While Oswald was flabbergasted, the man in front of him had a large grin.
"I'm claiming what? I am a villager! What in the world screams to you I'm a spy? I would not have approached this gigantic camp if I was!" Oswald said, not because he thought it'd be a good explanation for his presence, but because he could clearly see the camp under the cloud before the horsemen's arrival.
"Silence in front of the commander!" One said before using the handle of his spear to hit Oswald's head.
The move was slow and dodged to everyone's surprise. The fact he had yet to be attached led Oswald to the conclusion he could defend himself, so he kicked into the tip of the handle and sent the spear flying through the roof of the tent in a slit-shaped hole.
"Wha-?" The spearman muttered. Thankfully he let go of it before being sent with it.
"Say, is next round soon?" Oswald asked casually. He wanted to be sure to witness the perfect moon, to be released just in time at least.
"You tell us! Spy!" The commander shouted as more spearmen came to the tent. They were about twenty. Then other armed men came in, axes, swords, bows. Nothing he could defend against all at the same time. After one minute, the tent was crowded, nobody could move an inch without stepping on one's foot.
"I've never seen a villager with such a strong build!" Laughed one of the spearmen. "That's what we thought, at first, plus he seems to understand Spanish language. He's the worst spy we've seen so far, we were sure of ourselves, else he wouldn't be here to tell the tale." Commented the second.
Oswald was still astonished by the blatant details they insisted on to make him look guilty. "I hunt in the forest and drag bodies down to my village, I can't stay lean because I exercise too much."
The double-edged sentences the boy uttered weren't taken lightly by the men around him. In the contrary, the seriousness of the situation increased.
"Dark hair, medium skin tone, Spanish blood! Nothing but a traitor!" Added the third spearman.
"That's my mother's hair, besides, I work every day in broad daylight. That's not a proof. My father probably works with you! Bendis, Victor Bendis!"
"Wall of pride or wall of shame?" One of the men said.
"Never heard that name before." Another spoke.
A dagger came to Oswald's throat. One with dark engravings on the blade and dents on its edge, it had served plenty of times down to its target's bone. The commander had Oswald kneel down before asking. "What's your attack plan?"
"I don't plan to attack you! I'm a villager! Let go of me you stupid!" Was Oswald's last answer. He was brought to another tent, one that had a strong iron smell. He recognised the pattern on the wood structures, they were the same as in the bedroom he used to share with Meryl. 'What's this?'
His nose suddenly focused on the scent that was loaded with iron.
Blood.
Death.
The many green and black scents hid the terrific torture devices under. Oswald's hands were tightened in a compact knot. The rope was too thick for him to break, if he tried, he had more chances to dislocate his shoulders.
The commander was still following the group. The little fun Oswald brought to the camp lightened up everyone's mood but his.
Oswald's heart rate went up with every second he spent in the horrific room. It worsened when he saw someone stretching the green glow while cleaning blood.
'Mother. What have we done?' He thought with an absent-minded face. He dodged another blow that was supposed to hit his head, this time he headbutted the culprit, breaking his nose.
"Let me go home! I'm a villager, not a spy!" He shouted before seeing the commander with a torrent of blood over his mouth.
"Use the pillory. Lock his fucking neck to his wrists." The commander said, spitting a mouthful of blood.
Oswald was forced in between two thick wood planks with three holes to hold him tight. A metal lock was applied to each side of the mechanism, making it impossible for him to move properly. "Now, all of you, get out. He's mine." Said the commander with a cold tone, never in his life was he this glad to torture a spy.
Poor Oswald was at the man's mercy. 'Steel shackles on my ankles and now this... Why the hell don't they believe a word I say?' He mind-shouted while clenching his jaw.
The masked persecutor, best cleaner of all men, kept doing his activity in a corner of the tent. A head, missing its ears and eyeballs, rolled on the ground next to Oswald. It was his first time seeing a dead man, and this one had suffered to death.
'I need to get out! Quick! They're all insane!' He thought, he could still ear all the men's mocking chuckles outside of the tent.
He kneeled, bending forward so his knees would hold the wooden frame while he pulled his arms backwards.
"What are you trying? Oh, you're pretty straight forward for a Spanish. I can't believe you are trying to escape only now that you can't."
His head in the bloody mud, Oswald kept adding strength to his contortion. He said. "Every person that tried to escape the same way... in front of you..." While panting.
Crack. Something broke. The commander wasn't sure of its origin. Was it the wooden frame or the boy's bones?
The tip of Oswald's fingers turned dark red, as for his wrists, they had the deep scratches around, his blood never flowed out of his wounds.
The commander observed quietly. He came closer to his victim, to smell the precious fear the boy exhaled with each breathe. "Those people what?" He asked with a grin.
"They were afraid to lose a few fingers?" Oswald asked with a deeper voice.
Crack! His freed hand grabbed the man's armor in a swift gesture, with enough strength to bring the man closer. The commander received a second hit to the nose with the pillory, backed up by the strength of Oswald's shoulder.
However next instant, an unforeseen object stopped Oswald's rampage. Now staring down the barrel of a pistol, the boy let go of the commander. Oswald knew how lethal the object was. The persecutor had saved the man's life.
"Any last wish?" Asked the man holding the gun.
"I want to sleep outside tonight." Oswald replied, hiding his healing thumb by brushing his hair with his hand.