His Captive Sorceress

Chapter 52: Chained Again

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. The periodic noise irritates me. Its endless, repeating every few seconds – knock, knock, knock. Each one bounces around my skull, making it ache.

I'm exhausted, but the noise won't let me sleep. The knocking only aggravates the pain, causing more and more discomfort. What's going on?

I jerk upright and am met with blinding morning sunlight. My hand snaps to my eyes. My headache screams, and I let out a pained groan.

"Move slowly," a voice says. Trevus. A hand strokes my back. He's here. What happened?

I squint, blocking the sun with my arm. My vision slowly adjusts. Trevus sits close. He's concerned. We're in a wagon covered by a white tarp, leaving only the rear open. The wheels knock on each rotation.

I was hit. I was in the boss's den – last night. He was going to hurt me. I used my connection but failed to escape. They struck my head. I reach up to feel it.

"Careful," Trevus says.

There's a painful bruise on the top left side, but it isn't bleeding.

My wrist is pulled back with a metal clink – the sound of a chain going taut. I'm chained! My body lurches backwards, and my headache roars. Trevus wraps his arms around my frame, keeping me steady. "Slowly," he says.

I relax in his hold. He's right. I shouldn't move too much. My eyes follow the metal links from my left wrist to the wagon entrance. It's attached to the wooden frame with a hefty iron fitting.

Trevus keeps his arms around me. After my encounter with the boss, it's not a surprise that I've been chained. Waking to a frightening situation after being knocked out threw me off balance.

Trevus senses that my muscles have relaxed, and he releases his hold, leaning back against the wagon frame but keeping his eyes on me.

His wrist is chained to the right side of the wagon. They must have caught him after I was unconscious – perhaps even holding my body hostage.

I peer out the back of the wagon into the bright sun. Soldiers stretch back further than I can see, all dressed in black jolcans that cover from shoulders to knees, and all heavily armed. We're in the middle of an army on the move.

This can't be the force of a local crime boss. We've been passed along to someone much more powerful.

While many men are mounted tall on horses, far more walk on foot. Trevus and I are their prisoners, yet we ride in the back of the wagon as opposed to being pulled in a train.

"Steady?" Trevus asks.

"Y-" my voice cracks, my throat burning dry. I nod to avoid speaking again.

Trevus looks to the soldier walking beside the wagon. "Footman," he calls, grabbing the man's attention. He looks in his mid-twenties, well-built with shoulder-length black hair. "My companion requires water."

The soldier's expression hardens. "I'm not authorized to answer to you."

"And to whom do you answer?" Trevus asks.

The soldier's lips make a thin line. He's not engaging.

Instead of asking a second time, Trevus poses a new question – "Is your lord merciful?" He must be concerned for our future.

"No." The soldier answers without even looking our way.

"Your lord does not tolerate mistakes?"

"Never."

Trevus eyes the javelins on the soldier's hip. "Have your weapons already pierced a heart, or shall this campaign be your first taste?"

The soldier draws one from its sheath, brandishing the sharp metal tip in the sunlight. It's like the ones the boss's goons pointed at me last night. I nudge deeper into the wagon, but Trevus doesn't flinch. "This'll be the first," the soldier says.