Sora's Quest

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sora awoke with the toe of a boot in her back.

“Wake up, girl. We’re leaving.”

She groaned. Every fiber of her body was in pain. When she sat up, she felt stiff as an old woman and twice as sore. A light mist hung above their camp, clinging to the lower branches, a fragile curtain.

She rubbed sleep from her eyes and grimaced at the retreating figure of Crash. What a rude awakening! She didn't mind glaring at him—as long as his back was turned. She pulled her cloak about her shoulders and rubbed down her legs, trying to stave of the chill. It had been a cold, moist night, and although she had curled close to the fire, she had been too uncomfortable to sleep. She had finally drifted off close to dawn, and had only achieved a few hours of true rest.

She brushed the leaves from her clothing. Then she paused, staring down at her hands. They were no longer tied. Her heart leapt—then plummeted. Perhaps she wasn't tied up, but she was still a captive, and they obviously didn't think she could escape. She posed no threat at all.

But she would escape. She promised herself that.

Sora climbed awkwardly to her feet and lifted her satchel. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t care to ask her captors for breakfast. I'd rather starve! She glanced around at this thought, suddenly uncertain. The camp seemed unusually quiet.

As though reading her thoughts, Dorian's voice drifted to her: “Women are always more beautiful in the morning, especially after a night on the cold ground!” His words were sharp and crisp on the misty air.

Sora ignored the Wolfy as he entered the clearing. He was atop a pretty brown horse, which she assumed was stolen. She avoided making eye contact, even when he pulled up next to her. “Is our Lady ready to leave?” he said with a bite.

Sora's cheeks flushed, but she refused to answer. Perhaps she had grown up with wealth, but she had never lorded her status above others, like so many Noble born. In fact, her only friends had been servants. She gave him a stiff nod, biting the inside of her cheek.

Dorian abruptly reached down. He offered her his gloved hand. She stared up at him, surprised.

“Well, sweetness? Get on!” he said impatiently. “Or do you need a footstool? Maybe a nice cushion to sit on?”

Sora could take no more. With a huff of anger, she shoved away his hand. “In case you’re wondering,” she bit out, “or in case you’re deaf, my name is Sora, not sweetness, or sweetheart, or sweet-anything! And I’m not a pampered little princess! In fact, I'd rather walk than ride on your dirty horse!” She spat at his feet, though she wasn't very good at spitting.

The expression on Dorian’s face made her words worth it, and Sora braced herself, ready for the swing of a sword, or a kick from his boot. At least I’ll die happy. Then, much to her surprise, the short man threw back his head and let out a barking laugh, his pointed ears twitching with mirth.

“So the girl has some spirit after all!” he shouted. Then he reached down, grabbed her forcefully by the arm, and dragged her onto the horse behind him—his strength made her gasp. She struggled into the saddle with little choice. “Dorian’s the name, thieving is the trade, and perhaps this won't be such an agony, after all.”

She stared at the back of his head, still shocked. Shouldn't he be trying to kill me now? She thought of Crash's threats from the night before and the pink scratches along her neck.

“Uh, yes, perhaps,” she said carefully.

He was still laughing. “I think we’re going to get along just fine,” he said. With that, he tugged on the reins and whirled the horse around, setting off through the trees. Sora had to grab his hips for balance; it was awkward, and she tried to touch him as little as possible.