(Read Part 1 here. )
(Read Part 2 here. )
(Disclosure: This story contains violent themes.)
This was to be the end. The end of all things. The end of her.
For days, she had looked for any opportunity to sneak a knife, no matter how small, into her hands and hide it among her clothing. She had known since the moment they took her captive, that she would not be willingly set free. Freedom would only come by chance, if she somehow found a way to slip her bonds and their notice and run into the forested hills. Or it would come by force, if she could only find some sort of weapon to take up, and then wait until few eyes were upon her, and make a desperate, swift fight to get away.
Or it would come by death.
But the opportunity to find this dreamed-of weapon had never presented itself. Her hands were only ever unbound for the few moments where she needed to relieve herself, and then they watched her still. The humiliation was excruciating.
Beneath the weary weight of hunger, exhaustion, and the bruises brought on by callous hatred against her, she began to despair of life itself. To continue this existence was intolerable to her. She could not help savoring and ruminating on the bitterness of her lot. Happiness was a long ago and far away dream. A bright, fair image in her mind that seemed to be on the horizon, too distant to see clearly anymore. Between it and her was a vast expanse of grief and loss, and a grey shadow that loomed over every day since she had gotten that despised, joy-devouring letter from the quarry outside Bree-town. For years since, she had endured, forsaking the overwhelming desire to follow through Death’s portal, and find that source of happiness once more, even if it lay in some unimaginable spirit realm. With the passing of slow, ponderous time, the desire lessened. She had found a life again that seemed bearable, if not joy-filled yet. She had come through the ashen veil of mourning and widowhood, and clawed her way back to the edge of light, even if it was a light less brilliant than what she had known.
And then this.
If this was to be her end, she deeply desired that it be upon her own terms. So much had been taken from her already. To be ruined and torn apart and left to bleed under mocking, scornful, hateful eyes of her people’s blood enemies…it was too much to ask of her.
Yet, as the lean, tall figure of Harant brushed through the tent-flap with a crass thirst in his mud-brown eyes, she was once again tragically deprived of choice. There would be no more opportunity to look for weapons, or chances to escape. His intention was mercilessly clear. As the tent-flap fell back into place, he walked to her and dropped heavily to his knees. She could still hear Megrac and the other men laughing outside. Laughing at their companion’s impending conquest of the hapless Rohir woman.
Harant’s hands reached out. One aimed for the falling-apart braid of her pale hair. His fingers tangled into it, twisting the locks around his knuckles. The opposite hand moved to the skirt of her soiled, grubby dress and began to finger the embroidered hem as if he were entranced by the once-fine, foreign garment.
Her body wrenched away from these touches, though the bonds holding her to the post restricted her movement, and she could only pull away by a matter of inches.
Not like this, she begged inwardly, to whatever power, deity, spirit, or force might still exist in her withering, failing world. Don’t let him see me like this.
She could not fight back. The panic and desperation became overwhelming. Her breath dragged raggedly in and out of her throat. The only tool she had left was her words. Weak, useless things, but she needed to exhaust every possible defense.
“The Huntsman sees all that you do!” she cried. For she knew that the Dunlendings held their own beliefs in the unseen, and shared a reverence for the Great Hunter that the Rohirrim called Béma. And some believed that his servant - a spirit she had only ever heard called The Huntsman - guided the lives of these wild hill people. Her eyes were wide-open now, stark with terror and hatred. “He will not spare you, nor your children!”
The last-ditch flare of rebellion in the woman did not hamper the intentions of the man looming over her. It had been a faint hope, and now it was proved futile. He drew a blade from his belt and slowly brought it near her face. A quick, frightened glance revealed to her that it was her own knife, the one they had stolen from her. He angled the tip of the blade against her lips, forcing her to peel them back reflexively. She froze there, shuddering and whimpering, while he wormed the sharp point between her teeth and set it against her tongue. Tears blurred her vision, and she urgently tried to blink them away, irrationally fearful that weeping might somehow make him more violent.
“Do you need the venom bled from you, my spider?” he growled at her.
Outside, the repugnant, mocking laughter of the men around the fire had quieted. She noticed an eerie silence had fallen. Perhaps it was imagined, as her senses were sharply focused on the man holding her frozen under his hand and his purloined blade. Harant seemed oblivious to the sudden lack of voices from his kinsmen. He was far too intent on his freshly granted freedom to accost the fair captive who had been promised to give him more sons.
A voice spoke lowly from the darkness beyond the tent. Other voices quietly joined in. They were not brazen and laughing now. Abruptly, a terrible, inhuman scream exploded from somewhere in the camp, shattering the air. Her ears knew the sound; that of a wounded or otherwise desperate horse. Her eyes blinked wildly at the sound, but she did not dare turn her head or move, with Harant’s stolen knife still hovering against her tongue.
Following the bestial cry, a wave of chaos exploded from outside the tent. Voices shouted in sharp, urgent rage, and weapons clashed. The quiet camp was suddenly thrown into deafening chaos. Stunned, the woman could only stare dumbly at her captor, expecting him to withdraw that iron-tinged flavor from her tongue, and rush out to see what was happening.
Inconceivably, he remained there, knelt down beside her. His eyes shifted briefly to the side. He heard the fighting well enough. But instead of spurning him to run out and defend his fellows against whatever dreadful trouble was befalling them, it only increased the manic, willful lust in his face. She could see it clearly enough. If they were to die under spear and axe from unknown assailants, then he would die having had his share of his long-awaited prize first.
The hand gripping her hair moved away, and reached for the gold-threaded sweep of her dress that covered her breast. A hard jerk of his arm, and the fabric wrenched away with a loud, ripping sound. Behind it, the clamor of the unknown hell happening around them. She closed her eyes, a sob welling up in her chest, choked back to avoid it spasming into her mouth and cutting her tongue on that sharpened dagger-point.
Look away, my love…don’t look at this…
Someone was screaming. A man. Her eyes did not immediately open, as the cry was not coming from Harant, and that was the only scream she wished to hear in that last, terrible moment of her life.
Then, a crash of something falling or collapsing. A thunder of hooves. The thunder rapidly approached the tent. Within seconds, it was upon them, just beyond the heavy flap that hid them within. The sound did not slow as it drew near, but seemed ready to ride straight over top of their heads. Only now did Harant pause and look back over his shoulder in panic. The woman could not help but creep her own eyes open, with her body curled as tightly as she could manage it. Praying for a swift end.
Then, all within a moment no longer than the flicker of a candle-flame, Harant loosed the knife, it fell from the woman’s lips with a clatter, he whirled himself away from her, and grabbed for a spear that was leaned against the side of the tent. The tent itself began to distort and twist around them, like a mighty storm wind had been unleashed upon it. Hooves pounded like drums, Harant bellowed in alarm, and the woman screamed, clamping her eyes shut once more. She could not so much as raise her own arms to protect herself, but instead twisted away as far as she was able, huddling to the wooden stake.
Wind was against her face. Pulling at her hair. A great sound of flapping and rustling as the tent was torn away. She looked up to see a horse silhouetted against the starry sky, rearing back, hooves flailing and striking in blind rage.
Forlorian.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Harant uncurling himself upward from the ruined tent, pushing aside the heavy skins. The spear was still in his hand. His teeth bared as he drew his arm back, and took aim.
“Nay, Forlorian!” she cried. “Flee! Flee!”
But Forlorian would not relent. The man and the stallion faced each other, each intent on the other’s destruction. The spear was hurled, and since the horse was a large target, and was not running away, it struck its mark. At the same time, the hooves came down with crushing blows upon the man’s head, and he fell with an awful cry that made the woman’s blood curdle in her veins. The stallion stomped and pounded upon the crushed body for a few moments longer, but the death-blow drained his imposing strength quickly, and he slumped to the earth between the dead man and the woman. There, he lay with his legs folded, his head still upright, as if he were simply tired and resting upon a fresh bed of straw in a stable. Only the agitated flicker of his ears betrayed that he was in a measure of pain.
Beyond the shredded tent, she heard remnants of fighting, the running of other horses. Distant, mottled sounds that she could not piece together. Her eyes were fixed upon the chestnut horse who lay just out of her reach.
“Nay, nay!” she wept. Helpless even now, to go to him and comfort him. Her arms jerked and twitched against the bonds, knowing it was no use. She had naught but her voice, so she spoke to him in soft, quaking words. "There...there now...bravest one," she whispered. Tears dripped freely from her chin and onto her lap, as she could not wipe them away. "No beast was ever more true. You will run with the Great Hunter now."
Through her blurred vision, she spied a figure walking through the shadows and firelight. Coming near to the ruined tent, the fallen horse, the dead man, and bound woman. She grew still once more.
The figure was tall and imposing. Clad in armor she did not recognize, with a curved blade in his hand. He was covered in splatters of blood, and as he came near, she could see that his skin was dark. Far darker than any Dunlending. Only now did she notice that the clamor of fighting had ceased. And save for the labored breathing of the dying Forlorian, all had gone uncannily quiet.
To have her captors cut down and destroyed, only to be taken hostage by yet another enemy, or slain by his hand! The bitterness was unbearable, but the fight had left her, and she could only stare up at him with her tear-streaked face, and wait for the unknown.
The man walked round her slowly. Inspecting her. No words were exchanged between them. Her eyes darted anxiously between this unexpected stranger, and the fallen stallion. The eyes of the man were dark in his shadowed face. He, too, looked from the horse to the tied-up woman, and back again. Approaching her carefully, he circled behind the wooden post, knelt down, and cut her loose.
