometimes, he would withhold himself the privilege to eat food for a whole day. Sheridan had smirked when she had heard it, deeming it untrue. But judging by his girth, Rasim had not been eating as he should have or as it was expected of a man his station.
The higher the rank, the more food had to go inside.
The white stallion looked at her with disappointment and she blew air up its nostrils. "Good boy."
She undid his bindings and then the ones on her mare, checking for supplies. They were scarce, but it would be enough for two days' travel. She grabbed the stallion's lead and jumped on her horse, digging her spurs into her stomach.
This time, she didn't glance back. If she had, Ambrose would be holding the advantage and that was something she couldn't afford.