Elle's Journey (Book I, Foretold Trilogy)

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The sweet smell of rot teased her awake. Elle tried to move away and rolled onto her back, the night’s events flying through her mind. She blinked to clear her vision of gray before realizing it was the gray before dawn. She twisted to see the camp of the Raiders. She was a good distance from the massive, single tree decorated with three hanging ornaments and from the quiet campsite beside it.

The air was cool but laced with putrid scent and she looked down before springing to her feet in disgust. She was covered with dark matter she could not name but which smelled like death. She flung it from her hands and arms, nausea rising. She peeled off the putrid tunic to reveal an undertunic wet with odor but free of matter.

The effort exhausted her after a night of intense healing, and she bent over, hands on knees, to steady her breathing. She shuddered as cool air brushed her, and then she straightened. The undertunic was shredded by whip marks, and she reached back to feel the ridges of scars. Her chin trembled at the channels in her back.

She needed new clothing. The camp appeared inactive and quiet. Fires no longer burned, and the men were sprawled all over the place, sleeping. Elle hesitated then approached. Not one of them moved as she entered camp. The scent of ale and the sight of overturned barrels convinced her they’d had a night of drinking.

She crossed to the first worn sack she saw. Opening it carefully, she rummaged around. Soggy bread, soiled breeches, two daggers, and a small purse that jingled when she grabbed it. The purse was delicate lace, a woman’s purse by the faintest trace of perfume. She opened it and was surprised to find it full of silver. She gripped it and one of the daggers and stood, searching for the next sack. She raided two more quickly, claiming flint from one and a worn but clean undertunic from another. A fourth held nothing of interest, and the fifth was Catan’s saddlebag. Placing the flint and dagger inside, she hefted the bag.

One of the Raiders shifted, and her heart stopped. The man settled. She hopped to the next bag and rummaged through it, pulling out a second purse and a baggy set of breeches. Scared to linger too long, she hurried away from camp to the tree. All three of them were awake.

Catan watched her approach, and she frowned at him before circling to Jada of North. The woman was badly battered: one eye was swollen shut, and bruises marked her arms and face.

“Are you all right?” Elle asked, concerned.

“You not dead.”

“No, but you look it.”

Jada of North’s nose crinkled, and Elle stepped away. She tossed the saddlebag down and stripped off her clothing, changing. The stench lessened but lingered enough to irritate her.

Catan spoke.

“You down us,” Jada mumbled.

Elle withdrew a dagger from the saddlebag and crossed to the woman, reaching up to saw the ropes at her hands. The ropes fell away. Jada took the dagger and swung back and forth for momentum before pulling herself towards her feet. She wrapped one arm around her legs and sawed at the rope binding her.

Elle stepped away and watched the woman crash to the ground. Jada groaned and was still for a moment. She straightened and cut her feet apart before handing the dagger to Elle. Elle reached out to the dark man, cutting him free.

Within moments the three were free and rubbing their feet or struggling to stand. Elle sat on her heels nearby, tired.

“You heal?” Jada glanced up from her purple feet.

“Yes.”

Jada shook her head. Catan and the man spoke quietly, and Jada paused to listen.

“He say you go north.”